It was the first Saturday afternoon in August; it had been broiling
hot all day, with a cloudless sky, and the sun had been beating down
on the houses, so that the top rooms were like ovens; but now with
the approach of evening it was cooler, and everyone in Vere Street
was out of doors.
Vere street, Lambeth, is a short, straight street leading out of the
Westminster Bridge Road; it has forty houses on one side and forty
houses on the other, and these eighty houses are very much more like
one another than ever peas are like peas, or young ladies like young
ladies. They are newish, three-storied buildings of dingy grey brick
with slate roofs, and they are perfectly flat, without a bow-window or
even a projecting cornice or window-sill to break the straightness of
the line from one end of the street to the other.
This Saturday afternoon the street was full of life; no traffic came
down Vere Street, and the cemented space between the pavements
was given up to children. Several games of cricket were being played
by wildly excited boys, using coats for wickets, an old tennis-ball or a
bundle of rags tied together for a ball, and, generally, an old
broomstick for bat. The wicket was so large and the bat so small that
the man in was always getting bowled, when heated quarrels would
arise, the batter absolutely refusing to go out and the bowler
absolutely insisting on going in. The girls were more peaceable; they
were chiefly employed in skipping, and only abused one another mildly
when the rope was not properly turned or the skipper did not jump
sufficiently high. Worst off of all were the very young children, for
there had been no rain for weeks, and the street was as dry and clean
as a covered court, and, in the lack of mud to wallow in, they sat
about the road, disconsolate as poets. The number of babies was
prodigious; they sprawled about everywhere, on the pavement, round the
doors, and about their mothers' skirts. The grown-ups were gathered
round the open doors; there were usually two women squatting on the
doorstep, and two or three more seated on either side on chairs; they
were invariably nursing babies, and most of them showed clear signs
that the present object of the maternal care would be soon ousted by a
new arrival. Men were less numerous but such as there were leant
against the walls, smoking, or sat on the sills of the ground-floor
windows. It was the dead season in Vere Street as much as in
Belgravia, and really if it had not been for babies just come or just
about to come, and an opportune murder in a neighbouring doss-house,
there would have been nothing whatever to talk about. As it was, the
little groups talked quietly, discussing the atrocity or the merits of
the local midwives, comparing the circumstances of their various
'You'll be 'avin' your little trouble soon, eh, Polly?' asked one good
lady of another.
'Oh, I reckon I've got another two months ter go yet,' answered Polly.
'Well,' said a third. 'I wouldn't 'ave thought you'd go so long by the
look of yer!'
'I 'ope you'll have it easier this time, my dear,' said a very stout
old person, a woman of great importance.
'She said she wasn't goin' to 'ave no more, when the last one come.'
This remark came from Polly's husband.
'Ah,' said the stout old lady, who was in the business, and boasted
vast experience. 'That's wot they all says; but, Lor' bless yer, they
don't mean it.'
'Well, I've got three, and I'm not goin' to 'ave no more bli'me if I
will; 'tain't good enough-- that's wot I says.'
'You're abaht right there, ole gal,' said Polly, 'My word, 'Arry, if
you 'ave any more I'll git a divorce, that I will.'
At that moment an organ-grinder turned the corner and came down the
'Good biz; 'ere's an organ!' cried half a dozen people at once.
The organ-man was an Italian, with a shock of black hair and a
ferocious moustache. Drawing his organ to a favourable spot, he
stopped, released his shoulder from the leather straps by which he
dragged it, and cocking his large soft hat on the side of his head,
began turning the handle. It was a lively tune, and in less than no
time a little crowd had gathered round to listen, chiefly the young
men and the maidens, for the married ladies were never in a fit state
to dance, and therefore disinclined to trouble themselves to stand
round the organ. There was a moment's hesitation at opening the ball;
then one girl said to another:
'Come on, Florrie, you and me ain't shy; we'll begin, and bust it!'
The two girls took hold of one another, one acting gentleman, the
other lady; three or four more pairs of girls immediately joined them,
and they began a waltz. They held themselves very upright; and with an
air of grave dignity which was quite impressive, glided slowly about,
making their steps with the utmost precision, bearing themselves with
sufficient decorum for a court ball. After a while the men began to
itch for a turn, and two of them, taking hold of one another in the
most approved fashion, waltzed round the circle with the gravity of
All at once there was a cry: 'There's Liza!' And several members of
the group turned and called out: 'Oo, look at Liza!'
The dancers stopped to see the sight, and the organ-grinder, having
come to the end of his tune, ceased turning the handle and looked to
see what was the excitement.
'Oo, Liza!' they called out. 'Look at Liza; oo, I sy!'
It was a young girl of about eighteen, with dark eyes, and an enormous
fringe, puffed-out and curled and frizzed, covering her whole forehead
from side to side, and coming down to meet her eyebrows. She was
dressed in brilliant violet, with great lappets of velvet, and she had
on her head an enormous black hat covered with feathers.
'I sy, ain't she got up dossy?' called out the groups at the doors, as
'Dressed ter death, and kill the fashion; that's wot I calls it.'
Liza saw what a sensation she was creating; she arched her back and
lifted her head, and walked down the street, swaying her body from
side to side, and swaggering along as though the whole place belonged
''Ave yer bought the street, Bill?' shouted one youth; and then half a
dozen burst forth at once, as if by inspiration:
'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road!'
It was immediately taken up by a dozen more, and they all yelled it
'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road. Yah, ah, knocked 'em in the Old
'Oo, Liza!' they shouted; the whole street joined in, and they gave
long, shrill, ear-piercing shrieks and strange calls, that rung down
the street and echoed back again.
'Hextra special!' called out a wag.
'Oh, Liza! Oo! Ooo!' yells and whistles, and then it thundered forth
'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road!'
Liza put on the air of a conquering hero, and sauntered on, enchanted
at the uproar. She stuck out her elbows and jerked her head on one
side, and said to herself as she passed through the bellowing crowd:
'This is jam!'
'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road!'
When she came to the group round the barrel-organ, one of the girls
cried out to her:
'Is that yer new dress, Liza?'
'Well, it don't look like my old one, do it?' said Liza.
'Where did yer git it?' asked another friend, rather enviously.
'Picked it up in the street, of course,' scornfully answered Liza.
'I believe it's the same one as I saw in the pawnbroker's dahn the
road,' said one of the men, to tease her.
'Thet's it; but wot was you doin' in there? Pledgin' yer shirt, or was
it yer trousers?'
'Yah, I wouldn't git a second-'and dress at a pawnbroker's!'
'Garn!' said Liza indignantly. 'I'll swipe yer over the snitch if yer
talk ter me. I got the mayterials in the West Hend, didn't I? And I
'ad it mide up by my Court Dressmiker, so you jolly well dry up, old
'Garn!' was the reply.
Liza had been so intent on her new dress and the comment it was
exciting that she had not noticed the organ.
'Oo, I say, let's 'ave some dancin',' she said as soon as she saw it.
'Come on, Sally,' she added, to one of the girls, 'you an' me'll dance
togither. Grind away, old cock!'
The man turned on a new tune, and the organ began to play the
Intermezzo from the 'Cavalleria'; other couples quickly followed
Liza's example, and they began to waltz round with the same solemnity
as before; but Liza outdid them all; if the others were as stately as
queens, she was as stately as an empress; the gravity and dignity with
which she waltzed were something appalling, you felt that the minuet
was a frolic in comparison; it would have been a fitting measure to
tread round the grave of a "premiere danseuse", or at the funeral of a
professional humorist. And the graces she put on, the languor of the
eyes, the contemptuous curl of the lips, the exquisite turn of the
hand, the dainty arching of the foot! You felt there could be no
questioning her right to the tyranny of Vere Street.
Suddenly she stopped short, and disengaged herself from her companion.
'Oh, I sy,' she said, 'this is too bloomin' slow; it gives me the
That is not precisely what she said, but it is impossible always to
give the exact unexpurgated words of Liza and the other personages of
the story, the reader is therefore entreated with his thoughts to
piece out the necessary imperfections of the dialogue.
'It's too bloomin' slow,' she said again; 'it gives me the sick. Let's
'ave somethin' a bit more lively than this 'ere waltz. You stand over
there, Sally, an' we'll show 'em 'ow ter skirt dance.'
They all stopped waltzing.
'Talk of the ballet at the Canterbury and South London. You just wite
till you see the ballet at Vere Street, Lambeth-- we'll knock 'em!'
She went up to the organ-grinder.
'Na then, Italiano,' she said to him, 'you buck up; give us a tune
that's got some guts in it! See?'
She caught hold of his big hat and squashed it down over his eyes. The
man grinned from ear to ear, and, touching the little catch at the
side, began to play a lively tune such as Liza had asked for.
The men had fallen out, but several girls had put themselves in
position, in couples, standing face to face; and immediately the music
struck up, they began. They held up their skirts on each side, so as
to show their feet, and proceeded to go through the difficult steps
and motions of the dance. Liza was right; they could not have done it
better in a trained ballet. But the best dancer of them all was Liza;
she threw her whole soul into it; forgetting the stiff bearing which
she had thought proper to the waltz, and casting off its elaborate
graces, she gave herself up entirely to the present pleasure.
Gradually the other couples stood aside, so that Liza and Sally were
left alone. They paced it carefully, watching each other's steps, and
as if by instinct performing corresponding movements, so as to make
the whole a thing of symmetry.
'I'm abaht done,' said Sally, blowing and puffing. 'I've 'ad enough of
'Go on, Liza!' cried out a dozen voices when Sally stopped.
She gave no sign of having heard them other than calmly to continue
her dance. She glided through the steps, and swayed about, and
manipulated her skirt, all with the most charming grace imaginable,
then, the music altering, she changed the style of her dancing, her
feet moved more quickly, and did not keep so strictly to the ground.
She was getting excited at the admiration of the onlookers, and her
dance grew wilder and more daring. She lifted her skirts higher,
brought in new and more difficult movements into her improvisation,
kicking up her legs she did the wonderful twist, backwards and
forwards, of which the dancer is proud.
'Look at 'er legs!' cried one of the men.
'Look at 'er stockin's!' shouted another; and indeed they were
remarkable, for Liza had chosen them of the same brilliant hue as her
dress, and was herself most proud of the harmony.
Her dance became gayer: her feet scarcely touched the ground, she
whirled round madly.
'Take care yer don't split!' cried out one of the wags, at a very
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Liza, with a gigantic
effort, raised her foot and kicked off his hat. The feat was greeted
with applause, and she went on, making turns and twists, flourishing
her skirts, kicking higher and higher, and finally, among a volley of
shouts, fell on her hands and turned head over heels in a magnificent
catharine-wheel; then scrambling to her feet again, she tumbled into
the arms of a young man standing in the front of the ring.
'That's right, Liza,' he said. 'Give us a kiss, now,' and promptly
tried to take one.
'Git aht!' said Liza, pushing him away, not too gently.
'Yus, give us a kiss,' cried another, running up to her.
'I'll smack yer in the fice!' said Liza, elegantly, as she dodged him.
'Ketch 'old on 'er, Bill,' cried out a third, 'an' we'll all kiss
'Na, you won't!' shrieked Liza, beginning to run.
'Come on,' they cried, 'we'll ketch 'er.'
She dodged in and out, between their legs, under their arms, and then,
getting clear of the little crowd, caught up her skirts so that they
might not hinder her, and took to her heels along the street. A score
of men set in chase, whistling, shouting, yelling; the people at the
doors looked up to see the fun, and cried out to her as she dashed
past; she ran like the wind. Suddenly a man from the side darted into
the middle of the road, stood straight in her way, and before she knew
where she was, she had jumped shrieking into his arms, and he, lifting
her up to him, had imprinted two sounding kisses on her cheeks.
'Oh, you ----!' she said. Her expression was quite unprintable; nor can
it be euphemized.
There was a shout of laughter from the bystanders, and the young men
in chase of her, and Liza, looking up, saw a big, bearded man whom she
had never seen before. She blushed to the very roots of her hair,
quickly extricated herself from his arms, and, amid the jeers and
laughter of everyone, slid into the door of the nearest house and was
lost to view.