Chapter 29: St. Giles Parish
The twilight sunset was fading, and stars had just begun to twinkle in the pale blue sky. Arthur and Eldred stood at the entrance of the Royal Theatre on Drury Lane in London’s West End, surrounded by elegantly dressed gentlemen and high-society ladies.
The passing carriages clogged the road, making it impossible to move. Arthur and Eldred were squeezed between the ladies’ wide hoop skirts, unable to move, with the air filled with the pungent smell of perfume. They backed against each other, inching forward step by step, frequently turning their heads to observe their surroundings to avoid being pushed back by the frenzied crowd, looking like they were dancing the flamenco.
Their odd behavior, combined with their plain attire, occasionally drew scornful glances from the nearby servants.
Arthur cursed, “Eldred, what’s going on today? Is it always this crowded here?”
Eldred, too, was exasperated, yelping as the ladies’ high heels stepped on him. “Damn it! I know tickets for the Royal Theatre are always hard to get, but this is ridiculous! There must be some big artist performing today. Look at this crowd, it’s like they’re going mad to get in!”
Arthur sighed, “We shouldn’t have come to see a play, or at least we shouldn’t have taken this route. If I’d known it would be like this, I should’ve just gone home after dinner with you guys at the dock.”
Eldred retorted, “This wasn’t my plan. Ugh! Today is a bust. With the Royal Theatre this packed, those who can’t get tickets won’t just go home; they’ll probably head to other theatres in the West End. We made this trip for nothing.”
Just as Eldred finished speaking, Arthur pointed at the billboard at the Royal Theatre entrance and shouted, “Damn it! Eldred! I know why it’s so crowded today! Damn it, it’s the violin maestro Niccolò Paganini from the Apennines performing tonight!”
“I don’t care who he is! Even if he were Tsar Nicholas Pavlovich of Russia, he’s not stopping me from getting out of here today!”
Usually, Agareus would jump in with a snide remark at this point. But today, he was unusually interested, standing on Arthur’s head, peering into the theatre’s hall. “Hey! Arthur! Look at those hands that can play the violin. How about you get them for me?”
Arthur, frustrated by the crowd, snapped, “I might as well get you a couple of pig knuckles!”
Eldred, unable to hear clearly in the noisy environment, shouted, “What did you say, Arthur?”
Agareus, disdainful, looked at the two of them, “You two can’t appreciate music. This is art. Look at you, almost as crude as Baal. Arthur, didn’t you just get paid? Isn’t the inspector’s weekly salary one pound fifteen shillings? Plus, with the refund from your boat ticket, you should be able to afford a ticket to the Royal Theatre. Go buy one.”
Arthur, irritated, replied, “You’re dreaming! Tickets at the Royal Theatre usually go for three to five pounds, and tonight’s a solo by Paganini. I’d need half a year’s savings to afford one show.”
Hearing this, Agareus shook his head regretfully, “What a shame. Miss this, and who knows when the next chance will come.”
After much effort, Arthur and Eldred finally squeezed out of the surging crowd. They stood on the open ground, bending over with hands on their knees, gasping for breath.
Eldred, relieved, said, “I almost thought I’d be trampled to death by them.”
After catching his breath, Arthur straightened up and said, “Forget it, let’s call it a night. I’m heading home.”
Eldred, too, had lost interest, waving goodbye, “Take care. I’ll treat you to a play next time.”
After parting ways, Arthur walked east along the street. It’s undeniable that, due to Paganini’s performance tonight, business was booming at the nearby theatres. To maintain order, even Scotland Yard had dispatched officers to keep watch, and the streets were filled with policemen carrying walking sticks. In addition, there were numerous local constable teams hired by the wealthy West End residents patrolling the area.
The houses here were clean and grand, the night brightly lit, the roads wide and tidy, the theatres buzzing with people. Everything seemed orderly. Here, you rarely saw dirty children or pickpockets with gleaming eyes. Even the rats, unrestrained by humans, seldom visited this place.
Looking at everything before him, Arthur couldn’t help but murmur around his pipe, “If only Greenwich were like this.” He walked leisurely through the West End streets, feeling that the future was full of hope.
But when he was about to cross Oxford Street, he suddenly stopped. Before him lay the only dark island in the bright and shiny West End. While other parts of the West End were as bright as day, the darkness before him reminded him that night had fallen.
This was St. Giles Parish, like a moldy spot on an apple, infiltrating the core of the West End and reminding the wealthy residents here of the existence of poverty.
The narrow, muddy streets were filled with the stench of urine and feces, with cramped, maze-like, but tall, dilapidated houses everywhere. These houses once belonged to the wealthy, as evidenced by the ornate carvings and decorations on many of the exterior walls. But now, they were the homes of the homeless, the wandering, and the wicked.
The ancient, dusty carvings on the walls formed a strange contrast with the surrounding environment. Some walls had collapsed halfway but were patched up with found stones and old newspapers. What seemed to be gables from the late Middle Ages were so broken they were unrecognizable, their surfaces damp and stained by London’s harsh weather and toxic industrial fumes.
Through the open doors, one could faintly see the dimly lit staircases inside. The plastered walls were covered with black handprints, the massive handrails and carved banisters half missing, creaking in the wind. Through the flickering oil lamps hanging in the staircases, one could see a filthy drunk with a broken felt hat, blood on his head, clutching a wine bottle and snoring away on the floor—clearly having just tumbled down the stairs.
Looking at everything before him, Arthur was reminded of London’s East End where he worked. Under the dim, murky night sky of St. Giles Parish, Arthur’s face was barely visible, only the glowing pipe in the dark flickering on and off. The red dot hovered for a long time before he finally decided to leave.
But before he could take a step, he heard the sound of curses and beatings nearby. “Damn it! Hand over your wallet!”
(End of Chapter)