The Pavement Poet

by Barry Pain

THE PAVEMENT POET

By Barry Pain

WHEN I came into his presence, I prostrated myself and did obeisance, for he was a very great poet indeed. As it was in St. James's Park at noon that I met him, it will be understood that I speak Orientally. The great man was good enough to accompany me on my way; he even offered me one of his cigarettes, which, from an intimate knowledge of the brand, I refused. He discussed cookery and the mining market with real interest. He may be fervent in spirit, but he is very far from being slothful in business, as his publishers are well aware.

We reached an alley where a pavement artist was at work. There was a portrait of the late Dan Leno on a board. There was a picture of a sailor boy returning home to a buxom mother in a cottage three sizes too small for her. There was a representation of a storm at sea. Underneath these the artist was drawing with infinite care in coloured chalks a representation of a somewhat bloated apple and two plums. There were inscriptions of a noble simplicity. "I am genuine," said one of them. Perhaps he was. He was also dirty, but he let that speak for itself.

The poet stopped and gazed long and ardently.

"Come on," I said to him; "you are obstructing the traffic."

He turned and asked me authoritatively if I had got threepence. I said "No," and tried to change the subject. But he continued his researches and found that I had actually got three halfpennies. I had been saving these, as I told him, in order to buy evening papers with them. But he took the money from me just the same and with a benevolent smile deposited it in the cap of the pavement artist.

"Thank you, captain," said the artist. My friend the poet looks much more like a cabbage than he does like a captain, but the artist has his regular tariff; for sixpence my friend would have been in the peerage. "One of those halfpennies would have been quite enough," I said. "And then I could have bought two evening papers. In fact, it would not have mattered very much if you had not given him anything. Personally I never give him anything."

"Or anybody else," said the poet bitterly.

"I've lent you three-halfpence, and if there is any distinction between that and giving you the money, it is very fine."

"At one time I was like you," said the poet pensively. "Just as rotten with selfishness as you are. Just as wanting in a sympathetic feeling for the poverty and sufferings of others. In those days I never gave to pavement artists. And that was how my eyes came to be opened. Perhaps you would like to hear about it?"

"Not particularly."

"Then I will tell you. Three times in one day I passed one of these poor fellows without one glance at his pictures and without giving him one copper. On the last occasion he cursed me. He said 'that it was adjective toffs like me that caused all this adjective misery.'"

"I do not know," I said, "why he should have called you a toff. Otherwise he seems to have got it about right."

"That man's curse haunted me—kept coming into my head at dinner and annoying me. I was dining with a publisher, too, and could hardly afford to seem to be any less intelligent than I really am. I fell asleep with that curse in my ears, and I dreamed a very horrible thing. I dreamed that I was a pavement poet. I was dressed in rags. I was very hungry. I had six blackboards propped up against the wall, and on these I was writing poetry in white chalk. It was popular poetry, dealing with the events of the day—murders and bomb explosions and rubbish of that kind. All the same, I was doing it as well as ever I could. A little group of well-dressed people had paused to watch me at my work. I turned to them, holding out my cap, and said: 'I am genuine.' They then walked away without giving me anything. It was all terribly life-like. Two young men of fashion passed. 'Of course, it's not his own poetry,' I heard one of them say to the other. I was too patient and broken to make any reply. I went on writing. It was about a bomb explosion this time. I can remember the actual words."

"Don't trouble."

"They went like this—

"It was a horrid sight
⁠Upon that awful day,
And many a gory corpse
⁠All torn and mangled lay."

"If you repeat any more of that, I shall leave you."

"Well, as I was saying, nobody gave me any money. I watched other people going to dinner, and I remained there hungry and desolate. At last a beautiful girl came up. She read what I was writing, and tears seemed to come into her eyes. Then she dropped a shilling into my cap and stole softly away. I awoke."

"I see. That's what showed you it must be a dream and couldn't possibly be true."

"And ever since," he continued, "whenever I see one of these pavement artists, I always give him something if I happen to have any money on me, or if there is another man with me. By the way, where are we going to lunch?"