And the colour.... There is nothing in the world like it for depth and
glamour. I know no evenings so tender as those that gather about the
Island: at once heartsome and subdued. The colour of street and sky and
water, sprinkled with a million timid stars, is an ecstasy. You cannot
name it. You see it first as blue, then as purple, then lilac, rose,
silver. The clouds that flank the high-shouldered buildings and chimneys
share in these subtle changes, and shift and shift from definite hues to
some haunting scheme that was never seen in any colourman's catalogue.
On the night when I took Georgie round the Island a hard, clear frost
was abroad. The skies glittered with steady stars. The streets seemed
strangely wide and frank, clear-cut, and definite. A fat-faced moon
lighted them. The waters were swift and limpid, flecked with bold light.
The gay public-house at the Dock gates shone sharp, like a cut gem.
Georgie had never toured the Island before, and he enjoyed it
thoroughly. As we stood on the shuddering bridge the clear night spread
such a stillness over the place that you could almost hear a goods train
shunt; and we stood there watching the berthing of a big P. & O. for
many pensive minutes.
By the way, you ought to know Georgie; he is a London character. Perhaps
you do, for he has thousands of acquaintances. He knows all that there
is to know about London--or, at least, the real London, by which phrase
I exclude the foreign quarters and the Isle of Dogs. These he does not
regard as part of London. His acquaintance among waiters alone is a
matter for wonder. At odd times you may meet him in a bar with a
stranger, an impressive-looking personage who, you conjecture, is an
attache of a foreign Embassy. But no; you do him an injustice; he is
greater than that. Georgie introduces you with a histrionic flourish--
"This is Mr. Burke--young Tommy Burke. This is Carlo, of Romano's." Or,
"This is young Tommy. This is Frank from the Cornhill Chop House," or
Henry from Simpson's, or Enrico from Frascati's, or Jules from Maxim's.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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