Chapter 29: St. Giles Parish

Chapter 29 St. Giles Parish
Dusk was setting and the stars were just appearing on the light blue still dark sky.

Arthur and Elder stood at the entrance to the Theater Royal on Drury Lane in London’s West End, surrounded by high class gentlemen and ladies in their finery.

Carriages blocked the road, Arthur and Elder were squeezed between the wide skirt supports of the pretty ladies, and the pungent scent of perfume hung in the air.

The two of them back to back a little bit to move out of the steps, two steps forward and one step back, and occasionally have to turn their heads to look around, so as not to be pushed back by the crazy tide of people, it looks as if they are dancing flamenco.

Their strange behavior, coupled with the ordinary clothes they wore, would occasionally attract blank stares from the servants around them.

Arthur scolded, “Elder, what’s the situation today? Has this place been this jammed in the past?”

Elder was also anxious, as he was being stepped on by the ladies’ high heels and chirping.

“Fuck! I know tickets for the Theater Royal have always been hard to come by, but it doesn’t have to get like this, does it? There must be some big artist coming to perform today, and look at this crowd, it’s like they’re swarming in there like they’ve gone mad!”

Arthur sighed, “We shouldn’t have come to see any theater, and even if we did, we shouldn’t go this way. If I had known it would get like this, I should have gone home after eating with you guys over at the pier.”

Elder retorted, “It’s not like I fucking arranged it. LOL! Today kind of blew it. With the Theater Royal jammed up like this, those who can’t get tickets won’t be willing to go back, and will most likely go to other theaters in the West End. We’ve come all this way for nothing today.”

Just after Elder finished his words, he saw Arthur raise his finger and point at the bleachers at the entrance of the Royal Theater and shouted.

“Damn it! Elder! I know why it’s so jammed today! For fuck’s sake, it’s that violin virtuoso from the Apennines, Niccolo Paganini, who’s performing at the Theater Royal today!”

“I don’t give a shit about Nini! He’d have to let me out today even if he was Russian Czar Nikolai Pavlovich!”

In the past, at this time, Agares would always jump out to mock a couple of things.

But today he stepped on Arthur’s head with great interest and peered into the hall of the Royal Theater.

“Hey! Arthur! Look at those hands that can play the violin, how about you go and get it for me?”

Arthur was so squeezed that he cussed, “Why don’t I just get you two pork knuckles!”

Elder, his hearing blurred by the cacophony, yelled, “Arthur, what did you say?”

Agareth gave them both a disgusted look, “You two guys who don’t appreciate music, this is art. Look at your vulgarity, you’re catching up to Baal.

Arthur, you were just paid two days ago, doesn’t the inspector’s weekly salary amount to one pound fifteen shillings? That, plus the money you got back for the ship’s ticket, ought to make you able to afford a ticket to the Theater Royal, oughtn’t it? Go and buy me one quickly.”

Arthur said without any good humor, “You’re really daring to think about it! Tickets to the Theater Royal usually go for three to five pounds, and tonight it’s still a solo performance by a master like Paganini, so I’m saving up for half a year before I guess I’ll have enough money to come and see one.”

Agareth sniffed and shook his head in regret, “What a pity, if I miss this one, I don’t know when I’ll have to wait for the next one.”

Arthur and Elder took half a day’s effort and finally squeezed out from the surging crowd.

The two of them stood in the open space hunched over their knees, unable to stop breathing heavily.

Elder celebrated, “I almost thought I was going to be trampled to death by them.”

Arthur waited until he had caught his breath, then lifted his head and pinched his waist, “Never mind, that’s enough for today, I’m going home.”

Elder was also stirred up and lost interest, he waved his hand in farewell, “Take care, don’t see me off. Wait for next time, next time I’ll invite you to the theater.” After the two of them waved goodbye, Arthur went down the street all the way to the east.

It had to be said that the other theaters nearby were doing good business tonight due to Paganini’s performance.

In order to maintain order at the venue, even Scotland Yard had sent quite a few police forces to keep an eye on the neighborhood and stand guard, and officers with civilized canes could be seen everywhere on the road.

On top of that, there were quite a few teams of local magistrates, hired at the expense of the wealthy West End community, patrolling around.

The houses were clean and imposing, the nights were brightly lit, the roads were wide and tidy, the theaters were crowded, and everything seemed to be in order.

You will seldom see dirty children or pickpockets with a glint in their eyes, and even rats, which are not subject to human restraint, rarely visit the city.

Arthur looked at everything in front of him and sighed with his pipe in his mouth, “If only Greenwich was like this.”

He strolled through the streets of the West End full of joy, feeling hopeful about everything in the future.

But as he was about to cross Oxford Street, he stopped abruptly.

In front of him was the only dark, isolated island in the middle of the West End of shining bright London.

Everywhere else in the West End was bright as day, only the darkness before him would tell you that night had fallen.

It was the parish of St. Giles, which, like a moldy spot on an apple, had penetrated the marrow of London’s West End and reminded the rich people who lived there that there was such a thing as poverty.

The narrow, muddy streets stank of feces and urine, and there was a maze of modest but tall houses crammed into an already small space.

These were once the luxurious homes of the wealthy, and their former splendor can still be seen in the bas-reliefs and wall decorations on many of the houses’ facades.

Now, however, it was only the residence of the homeless, the streetwalkers, and the wicked and unfortunate.

The ancient, gray and mud-covered carvings on the stone form a cleverly grotesque contrast to their surroundings, and some of the walls are already half-collapsed, but the gaps have been filled in with crushed rocks and old newspapers picked up from everywhere.

The wall, which appears to be of late medieval origin, is broken beyond recognition, its surface wet and stained by London’s harsh weather and toxic industrial fumes.

Through the open door, a dimly lit stairwell could be vaguely seen, the stuccoed walls streaked with black handprints, the massive handrail and carved balustrade missing half of its length, creaking and squeaking as the wind blew.

And through the light emanating from the flickering oil lamps hanging on the stairwell, one could also see a dirty drunken man wearing a torn felt hat, with blood on his head, holding a bottle of wine and crying out in a deep sleep on the ground, and one look showed that he must have just fallen down from the stairs not long ago.

Arthur looked at what was in front of him, the place reminded him again of the East End of London where he worked.

Under the dim and murky night sky of St. Giles Parish, it was completely impossible to see Arthur’s face, all that could be seen was a glowing red pipe flickering in and out of the pitch blackness.

The red dot hovered for a long time, and with a thick puff of smoke emanating from it, he finally intended to leave.

But before he could take a step, he heard a sound of insults and beatings in his ears.

“Damn it! Give me your wallet now!”

(End of chapter)