Not George Washington | Page 9

main stream of traffic. A postman,
clearing the letter-box at the office, stopped his work momentarily to
read the contents of a postcard. For the moment I understood Caesar's
feelings on the brink of the Rubicon, and the emotions of Cortes "when
with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific." I was on the threshold of great
events. Behind me was orthodox London; before me the unknown.
It was distinctly a Caesarian glance, full of deliberate revolt, that I

bestowed upon the street called Sloane; that clean, orderly thoroughfare
which leads to Knightsbridge, and thence either to the respectabilities
of Kensington or the plush of Piccadilly.
Setting my hat at a wild angle, I stepped with a touch of abandon along
the King's Road to meet the charming, impoverished artists whom our
country refuses to recognise.
My first glimpse of the Manresa Road was, I confess, a complete
disappointment. Never was Bohemianism more handicapped by its
setting than that of Chelsea, if the Manresa Road was to be taken as a
criterion. Along the uninviting uniformity of this street no trace of
unorthodoxy was to be seen. There came no merry, roystering laughter
from attic windows. No talented figures of idle geniuses fetched pints
of beer from the public-house at the corner. No one dressed in an
ancient ulster and a battered straw hat and puffing enormous clouds of
blue smoke from a treasured clay pipe gazed philosophically into space
from a doorway. In point of fact, save for a most conventional
butcher-boy, I was alone in the street.
Then the explanation flashed upon me. I had been seen approaching.
The word had been passed round. A stranger! The clique resents
intrusion. It lies hid. These gay fellows see me all the time, and are
secretly amused. But they do not know with whom they have to deal. I
have come to join them, and join them I will. I am not easily beaten. I
will outlast them. The joke shall be eventually against them, at some
eccentric supper. I shall chaff them about how they tried to elude me,
and failed.
The hours passed. Still no Bohemians. I began to grow hungry. I sprang
on to a passing 'bus. It took me to Victoria. I lunched at the
Shakespeare Hotel, smoked a pipe, and went out into the sunlight again.
It had occurred to me that night was perhaps the best time for trapping
my shy quarry. Possibly the revels did not begin in Manresa Road till
darkness had fallen. I spent the afternoon and evening in the Park,
dined at Lyons' Popular Café (it must be remembered that I was not yet
a Bohemian, and consequently owed no deference to the traditions of
the order); and returned at nine o'clock to the Manresa Road. Once

more I drew blank. A barrel-organ played cake-walk airs in the middle
of the road, but it played to an invisible audience. No bearded men
danced can-cans around it, shouting merry jests to one another.
Solitude reigned.
I wait. The duel continues. What grim determination, what
perseverance can these Bohemians put into a mad jest! I find myself
thinking how much better it would be were they to apply to their Art
the same earnestness and fixity of purpose which they squander on a
practical joke.
Evening fell. Blinds began to be drawn down. Lamps were lit behind
them, one by one. Despair was gnawing at my heart, but still I waited.
Then, just as I was about to retire defeated, I was arrested by the
appearance of a house numbered 93A.
At the first-floor window sat a man. He was writing. I could see his
profile, his long untidy hair. I understood in a moment. This was no
ordinary writer. He was one of those Bohemians whose wit had been
exercised upon me so successfully. He was a literary man, and though
he enjoyed the sport as much as any of the others he was under the
absolute necessity of writing his copy up to time. Unobserved by his
gay comrades, he had slipped away to his work. They were still
watching me; but he, probably owing to a contract with some journal,
was obliged to give up his share in their merriment and toil with his
pen.
His pen fascinated me. I leaned against the railings of the house
opposite, enthralled. Ever and anon he seemed to be consulting one or
other of the books of reference piled up on each side of him. Doubtless
he was preparing a scholarly column for a daily paper. Presently a
printer's devil would arrive, clamouring for his "copy." I knew exactly
the sort of thing that happened. I had read about it in novels.
How unerring is instinct, if properly cultivated. Hardly had the clocks
struck