From the Angle of Seventeen

by Eden Phillpotts

I met the grey-eyed girl again, however, the very next evening—at a first-night—and we enjoyed an uninterrupted conversation of three hours before the doors opened. Thus a friendship was established of the most interesting character; for we found that we had much in common, and I was able to tell her several things which she did not know.

She was not a happy girl, for her parents only allowed her to study for the stage under protest, and her family was entirely against her and of a very unsympathetic turn of mind; but she felt that, sooner or later, she would triumph. She indicated by certain allusions to my necktie and hands that I interested her. She considered that I had artist’s hands, which in its turn interested me a great deal, because my aunt had noticed it as well as this penetrating, grey-eyed girl; and in return I ventured to tell her that her eyes were exceedingly remarkable. I hinted that I wrote poetry as well as acted, and, getting rather above myself, as we say, told her that a poem of mine would probably be appearing in a well-known theatrical journal called Thespis at no distant date. I’m afraid in my excitement I even hinted I should be paid for it, which was going too far.

She said:

“Lor! Fancy!” Then, after a pause, she remarked, looking at me sideways under her eyelids, that perhaps I should be making poems to her eyes next, since I seemed to think they were “a bit of all right.” The idea had not occurred to me; but now, of course, my chivalric instincts, hitherto somewhat dormant, came to my aid, and I assured her that the poem was only a question of time. In fact, we may be said rather to have gone it, and when the doors were open and we entered the theatre, I sat beside her.

I may state here that I had no objection to girls as a class, or in a general way—in fact, rather the contrary, if anything. But they were not so interesting to me as men; and I also understood that there is not a rose without a thorn, as the poet says.

There are nocturnal girls in London known, generally speaking, as “light.” They are as common as blackberries in the Sacred Writings, and Shakespeare and the classics generally; and I may say that they have often linked their arms in mine, when I have been returning home after nightfall through some of the main London thoroughfares.

The first time this happened, being new to their unconventional ways, I explained to two girls, who approached me simultaneously, that I didn’t know them. Whereupon, with the swift repartee for which this class is famous, they told me that they were the Duchess of Edinburgh and the Empress of Russia, and that they were stopping with Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace, and had just popped out for a breather before supper. Of course, the right thing to do is to take these dashing meteors in their own spirit; and when they invited me to return with them to the palace, I explained that some other night I should be delighted to do so, but that I was bound for Marlborough House myself on this occasion, and already half an hour late. They appreciated the bon mot and rather took to me. Though doubtless they might have been called bad girls, nobody would have called them bad company. They had an air of abandon and heartiness which put you entirely at your ease with them. In fact, when they asked me to stand them a drink, I very nearly did so; but not quite. Instead, I left them abruptly and vanished into the night, followed by epithets humorous in their way, but not intended for publication.

To return to Brightwin: in due course he took me to see Mr. Bulger, editor of Thespis, and I found myself confronted with a type of the poet mind. Mr. Bulger was evidently a dreamer. His great ambition centred upon a State theatre for England, similar to that in foreign countries. He had very exalted opinions and an intense hatred of bad Art. He wanted to gather round him a band of young enthusiasts who would work for love; because, as he explained to me, the pioneer is seldom rewarded, excepting with the laurels of fame.

“Even these,” said Mr. Bulger bitterly, “seldom encircle his own brow. You will generally find them on the bronze or marble forehead of his statue, long after he has vanished into the dust.”

In this high strain he talked, and I saw in a moment that I stood before genius. His soul looked out of his eyes and made them water. His physical frame was of no consequence, and one forgot it when he talked. I trembled to think that this aspiring man was going to read my poem; but he did so, and Brightwin and I sat silent and watched him. Once or twice he nodded in a slightly approving way; and once or twice he shook his head, and I felt the blush of shame upon my cheek.