DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.51521#0056
(48)
had with fried potatoes, a cup of cafe, au lait and a roll
and butter, for a shilling, the only extra being a penny
for the waiter.
And the dinner finished, between eight and nine it be-
hoved me to decide whether I would spend the rest of the
evening in a music hall listening to McDermot singing the
popular ditties for which I had lost all stomach, or in
theatres given over to the art of farce, or call a hansom
and drive to St. James’s Hall for classical music. Classical
music is the only relaxation for the tired brain, I said to
myself. I am naturally inclined to the serious, the trivial
bores me. For a moment I thought I should finish my
evening listening to Wagner’s Valkyrie, but I lacked
courage, St. James’s Hall seemed far away, the crowd
was provocative of analysis. I tried to read the character
of the passers-by. The women interested me more than
the men, for they were easily read, women come up from
the suburbs, Jennies in search of kisses and guineas—an
odious phrase from a poet that I once admired. At length
a pleasant girl looked at me with eyes not too full of in-
vitation, and daring the porter whose business it was to
keep the doorway free from loiterers, she asked me to
come for a walk with her. I thanked her to save her
from coarse reproof by the porter, crossed Trafalgar
Square by myself and was glad to pass through the great
iron gates in search of darkness and solitude.
Wherever there was a bench it was occupied by boys
had with fried potatoes, a cup of cafe, au lait and a roll
and butter, for a shilling, the only extra being a penny
for the waiter.
And the dinner finished, between eight and nine it be-
hoved me to decide whether I would spend the rest of the
evening in a music hall listening to McDermot singing the
popular ditties for which I had lost all stomach, or in
theatres given over to the art of farce, or call a hansom
and drive to St. James’s Hall for classical music. Classical
music is the only relaxation for the tired brain, I said to
myself. I am naturally inclined to the serious, the trivial
bores me. For a moment I thought I should finish my
evening listening to Wagner’s Valkyrie, but I lacked
courage, St. James’s Hall seemed far away, the crowd
was provocative of analysis. I tried to read the character
of the passers-by. The women interested me more than
the men, for they were easily read, women come up from
the suburbs, Jennies in search of kisses and guineas—an
odious phrase from a poet that I once admired. At length
a pleasant girl looked at me with eyes not too full of in-
vitation, and daring the porter whose business it was to
keep the doorway free from loiterers, she asked me to
come for a walk with her. I thanked her to save her
from coarse reproof by the porter, crossed Trafalgar
Square by myself and was glad to pass through the great
iron gates in search of darkness and solitude.
Wherever there was a bench it was occupied by boys