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Title: Down and Out in Paris and London
Author: George Orwell
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
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Language:   English
Date first posted: November 2001
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Title:      Down and Out in Paris and London
Author:     George Orwell


*


_O scathful harm, condition of poverte!_
CHAUCER

*



I


THE rue du Coq d'Or, Paris, seven in the morning. A succession of
furious, choking yells from the street. Madame Monce, who kept the little
hotel opposite mine, had come out on to the pavement to address a lodger on
the third floor. Her bare feet were stuck into sabots and her grey hair was
streaming down.

MADAME MONCE: '_Salope! Salope!_ How many times have I told you not to
squash bugs on the wallpaper? Do you think you've bought the hotel, eh? Why
can't you throw them out of the window like everyone else? _Putain! Salope!_'

THE WOMAN ON THE THIRD FLOOR: '_Vache!_'

Thereupon a whole variegated chorus of yells, as windows were flung
open on every side and half the street joined in the quarrel. They shut up
abruptly ten minutes later, when a squadron of cavalry rode past and people
stopped shouting to look at them.

I sketch this scene, just to convey something of the spirit of the rue
du Coq d'Or. Not that quarrels were the only thing that happened there--
but still, we seldom got through the morning without at least one outburst
of this description. Quarrels, and the desolate cries of street hawkers,
and the shouts of children chasing orange-peel over the cobbles, and at
night loud singing and the sour reek of the refuse-carts, made up the
atmosphere of the street.

It was a very narrow street--a ravine of tall, leprous houses,
lurching towards one another in queer attitudes, as though they had all
been frozen in the act of collapse. All the houses were hotels and packed
to the tiles with lodgers, mostly Poles, Arabs and Italians. At the foot of
the hotels were tiny _bistros_, where you could be drunk for the equivalent
of a shilling. On Saturday nights about a third of the male population of
the quarter was drunk. There was fighting over women, and the Arab navvies
who lived in the cheapest hotels used to conduct mysterious feuds, and
fight them out with chairs and occasionally revolvers. At night the
policemen would only come through the street two together. It was a fairly
rackety place. And yet amid the noise and dirt lived the usual respectable
French shopkeepers, bakers and laundresses and the like, keeping themselves
to themselves and quietly piling up small fortunes. It was quite a
representative Paris slum.

My hotel was called the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux. It was a dark,
rickety warren of five storeys, cut up by wooden partitions into forty
rooms. The rooms were small arid inveterately dirty, for there was no maid,
and Madame F., the _patronne_, had no time to do any sweeping. The walls were
as thin as matchwood, and to hide the cracks they had been covered with
layer after layer of pink paper, which had come loose and housed
innumerable bugs. Near the ceiling long lines of bugs marched all day like
columns of soldiers, and at night came down ravenously hungry, so that one
had to get up every few hours and kill them in hecatombs. Sometimes when
the bugs got too bad one used to burn sulphur and drive them into the next
room; whereupon the lodger next door would retort by having _his_ room
sulphured, and drive the bugs back. It was a dirty place, but homelike, for
Madame F. and her husband were good sorts. The rent of the rooms varied
between thirty and fifty francs a week.

The lodgers were a floating population, largely foreigners, who used
to turn up without luggage, stay a week and then disappear again. They were
of every trade--cobblers, bricklayers, stonemasons, navvies, students,
prostitutes, rag-pickers. Some of them were fantastically poor. In one of
the attics there was a Bulgarian student who made fancy shoes for the
American market. From six to twelve he sat on his bed, making a dozen pairs
of shoes and earning thirty-five francs; the rest of the day he attended
lectures at the Sorbonne. He was studying for the Church, and books of
theology lay face-down on his leather-strewn floor. In another room lived a
Russian woman and her son, who called himself an artist. The mother worked
sixteen hours a day, darning socks at twenty-five centimes a sock, while
the son, decently dressed, loafed in the Montparnasse cafés. One room was
let to two different lodgers, one a day worker and the other a night
worker. In another room a widower shared the same bed with his two grown-up
daughters, both consumptive.

There were eccentric characters in the hotel. The Paris slums are a
gathering-place for eccentric people--people who have fallen into
solitary, half-mad grooves of life and given up trying to be normal or
decent. Poverty frees them from ordinary standards of behaviour, just as
money frees people from work. Some of the lodgers in our hotel lived lives
that were curious beyond words.

There were the Rougiers, for instance, an old, ragged, dwarfish couple
who plied an extraordinary trade. They used to sell postcards on the
Boulevard St Michel. The curious thing was that the postcards were sold in
sealed packets as pornographic ones, but were actually photographs of
chateaux on the Loire; the buyers did not discover this till too late, and
of course never complained. The Rougiers earned about a hundred francs a
week, and by strict economy managed to be always half starved and half
drunk. The filth of their room was such that one could smell it on the
floor below. According to Madame F., neither of the Rougiers had taken off
their clothes for four years.

Or there was Henri, who worked in the sewers. He was a tall,
melancholy man with curly hair, rather romantic-looking in his long,
sewer-man's boots. Henri's peculiarity was that he did not speak, except
for the purposes of work, literally for days together. Only a year before
he had been a chauffeur in good employ and saving money. One day he fell in
love, and when the girl refused him he lost his temper and kicked her. On
being kicked the girl fell desperately in love with Henri, and for a
fortnight they lived together and spent a thousand francs of Henri's money.
Then the girl was unfaithful; Henri planted a knife in her upper arm and
was sent to prison for six months. As soon as she had been stabbed the girl
fell more in love with Henri than ever, and the two made up their quarrel
and agreed that when Henri came out of jail he should buy a taxi and they
would marry and settle down. But a fortnight later the girl was unfaithful
again, and when Henri came out she was with child, Henri did not stab her
again. He drew out all his savings and went on a drinking-bout that ended
in another month's imprisonment; after that he went to work in the sewers.
Nothing would induce Henri to talk. If you asked him why he worked in the
sewers he never answered, but simply crossed his wrists to signify
handcuffs, and jerked his head southward, towards the prison. Bad luck
seemed to have turned him half-witted in a single day.

Or there was R., an Englishman, who lived six months of the year in
Putney with his parents and six months in France. During his time in France
he drank four litres of wine a day, and six litres on Saturdays; he had
once travelled as far as the Azores, because the wine there is cheaper than
anywhere in Europe. He was a gentle, domesticated creature, never rowdy or
quarrelsome, and never sober. He would lie in bed till midday, and from
then till midnight he was in his comer of the _bistro_, quietly and
methodically soaking. While he soaked he talked, in a refined, womanish
voice, about antique furniture. Except myself, R. was the only Englishman
in the quarter.

There were plenty of other people who lived lives just as eccentric as
these: Monsieur Jules, the Roumanian, who had a glass eye and would not
admit it, Furex the Limousin stonemason, Roucolle the miser--he died
before my time, though--old Laurent the rag-merchant, who used to copy
his signature from a slip of paper he carried in his pocket. It would be
fun to write some of their biographies, if one had time. I am trying to
describe the people in our quarter, not for the mere curiosity, but because
they are all part of the story. Poverty is what I am writing about, and I
had my first contact with poverty in this slum. The slum, with its dirt and
its queer lives, was first an object-lesson in poverty, and then the
background of my own experiences. It is for that reason that I try to give
some idea of what life was like there.




II



LIFE in the quarter. Our _bistro_, for instance, at the foot of the
Hôtel des Trois Moineaux. A tiny brick-floored room, half underground, with
wine-sodden tables, and a photograph of a funeral inscribed '_Crédit est
mort_'; and red-sashed workmen carving sausage with big jack-knives; and
Madame F., a splendid Auvergnat peasant woman with the face of a
strong-minded cow, drinking Malaga all day 'for her stomach'; and games of
dice for _apéritifs_; and songs about '_Les Fraises et Les Framboises_', and
about Madelon, who said, '_Comment épouser un soldat, moi qui aime tout le
régiment?_'; and extraordinarily public love-making. Half the hotel used to
meet in the _bistro_ in the evenings. I wish one could find a pub in London a
quarter as cheery.

One heard queer conversations in the _bistro_. As a sample I give you
Charlie, one of the local curiosities, talking.

Charlie was a youth of family and education who had run away from home
and lived on occasional remittances. Picture him very pink and young, with
the fresh cheeks and soft brown hair of a nice little boy, and lips
excessively red and wet, like cherries. His feet are tiny, his arms
abnormally short, his hands dimpled like a baby's. He has a way of dancing
and capering while he talks, as though he were too happy and too full of
life to keep still for an instant. It is three in the afternoon, and there
is no one in the _bistro_ except Madame F. and one or two men who are out of
work; but it is all the same to Charlie whom he talks to, so long as he
can talk about himself. He declaims like an orator on a barricade, rolling
the words on his tongue and gesticulating with his short arms. His small,
rather piggy eyes glitter with enthusiasm. He is, somehow, profoundly
disgusting to see.

He is talking of love, his favourite subject.

'_Ah, l'amour, l'amour! Ah, que les femmes m'ont tué!_ Alas, _messieurs
et dames_, women have been my ruin, beyond all hope my ruin. At twenty-two I
am utterly worn out and finished. But what things I have learned, what
abysses of wisdom have I not plumbed! How great a thing it is to have
acquired the true wisdom, to have become in the highest sense of the word a
civilized man, to have become _raffiné, vicieux_,' etc. etc.

'_Messieurs et dames_, I perceive that you are sad. Ah, mais la vie
est belle--you must not be sad. Be more gay, I beseech you!


    'Fill high ze bowl vid Samian vine,
    Ve vill not sink of semes like zese!


'_Ah, que la vie est belle!_ Listen, _messieurs et dames_, out of the
fullness of my experience I will discourse to you of love. I will explain
to you what is the true meaning of love--what is the true sensibility,
the higher, more refined pleasure which is known to civilized men alone. I
will tell you of the happiest day of my life. Alas, but I am past the time
when I could know such happiness as that. It is gone for ever--the very
possibility, even the desire for it, are gone.

'Listen, then. It was two years ago; my brother was in Paris--he is
a lawyer--and my parents had told him to find me and take me out to
dinner. We hate each other, my brother and I, but we preferred not to
disobey my parents. We dined, and at dinner he grew very drunk upon three
bottles of Bordeaux. I took him back to his hotel, and on the way I bought
a bottle of brandy, and when we had arrived I made my brother drink a
tumblerful of it--I told him it was something to make him sober. He drank
it, and immediately he fell down like somebody in a fit, dead drunk. I
lifted him up and propped his back against the bed; then I went through his
pockets. I found eleven hundred francs, and with that I hurried down the
stairs, jumped into a taxi, and escaped. My brother did not know my address
--I was safe.

'Where does a man go when he has money? To the _bordels_, naturally. But
you do not suppose that I was going to waste my time on some vulgar
debauchery fit only for navvies? Confound it, one is a civilized man! I was
fastidious, exigeant, you understand, with a thousand francs in my pocket.
It was midnight before I found what I was looking for. I had fallen in with
a very smart youth of eighteen, dressed _en smoking_ and with his hair cut _à
l'américaine_, and we were talking in a quiet _bistro_ away from the
boulevards. We understood one another well, that youth and I. We talked of
this and that, and discussed ways of diverting oneself. Presently we took a
taxi together and were driven away.

'The taxi stopped in a narrow, solitary street with a single gas-lamp
flaring at the end. There were dark puddles among the stones. Down one side
ran the high, blank wall of a convent. My guide led me to a tall, ruinous
house with shuttered windows, and knocked several times at the door.
Presently there was a sound of footsteps and a shooting of bolts, and the
door opened a little. A hand came round the edge of it; it was a large,
crooked hand, that held itself palm upwards under our noses, demanding
money.

'My guide put his foot between the door and the step. "How much do you
want?" he said.

'"A thousand francs," said a woman's voice. "Pay up at once or you
don't come in."

'I put a thousand francs into the hand and gave the remaining hundred
to my guide: he said good night and left me. I could hear the voice inside
counting the notes, and then a thin old crow of a woman in a black dress
put her nose out and regarded me suspiciously before letting me in. It was
very dark inside: I could see nothing except a flaring gas-jet that
illuminated a patch of plaster wall, throwing everything else into deeper
shadow. There was a smell of rats and dust. Without speaking, the old woman
lighted a candle at the gas-jet, then hobbled in front of me down a stone
passage to the top of a flight of stone steps.

'"_Voilà!_" she said; "go down into the cellar there and do what you
like. I shall see nothing, hear nothing, know nothing. You are free, you
understand--perfectly free."

'Ha, _messieurs_, need I describe to you--_forcément_, you know it
yourselves--that shiver, half of terror and half of joy, that goes
through one at these moments? I crept down, feeling my way; I could hear my
breathing and the scraping of my shoes on the stones, otherwise all was
silence. At the bottom of the stairs my hand met an electric switch. I
turned it, and a great electrolier of twelve red globes flooded the cellar
with a red light. And behold, I was not in a cellar, but in a bedroom, a
great, rich, garish bedroom, coloured blood red from top to bottom. Figure
it to yourselves, _messieurs et dames_! Red carpet on the floor, red paper on
the walls, red plush on the chairs, even the ceiling red; everywhere red,
burning into the eyes. It was a heavy, stifling red, as though the light
were shining through bowls of blood. At the far end stood a huge, square
bed, with quilts red like the rest, and on it a girl was lying, dressed in
a frock of red velvet. At the sight of me she shrank away and tried to hide
her knees under the short dress.

'I had halted by the door. "Come here, my chicken," I called to her.

'She gave a whimper of fright. With a bound I was beside the bed; she
tried to elude me, but I seized her by the throat--like this, do you see?
--tight! She struggled, she began to cry out for mercy, but I held her
fast, forcing back her head and staring down into her face. She was twenty
years old, perhaps; her face was the broad, dull face of a stupid child,
but it was coated with paint and powder, and her blue, stupid eyes, shining
in the red light, wore that shocked, distorted look that one sees nowhere
save in the eyes of these women. She was some peasant girl, doubtless, whom
her parents had sold into slavery.

'Without another word I pulled her off the bed and threw her on to the
floor. And then I fell upon her like a tiger! Ah, the joy, the incomparable
rapture of that time! There, _messieurs et dames_, is what I would expound to
you; _Voilà l'amour_! There is the true love, there is the only thing in the
world worth striving for; there is the thing beside which all your arts and
ideals, all your philosophies and creeds, all your fine words and high
attitudes, are as pale and profitless as ashes. When one has experienced
love--the true love--what is there in the world that seems more than a
mere ghost of joy?

'More and more savagely I renewed the attack. Again and again the girl
tried to escape; she cried out for mercy anew, but I laughed at her.

'"Mercy!" I said, "do you suppose I have come here to show mercy? Do
you suppose I have paid a thousand francs for that?" I swear to you,
_messieurs et dames_, that if it were not for that accursed law that robs us
of our liberty, I would have murdered her at that moment.

'Ah, how she screamed, with what bitter cries of agony. But there was
no one to hear them; down there under the streets of Paris we were as
secure as at the heart of a pyramid. Tears streamed down the girl's face,
washing away the powder in long, dirty smears. Ah, that irrecoverable time!
You, _messieurs et dames_, you who have not cultivated the finer
sensibilities of love, for you such pleasure is almost beyond conception.
And I too, now that my youth is gone--ah, youth!--shall never again see
life so beautiful as that. It is finished.

'Ah yes, it is gone--gone for ever. Ah, the poverty, the shortness,
the disappointment of human joy! For in reality--_car en realité_, what is
the duration of the supreme moment of love. It is nothing, an instant, a
second perhaps. A second of ecstasy, and after that--dust, ashes,
nothingness.

'And so, just for one instant, I captured the supreme happiness, the
highest and most refined emotion to which human beings can attain. And in
the same moment it was finished, and I was left--to what? All my
savagery, my passion, were scattered like the petals of a rose. I was left
cold and languid, full of vain regrets; in my revulsion I even felt a kind
of pity for the weeping girl on the floor. Is it not nauseous, that we
should be the prey of such mean emotions? I did not look at the girl again;
my sole thought was to get away. I hastened up the steps of the vault and
out into the street. It was dark and bitterly cold, the streets were empty,
the stones echoed under my heels with a hollow, lonely ring. All my money
was gone, I had not even the price of a taxi fare. I walked back alone to
my cold, solitary room.

'But there, _messieurs et dames_, that is what I promised to expound to
you. That is Love. That was the happiest day of my life.'

He was a curious specimen, Charlie. I describe him, just to show what
diverse characters could be found flourishing in the Coq d'Or quarter.




III



I LIVED in the Coq d'Or quarter for about a year and a half. One day,
in summer, I found that I had just four hundred and fifty francs left, and
beyond this nothing but thirty-six francs a week, which I earned by giving
English lessons. Hitherto I had not thought about the future, but I now
realized that I must do something at once. I decided to start looking for a
job, and--very luckily, as it turned out--I took the precaution of
paying two hundred francs for a month's rent in advance. With the other two
hundred and fifty francs, besides the English lessons, I could live a
month, and in a month I should probably find work. I aimed at becoming a
guide to one of the tourist companies, or perhaps an interpreter. However,
a piece of bad luck prevented this.

One day there turned up at the hotel a young Italian who called
himself a compositor. He was rather an ambiguous person, for he wore side
whiskers, which are the mark either of an apache or an intellectual, and
nobody was quite certain in which class to put him. Madame F. did not like
the look of him, and made him pay a week's rent in advance. The Italian
paid the rent and stayed six nights at the hotel. During this time he
managed to prepare some duplicate keys, and on the last night he robbed a
dozen rooms, including mine. Luckily, he did not find the money that was in
my pockets, so I was not left penniless. I was left with just forty-seven
francs--that is, seven and tenpence.

This put an end to my plans of looking for work. I had now got to live
at the rate of about six francs a day, and from the start it was too
difficult to leave much thought for anything else. It was now that my
experiences of poverty began--for six francs a day, if not actual
poverty, is on the fringe of it. Six francs is a shilling, and you can live
on a shilling a day in Paris if you know how. But it is a complicated
business.

It is altogether curious, your first contact with poverty. You have
thought so much about poverty--it is the thing you have feared all your
life, the thing you knew would happen to you sooner or later; and it, is
all so utterly and prosaically different. You thought it would be quite
simple; it is extraordinarily complicated. You thought it would be
terrible; it is merely squalid and boring. It is the peculiar _lowness_ of
poverty that you discover first; the shifts that it puts you to, the
complicated meanness, the crust-wiping.

You discover, for instance, the secrecy attaching to poverty. At a
sudden stroke you have been reduced to an income of six francs a day. But
of course you dare not admit it--you have got to pretend that you are
living quite as usual. From the start it tangles you in a net of lies, and
even with the lies you can hardly manage it. You stop sending clothes to
the laundry, and the laundress catches you in the street and asks you why;
you mumble something, and she, thinking you are sending the clothes
elsewhere, is your enemy for life. The tobacconist keeps asking why you
have cut down your smoking. There are letters you want to answer, and
cannot, because stamps are too expensive. And then there are your meals--
meals are the worst difficulty of all. Every day at meal-times you go out,
ostensibly to a restaurant, and loaf an hour in the Luxembourg Gardens,
watching the pigeons. Afterwards you smuggle your food home in your
pockets. Your food is bread and margarine, or bread and wine, and even the
nature of the food is governed by lies. You have to buy rye bread instead
of household bread, because the rye loaves, though dearer, are round and
can be smuggled in your pockets. This wastes you a franc a day. Sometimes,
to keep up appearances, you have to spend sixty centimes on a drink, and go
correspondingly short of food. Your linen gets filthy, and you run out of
soap and razor-blades. Your hair wants cutting, and you try to cut it
yourself, with such fearful results that you have to go to the barber after
all, and spend the equivalent of a day's food. All day you arc telling
lies, and expensive lies.

You discover the extreme precariousness of your six francs a day. Mean
disasters happen and rob you of food. You have spent your last eighty
centimes on half a litre of milk, and are boiling it over the spirit lamp.
While it boils a bug runs down your forearm; you give the bug a flick with
your nail, and it falls, plop! straight into the milk. There is nothing for
it but to throw the milk away and go foodless.

You go to the baker's to buy a pound of bread, and you wait while the
girl cuts a pound for another customer. She is clumsy, and cuts more than a
pound. '_Pardon, monsieur_,' she says, 'I suppose you don't mind paying two
sous extra?' Bread is a franc a pound, and you have exactly a franc. When
you think that you too might be asked to pay two sous extra, and would have
to confess that you could not, you bolt in panic. It is hours before you
dare venture into a baker's shop again.

You go to the greengrocer's to spend a franc on a kilogram of
potatoes. But one of the pieces that make up the franc is a Belgian piece,
and the shopman refuses it. You slink out of the shop, and can never go
there again.

You have strayed into a respectable quarter, and you see a prosperous
friend coming. To avoid him you dodge into the nearest café. Once in the
café you must buy something, so you spend your last fifty centimes on a
glass of black coffee with a dead fly in it. Once could multiply these
disasters by the hundred. They are part of the process of being hard up.

You discover what it is like to be hungry. With bread and margarine in
your belly, you go out and look into the shop windows. Everywhere there is
food insulting you in huge, wasteful piles; whole dead pigs, baskets of hot
loaves, great yellow blocks of butter, strings of sausages, mountains of
potatoes, vast Gruyère cheeses like grindstones. A snivelling self-pity
comes over you at the sight of so much food. You plan to grab a loaf and
run, swallowing it before they catch you; and you refrain, from pure funk.

You discover the boredom which is inseparable from poverty; the times
when you have nothing to do and, being underfed, can interest yourself in
nothing. For half a day at a time you lie on your bed, feeling like the
_jeune squelette_ in Baudelaire's poem. Only food could rouse you. You
discover that a man who has gone even a week on bread and margarine is not
a man any longer, only a belly with a few accessory organs.

This--one could describe it further, but it is all in the same style
--is life on six francs a day. Thousands of people in Paris live it--
struggling artists and students, prostitutes when their luck is out,
out-of-work people of all kinds. It is the suburbs, as it were, of poverty.

I continued in this style for about three weeks. The forty-seven
francs were soon gone, and I had to do what I could on thirty-six francs a
week from the English lessons. Being inexperienced, I handled the money
badly, and sometimes I was a day without food. When this happened I used to
sell a few of my clothes, smuggling them out of the hotel in small packets
and taking them to a secondhand shop in the rue de la Montagne St
Geneviève. The shopman was a red-haired Jew, an extraordinary disagreeable
man, who used to fall into furious rages at the sight of a client. From his
manner one would have supposed that we had done him some injury by coming
to him. '_Merde!_' he used to shout, '_you_ here again? What do you think this
is? A soup kitchen?' And he paid incredibly low prices. For a hat which I
had bought for twenty-five shillings and scarcely worn he gave five francs;
for a good pair of shoes, five francs; for shirts, a franc each. He always
preferred to exchange rather than buy, and he had a trick of thrusting some
useless article into one's hand and then pretending that one had accepted
it. Once I saw him take a good overcoat from an old woman, put two white
billiard-balls into her hand, and then push her rapidly out of the shop
before she could protest. It would have been a pleasure to flatten the
Jew's nose, if only one could have afforded it.

These three weeks were squalid and uncomfortable, and evidently there
was worse coming, for my rent would be due before long. Nevertheless,
things were not a quarter as bad as I had expected. For, when you are
approaching poverty, you make one discovery which outweighs some of the
others. You discover boredom and mean complications and the beginnings of
hunger, but you also discover the great redeeming feature of poverty: the
fact that it annihilates the future. Within certain limits, it is actually
true that the less money you have, the less you worry. When you have a
hundred francs in the world you are liable to the most craven panics. When
you have only three francs you are quite indifferent; for three francs will
feed you till tomorrow, and you cannot think further than that. You are
bored, but you are not afraid. You think vaguely, 'I shall be starving in a
day or two--shocking, isn't it?' And then the mind wanders to other
topics. A bread and margarine diet does, to some extent, provide its own
anodyne.

And there is another feeling that is a great consolation in poverty. I
believe everyone who has been hard up has experienced it. It is a feeling
of relief, almost of pleasure, at knowing yourself at last genuinely down
and out. You have talked so often of going to the dogs--and well, here
are the dogs, and you have reached them, and you can stand it. It takes off
a lot of anxiety,




IV



ONE day my English lessons ceased abruptly. The weather was getting
hot and one of my pupils, feeling too lazy to go on with his lessons,
dismissed me. The other disappeared from his lodgings without notice, owing
me twelve francs. I was left with only thirty centimes and no tobacco. For
a day and a half I had nothing to cat or smoke, and then, too hungry to put
it off any longer, I packed my remaining clothes into my suitcase and took
them to the pawnshop. This put an end to all pretence of being in funds,
for I could not take my clothes out of the hotel without asking Madame F.'s
leave. I remember, however, how surprised she was at my asking her instead
of removing the clothes on the sly, shooting the moon being a common trick
in our quarter.

It was the first time that I had been in a French pawnshop. One went
through grandiose stone portals (marked, of course, '_Liberté, Egalité,
Fraternité_'--they write that even over the police stations in France) into a
large, bare room like a school classroom, with a counter and rows of
benches. Forty or fifty people were waiting. One handed one's pledge over
the counter and sat down. Presently, when the clerk had assessed its value
he would call out, '_Numéro_ such and such, will you take fifty francs?'
Sometimes it was only fifteen francs, or ten, or five--whatever it was,
the whole room knew it. As I Came in the clerk called with an air of
offence, '_Numéro_ 83--here!' and gave a little whistle and a beckon, as
though calling a dog. _Numéro_ 83 stepped to the counter; he was an old
bearded man, with an overcoat buttoned up at the neck and frayed
trouser-ends. Without a word the clerk shot the bundle across the counter
--evidently it was worth nothing. It fell to the ground and came open,
displaying four pairs of men's woollen pants. No one could help laughing.
Poor _Numéro_ 83 gathered up his pants and shambled out, muttering to
himself.

The clothes I was pawning, together with the suitcase, had cost over
twenty pounds, and were in good condition. I thought they must be worth ten
pounds, and a quarter of this (one expects quarter value at a pawnshop) was
two hundred and fifty or three hundred francs. I waited without anxiety,
expecting two hundred francs at the worst.

At last the clerk called my number: '_Numéro_ 97!'

'Yes,' I said, standing up.

'Seventy francs?'

Seventy francs for ten pounds' worth of clothes! But it was no use
arguing; I had seen someone else attempt to argue, and the clerk had
instantly refused the pledge. I took the money and the pawnticket and
walked out. I had now no clothes except what I stood up in--the coat
badly out at the elbow--an overcoat, moderately pawnable, and one spare
shirt. Afterwards, when it was too late, I learned that it was wiser to go
to a pawnshop in the afternoon. The clerks are French, and, like most
French people, are in a bad temper till they have eaten their lunch.

When I got home, Madame F. was sweeping the _bistro_ floor. She came up
the steps to meet me. I could see in her eye that she was uneasy about my
rent.

'Well,' she said, 'what did you get for your clothes? Not much, eh?'

'Two hundred francs,' I said promptly.

'_Tiens!_' she said, surprised; 'well, _that's_ not bad. How expensive
those English clothes must be!'

The lie saved a lot of trouble, and, strangely enough, it came true. A
few days later I did receive exactly two hundred francs due to me for a
newspaper article, and, though it hurt to do it, I at once paid every penny
of it in rent. So, though I came near to starving in the following weeks, I
was hardly ever without a roof.

It was now absolutely necessary to find work, and I remembered a
friend of mine, a Russian waiter named Boris, who might be able to help me.
I had first met him in the public ward of a hospital, where he was being
treated for arthritis in the left leg. He had told me to come to him if I
were ever in difficulties.

I must say something about Boris, for he was a curious character and
my close friend for a long time. He was a big, soldierly man of about
thirty-five, and had been good looking, but since his illness he had grown
immensely fat from lying in bed. Like most Russian refugees, he had had an
adventurous life. His parents, killed in the Revolution, had been rich
people, and he had served through the war in the Second Siberian Rifles,
which, according to him, was the best regiment in the Russian Army. After
the war he had first worked in a brush factory, then as a porter at Les
Halles, then had become a dishwasher, and had finally worked his way up to
be a waiter. When he fell ill he was at the Hôtel Scribe, and taking a
hundred francs a day in tips. His ambition was to become a _maître d'hôtel_,
save fifty thousand francs, and set up a small, select restaurant on the
Right Bank.

Boris always talked of the war as the happiest time of his life. War
and soldiering were his passion; he had read innumerable books of strategy
and military history, and could tell you all about the theories of
Napoleon, Kutuzof, Clausewitz, Moltke and Foch. Anything to do with
soldiers pleased him. His favourite café was the Gloserie des Lilas in
Montparnasse, simply because the statue of Marshal Ney stands outside it.
Later on, Boris and I sometimes went to the rue du Commerce together. If we
went by Métro, Boris always got out at Cambronne station instead of
Commerce, though Commerce was nearer; he liked the association with General
Cambronne, who was called on to surrender at Waterloo, and answered simply,
'_Merde!_'

The only things left to Boris by the Revolution were his medals and
some photographs of his old regiment; he had kept these when everything
else went to the pawnshop. Almost every day he would spread the photographs
out on the bed and talk about them:

'_Voilà, mon ami_. There you see me at the head of my company. Fine big
men, eh? Not like these little rats of Frenchmen. A captain at twenty--
not bad, eh? Yes, a captain in the Second Siberian Rifles; and my father
was a colonel.

'_Ah, mais, mon ami_, the ups and downs of life! A captain in the
Russian Army, and then, piff! the Revolution--every penny gone. In 1916 I
stayed a week at the Hôtel Édouard Sept; in 1920 I was trying for a job as
night watchman there. I have been night watchman, cellarman, floor
scrubber, dishwasher, porter, lavatory attendant. I have tipped waiters,
and I have been tipped by waiters.

'Ah, but I have known what it is to live like a gentleman, _mon ami_. I
do not say it to boast, but the other day I was trying to compute how many
mistresses I have had in my life, and I made it out to be over two hundred.
Yes, at least two hundred... Ah, well, _ça reviendra_. Victory is to him who
fights the longest. Courage!' etc. etc.

Boris had a queer, changeable nature. He always wished himself back in
the army, but he had also been a waiter long enough to acquire the waiter's
outlook. Though he had never saved more than a few thousand francs, he took
it for granted that in the end he would be able to set up his own
restaurant and grow rich. All waiters, I afterwards found, talk and think
of this; it is what reconciles them to being waiters. Boris used to talk
interestingly about Hotel life:

'Waiting is a gamble,' he used to say; 'you may die poor, you may make
your fortune in a year. You are not paid wages, you depend on tips--ten
per cent of the bill, and a commission from the wine companies on champagne
corks. Sometimes the tips are enormous. The barman at Maxim's, for
instance, makes five hundred francs a day. More than five hundred, in the
season... I have made two hundred francs a day myself. It was at a Hotel in
Biarritz, in the season. The whole staff, from the manager down to the
_plongeurs_, was working twenty-one hours a day. Twenty-one hours' work and
two and a half hours in bed, for a month on end. Still, it was worth it, at
two hundred francs a day.

'You never know when a stroke of luck is coming. Once when I was at
the Hôtel Royal an American customer sent for me before dinner and ordered
twenty-four brandy cocktails. I brought them all together on a tray, in
twenty-four glasses. "Now, _garçon_," said the customer (he was drunk),
"I'll drink twelve and you'll drink twelve, and if you can walk to the door
afterwards you get a hundred francs." I walked to the door, and he gave me
a hundred francs. And every night for six days he did the same thing;
twelve brandy cocktails, then a hundred francs. A few months later I heard
he had been extradited by the American Government--embezzlement. There is
something fine, do you not think, about these Americans?'

I liked Boris, and we had interesting times together, playing chess
and talking about war and hotels. Boris used often to suggest that I should
become a waiter. 'The life would suit you,' he used to say; 'when you are
in work, with a hundred francs a day and a nice mistress, it's not bad. You
say you go in for writing. Writing is bosh. There is only one way to make
money at writing, and that is to marry a publisher's daughter. But you
would make a good waiter if you shaved that moustache off. You are tall and
you speak English--those are the chief things a waiter needs. Wait till I
can bend this accursed leg, _mon ami_. And then, if you are ever out of a
job, come to me.'

Now that I was short of my rent, and getting hungry, I remembered
Boris's promise, and decided to look him up at once. I did not hope to
become a waiter so easily as he had promised, but of course I knew how to
scrub dishes, and no doubt he could get me a job in the kitchen. He had
said that dishwashing jobs were to be had for the asking during the summer.
It was a great relief to remember that I had after all one influential
friend to fall back on.




V



A SHORT time before, Boris had given me an address in the rue du
Marché des Blancs Manteaux. All he had said in his letter was that 'things
were not marching too badly', and I assumed that he was back at the Hôtel
Scribe, touching his hundred francs a day. I was full of hope, and wondered
why I had been fool enough not to go to Boris before. I saw myself in a
cosy restaurant, with jolly cooks singing love-songs as they broke eggs
into the pan, and five solid meals a day. I even squandered two francs
fifty on a packet of Gaulois Bleu, in anticipation of my wages.

In the morning I walked down to the rue du Marché des Blancs Manteaux;
with a shock, I found it a shimmy back street-as bad as my own. Boris's
hotel was the dirtiest hotel in the street. From its dark doorway there
came out a vile, sour odour, a mixture of slops and synthetic soup--it
was Bouillon Zip, twenty-five centimes a packet. A misgiving came over me.
People who drink Bouillon Zip are starving, or near it. Could Boris
possibly be earning a hundred francs a day? A surly _patron_, sitting in the
office, said to me. Yes, the Russian was at home--in the attic. I went up
six nights of narrow, winding stairs, the Bouillon Zip growing stronger as
one got higher. Boris did not answer when I knocked at his door, so I
opened it and went in.

The room was an attic, ten feet square, lighted only by a skylight,
its sole furniture a narrow iron bedstead, a chair, and a washhand-stand
with one game leg. A long S-shaped chain of bugs marched slowly across the
wall above the bed. Boris was lying asleep, naked, his large belly making a
mound under the grimy sheet. His chest was spotted with insect bites. As I
came in he woke up, rubbed his eyes, and groaned deeply.

'Name of Jesus Christ!' he exclaimed, 'oh, name of Jesus Christ, my
back! Curse it, I believe my back is broken!'

'What's the matter?' I exclaimed.

'My back is broken, that is all. I have spent the night on the floor.
Oh, name of Jesus Christ! If you knew what my back feels like!'

'My dear Boris, are you ill?'

'Not ill, only starving--yes, starving to death if this goes on much
longer. Besides sleeping on the floor, I have lived on two francs a day for
weeks past. It is fearful. You have come at a bad moment, _mon ami_.'

It did not seem much use to ask whether Boris still had his job at the
Hôtel Scribe. I hurried downstairs and bought a loaf of bread. Boris threw
himself on the bread and ate half of it, after which he felt better, sat up
in bed, and told me what was the matter with him. He had failed to get a
job after leaving the hospital, because he was still very lame, and he had
spent all his money and pawned everything, and finally starved for several
days. He had slept a week on the quay under the Font d'Austerlitz, among
some empty wine barrels. For the past fortnight he had been living in this
room, together with a Jew, a mechanic. It appeared (there was some
complicated explanation.) that the Jew owed Boris three hundred francs, and
was repaying this by letting him sleep on the floor and allowing him two
francs a day for food. Two francs would buy a bowl of coffee and three
rolls. The Jew went to work at seven in the mornings, and after that Boris
would leave his sleeping-place (it was beneath the skylight, which let in
the rain) and get into the bed. He could not sleep much even there owing to
the bugs, but it rested his back after the floor.

It was a great disappointment, when I had come to Boris for help, to
find him even worse off than myself. I explained that I had only about
sixty francs left and must get a job immediately. By this time, however,
Boris had eaten the rest of the bread and was feeling cheerful and
talkative. He said carelessly:

'Good heavens, what are you worrying about? Sixty francs--why, it's
a fortune! Please hand me that shoe, _mon ami_. I'm going to smash some of
those bugs if they come within reach.'

'But do you think there's any chance of getting a job?'

'Chance? It's a certainty. In fact, I have got something already.
There is a new Russian restaurant which is to open in a few days in the rue
du Commerce. It is _une chose entendue_ that I am to be _maître d'hôtel_. I can
easily get you a job in the kitchen. Five hundred francs a month and your
food--tips, too, if you are lucky.'

'But in the meantime? I've got to pay my rent before long.'

'Oh, we shall find something. I have got a few cards-up my sleeve.
There are people who owe me money, for instance--Paris is full of them.
One of them is bound to pay up before long. Then think of all the women who
have been my mistress! A woman never forgets, you know--I have only to
ask and they will help me. Besides, the Jew tells me he is going to steal
some magnetos from the garage where he works, and he will pay us five
francs a day to clean them before he sells them. That alone would keep us.
Never worry, _mon ami_. Nothing is easier to get than money.'

'Well, let's go out now and look for a job.'

'Presently, _mon ami_. We shan't starve, don't you fear. This is only
the fortune of war--I've been in a worse hole scores of times. It's only
a question of persisting. Remember Foch's maxim: "_Attaquez! Attaquez!
Attaquez!_"'

It was midday before Boris decided to get up. All the clothes he now
had left were one suit, with one shirt, collar and tie, a pair of shoes
almost worn out, and a pair of socks all holes. He had also an overcoat
which was to be pawned in the last extremity. He had a suitcase, a wretched
twenty-franc cardboard thing, but very important, because the _patron_ of the
hotel believed that it was full of clothes--without that, he would
probably have turned Boris out of doors. What it actually contained were
the medals and photographs, various odds and ends, and huge bundles of
love-letters. In spite of all this Boris managed to keep a fairly smart
appearance. He shaved without soap and with a razor-blade two months old,
tied his tie so that the holes did not show, and carefully stuffed the
soles of his shoes with newspaper. Finally, when he was dressed, he
produced an ink-bottle and inked the skin of his ankles where it showed
through his socks. You would never have thought, when it was finished, that
he had recently been sleeping under the Seine bridges.

We went to a small café off the rue de Rivoli, a well-known rendezvous
of hotel managers and employees. At the back was a dark, cave-like room
where all kinds of hotel workers were sitting--smart young waiters,
others not so smart and clearly hungry, fat pink cooks, greasy
dish-washers, battered old scrubbing-women. Everyone had an untouched glass
of black coffee in front of him. The place was, in effect, an employment
bureau, and the money spent on drinks was the _patron_'s commission.
Sometimes a stout, important-looking man, obviously a restaurateur, would
come in and speak to the barman, and the barman would call to one of the
people at the back of the café. But he never called to Boris or me, and we
left after two hours, as the etiquette was that you could only stay two
hours for one drink. We learned afterwards, when it was too late, that the
dodge was to bribe the barman; if you could afford twenty francs he would
generally get you a job.

We went to the Hôtel Scribe and waited an hour on the pavement, hoping
that the manager would come out, but he never did. Then we dragged
ourselves down to the rue du Commerce, only to find that the new
restaurant, which was being redecorated, was shut up and the _patron_ away.
It was now night. We had walked fourteen kilometres over pavement, and we
were so tired that we had to waste one franc fifty on going home by Métro.
Walking was agony to Boris with his game leg, and his optimism wore thinner
and thinner as the day went on. When he got out of the Métro at the Place
d'Italie he was in despair. He began to say that it was no use looking for
work--there was nothing for it but to try crime.

'Sooner rob than starve, _mon ami_. I have often planned it. A fat, rich
American--some dark corner down Montparnasse way--a cobblestone in a
stocking--bang! And then go through his pockets and bolt. It is feasible,
do you not think? I would not flinch--I have been a soldier, remember.'

He decided against the plan in the end, because we were both
foreigners and easily recognized.

When we had got back to my room we spent another one franc fifty on
bread and chocolate. Boris devoured his share, and at once cheered up like
magic; food seemed to act on his system as rapidly as a cocktail. He took
out a pencil and began making a list of the people who would probably give
us jobs. There were dozens of them, he said.

'Tomorrow we shall find something, _mon ami_, I know it in my bones. The
luck always changes. Besides, we both have brains--a man with brains
can't starve.

'What things a man can do with brains! Brains will make money out of
anything. I had a friend once, a Pole, a real man of genius; and what do
you think he used to do? He would buy a gold ring and pawn it for fifteen
francs. Then--you know how carelessly the clerks fill up the tickets--
where the clerk had written "_en or_" he would add "_et diamants_" and he would
change "fifteen francs" to "fifteen thousand". Neat, eh? Then, you see, he
could borrow a thousand francs on the security of the ticket. That is what
I mean by brains...'

For the rest of the evening Boris was in a hopeful mood, talking of
the times we should have together when we were waiters together at Nice or
Biarritz, with smart rooms and enough money to set up mistresses. He was
too tired to walk the three kilometres back to his hotel, and slept the
night on the floor of my room, with his coat rolled round his shoes for a
pillow.




VI



WE again failed to find work the next day, and it was three weeks
before the luck changed. My two hundred francs saved me from trouble about
the rent, but everything else went as badly as possible. Day after day
Boris and I went up and down Paris, drifting at two miles an hour through
the crowds, bored and hungry, and finding nothing. One day, I remember, we
crossed the Seine eleven times. We loitered for hours outside service
doorways, and when the manager came out we would go up to him
ingratiatingly, cap in hand. We always got the same answer: they did not
want a lame man, nor a man without experience. Once we were very nearly
engaged. While we spoke to the manager Boris stood straight upright, not
supporting himself with his stick, and the .manager did not see that he was
lame. 'Yes,' he said, 'we want two men in the cellars. Perhaps you would
do. Come inside.' Then Boris moved, the game was up. 'Ah,' said the
manager, 'you limp. _Malheureusement_--'

We enrolled our names at agencies and answered advertisements, but
walking everywhere made us slow, and we seemed to miss every job by half an
hour. Once we very nearly got a job swabbing out railway trucks, but at the
last moment they rejected us in favour of Frenchmen. Once we answered an
advertisement calling for hands at a circus. You had to shift benches and
clean up litter, and, during the performance, stand on two tubs and let a
lion jump through your legs. When we got to the place, an hour before the
time named, we found a queue of fifty men already waiting. There is some
attraction in lions, evidently.

Once an agency to which I had applied months earlier sent me a _petit
bleu_, telling me of an Italian gentleman who wanted English lessons. The
_petit bleu_ said 'Come at once' and promised twenty francs an hour. Boris
and I were in despair. Here was a splendid chance, and I could not take it,
for it was impossible to go to the agency with my coat out at the elbow.
Then it occurred to us that I could wear Boris's coat--it did not match
my trousers, but the trousers were grey and might pass for flannel at a
short distance. The coat was so much too big for me that I had to wear it
unbuttoned and keep one hand in my pocket. I hurried out, and wasted
seventy-five centimes on a bus fare to get to the agency. When I got there
I found that the Italian had changed his mind and left Paris.

Once Boris suggested that I should go to Les Halles and try for a job
as a porter. I arrived at half-past four in the morning, when the work was
getting into its swing. Seeing a short, fat man in a bowler hat directing
some porters, I went up to him and asked for work. Before answering he
seized my right hand and felt the palm.

'You are strong, eh?' he said.

'Very strong,' I said untruly.

'_Bien_. Let me see you lift that crate.'

It was a huge wicker basket full of potatoes. I took hold of it, and
found that, so far from lifting it, I could not even move it. The man in
the bowler hat watched me, then shrugged his shoulders and turned away. I
made off. When I had gone some distance I looked back and saw _four_ men
lifting the basket on to a cart. It weighed three hundredweight, possibly.
The man had seen that I was no use, and taken this way of getting rid of me.

Sometimes in his hopeful moments Boris spent fifty centimes on a stamp
and wrote to one of his ex-mistresses, asking for money. Only one of them
ever replied. It was a woman who, besides having been his mistress, owed
him two hundred francs. When Boris saw the letter waiting and recognized
the handwriting, he was wild with hope. We seized the letter and rushed up
to Boris's room to read it, like a child with stolen sweets. Boris read the
letter, then handed it silently to me. It ran:


My Little Cherished Wolf,

With what delight did I open thy charming letter, reminding me
of the days of our perfect love, and of the so dear kisses which I
have received from thy lips. Such memories linger for ever in the
heart, like the perfume of a flower that is dead.

As to thy request for two hundred francs, alas! it is
impossible. Thou dost not know, my dear one, how I am desolated to
hear of thy embarrassments. But what wouldst thou? In this life
which is so sad, trouble conies to everyone. I too have had my
share. My little sister has been ill (ah, the poor little one, how
she suffered!) and we are obliged to pay I know not what to the
doctor. All our money is gone and we are passing, I assure thee,
very difficult days.

Courage, my little wolf, always the courage! Remember that the
bad days are not for ever, and the trouble which seems so terrible
will disappear at last.

Rest assured, my dear one, that I will remember thee always. And
receive the most sincere embraces of her who has never ceased to
love thee, thy

Yvonne


This letter disappointed Boris so much that he went straight to bed
and would not look for work again that day. My sixty francs lasted about a
fortnight. I had given up the pretence of going out to restaurants, and we
used to eat in my room, one of us sitting on the bed and the other on the
chair. Boris would contribute his two francs and I three or four francs,
and we would buy bread, potatoes, milk and cheese, and make soup over my
spirit lamp. We had a saucepan and a coffee-bowl and one spoon; every day
there was a polite squabble as to who should eat out of the saucepan and
who out of the coffee-bowl (the saucepan held more), and every day, to my
secret anger, Boris gave in first and had the saucepan. Sometimes we had
more bread in the evening, sometimes not. Our linen was getting filthy, and
it was three weeks since I had had a bath; Boris, so he said, had not had a
bath for months. It was tobacco that made everything tolerable. We had
plenty of tobacco, for some time before Boris had met a soldier (the
soldiers are given their tobacco free) and bought twenty or thirty packets
at fifty centimes each.

All this was far worse for Boris than for me. The walking and sleeping
on the floor kept his leg and back in constant pain, and with his vast
Russian appetite he suffered torments of hunger, though he never seemed to
grow thinner. On the whole he was surprisingly gay, and he had vast
capacities for hope. He used to say seriously that he had a patron saint
who watched over him, and when things were very bad he would search the
gutter for money, saying that the saint often dropped a two-franc piece
there. One day we were waiting in the rue Royale; there was a Russian
restaurant near by, and we were going to ask for a job there. Suddenly,
Boris made up his mind to go into the Madeleine and bum a fifty-centime
candle to his patron saint. Then, coming out, he said that he would be on
the safe side, and solemnly put a match to a fifty-centime stamp, as a
sacrifice to the immortal gods. Perhaps the gods and the saints did not get
on together; at any rate, we missed the job.

On some mornings Boris collapsed in the most utter despair. He would
lie in bed almost weeping, cursing the Jew with whom he lived. Of late the
Jew had become restive about paying the daily two francs, and, what was
worse, had begun putting on intolerable airs of patronage. Boris said that
I, as an Englishman, could not conceive what torture it was to a Russian of
family to be at the mercy of a Jew.

'A Jew, _mon ami_, a veritable Jew! And he hasn't even the decency to be
ashamed of it. To think that I, a captain in the Russian Army--have I
ever told you, _mon ami_, that I was a captain in the Second Siberian Rifles?
Yes, a captain, and my father was a colonel. And here I am, eating the
bread of a Jew. A Jew...

'I will tell you what Jews are like. Once, in the early months of the
war, we were on the march, and we had halted at a village for the night. A
horrible old Jew, with a red beard like Judas Iscariot, came sneaking up to
my billet. I asked him what he wanted. "Your honour," he said, "I have
brought a girl for you, a beautiful young girl only seventeen. It will only
be fifty francs." "Thank you," I said, "you can take her away again. I
don't want to catch any diseases." "Diseases!" cried the Jew, "_mais,
monsieur le capitaine_, there's no fear of that. It's my own daughter!" That
is the Jewish national character for you.

'Have I ever told you, _mon ami_, that in the old Russian Army it was
considered bad form to spit on a Jew? Yes, we thought a Russian officer's
spittle was too precious to be wasted on Jews...' etc. etc.

On these days Boris usually declared himself too ill to go out and
look for work. He would lie till evening in the greyish, verminous sheets,
smoking and reading old newspapers. Sometimes we played chess. We had no
board, but we wrote down the moves on a piece of paper, and afterwards we
made a board from the side of a packing--case, and a set of men from
buttons, Belgian coins and the like. Boris, like many Russians, had a
passion for chess. It was a saying of his that the rules of chess are the
same as the rules of love and war, and that if you can win at one you can
win at the others. But he also said that if you have a chessboard you do
not mind being hungry, which was certainly not true in my case.




VII



MY money oozed away--to eight francs, to four francs, to one franc,
to twenty-five centimes; and twenty-five centimes is useless, for it will
buy nothing except a newspaper. We went several days on dry bread, and then
I was two and a half days with nothing to eat whatever. This was an ugly
experience. There are people who do fasting cures of three weeks or more,
and they say that fasting is quite pleasant after the fourth day; I do not
know, never having gone beyond the third day. Probably it seems different
when one is doing it voluntarily and is not underfed at the start.

The first day, too inert to look for work, I borrowed a rod and went
fishing in the Seine, baiting with bluebottles. I hoped to catch enough for
a meal, but of course I did not. The Seine is full of dace, but they grew
cunning during the siege of Paris, and none of them has been caught since,
except in nets. On the second day I thought of pawning my overcoat, but it
seemed too far to walk to the pawnshop, and I spent the day in bed, reading
the _Memoirs Of Sherlock Holmes_. It was all that I felt equal to, without
food. Hunger reduces one to an utterly spineless, brainless condition, more
like the after-effects of influenza than anything else. It is as though one
had been turned into a jellyfish, or as though all one's blood had been
pumped out and luke-warm water substituted. Complete inertia is my chief
memory of hunger; that, and being obliged to spit very frequently, and the
spittle being curiously white and flocculent, like cuckoo-spit. I do not
know the reason for this, but everyone who has gone hungry several days has
noticed it.

On the third morning I felt very much better. I realized that I must
do something at once, and I decided to go and ask Boris to let me share his
two francs, at any rate for a day or two. When I arrived I found Boris in
bed, and furiously angry. As soon as I came in he burst out, almost
choking:

'He has taken it back, the dirty thief! He has taken it back!'

'Who's taken what?' I said.

'The Jew! Taken my two francs, the dog, the thief! He robbed me in my
sleep!'

It appeared that on the previous night the Jew had flatly refused to
pay the daily two francs. They had argued and argued, and at last the Jew
had consented to hand over the money; he had done it, Boris said, in the
most offensive manner, making a little speech about how kind he was, and
extorting abject gratitude. And then in the morning he had stolen the money
back before Boris was awake.

This was a blow. I was horribly disappointed, for I had allowed my
belly to expect food, a great mistake when one is hungry. However, rather
to my surprise, Boris was far from despairing. He sat up in bed, lighted
his pipe and reviewed the situation.

'Now listen, _mon ami_, this is a tight comer. We have only twenty-five
centimes between us, and I don't suppose the Jew will ever pay my two
francs again. In any case his behaviour is becoming intolerable. Will you
believe it, the other night he had the indecency to bring a woman in here,
while I was there on the floor. The low animal! And I have a worse thing to
tell you. The Jew intends clearing out of here. He owes a week's rent, and
his idea is to avoid paying that and give me the slip at the same time. If
the Jew shoots the moon I shall be left without a roof, and the _patron_ will
take my suitcase in lieu of rent, curse him! We have got to make a vigorous
move.'

'All right. But what can we do? It seems to me that the only thing is
to pawn our overcoats and get some food.'

'We'll do that, of course, but I must get my possessions out of this
house first. To think of my photographs being seized! Well, my plan is
ready. I'm going to forestall the Jew and shoot the moon myself. _F----
le camp_--retreat, you understand. I think that is the correct move, eh?'

'But, my dear Boris, how can you, in daytime? You're bound to be
caught.'

'Ah well, it will need strategy, of course. Our _patron_ is on the watch
for people slipping out without paying their rent; he's been had that way
before. He and his wife take it in turns all day to sit in the office--
what misers, these Frenchmen! But I have thought of a way to do it, if you
will help.'

I did not feel in a very helpful mood, but I asked Boris what his plan
was. He explained it carefully.

'Now listen. We must start by pawning our overcoats. First go back to
your room and fetch your overcoat, then come back here and fetch mine, and
smuggle it out under cover of yours. Take them to the pawnshop in the rue
des Francs Bourgeois. You ought to get twenty francs for the two, with
luck. Then go down to the Seine bank and fill your pockets with stones, and
bring them back and put them in my suitcase. You see the idea? I shall wrap
as many of my things as I can carry in a newspaper, and go down and ask the
_patron_ the way to the nearest laundry. I shall be very brazen and casual,
you understand, and of course the _patron_ will think the bundle is nothing
but dirty linen. Or, if he does suspect anything, he will do what he always
does, the mean sneak; he will go up to my room and feel the weight of my
suitcase. And when he feels the weight of stones he will think it is still
full. Strategy, eh? Then afterwards I can come back and carry my other
things out in my pockets.'

'But what about the suitcase?'

'Oh, that? We shall have to abandon it. The miserable thing only cost
about twenty francs. Besides, one always abandons something in a retreat.
Look at Napoleon at the Beresina! He abandoned his whole army.'

Boris was so pleased with this scheme (he called it _ruse de guerre_)
that he almost forgot being hungry. Its main weakness--that he would have
nowhere to sleep after shooting the moon--he ignored.

At first the _ruse de guerre_ worked well. I went home and fetched my
overcoat (that made already nine kilometres, on an empty belly) and
smuggled Boris's coat out successfully. Then a hitch occurred. The receiver
at the pawnshop, a nasty, sour-faced, interfering, little man--a typical
French official--refused the coats on the ground that they were not
wrapped up in anything. He said that they must be put either in a valise or
a cardboard box. This spoiled everything, for we had no box of any kind,
and with only twenty-five centimes between us we could not buy one.

I went back and told Boris the bad news. '_Merde!_' he said, 'that makes
it awkward. Well, no matter, there is always a way. We'll put the overcoats
in my suitcase.'

'But how are we to get the suitcase past the _patron_? He's sitting
almost in the door of the office. It's impossible!'

'How easily you despair, _mon ami_! Where is that English obstinacy that
I have read of? Courage! We'll manage it.'

Boris thought for a little while, and then produced another cunning
plan. The essential difficulty was to hold the _patron_'s attention for
perhaps five seconds, while we could slip past with the suitcase. But, as
it happened, the _patron_ had just one weak spot--that he was interested in
_Le Sport_, and was ready to talk if you approached him on this subject.
Boris read an article about bicycle races in an old copy of the _Petit
Parisien_, and then, when he had reconnoitred the stairs, went down and
managed to set the _patron_ talking. Meanwhile, I waited at the foot of the
stairs, with the overcoats under one arm and the suitcase under the other.
Boris was to give a cough when he thought the moment favourable. I waited
trembling, for at any moment the _patron_'s wife might come out of the door
opposite the office, and then the game was up. However, presently Boris
coughed. I sneaked rapidly past the office and out into the street,
rejoicing that my shoes did not creak. The plan might have failed if Boris
had been thinner, for his big shoulders blocked the doorway of the office.
His nerve was splendid, too; he went on laughing and talking in the most
casual way, and so loud that he quite covered any noise I made. When I was
well away he came and joined me round the corner, and we bolted.

And then, after all our trouble, the receiver at the pawnshop again
refused the overcoats. He told me (one could see his French soul revelling
in the pedantry of it) that I had not sufficient papers of identification;
my _carte d'identité_ was not enough, and I must show a passport or addressed
envelopes. Boris had addressed envelopes by the score, but his _carte
d'identité_ was out of order (he never renewed it, so as to avoid the tax),
so we could not pawn the overcoats in his name. All we could do was to
trudge up to my room, get the necessary papers, and take the coats to the
pawnshop in the Boulevard Port Royal.

I left Boris at my room and went down to the pawnshop. When I got
there I found that it was shut and would not open till four in the
afternoon. It was now about half-past one, and I had walked twelve
kilometres and had no food for sixty hours. Fate seemed to be playing a
series of extraordinarily unamusing jokes.

Then the luck changed as though by a miracle. I was walking home
through the Rue Broca when suddenly, glittering on the cobbles, I saw a
five-sou piece. I pounced on it, hurried home, got our other five-sou piece
and bought a pound of potatoes. There was only enough alcohol in the stove
to parboil them, and we had no salt, but we wolfed them, skins and all.
After that we felt like new men, and sat playing chess till the pawnshop
opened.

At four o'clock I went back to the pawnshop. I was not hopeful, for if
I had only got seventy francs before, what could I expect for two shabby
overcoats in a cardboard suitcase? Boris had said twenty francs, but I
thought it would be ten francs, or even five. Worse yet, I might be refused
altogether, like poor _Numéro_ 83 on the previous occasion. I sat on the
front bench, so as not to see people laughing when the clerk said five
francs.

At last the clerk called my number: '_Numéro_ 117!'

'Yes,' I said, standing up.

'Fifty francs?'

It was almost as great a shock as the seventy francs had been the time
before. I believe now that the clerk had mixed my number up with someone
else's, for one could not have sold the coats outright for fifty francs. I
hurried home and walked into my room with my hands behind my back, saying
nothing. Boris was playing with the chessboard. He looked up eagerly.

'What did you get?' he exclaimed. 'What, not twenty francs? Surely you
got ten francs, anyway? _Nom de Dieu_, five francs--that is a bit too
thick. _Mon ami, don't_ say it was five francs. If you say it was five francs
I shall really begin to think of suicide.'

I threw the fifty-franc, note on to the table. Boris turned white as
chalk, and then, springing up, seized my hand and gave it a grip that
almost broke the bones. We ran out, bought bread and wine, a piece of meat
and alcohol for the stove, and gorged.

After eating, Boris became more optimistic than I had ever known him.
'What did I tell you?' he said. 'The fortune of war! This morning with five
sous, and now look at us. I have always said it, there is nothing easier to
get than money. And that reminds me, I have a friend in the rue Fondary
whom we might go and see. He has cheated me of four thousand francs, the
thief. He is the greatest thief alive when he is sober, but it is a curious
thing, he is quite honest when he is drunk. I should think he would be
drunk by six in the evening. Let's go and find him. Very likely he will pay
up a hundred on account. _Merde!_ He might pay two hundred. _Allons-y!_'

We went to the rue Fondary and found the man, and he was drunk, but we
did not get our hundred francs. As soon as he and Boris met there was a
terrible altercation on the pavement. The other man declared that he did
not owe Boris a penny, but that on the contrary Boris owed _him_ four
thousand francs, and both of them kept appealing to me for my opinion. I
never understood the rights of the matter. The two argued and argued, first
in the street, then in a _bistro_, then in a _prix fixe_ restaurant where we
went for dinner, then in another _bistro_. Finally, having called one another
thieves for two hours, they went off together on a drinking bout that
finished up the last sou of Boris's money.

Boris slept the night at the house of a cobbler, another Russian
refugee, in the Commerce quarter. Meanwhile, I had eight francs left, and
plenty of cigarettes, and was stuffed to the eyes with food and drink. It
was a marvellous change for the better after two bad days.




VIII



WE had now twenty-eight francs in hand, and could start looking for
work once more. Boris was still sleeping, on some mysterious terms, at the
house of the cobbler, and he had managed to borrow another twenty francs
from a Russian friend. He had friends, mostly ex-officers like himself,
here and there all over Paris. Some were waiters or dishwashers, some drove
taxis, a few lived on women, some had managed to bring money away from
Russia and owned garages or dancing-halls. In general, the Russian refugees
in Paris are hard-working people, and have put up with/their bad luck far
better than one can imagine Englishmen of the same class doing. There are
exceptions, of course. Boris told me of an exiled Russian duke whom he had
once met, who frequented expensive restaurants. The duke would find out if
there was a Russian officer among the waiters, and, after he had dined,
call him in a friendly way to his table.

'Ah,' the duke would say, 'so you are an old soldier, like myself?
These are bad days, eh? Well, well, the Russian soldier fears nothing. And
what was your regiment?'

'The so-and-so, sir,' the waiter would answer.

'A very gallant regiment! I inspected them in 1912. By the way, I have
unfortunately left my notecase at home. A Russian officer will, I know,
oblige me with three hundred francs.'

If the waiter had three hundred francs he would hand it over, and, of
course, never see it again. The duke made quite a lot in this way. Probably
the waiters did not mind being swindled. A duke is a duke, even in exile.

It was through one of these Russian refugees that Boris heard of
something which seemed to promise money. Two days after we had pawned the
overcoats, Boris said to me rather mysteriously:

'Tell me, _mon ami_, have you any political opinions?'

'No,'I said.

'Neither have I. Of course, one is always a patriot; but still--Did
not Moses say something about spoiling the Egyptians? As an Englishman you
will have read the Bible. What I mean is, would you object to earning money
from Communists?'

'No, of course not.'

'Well, it appears that there is a Russian secret society in Paris who
might do something for us. They are Communists; in fact they are agents for
the Bolsheviks. They act as a friendly society, get in touch with exiled
Russians, and try to get them to turn Bolshevik. My friend has joined their
society, and he thinks they would help us if we went to them.'

'But what can they do for us? In any case they won't help me, as I'm
not a Russian.'

'That is just the point. It seems that they are correspondents for a
Moscow paper, and they want some articles on English politics. If we got to
them at once they may commission you to write the articles.'

'Me? But I don't know anything about politics.'

'_Merde_! Neither do they. Who _does_ know anything about politics? It's
easy. All you have to do is to copy it out of the English papers. Isn't
there a Paris _Daily Mail_? Copy it from that.'

'But the _Daily Mail_ is a Conservative paper. They loathe the
Communists.'

'Well, say the opposite of what the _Daily Mail_ says, then you can't be
wrong. We mustn't throw this chance away, _mon ami_. It might mean hundreds
of francs.'

I did not like the idea, for the Paris police are very hard on
Communists, especially if they are foreigners, and I was already under
suspicion. Some months before, a detective had seen me come out of the
office of a Communist weekly paper, and I had had a great deal of trouble
with the police. If they caught me going to this secret society, it might
mean deportation. However, the chance seemed too good to be missed. That
afternoon Boris's friend, another waiter, came to take us to the
rendezvous. I cannot remember the name of the street--it was a shabby
street running south from the Seine bank, somewhere near the Chamber of
Deputies. Boris's friend insisted on great caution. We loitered casually
down the street, marked the doorway we were to enter--it was a laundry--
and then strolled back again, keeping an eye on all the windows and cafés.
If the place were known as a haunt of Communists it was probably watched,
and we intended to go home if we saw anyone at all like a detective. I was
frightened, but Boris enjoyed these conspiratorial proceedings, and quite
forgot that he was about to trade with the slayers of his parents.

When we were certain that the coast was clear we dived quickly into
the doorway. In the laundry was a Frenchwoman ironing clothes, who told us
that 'the Russian gentlemen' lived up a staircase across the courtyard. We
went up several flights of dark stairs and emerged on to a landing. A
strong, surly-looking young man, with hair growing low on his head, was
standing at the top of the stairs. As I came up he looked at me
suspiciously, barred the way with his arm and said something in Russian.

'_Mot d'ordre!_' he said sharply when I did not answer.

I stopped, startled. I had not expected passwords.

'_Mot d'ordre!_' repeated the Russian.

Boris's friend, who was walking behind, now came forward and said
something in Russian, either the password or an explanation. At this, the
surly young man seemed satisfied, and led us into a small, shabby room with
frosted windows. It was like a very poverty-stricken office, with
propaganda posters in Russian lettering and a huge, crude picture of Lenin
tacked on the walls. At the table sat an unshaven Russian in shirt sleeves,
addressing newspaper wrappers from a pile in front of him. As I came in he
spoke to me in French, with a bad accent.

'This is very careless!' he exclaimed fussily. 'Why have you come here
without a parcel of washing?'

'Washing?'

'Everybody who comes here brings washing. It looks as though they were
going to the laundry downstairs. Bring a good, large bundle next time. We
don't want the police on our tracks.'

This was even more conspiratorial than I had expected. Boris sat down
in the only vacant chair, and there was a great deal of talking in Russian.
Only the unshaven man talked; the surly one leaned against the wall with
his eyes on me, as though he still suspected me. It was queer, standing in
the little secret room with its revolutionary posters, listening to a
conversation of which I did not understand a word. The Russians talked
quickly and eagerly, with smiles and shrugs of the shoulders. I wondered
what it was all about. They would be calling each other 'little father', I
thought, and 'little dove', and 'Ivan Alexandrovitch', like the characters
in Russian novels. And the talk would be of revolutions. The unshaven man
would be saying firmly, 'We never argue. Controversy is a bourgeois
pastime. Deeds are our arguments.' Then I gathered that it was not this
exactly. Twenty francs was being demanded, for an entrance fee apparently,
and Boris was promising to pay it (we had just seventeen francs in the
world). Finally Boris produced our precious store of money and paid five
francs on account.

At this the surly man looked less suspicious, and sat down on the edge
of the table. The unshaven one began to question me in French, making notes
on a slip of paper. Was I a Communist? he asked. By sympathy, I answered; I
had never joined any organization. Did I understand the political situation
in England? Oh, of course, of course. I mentioned the names of various
Ministers, and made some contemptuous remarks about the Labour Party. And
what about _Le Sport_? Could I do articles on _Le Sport_? (Football and
Socialism have some mysterious connexion on the Continent.) Oh, of course,
again. Both men nodded gravely. The unshaven one said:

'_Évidemment_, you have a thorough knowledge of conditions in England.
Could you undertake to write a series of articles for a Moscow weekly
paper? We will give you the particulars.'

'Certainly.'

'Then, comrade, you will hear from us by the first post tomorrow. Or
possibly the second post. Our rate of pay is a hundred and fifty francs an
article. Remember to bring a parcel of washing next time you come.
_Au revoir_, comrade.'

We went downstairs, looked carefully out of the laundry to see if
there was anyone in the street, and slipped out. Boris was wild with joy.
In a sort of sacrificial ecstasy he rushed into the nearest tobacconist's
and spent fifty centimes on a cigar. He came out thumping his stick on the
pavement and beaming.

'At last! At last! Now, _mon ami_, out fortune really is made. You took
them in finely. Did you hear him call you comrade? A hundred and fifty
francs an article--_Nom de Dieu_, what luck!'

Next morning when I heard the postman I rushed down to the _bistro_ for
my letter; to my disappointment, it had not come. I stayed at home for the
second post; still no letter. When three days had gone by and I had not
heard from the secret society, we gave up hope, deciding that they must
have found somebody else to do their articles.

Ten days later we made another visit to the office of the secret
society, taking care to bring a parcel that looked like washing. And the
secret society had vanished! The woman in the laundry knew nothing--she
simply said that '_ces messieurs_' had left some days ago, after trouble
about the rent. What fools we looked, standing there with our parcel! But
it was a consolation that we had paid only five francs instead of twenty.

And that was the last we ever heard of the secret society. Who or what
they really were, nobody knew. Personally I do not think they had anything
to do with the Communist Party; I think they were simply swindlers, who
preyed upon Russian refugees by extracting entrance fees to an imaginary
society. It was quite safe, and no doubt they are still doing it in some
other city. They were clever fellows, and played their part admirably.
Their office looked exactly as a secret Communist office should look, and
as for that touch about bringing a parcel of washing, it was genius.




IX



FOR three more days we continued traipsing about looking for work,
coming home for diminishing meals of soup and bread in my bedroom. There
were now two gleams of hope. In the first place, Boris had heard of a
possible job at the Hôtel X, near the Place de la Concorde, and in the
second, the _patron_ of the new restaurant in the rue du Commerce had at last
come back. We went down in the afternoon and saw him. On the way Boris
talked of the vast fortunes we should make if we got this job, and on the
importance of making a good impression on the _patron_.

'Appearance--appearance is everything, _mon ami_. Give me a new suit
and I will borrow a thousand francs by dinner-time. What a pity I did not
buy a collar when we had money. I turned my collar inside out this morning;
but what is the use, one side is as dirty as the other. Do you think I look
hungry, _mon ami_?'

'You look pale.'

'Curse it, what can one do on bread and potatoes? It is fatal to look
hungry. It makes people want to kick you. Wait.'

He stopped at a jeweller's window and smacked his cheeks sharply to
bring the blood into them. Then, before the flush had faded, we hurried
into the restaurant and introduced ourselves to the _patron_.

The _patron_ was a short, fattish, very dignified man with wavy grey
hair, dressed in a smart, double-breasted flannel suit and smelling of
scent. Boris told me that he too was an ex-colonel of the Russian Army. His
wife was there too, a horrid, fat Frenchwoman with a dead-white face and
scarlet lips, reminding me of cold veal and tomatoes. The _patron_ greeted
Boris genially, and they talked together in Russian for a few minutes. I
stood in the background, preparing to tell some big lies about my
experience as a dish-washer.

Then the _patron_ came over towards me. I shuffled uneasily, trying to
look servile. Boris had rubbed it into me that a _plongeur_ is a slave's
slave, and I expected the _patron_ to treat me like dirt. To my
astonishment, he seized me warmly by the hand.

'So you are an Englishman!' he exclaimed. 'But how charming! I need
not ask, then, whether you are a golfer?'

'_Mais certainement_,' I said, seeing that this was expected of me.

'All my life I have wanted to play golf. Will you, my dear _monsieur_,
be so kind as to show me a few of the principal strokes?'

Apparently this was the Russian way of doing business. The _patron_
listened attentively while I explained the difference between a driver and
an iron, and then suddenly informed me that it was all _entendu_; Boris was
to be __maître d'hôtel_ when the restaurant opened, and I _plongeur_, with a
chance of rising to lavatory attendant if trade was good. When would the
restaurant open? I asked. 'Exactly a fortnight from today,' the _patron_
answered grandly (he had a manner of waving his hand and flicking off his
cigarette ash at the same time, which looked very grand), 'exactly a
fortnight from today, in time for lunch.' Then, with obvious pride, he
showed us over the restaurant.

It was a smallish place, consisting of a bar, a dining-room, and a
kitchen no bigger than the average bathroom. The _patron_ was decorating it
in a trumpery 'picturesque' style (he called it '_le Normand_'; it was a
matter of sham beams stuck on the plaster, and the like) and proposed to
call it the Auberge de Jehan Cottard, to give a medieval effect. He had a
leaflet printed, full of lies about the historical associations of the
quarter, and this leaflet actually claimed, among other things, that there
had once been an inn on the site of the restaurant which was frequented by
Charlemagne. The _patron_ was very pleased with this touch. He was also
having the bar decorated with indecent pictures by an artist from the
Salon. Finally he gave us each an expensive cigarette, and after some more
talk he went home.

I felt strongly that we should never get any good from this
restaurant. The _patron_ had looked to me like a cheat, and, what was worse,
an incompetent cheat, and I had seen two unmistakable duns hanging about
the back door. But Boris, seeing himself a __maître d'hôtel_ once more, would
not be discouraged.

'We've brought it off--only a fortnight to hold out. What is a
fortnight? _Je m'en f----_. To think that in only three weeks I shall have my
mistress! Will she be dark or fair, I wonder? I don't mind, so long as she
is not too thin.'

Two bad days followed. We had only sixty centimes left, and we spent
it on half a pound of bread, with a piece of garlic to rub it with. The
point of rubbing garlic on bread is that the taste lingers and gives one
the illusion of having fed recently. We sat most of that day in the Jardin
des Plantes. Boris had shots with stones at the tame pigeons, but always
missed them, and after that we wrote dinner menus on the backs of
envelopes. We were too hungry even to try and think of anything except
food. I remember the dinner Boris finally selected for himself. It was: a
dozen oysters, bortch soup (the red, sweet, beetroot soup with cream on
top), crayfishes, a young chicken _en casserole_, beef with stewed plums, new
potatoes, a salad, suet pudding and Roquefort cheese, with a litre of
Burgundy and some old brandy. Boris had international tastes in food. Later
on, when we were prosperous, I occasionally saw him eat meals almost as
large without difficulty.

When our money came to an end I stopped looking for work, and was
another day without food. I did not believe that the Auberge de Jehan
Cottard was really going to open, and I could see no other prospect, but I
was too lazy to do anything but lie in bed. Then the luck changed abruptly.
At night, at about ten o'clock, I heard an eager shout from the street. I
got up and went to the window. Boris was there, waving his stick and
beaming. Before speaking he dragged a bent loaf from his pocket and threw
it up to me.

'_Mon ami, mon cher ami_, we're saved! What do you think?'

'Surely you haven't got a job!'

'At the Hôtel X, near the Place de la Concorde--five hundred francs
a month, and food. I have been working there today. Name of Jesus Christ,
how I have eaten!'

After ten or twelve hours' work, and with his game leg, his first
thought had been to walk three kilometres to my hotel and tell me the good
news! What was more, he told me to meet him in the Tuileries the next day
during his afternoon interval, in case he should be able to steal some food
for me. At the appointed time I met Boris on a public bench. He undid his
waistcoat and produced a large, crushed, newspaper packet; in it were some
minced veal, a wedge of Camembert cheese, bread and an éclair, all jumbled
together.

'_Voilà!_' said Boris, 'that's all I could smuggle out for you. The
doorkeeper is a cunning swine.'

It is disagreeable to eat out of a newspaper on a public seat,
especially in the Tuileries, which are generally full of pretty girls, but
I was too hungry to care. While I ate, Boris explained that he was working
in the cafeterie of the hotel--that is, in English, the stillroom. It
appeared that the cafeterie was the very lowest post in the hotel, and a
dreadful come-down for a waiter, but it would do until the Auberge de Jehan
Cottard opened. Meanwhile I was to meet Boris every day in the Tuileries,
and he would smuggle out as much food as he dared. For three days we
continued with this arrangement, and I lived entirely on the stolen food.
Then all our troubles came to an end, for one of the _plongeurs_ left the
Hôtel X, and on Boris's recommendation I was given a job there myself.




X



THE Hôtel X was a vast, grandiose place with a classical facade, and
at one side a little, dark doorway like a rat-hole, which was the service
entrance. I arrived at a quarter to seven in the morning. A stream of men
with greasy trousers were hurrying in and being checked by a doorkeeper who
sat in a tiny office. I waited, and presently the _chef du personnel_, a sort
of assistant manager, arrived and began to question me. He was an Italian,
with a round, pale face, haggard from overwork. He asked whether I was an
experienced dishwasher, and I said that I was; he glanced at my hands and
saw that I was lying, but on hearing that I was an Englishman he changed
his tone and engaged me.

'We have been looking for someone to practise our English on,' he
said. 'Our clients are all Americans, and the only English we know is----'
He repeated something that little boys write on the walls in London. 'You
may be useful. Come downstairs.'

He led me down a winding staircase into a narrow passage, deep
underground, and so low that I had to stoop in places. It was stiflingly
hot and very dark, with only dim, yellow bulbs several yards apart. There
seemed to be miles of dark labyrinthine passages--actually, I suppose, a
few hundred yards in all--that reminded one queerly of the lower decks of
a liner; there were the same heat and cramped space and warm reek of food,
and a humming, whirring noise (it came from the kitchen furnaces) just like
the whir of engines. We passed doorways which let out sometimes a shouting
of oaths, sometimes the red glare of a fire, once a shuddering draught from
an ice chamber. As we went along, something struck me violently in the
back. It was a hundred-pound block of ice, carried by a blue-aproned
porter. After him came a boy with a great slab of veal on his shoulder, his
cheek pressed into the damp, spongy flesh. They shoved me aside with a cry
of '_Sauve-toi, idiot!_' and rushed on. On the wall, under one of the lights,
someone had written in a very neat hand: 'Sooner will you find a cloudless
sky in winter, than a woman at the Hôtel X who has her maidenhead.' It
seemed a queer sort of place.

One of the passages branched off into a laundry, where an old,
skull-faced woman gave me a blue apron and a pile of dishcloths. Then the
_chef du personnel_ took me to a tiny underground den--a cellar below a
cellar, as it were--where there were a sink and some gas-ovens. It was
too low for me to stand quite upright, and the temperature was perhaps 110
degrees Fahrenheit. The _chef du personnel_ explained that my job was to
fetch meals for the higher hotel employees, who fed in a small dining-room
above, clean their room and wash their crockery. When he had gone, a
waiter, another Italian, thrust a fierce, fuzzy head into the doorway and
looked down at me.

'English, eh?' he said. 'Well, I'm in charge here. If you work well'
--he made the motion of up-ending a bottle and sucked noisily. 'If you
don't'--he gave the doorpost several vigorous kicks. 'To me, twisting
your neck would be no more than spitting on the floor. And if there's any
trouble, they'll believe me, not you. So be careful.'

After this I set to work rather hurriedly. Except for about an hour, I
was at work from seven in the morning till a quarter past nine at night;
first at washing crockery, then at scrubbing the tables and floors of the
employees' dining-room, then at polishing glasses and knives, then at
fetching meals, then at washing crockery again, then at fetching more meals
and washing more crockery. It was easy work, and I got on well with it
except when I went to the kitchen to fetch meals. The kitchen was like
nothing I had ever seen or imagined--a stifling, low-ceilinged inferno of
a cellar, red-lit from the fires, and deafening with oaths and the clanging
of pots and pans. It was so hot that all the metal-work except the stoves
had to be covered with cloth. In the middle were furnaces, where twelve
cooks skipped to and fro, their faces dripping sweat in spite of their
white caps. Round that were counters where a mob of waiters and _plongeurs_
clamoured with trays. Scullions, naked to the waist, were stoking the fires
and scouring huge copper saucepans with sand. Everyone seemed to be in a
hurry and a rage. The head cook, a fine, scarlet man with big moustachios,
stood in the middle booming continuously, '_Ça marche deux oeufs brouillés!
Ça marche un Chateaubriand aux pommes sautées!_' except when he broke off to
curse at a _plongeur_. There were three counters, and the first time I went
to the kitchen I took my tray unknowingly to the wrong one. The head cook
walked up to me, twisted his moustaches, and looked me up and down. Then he
beckoned to the breakfast cook and pointed at me.

'Do you see _that_? That is the type of _plongeur_ they send us nowadays.
Where do you come from, idiot? From Charenton, I suppose?' (There is a
large lunatic asylum at Charenton.)

'From England,' I said.

'I might have known it. Well, _mon cher monsieur l'Anglais_, may I
inform you that you are the son of a whore? And now--the camp to the
other counter, where you belong.'

I got this kind of reception every time I went to the kitchen, for I
always made some mistake; I was expected to know the work, and was cursed
accordingly. From curiosity I counted the number of times I was called
_maquereau_ during the day, and it was thirty-nine.

At half past four the Italian told me that I could stop working, but
that it was not worth going out, as we began at five. I went to the
lavatory for a smoke; smoking was strictly forbidden, and Boris had warned
me that the lavatory was the only safe place. After that I worked again
till a quarter past nine, when the waiter put his head into the doorway and
told me to leave the rest of the crockery. To my astonishment, after
calling me pig, mackerel, etc., all day, he had suddenly grown quite
friendly. I realized that the curses I had met with were only a kind of
probation.

'That'll do, _mon p'tit_,' said the waiter. '_Tu n'es pas débrouillard_,
but you work all right. Come up and have your dinner. The hotel allows us
two litres of wine each, and I've stolen another bottle. We'll have a fine
booze.'

We had an excellent dinner from the leavings of the higher employees.
The waiter, grown mellow, told me stories about his love-affairs, and about
two men whom he had stabbed in Italy, and about how he had dodged Us
military service. He was a good fellow when one got to know him; he
reminded me of Benvenuto Cellini, somehow. I was tired and drenched with
sweat, but I felt a new man after a day's solid food. The work did not seem
difficult, and I felt that this job would suit me. It was not certain,
however, that it would continue, for I had been engaged as an 'extra' for
the day only, at twenty-five francs. The sour-faced doorkeeper counted out
the money, less fifty centimes which he said was for insurance (a lie, I
discovered afterwards). Then he stepped out into the passage, made me take
off my coat, and carefully prodded me all over, searching for stolen food.
After this the _chef du personnel_ appeared and spoke to me. Like the waiter,
he had grown more genial on seeing that I was willing to work.

'We will give you a permanent job if you like,' he said. 'The head
waiter says he would enjoy calling an Englishman names. Will you sign on
for a month?'

Here was a job at last, and I was ready to jump at it. Then I
remembered the Russian restaurant, due to open in a fortnight. It seemed
hardly fair to promise working a month, and then leave in the middle. I
said that I had other work in prospect--could I be engaged for a
fortnight? But at that the _chef du personnel_ shrugged his shoulders and
said that the hotel only engaged men by the month. Evidently I had lost my
chance of a job.

Boris, by arrangement, was waiting for me in the Arcade of the Rue de
Rivoli. When I told him what had happened, he was furious. For the first
time since I had known him he forgot his manners and called me a fool.

'Idiot! Species of idiot! What's the good of my finding you a job when
you go and chuck it up the next moment? How could you be such a fool as to
mention the other restaurant? You'd only to promise you would work for a
month.'

'It seemed more honest to say I might have to leave,' I objected.

'Honest! Honest! Who ever heard of a _plongeur_ being honest? _Mon ami_'
--suddenly he seized my lapel and spoke very earnestly--'_mon ami_, you
have worked here all day. You see what hotel work is like. Do you think a
_plongeur_ can afford a sense of honour?'

'No, perhaps not.'

'Well, then, go back quickly and tell the _chef du personnel_ you are
quite ready to work for a month. Say you will throw the other job over.
Then, when our restaurant opens, we have only to walk out.'

'But what about my wages if I break my contract?

'Boris banged his stick on the pavement and cried out at such
stupidity. 'Ask to be paid by the day, then you won't lose a sou. Do you
suppose they would prosecute a _plongeur_ for breaking Us contract? A
_plongeur_ is too low to be prosecuted.'

I hurried back, found the _chef du personnel_, and told him that I would
work for a month, whereat he signed me on. Ibis was my first lesson in
_plongeur_ morality. Later I realized how foolish it had been to have any
scruples, for the big hotels are quite merciless towards their employees.
They engage or discharge men as the work demands, and they all sack ten per
cent or more of their staff when the season is over. Nor have they any
difficulty in replacing a man who leaves at short notice, for Paris is
thronged by hotel employees out of work.




XI



AS it turned out, I did not break my contract, for it was six weeks
before the Auberge de Jehan Cottard even showed signs of opening. In the
meantime I worked at the Hôtel X, four days a week in the cafeterie, one
day helping the waiter on the fourth floor, and one day replacing the woman
who washed up for the dining-room. My day off, luckily, was Sunday, but
sometimes another man was ill and I had to work that day as well. The hours
were from seven in the morning till two in the afternoon, and from five in
the evening till nine--eleven hours; but it was a fourteen-hour day when
I washed up for the dining-room. By the ordinary standards of a Paris
_plongeur_, these are exceptionally short hours. The only hardship of life
was the fearful heat and stuffiness of these labyrinthine cellars. Apart
from this the hotel, which was large and well organized, was considered a
comfortable one.

Our cafeterie was a murky cellar measuring twenty feet by seven by
eight high, and so crowded with coffee-urns, breadcutters and the like that
one could hardly move without banging against something. It was lighted by
one dim electric bulb, and four or five gas-fires that sent out a fierce
red breath. There was a thermometer there, and the temperature never fell
below 110 degrees Fahrenheit--it neared 130 at some times of the day. At
one end were five service lifts, and at the other an ice cupboard where we
stored milk and butter. When you went into the ice cupboard you dropped a
hundred degrees of temperature at a single step; it used to remind me of
the hymn about Greenland's icy mountains and India's coral strand. Two men
worked in the cafeterie besides Boris and myself. One was Mario, a huge,
excitable Italian--he was like a city policeman with operatic gestures--
and the other, a hairy, uncouth animal whom we called the Magyar; I think
he was a Transylvanian, or something even more remote. Except the Magyar we
were all big men, and at the rush hours we collided incessantly.

The work in the cafeterie was spasmodic. We were never idle, but the
real work only came in bursts of two hours at a time--we called each
burst '_un coup de feu_'. The first _coup de feu_ came at eight, when the
guests upstairs began to wake up and demand breakfast. At eight a sudden
banging and yelling would break out all through the basement; bells rang on
all sides, blue-aproned men rushed through the passages, our service lifts
came down with a simultaneous crash, and the waiters on all five floors
began shouting Italian oaths down the shafts. I don't remember all our
duties, but they included making tea, coffee and chocolate, fetching meals
from the kitchen, wines from the cellar and fruit and so forth from the
dining-room, slicing bread, making toast, rolling pats of butter, measuring
jam, opening milk-cans, counting lumps of sugar, boiling eggs, cooking
porridge, pounding ice, grinding coffee--all this for from a hundred to
two hundred customers. The kitchen was thirty yards away, and the
dining-room sixty or seventy yards. Everything we sent up in the service
lifts had to be covered by a voucher, and the vouchers had to be carefully
filed, and there was trouble if even a lump of sugar was lost. Besides
this, we had to supply the staff with bread and coffee, and fetch the meals
for the waiters upstairs. All in all, it was a complicated job.

I calculated that one had to walk and run about fifteen miles during
the day, and yet the strain of the work was more mental than physical.
Nothing could be easier, on the face of it, than this stupid scullion work,
but it is astonishingly hard when one is in a hurry. One has to leap to and
fro between a multitude of jobs--it is like sorting a pack of cards
against the clock. You are, for example, making toast, when bang! down
comes a service lift with an order for tea, rolls and three different kinds
of jam, and simultaneously bang! down comes another demanding scrambled
eggs, coffee and grapefruit; you run to the kitchen for the eggs and to the
dining-room for the fruit, going like lightning so as to be back before
your toast bums, and having to remember about the tea and coffee, besides
half a dozen other orders that are still pending; and at the same time some
waiter is following you and making trouble about a lost bottle of
soda-water, and you are arguing with him. It needs more brains than one
might think. Mario said, no doubt truly, that it took a year to make a
reliable cafetier.

The time between eight and half past ten was a sort of delirium.
Sometimes we were going as though we had only five minutes to live;
sometimes there were sudden lulls when the orders stopped and everything
seemed quiet for a moment. Then we swept up the litter from the floor,
threw down fresh sawdust, and swallowed gallipots of wine or coffee or
water--anything, so long as it was wet. Very often we used to break off
chunks of ice and suck them while we worked. The heat among the gas-fires
was nauseating; we swallowed quarts of drink during the day, and after a
few hours even our aprons were drenched with sweat. At times we were
hopelessly behind with the work, and some of the customers would have gone
without their breakfast, but Mario always pulled us through. He had worked
fourteen years in the cafeterie, and he had the skill that never wastes a
second between jobs. The Magyar was very stupid and I was inexperienced,
and Boris was inclined to shirk, partly because of his lame leg, partly
because he was ashamed of working in the cafeterie after being a waiter;
but Mario was wonderful. The way he would stretch his great arms right
across the cafeterie to fill a coffee-pot with one hand and boil an egg
with the other, at the same time watching toast and shouting directions to
the Magyar, and between whiles singing snatches from _Rigoletto_, was beyond
all praise. The _patron_ knew his value, and he was paid a thousand francs a
month, instead of five hundred like the rest of us.

The breakfast pandemonium stopped at half past ten. Then we scrubbed
the cafeterie tables, swept the floor and polished the brasswork, and, on
good mornings, went one at a time to the lavatory for a smoke. This was our
slack time--only relatively slack, however, for we had only ten minutes
for lunch, and we never got through it uninterrupted. The customers'
luncheon hour, between twelve and two, was another period of turmoil like
the breakfast hour. Most of our work was fetching meals from the kitchen,
which meant constant _engueulades_ from the cooks. By this time the cooks had
sweated in front of their furnaces for four or five hours, and their
tempers were all warmed up.

At two we were suddenly free men. We threw off our aprons and put on
our coats, hurried out of doors, and, when we had money, dived into the
nearest _bistro_. It was strange, coming up into the street from those
firelit cellars. The air seemed blindingly clear and cold, like arctic
summer; and how sweet the petrol did smell, after the stenches of sweat and
food! Sometimes we met some of our cooks and waiters in the _bistros_, and
they were friendly and stood us drinks. Indoors we were their slaves, but
it is an etiquette in hotel life that between hours everyone is equal, and
the _engueulades_ do not count.

At a quarter to five we went back to the hotel. Till half-past six
there were no orders, and we used this time to polish silver, clean out the
coffee-urns, and do other odd jobs. Then the grand turmoil of the day
started--the dinner hour. I wish I could be Zola for a little while, just
to describe that dinner hour. The essence of the situation was that a
hundred or two hundred people were demanding individually different meals
of five or six courses, and that fifty or sixty people had to cook and
serve them and clean up the mess afterwards; anyone with experience of
catering will know what that means. And at this time when the work was
doubled, the whole staff was tired out, and a number of them were drunk. I
could write pages about the scene without giving a true idea of it. The
chargings to and fro in the narrow passages, the collisions, the yells, the
struggling with crates and trays and blocks of ice, the heat, the darkness,
the furious festering quarrels which there was no time to fight out--they
pass description. Anyone coming into the basement for the first time would
have thought himself in a den of maniacs. It was only later, when I
understood the working of a hotel, that I saw order in all this chaos.

At half past eight the work stopped very suddenly. We were not free
till nine, but we used to throw ourselves full length on the floor, and lie
there resting our legs, too lazy even to go to the ice cupboard for a
drink. Sometimes the _chef du personnel_ would come in with bottles of beer,
for the hotel stood us an extra beer when we had had a hard day. The food
we were given was no more than eatable, but the _patron_ was not mean about
drink; he allowed us two litres of wine a day each, knowing that if a
_plongeur_ is not given two litres he will steal three. We had the heeltaps
of bottles as well, so that we often drank too much--a good thing, for
one seemed to work faster when partially drunk.

Four days of the week passed like this; of the other two working days,
one was better and one worse. After a week of this life I felt in need of a
holiday. It was Saturday night, so the people in our _bistro_ were busy
getting drunk, and with a free day ahead of me I was ready to join them. We
all went to bed, drunk, at two in the morning, meaning to sleep till noon.
At half past five I was suddenly awakened. A night-watchman, sent from the
hotel, was standing at my bedside. He stripped the clothes back and shook
me roughly.

'Get up!' he said. '_Tu t'es bien saoulé la gueule, eh?_ Well, never
mind that, the hotel's a man short. You've got to work today.'

'Why should I work?' I protested. 'This is my day off.'

'Day off, nothing! The work's got to be done. Get up!'

I got up and went out, feeling as though my back were broken and my
skull filled with hot cinders. I did not think that I could possibly do a
day's work. And yet, after only an hour in the basement, I found that I was
perfectly well. It seemed that in the heat of those cellars, as in a
turkish bath, one could sweat out almost any quantity of drink. _Plongeurs_
know this, and count on it. The power of swallowing quarts of wine, and
then sweating it out before it can do much damage, is one of the
compensations of their life.




XII



BY far my best time at the hotel was when I went to help the waiter on
the fourth floor. We worked in a small pantry which communicated with the
cafeterie by service lifts. It was delightfully cool after the cellars, and
the work was chiefly polishing silver and glasses, which is a humane job.
Valenti, the waiter, was a decent sort, and treated me almost as an equal
when we were alone, though he had to speak roughly when there was anyone
else present, for it does not do for a waiter to be friendly with
_plongeurs_. He used sometimes to tip me five francs when he had had a good
day. He was a comely youth, aged twenty-four but looking eighteen, and,
like most waiters, he carried himself well and knew how to wear his
clothes. With his black tail-coat and white tie, fresh face and sleek brown
hair, he looked just like an Eton boy; yet he had earned his living since
he was twelve, and worked his way up literally from the gutter. Grossing
the Italian frontier without a passport, and selling chestnuts from a
barrow on the northern boulevards, and being given fifty days' imprisonment
in London for working without a permit, and being made love to by a rich
old woman in a hotel, who gave him a diamond ring and afterwards accused
him of stealing it, were among his experiences. I used to enjoy talking to
him, at slack times when we sat smoking down the lift shaft.

My bad day was when I washed up for the dining-room. I had not to wash
the plates, which were done in the kitchen, but only the other crockery,
silver, knives and glasses; yet, even so, it meant thirteen hours' work,
and I used between thirty and forty dishcloths during the day. The
antiquated methods used in France double the work of washing up.
Plate-racks are unheard-of, and there are no soap-flakes, only the treacly
soft soap, which refuses to lather in the hard, Paris water. I worked in a
dirty, crowded little den, a pantry and scullery combined, which gave
straight on the dining-room. Besides washing up, I had to fetch the
waiters' food and serve them at table; most of them were intolerably
insolent, and I had to use my fists more than once to get common civility.
The person who normally washed up was a woman, and they made her life a
misery.

It was amusing to look round the filthy little scullery and think that
only a double door was between us and the dining-room. There sat the
customers in all their splendour--spotless table-cloths, bowls of
flowers, mirrors and gilt cornices and painted cherubim; and here, just a
few feet away, we in our disgusting filth. For it really was disgusting
filth. There was no time to sweep the floor till evening, and we slithered
about in a compound of soapy water, lettuce-leaves, torn paper and trampled
food. A dozen waiters with their coats off, showing their sweaty armpits,
sat at the table mixing salads and sticking their thumbs into the cream
pots. The room had a dirty, mixed smell of food and sweat. Everywhere in
the cupboards, behind the piles of crockery, were squalid stores of food
that the waiters had stolen. There were only two sinks, and no washing
basin, and it was nothing unusual for a waiter to wash his face in the
water in which clean crockery was rinsing. But the customers saw nothing of
this. There were a coco-nut mat and a mirror outside the dining-room door,
and the waiters used to preen themselves up and go in looking the picture
of cleanliness.

It is an instructive sight to see a waiter going into a hotel
dining-room. As he passes the door a sudden change comes over him. The set
of his shoulders alters; all the dirt and hurry and irritation have dropped
off in an instant. He glides over the carpet, with a solemn priest-like
air. I remember our assistant __maître d'hôtel_, a fiery Italian, pausing at
the dining-room door to address an apprentice who had broken a bottle of
wine. Shaking his fist above his head he yelled (luckily the door was more
or less soundproof):

'Tu me fais--Do you call yourself a waiter, you young bastard? You a
waiter! You're not fit to scrub floors in the brothel your mother came
from. _Maquereau!_'

Words failing him, he turned to the door; and as he opened it he
delivered a final insult in the same manner as Squire Western in _Tom Jones_.

Then he entered the dining-room and sailed across it dish in hand,
graceful as a swan. Ten seconds later he was bowing reverently to a
customer. And you could not help thinking, as you saw him bow and smile,
with that benign smile of the trained waiter, that the customer was put to
shame by having such an aristocrat to serve him.

This washing up was a thoroughly odious job--not hard, but boring
and silly beyond words. It is dreadful to think that some people spend
their whole decades at such occupations. The woman whom I replaced was
quite sixty years old, and she stood at the sink thirteen hours a day, six
days a week, the year round; she was, in addition, horribly bullied by the
waiters. She gave out that she had once been an actress--actually, I
imagine, a prostitute; most prostitutes end as charwomen. It was strange to
see that in spite of her age and her life she still wore a bright blonde
wig, and darkened her eyes and painted her face like a girl of twenty. So
apparently even a seventy-eight-hour week can leave one with some vitality.




XIII



ON my third day at the hotel the _chef du personnel_, who had generally
spoken to me in quite a pleasant tone, called me up and said sharply:

'Here, you, shave that moustache off at once! _Nom de Dieu_, who ever
heard of a _plongeur_ with a moustache?'

I began to protest, but he cut me short. 'A _plongeur_ with a moustache
--nonsense! Take care I don't see you with it tomorrow.'

On the way home I asked Boris what this meant. He shrugged his
shoulders. 'You must do what he says, _mon ami_. No one in the hotel wears a
moustache, except the cooks. I should have thought you would have noticed
it. Reason? There is no reason. It is the custom.'

I saw that it was an etiquette, like not wearing a white tie with a
dinner-jacket, and shaved off my moustache. Afterwards I found out the
explanation of the custom, which is this: waiters in good hotels do not
wear moustaches, and to show their superiority they decree that _plongeurs_
shall not wear them either; and the cooks wear their moustaches to show
their contempt for the waiters.

This gives some idea of the elaborate caste system existing in a
hotel. Our staff, amounting to about a hundred and ten, had their prestige
graded as accurately as that of soldiers, and a cook or waiter was as much
above a _plongeur_ as a captain above a private. Highest of all came the
manager, who could sack anybody, even the cooks. We never saw the _patron_,
and all we knew of him was that his meals had to be prepared more carefully
than that of the customers; all the discipline of the hotel depended on the
manager. He was a conscientious man, and always on the lookout for
slackness, but we were too clever for him. A system of service bells ran
through the hotel, and the whole staff used these for signalling to one
another. A long ring and a short ring, followed by two more long rings,
meant that the manager was coming, and when we heard it we took care to
look busy.

Below the manager came the __maître d'hôtel_. He did not serve at table,
unless to a lord or someone of that kind, but directed the other waiters
and helped with the catering. His tips, and his bonus from the champagne
companies (it was two francs for each cork he returned to them), came to
two hundred francs a day. He was in a position quite apart from the rest of
the staff, and took his meals in a private room, with silver on the table
and two apprentices in clean white jackets to serve him. A little below the
head waiter came the head cook, drawing about five thousand francs a month;
he dined in the kitchen, but at a separate table, and one of the apprentice
cooks waited on him. Then came the _chef du personnel_; he drew only fifteen
hundred francs a month, but he wore a black coat and did no manual work,
and he could sack _plongeurs_ and fine waiters. Then came the other cooks,
drawing anything between three thousand and seven hundred and fifty
francs a month; then the waiters, making about seventy francs a day in
tips, besides a small retaining fee; then the laundresses and sewing women;
then the apprentice waiters, who received no tips, but were paid seven
hundred and fifty francs a month; then the _plongeurs_, also at seven hundred
and fifty francs; then the chambermaids, at five or six hundred francs a
month; and lastly the cafetiers, at five hundred a month. We of the
cafeterie were the very dregs of the hotel, despised and _tutoied_ by
everyone.

There were various others--the office employees, called generally
couriers, the storekeeper, the cellarman, some porters and pages, the ice
man, the bakers, the night-watchman, the doorkeeper. Different jobs were
done by different races. The office employees and the cooks and
sewing-women were French, the waiters Italians and Germans (there is hardly
such a thing as a French waiter in Paris), the _plongeurs_ of every race in
Europe, beside Arabs and Negroes. French was the lingua franca, even the
Italians speaking it to one another.

All the departments had their special perquisites. In all Paris hotels
it is the custom to sell the broken bread to bakers for eight sous a pound,
and the kitchen scraps to pigkeepers for a trifle, and to divide the
proceeds of this among the _plongeurs_. There was much pilfering, too. The
waiters all stole food--in fact, I seldom saw a waiter trouble to eat the
rations provided for him by the hotel--and the cooks did it on a larger
scale in the kitchen, and we in the cafeterie swilled illicit tea and
coffee. The cellarman stole brandy. By a rule of the hotel the waiters were
not allowed to keep stores of spirits, but had to go to the cellarman for
each drink as it was ordered. As the cellarman poured out the drinks he
would set aside perhaps a teaspoonful from each glass, and he amassed
quantities in this way. He would sell you the stolen brandy for five sous a
swig if he thought he could trust you.

There were thieves among the staff, and if you left money in your coat
pockets it was generally taken. The doorkeeper, who paid our wages and
searched us for stolen food, was the greatest thief in the hotel. Out of my
five hundred francs a month, this man actually managed to cheat me of a
hundred and fourteen francs in six weeks. I had asked to be paid daily, so
the doorkeeper paid me sixteen francs each evening, and, by not paying for
Sundays (for which of course payment was due), pocketed sixty-four francs.
Also, I sometimes worked on a Sunday, for which, though I did not know it,
I was entitled to an extra twenty-five francs. The doorkeeper never paid me
this either, and so made away with another seventy-five francs. I only
realized during my last week that I was being cheated, and, as I could
prove nothing, only twenty-five francs were refunded. The doorkeeper played
similar tricks on any employee who was fool enough to be taken in. He
called himself a Greek, but in reality he was an Armenian. After knowing
him I saw the force of the proverb 'Trust a snake before a Jew and a Jew
before a Greek, but don't trust an Armenian.'

There were queer characters among the waiters. One was a gentleman--
a youth who had been educated at a university, and had had a well-paid job
in a business office. He had caught a venereal disease, lost his job,
drifted, and now considered himself lucky to be a waiter. Many of the
waiters had slipped into France without passports, and one or two of them
were spies--it is a common profession for a spy to adopt. One day there
was a fearful row in the waiters' dining-room between Morandi, a
dangerous-looking man with eyes set too far apart, and another Italian. It
appeared that Morandi had taken the other man's mistress. The other man, a
weakling and obviously frightened of Morandi, was threatening vaguely.

Morandi jeered at him. 'Well, what are you going to do about it? I've
slept with your girl, slept with her three times. It was fine. What can you
do, eh?'

'I can denounce you to the secret police. You are an Italian spy.'

Morandi did not deny it. He simply produced a razor from his tail
pocket and made two swift strokes in the air, as though slashing a man's
cheeks open. Whereat the other waiter took it back.

The queerest type I ever saw in the hotel was an 'extra'. He had been
engaged at twenty-five francs for the day to replace the Magyar, who was
ill. He was a Serbian, a thick-set nimble fellow of about twenty-five,
speaking six languages, including English. He seemed to know all about
hotel work, and up till midday he worked like a slave. Then, as soon as it
had struck twelve, he turned sulky, shirked Us work, stole wine, and
finally crowned all by loafing about openly with a pipe in his mouth.
Smoking, of course, was forbidden under severe penalties. The manager
himself heard of it and came down to interview the Serbian, fuming with
rage.

'What the devil do you mean by smoking here?' he cried.

'What the devil do you mean by having a face like that?' answered the
Serbian, calmly.

I cannot convey the blasphemy of such a remark. The head cook, if a
_plongeur_ had spoken to him like that, would have thrown a saucepan of hot
soup in his face. The manager said instantly, 'You're sacked!' and at two
o'clock the Serbian was given his twenty-five francs and duly sacked.
Before he went out Boris asked him in Russian what game he was playing. He
said the Serbian answered:

'Look here, _mon vieux_, they've got to pay me a day's wages if I work
up to midday, haven't they? That's the law. And where's the sense of
working after I get my wages? So I'll tell you what I do. I go to a hotel
and get a job as an extra, and up to midday I work hard. Then, the moment
it's struck twelve, I start raising such hell that they've no choice but to
sack me. Neat, eh? Most days I'm sacked by half past twelve; today it was
two o'clock; but I don't care, I've saved four hours' work. The only
trouble is, one can't do it at the same hotel twice.'

It appeared that he had played this game at half the hotels and
restaurants in Paris. It is probably quite an easy game to play during the
summer, though the hotels protect themselves against it as well as they can
by means of a black list.




XIV



IN a few days I had grasped the main principles on which the hotel was
run. The thing that would astonish anyone coming for the first time into
the service quarters of a hotel would be the fearful noise and disorder
during the rush hours. It is something so different from the steady work in
a shop or a factory that it looks at first sight like mere bad management.
But it is really quite unavoidable, and for this reason. Hotel work is not
particularly hard, but by its nature it comes in rushes and cannot be
economized. You cannot, for instance, grill a steak two hours before it is
wanted; you have to wait till the last moment, by which time a mass of
other work has accumulated, and then do it all together, in frantic haste.
The result is that at mealtimes everyone is doing two men's work, which is
impossible without noise and quarrelling. Indeed the quarrels are a
necessary part of the process, for the pace would never be kept up if
everyone did not accuse everyone else of idling. It was for this reason
that during the rush hours the whole staff raged and cursed like demons. At
those times there was scarcely a verb in the hotel except _foutre_. A girl in
the bakery, aged sixteen, used oaths that would have defeated a cabman.
(Did not Hamlet say 'cursing like a scullion'? No doubt Shakespeare had
watched scullions at work.) But we are not losing our heads and wasting
time; we were just stimulating one another for the effort of packing four
hours' work into two hours.

What keeps a hotel going is the fact that the employees take a genuine
pride in their work, beastly and silly though it is. If a man idles, the
others soon find him out, and conspire against him to get him sacked.
Cooks, waiters and _plongeurs_ differ greatly in outlook, but they are all
alike in being proud of their efficiency.

Undoubtedly the most workmanlike class, and the least servile, are the
cooks. They do not earn quite so much as waiters, but their prestige is
higher and their employment steadier. The cook does not look upon himself
as a servant, but as a skilled workman; he is generally called '_un ouvrier_'
which a waiter never is. He knows his power--knows that he alone makes or
mars a restaurant, and that if he is five minutes late everything is out of
gear. He despises the whole non-cooking staff, and makes it a point of
honour to insult everyone below the head waiter. And he takes a genuine
artistic pride in his work, which demands very great skill. It is not the
cooking that is so difficult, but the doing everything to time. Between
breakfast and luncheon the head cook at the Hôtel X would receive orders
for several hundred dishes, all to be served at different times; he cooked
few of them himself, but he gave instructions about all of them and
inspected them before they were sent up. His memory was wonderful. The
vouchers were pinned on a board, but the head cook seldom looked at them;
everything was stored in his mind, and exactly to the minute, as each dish
fell due, he would call out, '_Faites marcher une côtelette de veau_' (or
whatever it was) unfailingly. He was an insufferable bully, but he was also
an artist. It is for their punctuality, and not for any superiority in
technique, that men cooks arc preferred to women.

The waiter's outlook is quite different. He too is proud in a way of
his skill, but his skill is chiefly in being servile. His work gives him
the mentality, not of a workman, but of a snob. He lives perpetually in
sight of rich people, stands at their tables, listens to their
conversation, sucks up to them with smiles and discreet little jokes. He
has the pleasure of spending money by proxy. Moreover, there is always the
chance that he may become rich himself, for, though most waiters die poor,
they have long runs of luck occasionally. At some cafés on the Grand
Boulevard there is so much money to be made that the waiters actually pay
the _patron_ for their employment. The result is that between constantly
seeing money, and hoping to get it, the waiter comes to identify himself to
some extent with his employers. He will take pains to serve a meal in
style, because he feels that he is participating in the meal himself.

I remember Valenti telling me of some banquet at Nice at which he had
once served, and of how it cost two hundred thousand francs and was talked
of for months afterwards. 'It was splendid, _mon p'tit, mais magnifique!_
Jesus Christ! The champagne, the silver, the orchids--I have never seen
anything like them, and I have seen some things. Ah, it was glorious!'

'But,' I said, 'you were only there to wait?'

'Oh, of course. But still, it was splendid.'

The moral is, never be sorry for a waiter. Sometimes when you sit in a
restaurant, still stuffing yourself half an hour after closing time, you
feel that the tired waiter at your side must surely be despising you. But
he is not. He is not thinking as he looks at you, 'What an overfed lout';
he is thinking, 'One day, when I have saved enough money, I shall be able
to imitate that man.' He is ministering to a kind of pleasure he thoroughly
understands and admires. And that is why waiters are seldom Socialists,
have no effective trade union, and will work twelve hours a day--they
work fifteen hours, seven days a week, in many cafés. They are snobs, and
they find the servile nature of their work rather congenial.

The _plongeurs_, again, have a different outlook. Theirs is a job which
offers no prospects, is intensely exhausting, and at the same time has not
a trace of skill or interest; the sort of job that would always be done by
women if women were strong enough. All that is required of them is to be
constantly on the run, and to put up with long hours and a stuffy
atmosphere. They have no way of escaping from this life, for they cannot
save a penny from their wages, and working from sixty to a hundred hours a
week leaves them no time to train for anything else. The best they can hope
for is to find a slightly softer job as night-watchman or lavatory
attendant.

And yet the _plongeurs_, low as they are, also have a kind of pride. It
is the pride of the drudge--the man who is equal to no matter what
quantity of work. At that level, the mere power to go on working like an ox
is about the only virtue attainable. _Débrouillard_ is what every _plongeur_
wants to be called. A _débrouillard_ is a man who, even when he is told to do
the impossible, will _se débrouiller_--get it done somehow. One of the
kitchen _plongeurs_ at the Hôtel X, a German, was well known as a
_débrouillard_. One night an English lord came to the hotel, and the waiters
were in despair, for the lord had asked for peaches, and there were none in
stock; it was late at night, and the shops would be shut. 'Leave it to me,'
said the German. He went out, and in ten minutes he was back with four
peaches. He had gone into a neighbouring restaurant and stolen them. That
is what is meant by a _débrouillard_. The English lord paid for the peaches
at twenty francs each.

Mario, who was in charge of the cafeterie, had the typical drudge
mentality. All he thought of was getting through the '_boulot_', and he
defied you to give him too much of it. Fourteen years underground had left
him with about as much natural laziness as a piston rod. '_Faut être dur_,'
he used to say when anyone complained. You will often hear _plongeurs_ boast,
'_Je suis dur_'--as though they were soldiers, not male charwomen.

Thus everyone in the hotel had his sense of honour, and when the press
of work came we were all ready for a grand concerted effort to get through
it. The constant war between the different departments also made for
efficiency, for everyone clung to his own privileges and tried to stop the
others idling and pilfering.

This is the good side of hotel work. In a hotel a huge and complicated
machine is kept running by an inadequate staff, because every man has a
well-defined job and does it scrupulously. But there is a weak point, and
it is this--that the job the staff are doing is not necessarily what the
customer pays for. The customer pays, as he sees it, for good service; the
employee is paid, as he sees it, for the _boulot_--meaning, as a rule, an
imitation of good service. The result is that, though hotels are miracles
of punctuality, they are worse than the worst private houses in the things
that matter.

Take cleanliness, for example. The dirt in the Hôtel X, as soon as one
penetrated into the service quarters, was revolting. Our cafeterie had
year-old filth in all the dark corners, and the bread-bin was infested with
cockroaches. Once I suggested killing these beasts to Mario. 'Why kill the
poor animals?' he said reproachfully. The others laughed when I wanted to
wash my hands before touching the butter. Yet we were clean where we
recognized cleanliness as part of the _boulot_. We scrubbed the tables and
polished the brasswork regularly, because we had orders to do that; but we
had no orders to be genuinely clean, and in any case we had no time for it.
We were simply carrying out our duties; and as our first duty was
punctuality, we saved time by being dirty.

In the kitchen the dirt was worse. It is not a figure of speech, it is
a mere statement of fact to say that a French cook will spit in the soup--
that is, if he is not going to drink it himself. He is an artist, but his
art is not cleanliness. To a certain extent he is even dirty because he is
an artist, for food, to look smart, needs dirty treatment. When a steak,
for instance, is brought up for the head cook's inspection, he does not
handle it with a fork. He picks it up in his fingers and slaps it down,
runs his thumb round the dish and licks it to taste the gravy, runs it
round and licks again, then steps back and contemplates the piece of meat
like an artist judging a picture, then presses it lovingly into place with
his fat, pink fingers, every one of which he has licked a hundred times
that morning. When he is satisfied, he takes a cloth and wipes his
fingerprints from the dish, and hands it to the waiter. And the waiter, of
course, dips _his_ fingers into the gravy--his nasty, greasy fingers which
he is for ever running through his brilliantined hair. Whenever one pays
more than, say, ten francs for a dish of meat in Paris, one may be certain
that it has been fingered in this manner. In very cheap restaurants it is
different; there, the same trouble is not taken over the food, and it is
just forked out of the pan and flung on to a plate, without handling.
Roughly speaking, the more one pays for food, the more sweat and spittle
one is obliged to eat with it.

Dirtiness is inherent in hotels and restaurants, because sound food is
sacrificed to punctuality and smartness. The hotel employee is too busy
getting food ready to remember that it is meant to be eaten. A meal is
simply '_une commande_' to him, just as a man dying of cancer is simply '_a
case_' to the doctor. A customer orders, for example, a piece of toast.
Somebody, pressed with work in a cellar deep underground, has to prepare
it. How can he stop and say to himself, 'This toast is to be eaten--I
must make it eatable'? All he knows is that it must look right and must be
ready in three minutes. Some large drops of sweat fall from his forehead on
to the toast. Why should he worry? Presently the toast falls among the
filthy sawdust on the floor. Why trouble to make a new piece? It is much
quicker to wipe the sawdust off. On the way upstairs the toast falls again,
butter side down. Another wipe is all it needs. And so with everything. The
only food at the Hôtel X which was ever prepared cleanly was the staff's,
and the _patron_'s. The maxim, repeated by everyone, was: 'Look out for the
_patron_, and as for the clients, _s'en f--pas mal_!' Everywhere in the
service quarters dirt festered--a secret vein of dirt, running through
the great garish hotel like the intestines through a man's body.

Apart from the dirt, the _patron_ swindled the customers wholeheartedly.
For the most part the materials of the food were very bad, though the cooks
knew how to serve it up in style. The meat was at best ordinary, and as to
the vegetables, no good housekeeper would have looked at them in the
market. The cream, by a standing order, was diluted with milk. The tea and
coffee were of inferior sorts, and the jam was synthetic stuff out of vast,
unlabelled tins. All the cheaper wines, according to Boris, were corked _vin
ordinaire_. There was a rule that employees must pay for anything they
spoiled, and in consequence damaged things were seldom thrown away. Once
the waiter on the third floor dropped a roast chicken down the shaft of our
service lift, where it fell into a litter of broken bread, torn paper and
so forth at the bottom. We simply wiped it with a cloth and sent it up
again. Upstairs there were dirty tales of once-used sheets not being
washed, but simply damped, ironed and put back on the beds. The _patron_ was
as mean to us as to the customers. Throughout the vast hotel there was not,
for instance, such a thing as a brush and pan; one had to manage with a
broom and a piece of cardboard. And the staff lavatory was worthy of
Central Asia, and there was no place to wash one's hands, except the sinks
used for washing crockery.

In spite of all this the Hôtel X was one of the dozen most expensive
hotels in Paris, and the customers paid startling prices. The ordinary
charge for a night's lodging, not including breakfast, was two hundred
francs. All wine and tobacco were sold at exactly double shop prices,
though of course the _patron_ bought at the wholesale price. If a customer
had a title, or was reputed to be a millionaire, all his charges went up
automatically. One morning on the fourth floor an American who was on diet
wanted only salt and hot water for his breakfast. Valenti was furious.
'Jesus Christ!' he said, 'what about my ten per cent? Ten per cent of salt
and water!' And he charged twenty-five francs for the breakfast. The
customer paid without a murmur.

According to Boris, the same kind of thing went on in all Paris
hotels, or at least in all the big, expensive ones. But I imagine that the
customers at the Hôtel X were especially easy to swindle, for they were
mostly Americans, with a sprinkling of English--no French--and seemed
to know nothing whatever about good food. They would stuff themselves with
disgusting American 'cereals', and eat marmalade at tea, and drink vermouth
after dinner, and order a _poulet à la reine_ at a hundred francs and then
souse it in Worcester sauce. One customer, from Pittsburg, dined every
night in his bedroom on grape-nuts, scrambled eggs and cocoa. Perhaps it
hardly matters whether such o people are swindled or not.




XV



I HEARD queer tales in the hotel. There were tales of dope fiends, of
old debauchees who frequented hotels in search of pretty page boys, of
thefts and blackmail. Mario told me of a hotel in which he had been, where
a chambermaid stole a priceless diamond ring from an American lady. For
days the staff were searched as they left work, and two detectives searched
the hotel from top to bottom, but the ring was never found. The chambermaid
had a lover in the bakery, and he had baked the ring into a roll, where it
lay unsuspected until the search was over.

Once Valenti, at a slack time, told me a story about himself.

'You know, _mon p'tit_, this hotel life is all very well, but it's the
devil when you're out of work. I expect you know what it is to go without
eating, eh? _Forcément_, otherwise you wouldn't be scrubbing dishes. Well,
I'm not a poor devil of a _plongeur_; I'm a waiter, and I went five days
without eating, once. Five days without even a crust of bread--Jesus
Christ!

'I tell you, those five days were the devil. The only good thing was,
I had my rent paid in advance. I was living in a dirty, cheap little hotel
in the Rue Sainte Éloise up in the Latin quarter. It was called the Hotel
Suzanne May, after some famous prostitute of the time of the Empire. I was
starving, and there was nothing I could do; I couldn't even go to the cafés
where the hotel proprietors come to engage waiters, because I hadn't the
price of a drink. All I could do was to lie in bed getting weaker and
weaker, and watching the bugs running about the ceiling. I don't want to go
through that again, I can tell you.

'In the afternoon of the fifth day I went half mad; at least, that's
how it seems to me now. There was an old faded print of a woman's head
hanging on the wall of my room, and I took to wondering who it could be;
and after about an hour I realized that it must be Sainte Éloise, who was
the patron saint of the quarter. I had never taken any notice of the thing
before, but now, as I lay staring at it, a most extraordinary idea came
into my head.

'"_Écoute, mon cher_," I said to myself, "you'll be starving to death if
this goes on much longer. You've got to do something. Why not try a prayer
to Sainte Éloise? Go down on your knees and ask her to send you some money.
After all, it can't do any harm. Try it!"

'Mad, eh? Still, a man will do anything when he's hungry. Besides, as
I said, it couldn't do any harm. I got out of bed and began praying. I
said:

'"Dear Sainte Éloise, if you exist, please send me some money. I don't
ask for much--just enough to buy some bread and a bottle of wine and get
my strength back. Three or four francs would do. You don't know how
grateful I'll be, Sainte Éloise, if you help me this once. And be sure, if
you send me anything, the first thing I'll do will be to go and bum a
candle for you, at your church down the street. Amen."

'I put in that about the candle, because I had heard that saints like
having candles burnt in their honour. I meant to keep my promise, of
course. But I am an atheist and I didn't really believe that anything would
come of it.

'Well, I got into bed again, and five minutes later there came a bang
at the door. It was a girl called Maria, a big fat peasant girl who lived
at our hotel. She was a very stupid girl, but a good sort, and I didn't
much care for her to see me in the state I was in.

'She cried out at the sight of me. "_Nom de Dieu!_" she said, "what's
the matter with you? What are you doing in bed at this time of day? _Quelle
mine que tu as!_ You look more like a corpse than a man."

'Probably I did look a sight. I had been five days without food, most
of the time in bed, and it was three days since I had had a wash or a
shave. The room was a regular pigsty, too.

'"What's the matter?" said Maria again.

'"The matter!" I said; "Jesus Christ! I'm starving. I haven't eaten
for five days. That's what's the matter."

'Maria was horrified. "Not eaten for five days?" she said. "But why?
Haven't you any money, then?"

'"Money!" I said. "Do you suppose I should be starving if I had money?
I've got just five sous in the world, and I've pawned everything. Look
round the room and see if there's anything more I can sell or pawn. If you
can find anything that will fetch fifty centimes, you're cleverer than I
am."

'Maria began looking round the room. She poked here and there among a
lot of rubbish that was lying about, and then suddenly she got quite
excited. Her great thick mouth fell open with astonishment.

'"You idiot!" she cried out. "Imbecile! What's _this_, then?"

'I saw that she had picked up an empty oil _bidon_ that had been lying
in the comer. I had bought it weeks before, for an oil lamp I had before I
sold my things.

"That?" I said. "That's an oil _bidon_. What about it?"

'"Imbecile! Didn't you pay three francs fifty deposit on it?"

'Now, of course I had paid the three francs fifty. They always make
you pay a deposit on the _bidon_, and you get it back when the _bidon_ is
returned. But I'd forgotten all about it.

'"Yes--" I began.

'"Idiot!" shouted Maria again. She got so excited that she began to
dance about until I thought her sabots would go through the floor, "Idiot!
_T'es fou! T'es fou!_ What have you got to do but take it back to the shop
and get your deposit back? Starving, with three francs fifty staring you in
the face! Imbecile!"

'I can hardly believe now that in all those five days I had never once
thought of taking the _bidon_ back to the shop. As good as three francs fifty
in hard cash, and it had never occurred to me! I sat up in bed. "Quick!" I
shouted to Maria, "you take it for me. Take it to the grocer's at the
corner--run like the devil. And bring back food!"

'Maria didn't need to be told. She grabbed the _bidon_ and went
clattering down the stairs like a herd of elephants and in three minutes
she was back with two pounds of bread under one arm and a half-litre bottle
of wine under the other. I didn't stop to thank her; I just seized the
bread and sank my teeth in it. Have you noticed how bread tastes when you
have been hungry for a long time? Cold, wet, doughy--like putty almost.
But, Jesus Christ, how good it was! As for the wine, I sucked it all down
in one draught, and it seemed to go straight into my veins and flow round
my body like new blood. Ah, that made a difference!

'I wolfed the whole two pounds of bread without stopping to take
breath. Maria stood with her hands on her hips, watching me eat. "Well, you
feel better, eh?" she said when I had finished.

'"Better!" I said. "I feel perfect! I'm not the same man as I was five
minutes ago. There's only one thing in the world I need now--a
cigarette."

'Maria put her hand in her apron pocket. "You can't have it," she
said. "I've no money. This is all I had left out of your three francs fifty
--seven sous. It's no good; the cheapest cigarettes are twelve sous a
packet."

'"Then I can have them!" I said. "Jesus Christ, what a piece of luck!
I've got five sous--it's just enough."

'Maria took the twelve sous and was starting out to the tobacconist's.
And then something I had forgotten all this time came into my head. There
was that cursed Sainte Éloise! I had promised her a candle if she sent me
money; and really, who could say that the prayer hadn't come true? "Three
or four francs," I had said; and the next moment along came three francs
fifty. There was no getting away from it. I should have to spend my twelve
sous on a candle.

'I called Maria back. "It's no use," I said; "there is Sainte Éloise
--I have promised her a candle. The twelve sous will have to go on that.
Silly, isn't it? I can't have my cigarettes after all."

'"Sainte Éloise?" said Maria. "What about Sainte Éloise?"

'"I prayed to her for money and promised her a candle," I said. "She
answered the prayer--at any rate, the money turned up. I shall have to
buy that candle. It's a nuisance, but it seems to me I must keep my
promise."

'"But what put Sainte Éloise into your head?" said Maria.

'"It was her picture," I said, and I explained the whole thing. "There
she is, you see," I said, and I pointed to the picture on the wall.

'Maria looked at the picture, and then to my surprise she burst into
shouts of laughter. She laughed more and more, stamping about the room and
holding her fat sides as though they would burst. I thought she had gone
mad. It was two minutes before she could speak.

'"Idiot!" she cried at last. "_T'es fou! T'es fou!_ Do you mean to tell
me you really knelt down and prayed to that picture? Who told you it was
Sainte Éloise?"

'"But I made sure it was Sainte Éloise!" I said.

'"Imbecile! It isn't Sainte Éloise at all. Who do you think it is?"

'"Who?" I said.

'"It is Suzanne May, the woman this hotel is called after."

'I had been praying to Suzanne May, the famous prostitute of the
Empire...

'But, after all, I wasn't sorry. Maria and I had a good laugh, and
then we talked it over, and we made out that I didn't owe Sainte Éloise
anything. Clearly it wasn't she who had answered the prayer, and there was
no need to buy her a candle. So I had my packet of cigarettes after all.'




XVI



TIME went on and the Auberge de Jehan Cottard showed no signs of
opening. Boris and I went down there one day during our afternoon interval
and found that none of the alterations had been done, except the indecent
pictures, and there were three duns instead of two. The _patron_ greeted us
with his usual blandness, and the next instant turned to me (his
prospective dishwasher) and borrowed five francs. After that I felt certain
that the restaurant would never get beyond talk. The _patron_, however, again
named the opening for 'exactly a fortnight from today', and introduced us
to the woman who was to do the cooking, a Baltic Russian five feet tall and
a yard across the hips. She told us that she had been a singer before she
came down to cooking, and that she was very artistic and adored English
literature, especially _La Case de l'Oncle Tom_.

In a fortnight I had got so used to the routine of a _plongeur's_ life
that I could hardly imagine anything different. It was a life without much
variation. At a quarter to six one woke with a sudden start, tumbled into
grease-stiffened clothes, and hurried out with dirty face and protesting
muscles. It was dawn, and the windows were dark except for the workmen's
cafés. The sky was like a vast flat wall of cobalt, with roofs and spires
of black paper pasted upon it. Drowsy men were sweeping the pavements with
ten-foot besoms, and ragged families picking over the dustbins. Workmen,
and girls with a piece of chocolate in one hand and a _croissant_ in the
other, were pouring into the Métro stations. Trams, filled with more
workmen, boomed gloomily past. One hastened down to the station, fought for
a place--one does literally have to fight on the Paris Métro at six in
the morning--and stood jammed in the swaying mass of passengers, nose to
nose with some hideous French face, breathing sour wine and garlic. And
then one descended into the labyrinth of the hotel basement, and forgot
daylight till two o'clock, when the sun was hot and the town black with
people and cars.

After my first week at the hotel I always spent the afternoon interval
in sleeping, or, when I had money, in a _bistro_. Except for a few ambitious
waiters who went to English classes, the whole staff wasted their leisure
in this way; one seemed too lazy after the morning's work to do anything
better. Sometimes half a dozen _plongeurs_ would make up a party and go to an
abominable brothel in the Rue de Sieyes, where the charge was only five
francs twenty-five centimes--tenpence half-penny. It was nicknamed '_le
prix fixe_', and they used to describe their experiences there as a great
joke. It was a favourite rendezvous of hotel workers. The _plongeurs_' wages
did not allow them to marry, and no doubt work in the basement does not
encourage fastidious feelings.

For another four hours one was in the cellars, and then one emerged,
sweating, into the cool street. It was lamplight--that strange purplish
gleam of the Paris lamps--and beyond the river the Eiffel Tower flashed
from top to bottom with zigzag skysigns, like enormous snakes of fire.
Streams of cars glided silently to and fro, and women, exquisite-looking in
the dim light, strolled up and down the arcade. Sometimes a woman would
glance at Boris or me, and then, noticing our greasy clothes, look hastily
away again. One fought another battle in the Métro and was home by ten.
Generally from ten to midnight I went to a little _bistro_ in our street, an
underground place frequented by Arab navvies. It was a bad place for
fights, and I sometimes saw bottles thrown, once with fearful effect, but
as a rule the Arabs fought among themselves and let Christians alone. Raki,
the Arab drink, was very cheap, and the _bistro_ was open at all hours, for
the Arabs--lucky men--had the power of working all day and drinking all
night.

It was the typical life of a _plongeur_, and it did not seem a bad life
at the time. I had no sensation of poverty, for even after paying my rent
and setting aside enough for tobacco and journeys and my food on Sundays, I
still had four francs a day for drinks, and four francs was wealth. There
was--it is hard to express it--a sort of heavy contentment, the
contentment a well-fed beast might feel, in a life which had become so
simple. For nothing could be simpler than the life of a _plongeur_. He lives
in a rhythm between work and sleep, without time to think, hardly conscious
of the exterior world; his Paris has shrunk to the hotel, the Métro, a few
_bistros_ and his bed. If he goes afield, it is only a few streets away, on a
trip with some servant-girl who sits on his knee swallowing oysters and
beer. On his free day he lies in bed till noon, puts on a clean shirt,
throws dice for drinks, and after lunch goes back to bed again. Nothing is
quite real to him but the _boulot_, drinks and sleep; and of these sleep is
the most important.

One night, in the small hours, there was a murder just beneath my
window. I was woken by a fearful uproar, and, going to the window, saw a
man lying flat on the stones below; I could see the murderers, three of
them, flitting away at the end of the street. Some of us went down and
found that the man was quite dead, his skull cracked with a piece of lead
piping. I remember the colour of his blood, curiously purple, like wine; it
was still on the cobbles when I came home that evening, and they said the
school-children had come from miles round to see it. But the thing that
strikes me in looking back is that I was in bed and asleep within three
minutes of the murder. So were most of the people in the street; we just
made sure that the man was done for, and went straight back to bed. We were
working people, and where was the sense of wasting sleep over a murder?

Work in the hotel taught me the true value of sleep, just as being
hungry had taught me the true value of food. Sleep had ceased to be a mere
physical necessity; it was something voluptuous, a debauch more than a
relief. I had no more trouble with the bugs. Mario had told me of a sure
remedy for them, namely pepper, strewed thick over the bedclothes. It made
me sneeze, but the bugs all hated it, and emigrated to other rooms.




XVII



WITH thirty francs a week to spend on drinks I could take part in the
social life of the quarter. We had some jolly evenings, on Saturdays, in
the little _bistro_ at the foot of the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux.

The brick-floored room, fifteen feet square, was packed with twenty
people, and the air dim with smoke. The noise was deafening, for everyone
was either talking at the top of his voice or singing. Sometimes it was
just a confused din of voices; sometimes everyone would burst out together
in the same song--the 'Marseillaise', or the 'Internationale', or
'Madelon', or 'Les Fraises et les Framboises'. Azaya, a great clumping
peasant girl who worked fourteen hours a day in a glass factory, sang a
song about, '_Il a perdu ses pantalons, tout en dansant le Charleston._' Her
friend Marinette, a thin, dark Corsican girl of obstinate virtue, tied her
knees together and danced the _danse du ventre_. The old Rougiers wandered in
and out, cadging drinks and trying to tell a long, involved story about
someone who had once cheated them over a bedstead. R., cadaverous and
silent, sat in his comer quietly boozing. Charlie, drunk, half danced, half
staggered to and fro with a glass of sham absinthe balanced in one fat
hand, pinching the women's breasts and declaiming poetry. People played
darts and diced for drinks. Manuel, a Spaniard, dragged the girls to the
bar and shook the dice-box against their bellies, for luck. Madame F. stood
at the bar rapidly pouring _chopines_ of wine through the pewter funnel, with
a wet dishcloth always handy, because every man in the room tried to make
love to her. Two children, bastards of big Louis the bricklayer, sat in a
comer sharing a glass of _sirop_. Everyone was very happy, overwhelmingly
certain that the world was a good place and we a notable set of people.

For an hour the noise scarcely slackened. Then about midnight there
was a piercing shout of '_Citoyens!_' and the sound of a chair falling over.
A blond, red-faced workman had risen to his feet and was banging a bottle
on the table. Everyone stopped singing; the word went round, 'Sh! Furex is
starting!' Furex was a strange creature, a Limousin stonemason who worked
steadily all the week and drank himself into a kind of paroxysm on
Saturdays. He had lost his memory and could not remember anything before
the war, and he would have gone to pieces through drink if Madame F. had
not taken care of him. On Saturday evenings at about five o'clock she would
say to someone, 'Catch Furex before he spends his wages,' and when he had
been caught she would take away his money, leaving him enough for one good
drink. One week he escaped, and, rolling blind drunk in the Place Monge,
was run over by a car and badly hurt.

The queer thing about Furex was that, though he was a Communist when
sober, he turned violently patriotic when drunk. He started the evening
with good Communist principles, but after four or five litres he was a
rampant Chauvinist, denouncing spies, challenging all foreigners to fight,
and, if he was not prevented, throwing bottles. It was at this stage that
he made his speech--for he made a patriotic speech every Saturday night.
The speech was always the same, word for word. It ran:

'Citizens of the Republic, are there any Frenchmen here? If there are
any Frenchmen here, I rise to remind them--to remind them in effect, of
the glorious days of the war. When one looks back upon that time of
comradeship and heroism--one looks back, in effect, upon that time of
comradeship and heroism. When one remembers the heroes who are dead--one
remembers, in effect, the heroes who are dead. Citizens of the Republic, I
was wounded at Verdun--'

Here he partially undressed and showed the wound he had received at
Verdun. There were shouts of applause. We thought nothing in the world
could be funnier than this speech of Furex's. He was a well-known spectacle
in the quarter; people used to come in from other _bistros_ to watch him when
his fit started.

The word was passed round to bait Furex. With a wink to the others
someone called for silence, and asked him to sing the 'Marseillaise'. He
sang it well, in a fine bass voice, with patriotic gurgling noises deep
down in his chest when he came to '_Aux arrmes, citoyens! Forrmez vos
bataillons!_' Veritable tears rolled down his cheeks; he was too drunk to
see that everyone was laughing at him. Then, before he had finished, two
strong workmen seized him by either arm and held him down, while Azaya
shouted, '_Vive l'Allemagne!_' just out of his reach. Furex's face went
purple at such infamy. Everyone in the _bistro_ began shouting together,
'_Vive l'Allemagne! À bas la France!_' while Furex struggled to get at them.
But suddenly he spoiled the fun. His face turned pale and doleful, his
limbs went limp, and before anyone could stop him he was sick on the table.
Then Madame F. hoisted him like a sack and carried him up to bed. In the
morning he reappeared quiet and civil, and bought a copy of _L'Humanité_.

The table was wiped with a cloth, Madame F. brought more litre bottles
and loaves of bread, and we Settled down to serious drinking. There were
more songs. An itinerant singer came in with his banjo and performed for
five-sou pieces. An Arab and a girl from the _bistro_ down the street did a
dance, the man wielding a painted wooden phallus the size of a rolling-pin.
There were gaps in the noise now. People had begun to talk about their
love-affairs, and the war, and the barbel fishing in the Seine, and the
best way to _faire la révolution_, and to tell stories. Charlie, grown sober
again, captured the conversation and talked about his soul for five
minutes. The doors and windows were opened to cool the room. The street was
emptying, and in the distance one could hear the lonely milk train
thundering down the Boulevard St Michel. The air blew cold on our
foreheads, and the coarse African wine still tasted good: we were still
happy, but meditatively, with the shouting and hilarious mood finished.

By one o'clock we were not happy any longer. We felt the joy of the
evening wearing thin, and called hastily for more bottles, but Madame F.
was watering the wine now, and it did not taste the same. Men grew
quarrelsome. The girls were violently kissed and hands thrust into their
bosoms and they made off lest worse should happen. Big Louis, the
bricklayer, was drunk, and crawled about the floor barking and pretending
to be a dog. The others grew tired of him and kicked at him as he went
past. People seized each other by the arm and began long rambling
confessions, and were angry when these were not listened to. The crowd
thinned. Manuel and another man, both gamblers, went across to the Arab
_bistro_, where card-playing went on till daylight. Charlie suddenly borrowed
thirty francs from Madame F. and disappeared, probably to a brothel. Men
began to empty their glasses, call briefly, ''_Sieurs, Dames!_' and go off to
bed.

By half past one the last drop of pleasure had evaporated, leaving
nothing but headaches. We perceived that we were not splendid inhabitants
of a splendid world, but a crew of underpaid workmen grown squalidly and
dismally drunk. We went on swallowing the wine, but it was only from habit,
and the stuff seemed suddenly nauseating. One's head had swollen up like a
balloon, the floor rocked, one's tongue and lips were stained purple. At
last it was no use keeping it up any longer. Several men went out into the
yard behind the _bistro_ and were sick. We crawled up to bed, tumbled down
half dressed, and stayed there ten hours.

Most of my Saturday nights went in this way. On the whole, the two
hours when one was perfectly and wildly happy seemed worth the subsequent
headache. For many men in the quarter, unmarried and with no future to
think of, the weekly drinking-bout was the one thing that made life worth
living.




XVIII



CHARLIE told us a good story one Saturday night in the _bistro_. Try and
picture him--drunk, but sober enough to talk consecutively. He bangs on
the zinc bar and yells for silence:

'Silence, _messieurs et dames_--silence, I implore you! Listen to this
story, that I am about to tell you. A memorable story, an instructive
story, one of the souvenirs of a refined and civilized life. Silence,
_messieurs et dames!_

'It happened at a time when I was hard up. You know what that is like
--how damnable, that a man of refinement should ever be in such a
condition. My money had not come from home; I had pawned everything, and
there was nothing open to me except to work, which is a thing I will not
do. I was living with a girl at the time--Yvonne her name was--a great
half-witted peasant girl like Azaya there, with yellow hair and fat legs.
The two of us had eaten nothing in three days. _Mon Dieu_, what sufferings!
The girl used to walk up and down the room with her hands on her belly,
howling like a dog that she was dying of starvation. It was terrible.

'But to a man of intelligence nothing is impossible. I propounded to
myself the question, "What is the easiest way to get money without
working?" And immediately the answer came: "To get money easily one must be
a woman. Has not every woman something to sell?" And then, as I lay
reflecting upon the things I should do if I were a woman, an idea came into
my head. I remembered the Government maternity hospitals--you know the
Government maternity hospitals? They are places where women who are
_enceinte_ are given meals free and no questions are asked. It is done to
encourage childbearing. Any woman can go there and demand a meal, and she
is given it immediately.

'"_Mon Dieu!_" I thought, "if only I were a woman! I would eat at one of
those places every day. Who can tell whether a woman is _enceinte_ or not,
without an examination?"

'I turned to Yvonne. "Stop that insufferable bawling." I said, "I have
thought of a way to get food."

'"How?" she said.

'"It is simple," I said. "Go to the Government maternity hospital.
Tell them you are _enceinte_ and ask for food. They will give you a good meal
and ask no questions."

'Yvonne was appalled. "_Mais mon Dieu_," she cried, "I am not
_enceinte!_"

'"Who cares?" I said. "That is easily remedied. What do you need
except a cushion--two cushions if necessary? It is an inspiration from
heaven, _ma chère_. Don't waste it."

'Well, in the end I persuaded her, and then we borrowed a cushion and
I got her ready and took her to the maternity hospital. They received her
with open arms. They gave her cabbage soup, a ragout of beef, a puree of
potatoes, bread and cheese and beer, and all kinds of advice about her
baby. Yvonne gorged till she almost burst her skin, and managed to slip
some of the bread and cheese into her pocket for me. I took her there every
day until I had money again. My intelligence had saved us.

'Everything went well until a year later. I was with Yvonne again, and
one day we were walking down the Boulevard Port Royal, near the barracks.
Suddenly Yvonne's mouth fell open, and she began turning red and white, and
red again.

'"_Mon Dieu!_" she cried, "look at that who is coming! It is the nurse
who was in charge at the maternity hospital. I am ruined!"

'"Quick!" I said, "run!" But it was too late. The nurse had recognized
Yvonne, and she came straight up to us, smiling. She was a big fat woman
with a gold pince-nez and red cheeks like the cheeks of an apple. A
motherly, interfering kind of woman.

'"I hope you are well, _ma petite_?" she said kindly. "And your baby, is
he well too? Was it a boy, as you were hoping?"

'Yvonne had begun trembling so hard that I had to grip her arm. "No,"
she said at last.

'"Ah, then, _évidemment_, it was a girl?"

'Thereupon Yvonne, the idiot, lost her head completely. "No," she
actually said again!

'The nurse was taken aback. "_Comment!_" she exclaimed, "neither a boy
nor a girl! But how can that be?"

'Figure to yourselves, _messieurs et dames_, it was a dangerous moment.
Yvonne had turned the colour of a beetroot and she looked ready to burst
into tears; another second and she would have confessed everything. Heaven
knows what might have happened. But as for me, I had kept my head; I
stepped in and saved the situation.

'"It was twins," I said calmly.

'"Twins!" exclaimed the nurse. And she was so pleased that she took
Yvonne by the shoulders and embraced her on both cheeks, publicly.

'Yes, twins...'




XIX



ONE day, when we had been at the Hôtel X five or six weeks, Boris
disappeared without notice. In the evening I found him waiting for me in
the Rue de Rivoli. He slapped me gaily on the shoulder.

'Free at last, _mon ami_! You can give notice in the morning. The
Auberge opens tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow?'

'Well, possibly we shall need a day or two to arrange things. But, at
any rate, no more cafeteria! _Nous sommes lancés, mon ami!_ My tail coat is
out of pawn already.'

His manner was so hearty that I felt sure there was something wrong,
and I did not at all want to leave my safe and comfortable job at the
hotel. However, I had promised Boris, so I gave notice, and the next
morning at seven went down to the Auberge de Jehan Cottard. It was locked,
and I went in search of Boris, who had once more bolted from his lodgings
and taken a room in the rue de la Croix Nivert. I found him asleep,
together with a girl whom he had picked up the night before, and who he
told me was 'of a very sympathetic temperament.' As to the restaurant, he
said that it was all arranged; there were only a few little things to be
seen to before we opened.

At ten I managed to get Boris out of bed, and we unlocked the
restaurant. At a glance I saw what the 'few little things' amounted to. It
was briefly this: that the alterations had not been touched since our last
visit. The stoves for the kitchen had not arrived, the water and
electricity had not been laid on, and there was all manner of painting,
polishing and carpentering to be done. Nothing short of a miracle could
open the restaurant within ten days, and by the look of things it might
collapse without even opening. It was obvious what had happened. The _patron_
was short of money, and he had engaged the staff (there were four of us) in
order to use us instead of workmen. He would be getting our services almost
free, for waiters are paid no wages, and though he would have to pay me, he
would not be feeding me till the restaurant opened. In effect, he had
swindled us of several hundred francs by sending for us before the
restaurant was open. We had thrown up a good job for nothing.

Boris, however, was full of hope. He had only one idea in his head,
namely, that here at last was a chance of being a waiter and wearing a tail
coat once more. For this he was quite willing to do ten days' work unpaid,
with the chance of being left jobless in the end. 'Patience!' he kept
saying. 'That will arrange itself. Wait till the restaurant opens, and
we'll get it all back. Patience, _mon ami_!'

We needed patience, for days passed and the restaurant did not even
progress towards opening. We cleaned out the cellars, fixed the shelves,
distempered the walls, polished the woodwork, whitewashed the ceiling,
stained the floor; but the main work, the plumbing and gas-fitting and
electricity, was still not done, because the _patron_ could not pay the
bills. Evidently he was almost penniless, for he refused the smallest
charges, and he had a trick of swiftly disappearing when asked for money.
His blend of shiftiness and aristocratic manners made him very hard to deal
with. Melancholy duns came looking for him at all hours, and by instruction
we always told them that he was at Fontainebleau, or Saint Cloud, or some
other place that was safely distant. Meanwhile, I was getting hungrier and
hungrier. I had left the hotel with thirty francs, and I had to go back
immediately to a diet of dry bread. Boris had managed in the beginning to
extract an advance of sixty francs from the _patron_, but he had spent half
of it, in redeeming his waiter's clothes, and half on the girl of
sympathetic temperament. He borrowed three francs a day from Jules, the
second waiter, and spent it on bread. Some days we had not even money for
tobacco.

Sometimes the cook came to see how things were getting on, and when
she saw that the kitchen was still bare of pots and pans she usually wept.
Jules, the second waiter, refused steadily to help with the work. He was a
Magyar, a little dark, sharp-featured fellow in spectacles, and very
talkative; he had been a medical student, but had abandoned his training
for lack of money. He had a taste for talking while other people were
working, and he told me all about himself and his ideas. It appeared that
he was a Communist, and had various strange theories (he could prove to you
by figures that it was wrong to work), and he was also, like most Magyars,
passionately proud. Proud and lazy men do not make good waiters. It was
Jules's dearest boast that once when a customer in a restaurant had
insulted him, he had poured a plate of hot soup down the customer's neck,
and then walked straight out without even waiting to be sacked.

As each day went by Jules grew more and more enraged at the trick the
_patron_ had played on us. He had a spluttering, oratorical way of talking.
He used to walk up and down shaking his fist, and trying to incite me not
to work:

'Put that brush down, you fool! You and I belong to proud races; we
don't work for nothing, like these damned Russian serfs. I tell you, to be
cheated like this is torture to me. There have been times in my life, when
someone has cheated me even of five sous, when I have vomited--yes,
vomited with rage.

'Besides, _mon vieux_, don't forget that I'm a Communist. _À bas la
bourgeoisie!_ Did any man alive ever see me working when I could avoid it?
No. And not only I don't wear myself out working, like you other fools, but
I steal, just to show my independence. Once I was in a restaurant where the
_patron_ thought he could treat me like a dog. Well, in revenge I found out a
way to steal milk from the milk-cans and seal them up again so that no one
should know. I tell you I just swilled that milk down night and morning.
Every day I drank four litres of milk, besides half a litre of cream. The
_patron_ was at his wits' end to know where the milk was going. It wasn't
that I wanted milk, you understand, because I hate the stuff; it was
principle, just principle.

'Well, after three days I began to get dreadful pains in my belly, and
I went to the doctor. "What have you been eating?" he said. I said: "I
drink four litres of milk a day, and half a litre of cream." "Four litres!"
he said. "Then stop it at once. You'll burst if you go on." "What do I
care?" I said. "With me principle is everything. I shall go on drinking
that milk, even if I do burst."

'Well, the next day the _patron_ caught me stealing milk. "You're
sacked," he said; "you leave at the end of the week." "_Pardon, monsieur_," I
said, "I shall leave this morning." "No, you won't," he said, "I can't
spare you till Saturday." "Very well, _mon patron_," I thought to myself,
"we'll see who gets tired of it first." And then I set to work to smash the
crockery. I broke nine plates the first day and thirteen the second; after
that the _patron_ was glad to see the last of me.

'Ah, I'm not one of your Russian _moujiks_...'

Ten days passed. It was a bad time. I was absolutely at the end of my
money, and my rent was several days overdue. We loafed about the dismal
empty restaurant, too hungry even to get on with the work that remained.
Only Boris now believed that the restaurant would open. He had set his
heart on being __maître d'hôtel_, and he invented a theory that the _patron_'s
money was tied up in shares and he was waiting a favourable moment for
selling. On the tenth day I had nothing to eat or smoke, and I told the
_patron_ that I could not continue working without an advance on my wages. As
blandly as usual, the _patron_ promised the advance, and then, according to
his custom, vanished. I walked part of the way home, but I did not feel
equal to a scene with Madame F. over the rent, so I passed the night on a
bench on the boulevard. It was very uncomfortable--the arm of the seat
cuts into your back--and much colder than I had expected. There was
plenty of time, in the long boring hours between dawn and work, to think
what a fool I had been to deliver myself into the hands of these Russians.

Then, in the morning, the luck changed. Evidently the _patron_ had come
to an understanding with his creditors, for he arrived with money in his
pockets, set the alterations going, and gave me my advance. Boris and I
bought macaroni and a piece of horse's liver, and had our first hot meal in
ten days.

The workmen were brought in and the alterations made, hastily and with
incredible shoddiness. The tables, for instance, were to be covered with
baize, but when the _patron_ found that baize was expensive he bought instead
disused army blankets, smelling incorrigibly of sweat. The table cloths
(they were check, to go with the 'Norman' decorations) would cover them, of
course. On the last night we were at work till two in the morning, getting
things ready. The crockery did not arrive till eight, and, being new, had
all to be washed. The cutlery did not arrive till the next morning, nor the
linen either, so that we had to dry the crockery with a shirt of the
_patron_'s and an old pillowslip belonging to the concierge. Boris and I did
all the work. Jules was skulking, and the _patron_ and his wife sat in the
bar with a dun and some Russian friends, drinking success to the
restaurant. The cook was in the kitchen with her head on the table, crying,
because she was expected to cook for fifty people, and there were not pots
and pans enough for ten. About midnight there was a fearful interview with
some duns, who came intending to seize eight copper saucepans which the
_patron_ had obtained on credit. They were bought off with half a bottle of
brandy.

Jules and I missed the last Métro home and had to sleep on the floor
of the restaurant. The first thing we saw in the morning were two large
rats sitting on the kitchen table, eating from a ham that stood there. It
seemed a bad omen, and I was surer than ever that the Auberge de Jehan
Cottard would turn out a failure.




XX



THE _patron_ had engaged me as kitchen _plongeur_; that is, my job was to
wash up, keep the kitchen clean, prepare vegetables, make tea, coffee and
sandwiches, do the simpler cooking, and run errands. The terms were, as
usual, five hundred francs a month and food, but I had no free day and no
fixed working hours. At the Hôtel X I had seen catering at its best, with
unlimited money and good organization. Now, at the Auberge, I learned how
things are done in a thoroughly bad restaurant. It is worth describing, for
there are hundreds of similar restaurants in Paris, and every visitor feeds
in one of them occasionally.

I should add, by the way, that the Auberge was not the ordinary cheap
eating-house frequented by students and workmen. We did not provide an
adequate meal at less than twenty-five francs, and we were picturesque and
artistic, which sent up our social standing. There were the indecent
pictures in the bar, and the Norman decorations--sham beams on the walls,
electric lights done up as candlesticks, 'peasant' pottery, even a
mounting-block at the door--and the _patron_ and the head waiter were
Russian officers, and many of the customers tided Russian refugees. In
short, we were decidedly chic.

Nevertheless, the conditions behind the kitchen door were suitable for
a pigsty. For this is what our service arrangements were like.

The kitchen measured fifteen feet long by eight broad, and half this
space was taken up by the stoves and tables. All the pots had to be kept on
shelves out of reach, and there was only room for one dustbin. This dustbin
used to be crammed full by midday, and the floor was normally an inch deep
in a compost of trampled food.

For firing we had nothing but three gas-stoves, without ovens, and all
joints had to be sent out to the bakery.

There was no larder. Our substitute for one was a half-roofed shed in
the yard, with a tree growing in the middle of it. The meat, vegetables and
so forth lay there on the bare earth, raided by rats and cats.

There was no hot water laid on. Water for washing up had to be heated
in pans, and, as there was no room for these on the stoves when meals were
cooking, most of the plates had to be washed in cold water. This, with soft
soap and the hard Paris water, meant scraping the grease off with bits of
newspaper.

We were so short of saucepans that I had to wash each one as soon as
it was done with, instead of leaving them till the evening. This alone
wasted probably an hour a day.

Owing to some scamping of expense in the installation, the electric
light usually fused at eight in the evening. The _patron_ would only allow us
three candles in the kitchen, and the cook said three were unlucky, so we
had only two.

Our coffee-grinder was borrowed from a _bistro_ near by, and our dustbin
and brooms from the concierge. After the first week a quantity of linen did
not come back from the wash, as the bill was not paid. We were in trouble
with the inspector of labour, who had discovered that the staff included no
Frenchmen; he had several private interviews with the _patron_, who, I
believe, was obliged to bribe him. The electric company was still dunning
us, and when the duns found that we would buy them off with _apéritifs_, they
came every morning. We were in debt at the grocery, and credit would have
been stopped, only the grocer's wife (a moustachio'd woman of sixty) had
taken a fancy to Jules, who was sent every morning to cajole her. Similarly
I had to waste an hour every day haggling over vegetables in the rue du
Commerce, to save a few centimes.

These are the results of starting a restaurant on insufficient
capital. And in these conditions the cook and I were expected to serve
thirty or forty meals a day, and would later on be serving a hundred. From
the first day it was too much for us. The cook's working hours were from
eight in the morning till midnight, and mine from seven in the morning till
half past twelve the next morning--seventeen and a half hours, almost
without a break. We never had time to sit down till five in the afternoon,
and even then there was no seat except the top of the dustbin. Boris, who
lived near by and had not to catch the last Métro home, worked from eight
in the morning till two the next morning--eighteen hours a day, seven
days a week. Such hours, though not usual, are nothing extraordinary in
Paris.

Life settled at once into a routine that made the Hôtel X seem like a
holiday. Every morning at six I drove myself out of bed, did not shave,
sometimes washed, hurried up to the Place d'ltalie and fought for a place
on the Métro. By seven I was in the desolation of the cold, filthy kitchen,
with the potato skins and bones and fishtails littered on the floor, and a
pile of plates, stuck together in their grease, waiting from overnight. I
could not start on the plates yet, because the water was cold, and I had to
fetch milk and make coffee, for the others arrived at eight and expected to
find coffee ready. Also, there were always several copper saucepans to
clean. Those copper saucepans are the bane of a _plongeur's_ life. They have
to be scoured with sand and bunches of chain, ten minutes to each one, and
then polished on the outside with Brasso. Fortunately, the art of making
them has been lost and they are gradually vanishing from French kitchens,
though one can still buy them second-hand.

When I had begun on the plates the cook would take me away from the
plates to begin skinning onions, and when I had begun on the onions the
_patron_ would arrive and send me out to buy cabbages. When I came back with
the cabbages the _patron_'s wife would tell me to go to some shop half a mile
away and buy a pot of rouge; by the time I came back there would be more
vegetables waiting, and the plates were still not done. In this way our
incompetence piled one job on another throughout the day, everything in
arrears.

Till ten, things went comparatively easily, though we were working
fast, and no one lost his temper. The cook would find time to talk about
her artistic nature, and say did I not think Tolstoy was _épatant_, and sing
in a fine soprano voice as she minced beef on the board. But at ten the
waiters began clamouring for their lunch, which they had early, and at
eleven the first customers would be arriving. Suddenly everything became
hurry and bad temper. There was not the same furious rushing and yelling as
at the Hôtel X, but an atmosphere of muddle, petty spite and exasperation.
Discomfort was at the bottom of it. It was unbearably cramped in the
kitchen, and dishes had to be put on the floor, and one had to be thinking
constantly about not stepping on them. The cook's vast buttocks banged
against me as she moved to and fro. A ceaseless, nagging chorus of orders
streamed from her:

'Unspeakable idiot! How many times have I told you not to bleed the
beetroots? Quick, let me get to the sink! Put those knives away; get on
with the potatoes. What have you done with my strainer? Oh, leave those
potatoes alone. Didn't I tell you to skim the _bouillon_? Take that can of
water off the stove. Never mind the washing up, chop this celery. No, not
like that, you fool, like this. There! Look at you letting those peas boil
over! Now get to work and scale these herrings. Look, do you call this
plate clean? Wipe it on your apron. Put that salad on the floor. That's
right, put it where I'm bound to step in it! Look out, that pot's boiling
over! Get me down that saucepan. No, the other one. Put this on the grill.
Throw those potatoes away. Don't waste time, throw them on the floor. Tread
them in. Now throw down some sawdust; this floor's like a skating-rink.
Look, you fool, that steak's burning! _Mon Dieu_, why did they send me an
idiot for a _plongeur_? Who are you talking to? Do you realize that my aunt
was a Russian countess?' etc. etc. etc.

This went on till three o'clock without much variation, except that
about eleven the cook usually had a _crise de nerfs_ and a flood of tears.
From three to five was a fairly slack time for the waiters, but the cook
was still busy, and I was working my fastest, for there was a pile of dirty
plates waiting, and it was a race to get them done, or partly done, before
dinner began. The washing up was doubled by the primitive conditions--a
cramped draining-board, tepid water, sodden cloths, and a sink that got
blocked once in an hour. By five the cook and I were feeling unsteady on
our feet, not having eaten or sat down since seven. We used to collapse,
she on the dustbin and I on the floor, drink a bottle of beer, and
apologize for some of the things we had said in the morning. Tea was what
kept us going. We took care to have a pot always stewing, and drank pints
during the day.

At half-past five the hurry and quarrelling began again, and now worse
than before, because everyone was tired out. The cook had a _crise de nerfs_
at six and another at nine; they came on so regularly that one could have
told the time by them. She would flop down on the dustbin, begin weeping
hysterically, and cry out that never, no, never had she thought to come to
such a life as this; her nerves would not stand it; she had studied music
at Vienna; she had a bedridden husband to support, etc. etc. At another
time one would have been sorry for her, but, tired as we all were, her
whimpering voice merely infuriated us. Jules used to stand in the doorway
and mimic her weeping. The _patron_'s wife nagged, and Boris and Jules
quarrelled all day, because Jules shirked his work, and Boris, as head
waiter, claimed the larger share of the tips. Only the second day after the
restaurant opened, they came to blows in the kitchen over a two-franc tip,
and the cook and I had to separate them. The only person who never forgot
Us manners was the _patron_. He kept the same hours as the rest of us, but he
had no work to do, for it was his wife who really managed things. His sole
job, besides ordering the supplies, was to stand in the bar smoking
cigarettes and looking gentlemanly, and he did that to perfection.

The cook and I generally found time to eat our dinner between ten and
eleven o'clock. At midnight the cook would steal a packet of food for her
husband, stow it under her clothes, and make off, whimpering that these
hours would kill her and she would give notice in the morning. Jules also
left at midnight, usually after a dispute with Boris, who had to look after
the bar till two. Between twelve and half past I did what I could to finish
the washing up. There was no time to attempt doing the work properly, and I
used simply to rub the grease off the plates with table-napkins. As for the
dirt on the floor, I let it lie, or swept the worst of it out of sight
under the stoves.

At half past twelve I would put on my coat and hurry out. The _patron_,
bland as ever, would stop me as I went down the alley-way past the bar.
'_Mais, mon cher monsieur_, how tired you look! Please do me the favour of
accepting this glass of brandy.'

He would hand me the glass of brandy as courteously as though I had
been a Russian duke instead of a _plongeur_. He treated all of us like this.
It was our compensation for working seventeen hours a day.

As a rule the last Métro was almost empty--a great advantage, for
one could sit down and sleep for a quarter of an hour. Generally I was in
bed by half past one. Sometimes I missed the train and had to sleep on the
floor of the restaurant, but it hardly mattered, for I could have slept on
cobblestones at that time.




XXI



THIS life went on for about a fortnight, with a slight increase of
work as more customers came to the restaurant. I could have saved an hour a
day by taking a room near the restaurant, but it seemed impossible to find
time to change lodgings--or, for that matter, to get my hair cut, look at
a newspaper, or even undress completely. After ten days I managed to find a
free quarter of an hour, and wrote to my friend B. in London asking him if
he could get me a job of some sort--anything, so long as it allowed more
than five hours sleep. I was simply not equal to going on with a
seventeen-hour day, though there are plenty of people who think nothing of
it. When one is overworked, it is a good cure for self-pity to think of the
thousands of people in Paris restaurants who work such hours, and will go
on doing it, not for a few weeks, but for years. There was a girl in a
_bistro_ near my hotel who worked from seven in the morning till midnight for
a whole year, only sitting down to her meals. I remember once asking her to
come to a dance, and she laughed and said that she had not been farther
than the street comer for several months. She was consumptive, and died
about the time I left Paris.

After only a week we were all neurasthenic with fatigue, except Jules,
who skulked persistently. The quarrels, intermittent at first, had now
become continuous. For hours' one would keep up a drizzle of useless
nagging, rising into storms of abuse every few minutes. 'Get me down that
saucepan, idiot!' the cook would cry (she was not tall enough to reach the
shelves where the saucepans were kept). 'Get it down yourself, you old
whore,' I would answer. Such remarks seemed to be generated spontaneously
from the air of the kitchen.

We quarrelled over things of inconceivable pettiness. The dustbin, for
instance, was an unending source of quarrels--whether it should be put
where I wanted it, which was in the cook's way, or where she wanted it,
which was between me and the sink. Once she nagged and nagged until at
last, in pure spite, I lifted the dustbin up and put it out in the middle
of the floor, where she was bound to trip over it.

'Now, you cow,' I said, 'move it yourself.'

Poor old woman, it was too heavy for her to lift, and she sat down,
put her head on the table and burst out crying. And I jeered at her. This
is the kind of effect that fatigue has upon one's manners.

After a few days the cook had ceased talking about Tolstoy and her
artistic nature, and she and I were not on speaking terms, except for the
purposes of work, and Boris and Jules were not on speaking terms, and
neither of them was on speaking terms with the cook. Even Boris and I were
barely on speaking terms. We had agreed beforehand that the _engueulades_ of
working hours did not count between times; but we had called each other
things too bad to be forgotten--and besides, there were no between times.
Jules grew lazier and lazier, and he stole food constantly--from a sense
of duty, he said. He called the rest of us _jaune_--blackleg--when we
would not join with him in stealing. He had a curious, malignant spirit. He
told me, as a matter of pride, that he had sometimes wrung a dirty
dishcloth into a customer's soup before taking it in, just to be revenged
upon a member of the bourgeoisie.

The kitchen grew dirtier and the rats bolder, though we trapped a few
of them. Looking round that filthy room, with raw meat lying among refuse
on the floor, and cold, clotted saucepans sprawling everywhere, and the
sink blocked and coated with grease, I used to wonder whether there could
be a restaurant in the world as bad as ours. But the other three all said
that they had been in dirtier places. Jules took a positive pleasure in
seeing things dirty. In the afternoon, when he had not much to do, he used
to stand in the kitchen doorway jeering at us for working too hard:

'Fool! Why do you wash that plate? Wipe it on your trousers. Who cares
about the customers? _They_ don't know what's going on. What is restaurant
work? You are carving a chicken and it falls on the floor. You apologize,
you bow, you go out; and in five minutes you come back by another door--
with the same chicken. That is restaurant work,' etc.

And, strange to say, in spite of all this filth and incompetence, the
Auberge de Jehan Cottard was actually a success. For the first few days all
our customers were Russians, friends of the _patron_, and these were followed
by Americans and other foreigners--no Frenchmen. Then one night there was
tremendous excitement, because our first Frenchman had arrived. For a
moment our quarrels were forgotten and we all united in the effort to serve
a good dinner. Boris tiptoed into the kitchen, jerked his thumb over his
shoulder and whispered conspiratorially:

'_Sh! Attention, un Français!_'

A moment later the _patron_'s wife came and whispered:

'_Attention, un Français!_ See that he gets a double portion of all
vegetables.'

While the Frenchman ate, the _patron_'s wife stood behind the grille of
the kitchen door and watched the expression of his face. Next night the
Frenchman came back with two other Frenchmen. This meant that we were
earning a good name; the surest sign of a bad restaurant is to be
frequented only by foreigners. Probably part of the reason for our success
was that the _patron_, with the sole gleam of sense he had shown in fitting
out the restaurant, had bought very sharp table-knives. Sharp knives, of
course, are _the_ secret of a successful restaurant. I am glad that this
happened, for it destroyed one of my illusions, namely, the idea that
Frenchmen know good food when they see it. Or perhaps we _were_ a fairly good
restaurant by Paris standards; in which case the bad ones must be past
imagining.

In a very few days after I had written to B he replied to say that
there was a job he could get for me. It was to look after a congenital
imbecile, which sounded a splendid rest cure after the Auberge de Jehan
Cottard. I pictured myself loafing in the country lanes, knocking
thistle-heads off with my stick, feeding on roast lamb and treacle tart,
and sleeping ten hours a night in sheets smelling of lavender. B sent me a
fiver to pay my passage and get my clothes out of the pawn, and as soon as
the money arrived I gave one day's notice and left the restaurant. My
leaving so suddenly embarrassed the _patron_, for as usual he was penniless,
and he had to pay my wages thirty francs short. However he stood me a glass
of Courvoisier '48 brandy, and I think he felt that this made up the
difference. They engaged a Czech, a thoroughly competent _plongeur_, in my
place, and the poor old cook was sacked a few weeks later. Afterwards I
heard that, with two first-rate people in the kitchen, the _plongeur's_ work
had been cut down to fifteen hours a day. Below that no one could have cut
it, short of modernizing the kitchen.




XXII



FOR what they are worth I want to give my opinions about the life of a
Paris _plongeur_. When one comes to think of it, it is strange that thousands
of people in a great modern city should spend their waking hours swabbing
dishes in hot dens underground. The question I am raising is why this life
goes on--what purpose it serves, and who wants it to continue, and why I
am not taking the merely rebellious, _fainéant_ attitude. I am trying to
consider the social significance of a _plongeur's_ life.

I think one should start by saying that a _plongeur_ is one of the
slaves of the modern world. Not that there is any need to whine over him,
for he is better off than many manual workers, but still, he is no freer
than if he were bought and sold. His work is servile and without art; he is
paid just enough to keep him alive; his only holiday is the sack. He is cut
off from marriage, or, if he marries, his wife must work too. Except by a
lucky chance, he has no escape from this life, save into prison. At this
moment there are men with university degrees scrubbing dishes in Paris for
ten or fifteen hours a day. One cannot say that it is mere idleness on
their part, for an idle man cannot be a _plongeur_; they have simply been
trapped by a routine which makes thought impossible. If _plongeurs_ thought
at all, they would long ago have formed a union and gone on strike for
better treatment. But they do not think, because they have no leisure for
it; their life has made slaves of them.

The question is, why does this slavery continue? People have a way of
taking it for granted that all work is done for a sound purpose. They see
somebody else doing a disagreeable job, and think that they have solved
things by saying that the job is necessary. Coal-mining, for example, is
hard work, but it is necessary--we must have coal. Working in the sewers
is unpleasant, but somebody must work in the sewers. And similarly with a
_plongeur's_ work. Some people must feed in restaurants, and so other people
must swab dishes for eighty hours a week. It is the work of civilization,
therefore unquestionable. This point is worth considering.

Is a _plongeur's_ work really necessary to civilization? We have a
feeling that it must be 'honest' work, because it is hard and disagreeable,
and we have made a sort of fetish of manual work. We see a man cutting down
a tree, and we make sure that he is filling a social need, just because he
uses his muscles; it does not occur to us that he may only be cutting down
a beautiful tree to make room for a hideous statue. I believe it is the
same with a _plongeur_. He earns his bread in the sweat of his brow, but it
does not follow that he is doing anything useful; he may be only supplying
a luxury which, very often, is not a luxury.

As an example of what I mean by luxuries which are not luxuries, take
an extreme case, such as one hardly sees in Europe. Take an Indian rickshaw
puller, or a gharry pony. In any Far Eastern town there are rickshaw
pullers by the hundred, black wretches weighing eight stone, clad in
loin-cloths. Some of them are diseased; some of them are fifty years old.
For miles on end they trot in the sun or rain, head down, dragging at the
shafts, with the sweat dripping from their grey moustaches. When they go
too slowly the passenger calls them _bahinchut_. They earn thirty or forty
rupees a month, and cough their lungs out after a few years. The gharry
ponies are gaunt, vicious things that have been sold cheap as having a few
years' work left in them. Their master looks on the whip as a substitute
for food. Their work expresses itself in a sort of equation--whip plus
food equals energy; generally it is about sixty per cent whip and forty per
cent food. Sometimes their necks are encircled by one vast sore, so that
they drag all day on raw flesh. It is still possible to make them work,
however; it is just a question of thrashing them so hard that the pain
behind outweighs the pain in front. After a few years even the whip loses
its virtue, and the pony goes to the knacker. These are instances of
unnecessary work, for there is no real need for gharries and rickshaws;
they only exist because Orientals consider it vulgar to walk. They are
luxuries, and, as anyone who has ridden in them knows, very poor luxuries.
They afford a small amount of convenience, which cannot possibly balance
the suffering of the men and animals.

Similarly with the _plongeur_. He is a king compared with a rickshaw
puller or a gharry pony, but his case is analogous. He is the slave of a
hotel or a restaurant, and his slavery is more or less useless. For, after
all, where is the _real_ need of big hotels and smart restaurants? They are
supposed to provide luxury, but in reality they provide only a cheap,
shoddy imitation of it. Nearly everyone hates hotels. Some restaurants are
better than others, but it is impossible to get as good a meal in a
restaurant as one can get, for the same expense, in a private house. No
doubt hotels and restaurants must exist, but there is no need that they
should enslave hundreds of people. What makes the work in them is not the
essentials; it is the shams that are supposed to represent luxury.
Smartness, as it is called, means, in effect, merely that the staff work
more and the customers pay more; no one benefits except the proprietor, who
will presently buy himself a striped villa at Deauville. Essentially, a
'smart' hotel is a place where a hundred people toil like devils in order
that two hundred may pay through the nose for things they do not really
want. If the nonsense were cut out of hotels and restaurants, and the work
done with simple efficiency, _plongeurs_ might work six or eight hours a day
instead often or fifteen.

Suppose it is granted that a _plongeur's_ work is more or less useless.
Then the question follows, Why does anyone want him to go on working? I am
trying to go beyond the immediate economic cause, and to consider what
pleasure it can give anyone to think of men swabbing dishes for life. For
there is no doubt that people--comfortably situated people--do find a
pleasure in such thoughts. A slave, Marcus Cato said, should be working
when he is not sleeping. It does not matter whether his work is needed or
not, he must work, because work in itself is good--for slaves, at least.
This sentiment still survives, and it has piled up mountains of useless
drudgery.

I believe that this instinct to perpetuate useless work is, at bottom,
simply fear of the mob. The mob (the thought runs) are such low animals
that they would be dangerous if they had leisure; it is safer to keep them
too busy to think. A rich man who happens to be intellectually honest, if
he is questioned about the improvement of working conditions, usually says
something like this:

'We know that poverty is unpleasant; in fact, since it is so remote,
we rather enjoy harrowing ourselves with the thought of its unpleasantness.
But don't expect us to do anything about it. We are sorry for you lower
classes, just as we are sorry for a, cat with the mange, but we will fight
like devils against any improvement of your condition. We feel that you are
much safer as you are. The present state of affairs suits us, and we are
not going to take the risk of setting you free, even by an extra hour a
day. So, dear brothers, since evidently you must sweat to pay for our trips
to Italy, sweat and be damned to you.'

This is particularly the attitude of intelligent, cultivated people;
one can read the substance of it in a hundred essays. Very few cultivated
people have less than (say) four hundred pounds a year, and naturally they
side with the rich, because they imagine that any liberty conceded to the
poor is a threat to their own liberty. Foreseeing some dismal Marxian
Utopia as the alternative, the educated man prefers to keep things as they
are. Possibly he does not like his fellow-rich very much, but he supposes
that even the vulgarest of them are less inimical to his pleasures, more
his kind of people, than the poor, and that he had better stand by them. It
is this fear of a supposedly dangerous mob that makes nearly all
intelligent people conservative in their opinions.

Fear of the mob is a superstitious fear. It is based on the idea that
there is some mysterious, fundamental difference between rich and poor, as
though they were two different races, like Negroes and white men. But in
reality there is no such difference. The mass of the rich and the poor are
differentiated by their incomes and nothing else, and the average
millionaire is only the average dishwasher dressed in a new suit. Change
places, and handy dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Everyone
who has mixed on equal terms with the poor knows this quite well. But the
trouble is that intelligent, cultivated people, the very people who might
be expected to have liberal opinions, never do mix with the poor. For what
do the majority of educated people know about poverty? In my copy of
Villon's poems the editor has actually thought it necessary to explain the
line '_Ne pain ne voyent qu'aux fenestres_' by a footnote; so remote is even
hunger from the educated man's experience.

From this ignorance a superstitious fear of the mob results quite
naturally. The educated man pictures a horde of submen, wanting only a
day's liberty to loot his house, burn his books, and set him to work
minding a machine or sweeping out a lavatory. 'Anything,' he thinks, 'any
injustice, sooner than let that mob loose.' He does not see that since
there is no difference between the mass of rich and poor, there is no
question of setting the mob loose. The mob is in fact loose now, and--in
the shape of rich men--is using its power to set up enormous treadmills
of boredom, such as 'smart' hotels.

To sum up. A _plongeur_ is a slave, and a wasted slave, doing stupid and
largely unnecessary work. He is kept at work, ultimately, because of a
vague feeling that he would be dangerous if he had leisure. And educated
people, who should be on his side, acquiesce in the process, because they
know nothing about him and consequently are afraid of him. I say this of
the _plongeur_ because it is his case I have been considering; it would apply
equally to numberless other types of worker. These are only my own ideas
about the basic facts of a _plongeur's_ life, made without reference to
immediate economic questions, and no doubt largely platitudes. I present
them as a sample of the thoughts that are put into one's head by working in
an hotel.




XXIII



AS soon as I left the Auberge de Jehan Cottard I went to bed and slept
the clock round, all but one hour. Then I washed my teeth for the first
time in a fortnight, bathed and had my hair cut, and got my clothes out of
pawn. I had two glorious days of loafing. I even went in my best suit to
the Auberge, leant against the bar and spent five francs on a bottle of
English beer. It is a curious sensation, being a customer where you have
been a slave's slave. Boris was sorry that I had left the restaurant just
at the moment when we were _lancés_ and there was a chance of making money. I
have heard from him since, and he tells me that he is making a hundred
francs a day and has set up a girl who is _très serieuse_ and never smells of
garlic.

I spent a day wandering about our quarter, saying good-bye to
everyone. It was on this day that Charlie told me about the death of old
Roucolle the miser, who had once lived in the quarter. Very likely Charlie
was lying as usual, but it was a good story.

Roucolle died, aged seventy-four, a year or two before I went to
Paris, but the people in the quarter still talked of him while I was there.
He never equalled Daniel Dancer or anyone of that kind, but he was an
interesting character. He went to Les Halles every morning to pick up
damaged vegetables, and ate cat's meat, and wore newspaper instead of
underclothes, and used the wainscoting of his room for firewood, and made
himself a pair of trousers out of a sack--all this with half a million
francs invested. I should like very much to have known him.

Like many misers, Roucolle came to a bad end through putting his money
into a wildcat scheme. One day a Jew appeared in the quarter, an alert,
business-like young chap who had a first-rate plan for smuggling cocaine
into England. It is easy enough, of course, to buy cocaine in Paris, and
the smuggling would be quite simple in itself, only there is always some
spy who betrays the plan to the customs or the police. It is said that this
is often done by the very people who sell the cocaine, because the
smuggling trade is in the hands of a large combine, who do not want
competition. The Jew, however, swore that there was no danger. He knew a
way of getting cocaine direct from Vienna, not through the usual channels,
and there would be no blackmail to pay. He had got into touch with Roucolle
through a young Pole, a student at the Sorbonne, who was going to put four
thousand francs into the scheme if Roucolle would put six thousand. For
this they could buy ten pounds of cocaine, which would be worth a small
fortune in England.

The Pole and the Jew had a tremendous struggle to get the money from
between old Roucolle's claws. Six thousand francs was not much--he had
more than that sewn into the mattress in his room--but it was agony for
him to part with a sou. The Pole and the Jew were at him for weeks on end,
explaining, bullying, coaxing, arguing, going down on their knees and
imploring him to produce the money. The old man was half frantic between
greed and fear. His bowels yearned at the thought of getting, perhaps,
fifty thousand francs' profit, and yet he could not bring himself to risk
the money. He used to sit in a comer with his head in his hands, groaning
and sometimes yelling out in agony, and often he would kneel down (he was
very pious) and pray for strength, but still he couldn't do it. But at
last, more from exhaustion than anything else, he gave in quite suddenly;
he slit open the mattress where his money was concealed and handed over six
thousand francs to the Jew.

The Jew delivered the cocaine the same day, and promptly vanished. And
meanwhile, as was not surprising after the fuss Roucolle had made, the
affair had been noised all over the quarter. The very next morning the
hotel was raided and searched by the police.

Roucolle and the Pole were in agonies. The police were downstairs,
working their way up and searching every room in turn, and there was the
great packet of cocaine on the table, with no place to hide it and no
chance of escaping down the stairs. The Pole was for throwing the stuff out
of the window, but Roucolle would not hear of it. Charlie told me that he
had been present at the scene. He said that when they tried to take the
packet from Roucolle he clasped it to his breast and struggled like a
madman, although he was seventy-four years old. He was wild with fright,
but he would go to prison rather than throw his money away.

At last, when the police were searching only one floor below, somebody
had an idea. A man on Roucolle's floor had a dozen tins of face-powder
which he was selling on commission; it was suggested that the cocaine could
be put into the tins and passed off as face-powder. The powder was hastily
thrown out of the window and the cocaine substituted, and the tins were put
openly on Roucolle's table, as though there there were nothing to conceal.
A few minutes later the police came to search Roucolle's room. They tapped
the walls and looked up the chimney and turned out the drawers and examined
the floorboards, and then, just as they were about to give it up, having
found nothing, the inspector noticed the tins on the table.

'_Tiens_,' he said, 'have a look at those tins. I hadn't noticed them.
What's in them, eh?'

'Face-powder,' said the Pole as calmly as he could manage. But at the
same instant Roucolle let out a loud groaning noise, from alarm, and the
police became suspicious immediately. They opened one of the tins and
tipped out the contents, and after smelling it, the inspector said that he
believed it was cocaine. Roucolle and the Pole began swearing on the names
of the saints that it was only face-powder; but it was no use, the more
they protested the more suspicious the police became. The two men were
arrested and led off to the police station, followed by half the quarter.

At the station, Roucolle and the Pole were interrogated by the
Commissaire while a tin of the cocaine was sent away to be analysed.
Charlie said that the scene Roucolle made was beyond description. He wept,
prayed, made contradictory statements and denounced the Pole all at once,
so loud that he could be heard half a street away. The policemen almost
burst with laughing at him.

After an hour a policeman came back with the tin of cocaine and a note
from the analyst. He was laughing.

'This is not cocaine, _monsieur_,' he said.

'What, not cocaine?' said the Commissaire. '_Mais, alors_--what is it,
then?'

'It is face-powder.'

Roucolle and the Pole were released at once, entirely exonerated but
very angry. The Jew had double-crossed them. Afterwards, when the
excitement was over, it turned out that he had played the same trick on two
other people in the quarter.

The Pole was glad enough to escape, even though he had lost his four
thousand francs, but poor old Roucolle was utterly broken down. He took to
his bed at once, and all that day and half the night they could hear him
thrashing about, mumbling, and sometimes yelling out at the top of his
voice:

'Six thousand francs! _Nom de Jésus-Christ_! Six thousand francs!'

Three days later he had some kind of stroke, and in a fortnight he was
dead--of a broken heart, Charlie said.




XXIV



I TRAVELLED to England third class via Dunkirk and Tilbury, which is
the cheapest and not the worst way of crossing the Channel. You had to pay
extra for a cabin, so I slept in the saloon, together with most of the
third-class passengers. I find this entry in my diary for that day:

'Sleeping in the saloon, twenty-seven men, sixteen women. Of the
women, not a single one has washed her face this morning. The men mostly
went to the bathroom; the women merely produced vanity cases and covered
the dirt with powder. _Q_. A secondary sexual difference?'

On the journey I fell in with a couple of Roumanians, mere children,
who were going to England on their honeymoon trip. They asked innumerable
questions about England, and I told them some startling lies. I was so
pleased to be getting home, after being hard up for months in a foreign
city, that England seemed to me a sort of Paradise. There are, indeed, many
things in England that make you glad to get home; bathrooms, armchairs,
mint sauce, new potatoes properly cooked, brown bread, marmalade, beer made
with veritable hops--they are all splendid, if you can pay for them.
England is a very good country when you are not poor; and, of course, with
a tame imbecile to look after, I was not going to be poor. The thought of
not being poor made me very patriotic. The more questions the Roumanians
asked, the more I praised England; the climate, the scenery, the art, the
literature, the laws--everything in England was perfect.

Was the architecture in England good? the Roumanians asked.
'Splendid!' I said. 'And you should just see the London statues! Paris is
vulgar--half grandiosity and half slums. But London--'

Then the boat drew alongside Tilbury pier. The first building we saw
on the waterside was one of those huge hotels, all stucco and pinnacles,
which stare from the English coast like idiots staring over an asylum wall.
I saw the Roumanians, too polite to say anything, cocking their eyes at the
hotel. 'Built by French architects,' I assured them; and even later, when
the train was crawling into London through the eastern slums, I still kept
it up about the beauties of English architecture. Nothing seemed too good
to say about England, now that I was coming home and was not hard up any
more.

I went to B.'s office, and his first words knocked everything to
ruins. 'I'm sorry,' he said; 'your employers have gone abroad, patient and
all. However, they'll be back in a month. I suppose you can hang on till
then?'

I was outside in the street before it even occurred to me to borrow
some more money. There was a month to wait, and I had exactly nineteen and
sixpence in hand. The news had taken my breath away. For a long time I
could not make up my mind what to do. I loafed the day in the streets, and
at night, not having the slightest notion of how to get a cheap bed in
London, I went to a 'family' hotel, where the charge was seven and
sixpence. After paying the bill I had ten and twopence in hand.

By the morning I had made my plans. Sooner or later I should have to
go to B. for more money, but it seemed hardly decent to do so yet, and in
the meantime I must exist in some hole-and-corner way. Past experience set
me against pawning my best suit. I would leave all my things at the station
cloakroom, except my second-best suit, which I could exchange for some
cheap clothes and perhaps a pound. If I was going to live a month on thirty
shillings I must have bad clothes--indeed, the worse the better. Whether
thirty shillings could be made to last a month I had no idea, not knowing
London as I knew Paris. Perhaps I could beg, or sell bootlaces, and I
remembered articles I had read in the Sunday papers about beggars who have
two thousand pounds sewn into their trousers. It was, at any rate,
notoriously impossible to starve in London, so there was nothing to be
anxious about.

To sell my clothes I went down into Lambeth, where the people are poor
and there are a lot of rag shops. At the first shop I tried the proprietor
was polite but unhelpful; at the second he was rude; at the third he was
stone deaf, or pretended to be so. The fourth shopman was a large blond
young man, very pink all over, like a slice of ham. He looked at the
clothes I was wearing and felt them disparagingly between thumb and finger.

'Poor stuff,' he said, 'very poor stuff, that is.' (It was quite a
good suit.) 'What yer want for 'em?'

I explained that I wanted some older clothes and as much money as he
could spare. He thought for a moment, then collected some dirty-looking
rags and threw them on to the counter. 'What about the money?' I said,
hoping for a pound. He pursed Us lips, then produced _a shilling_ and laid it
beside the clothes. I did not argue--I was going to argue, but as I
opened my mouth he reached out as though to take up the shilling again; I
saw that I was helpless. He let me change in a small room behind the shop.

The clothes were a coat, once dark brown, a pair of black dungaree
trousers, a scarf and a cloth cap; I had kept my own shirt, socks and
boots, and I had a comb and razor in my pocket. It gives one a very strange
feeling to be wearing such clothes. I had worn bad enough things before,
but nothing at all like these; they were not merely dirty and shapeless,
they had--how is one to express it?--a gracelessness, a patina of
antique filth, quite different from mere shabbiness. They were the sort of
clothes you see on a bootlace seller, or a tramp. An hour later, in
Lambeth, I saw a hang-dog man, obviously a tramp, coming towards me, and
when I looked again it was myself, reflected in a shop window. The dirt was
plastering my face already. Dirt is a great respecter of persons; it lets
you alone when you are well dressed, but as soon as your collar is gone it
flies towards you from all directions.

I stayed in the streets till late at night, keeping on the move all
the time. Dressed as I was, I was half afraid that the police might arrest
me as a vagabond, and I dared not speak to anyone, imagining that they must
notice a disparity between my accent and my clothes. (Later I discovered
that this never happened.) My new clothes had put me instantly into a new
world. Everyone's demeanour seemed to have changed abruptly. I helped a
hawker pick up a barrow that he had upset. 'Thanks, mate,' he said with a
grin. No one had called me mate before in my life--it was the clothes
that had done it. For the first time I noticed, too, how the attitude of
women varies with a man's clothes. When a badly dressed man passes them
they shudder away from him with a quite frank movement of disgust, as
though he were a dead cat. Clothes are powerful things. Dressed in a
tramp's clothes it is very difficult, at any rate for the first day, not to
feel that you are genuinely degraded. You might feel the same shame,
irrational but very real, your first night in prison.

At about eleven I began looking for a bed. I had read about
doss-houses (they are never called doss-houses, by the way), and I supposed
that one could get a bed for fourpence or thereabouts. Seeing a man, a
navvy or something of the kind, standing on the kerb in the Waterloo Road,
I stopped and questioned him. I said that I was stony broke and wanted the
cheapest bed I could get.

'Oh,' said he, 'you go to that 'ouse across the street there, with the
sign "Good Beds for Single Men". That's a good kip [sleeping place], that
is. I bin there myself on and off. You'll find it cheap _and_ clean.'

It was a tall, battered-looking house, with dim lights in all the
windows, some of which were patched with brown paper. I entered a stone
passage-way, and a little etiolated boy with sleepy eyes appeared from a
door leading to a cellar. Murmurous sounds came from the cellar, and a wave
of hot air and cheese. The boy yawned and held out his hand.

'Want a kip? That'll be a 'og, guv'nor.'

I paid the shilling, and the boy led me up a rickety unlighted
staircase to a bedroom. It had a sweetish reek of paregoric and foul linen;
the windows seemed to be tight shut, and the air was almost suffocating at
first. There was a candle burning, and I saw that the room measured fifteen
feet square by eight high, and had eight beds in it. Already six lodgers
were in bed, queer lumpy shapes with all their own clothes, even their
boots, piled on top of them. Someone was coughing in a loathsome manner in
one corner.

When I got into the bed I found that it was as hard as a board, and as
for the pillow, it was a mere hard cylinder like a block of wood. It was
rather worse than sleeping on a table, because the bed was not six feet
long, and very narrow, and the mattress was convex, so that one had to hold
on to avoid falling out. The sheets stank so horribly of sweat that I could
not bear them near my nose. Also, the bedclothes only consisted of the
sheets and a cotton counterpane, so that though stuffy it was none too
warm. Several noises recurred throughout the night. About once in an hour
the man on my left--a sailor, I think--woke up, swore vilely, and
lighted a cigarette. Another man, victim of a bladder disease, got up and
noisily used his chamber-pot half a dozen times during the night. The man
in the corner had a coughing fit once in every twenty minutes, so regularly
that one came to listen for it as one listens for the next yap when a dog
is baying the moon. It was an unspeakably repellent sound; a foul bubbling
and retching, as though the man's bowels were being churned up within him.
Once when he struck a match I saw that he was a very old man, with a grey,
sunken face like that of a corpse, and he was wearing his trousers wrapped
round his head as a nightcap, a thing which for some reason disgusted me
very much. Every time he coughed or the other man swore, a sleepy voice
from one of the other beds cried out:

'Shut up! Oh, for Christ's--_sake_ shut up!'

I had about an hour's sleep in all. In the morning I was woken by a dim
impression of some large brown thing coming towards me. I opened my eyes
and saw that it was one of the sailor's feet, sticking out of bed close
to my face. It was dark brown, quite dark brown like an Indian's,
with dirt. The walls were leprous, and the sheets, three weeks from
the wash, were almost raw umber colour. I got up, dressed and went
downstairs. In the cellar were a row of basins and two slippery
roller towels. I had a piece of soap in my pocket, and I was going
to wash, when I noticed that every basin was streaked with grime--solid,
sticky filth as black as boot-blacking. I went out unwashed. Altogether,
the lodging-house had not come up to its description as cheap and clean. It
was however, as I found later, a fairly representative lodging-house.

I crossed the river and walked a long way eastward, finally going into
a coffee-shop on Tower Hill. An ordinary London coffee-shop, like a
thousand others, it seemed queer and foreign after Paris. It was a little
stuffy room with the high-backed pews that were fashionable in the
'forties, the day's menu written on a mirror with a piece of soap, and a
girl of fourteen handling the dishes. Navvies were eating out of newspaper
parcels, and drinking tea in vast saucerless mugs like china tumblers. In a
corner by himself a Jew, muzzle down in the plate, was guiltily wolfing
bacon.

'Could I have some tea and bread and butter?' I said to the girl.

She stared. 'No butter, only marg,' she said, surprised. And she
repeated the order in the phrase that is to London what the eternal _coup de
rouge_ is to Paris: 'Large tea and two slices!'

On the wall beside my pew there was a notice saying 'Pocketing the
sugar not allowed,' and beneath it some poetic customer had written:


    He that takes away the sugar,
    Shall be called a dirty----


but someone else had been at pains to scratch out the last word. This was
England. The tea-and-two-slices cost threepence halfpenny, leaving me with
eight and twopence.




XXV



THE eight shillings lasted three days and four nights. After my bad
experience in the Waterloo Road* I moved eastward, and spent the next
night in a lodging-house in Pennyfields. This was a typical lodging-house,
like scores of others in London. It had accommodation for between fifty and
a hundred men, and was managed by a 'deputy'--a deputy for the owner,
that is, for these lodging-houses are profitable concerns and are owned by
rich men. We slept fifteen or twenty in a dormitory; the beds were again
cold and hard, but the sheets were not more than a week from the wash,
which was an improvement. The charge was ninepence or a shilling (in the
shilling dormitory the beds were six feet apart instead of four) and the
terms were cash down by seven in the evening or out you went.

[*It is a curious but well-known fact that bugs are much commoner
in south than north London. For some reason they have not yet crossed
the river in any great numbers.]

Downstairs there was a kitchen common to all lodgers, with free firing
and a supply of cooking-pots, tea-basins, and toasting-forks. There were
two great clinker fires, which were kept burning day and night the year
through. The work of tending the fires, sweeping the kitchen and making the
beds was done by the lodgers in rotation. One senior lodger, a fine
Norman-looking stevedore named Steve, was known as 'head of the house', and
was arbiter of disputes and unpaid chucker-out.

I liked the kitchen. It was a low-ceiled cellar deep underground, very
hot and drowsy with coke fumes, and lighted only by the fires, which cast
black velvet shadows in the comers. Ragged washing hung on strings from the
ceiling. Red-lit men, stevedores mostly, moved about the fires with
cooking-pots; some of them were quite naked, for they had been laundering
and were waiting for their clothes to dry. At night there were games of nap
and draughts, and songs--' I'm a chap what's done wrong by my parents,'
was a favourite, and so was another popular song about a shipwreck.
Sometimes late at night men would come in with a pail of winkles they had
bought cheap, and share them out. There was a general sharing of food, and
it was taken for granted to feed men who were out of work. A little pale,
wizened creature, obviously dying, referred to as 'pore Brown, bin under
the doctor and cut open three times,' was regularly fed by the others.

Two or three of the lodgers were old-age pensioners. Till meeting them
I had never realized that there are people in England who live on nothing
but the old-age pension often shillings a week. None of these old men had
any other resource whatever. One of them was talkative, and I asked him how
he managed to exist. He said:

'Well, there's ninepence a night for yer kip--that's five an'
threepence a week. Then there's threepence on Saturday for a shave--
that's five an' six. Then say you 'as a 'aircut once a month for sixpence
--that's another three'apence a week. So you 'as about four an' four-pence
for food an' bacca.'

He could imagine no other expenses. His food was bread and margarine
and tea--towards the end of the week dry bread and tea without milk--
and perhaps he got his clothes from charity. He seemed contented, valuing
his bed and fire more than food. But, with an income of ten shillings a
week, to spend money on a shave--it is awe-inspiring.

All day I loafed in the streets, east as far as Wapping, west as far
as Whitechapel. It was queer after Paris; everything was so much cleaner
and quieter and drearier. One missed the scream of the trams, and the
noisy, festering life of the back streets, and the armed men clattering
through the squares. The crowds were better dressed and the faces comelier
and milder and more alike, without that fierce individuality and malice of
the French. There was less drunkenness, and less dirt, and less
quarrelling, and more idling. Knots of men stood at all the corners,
slightly underfed, but kept going by the tea-and-two-slices which the
Londoner swallows every two hours. One seemed to breathe a less feverish
air than in Paris. It was the land of the tea urn and the Labour Exchange,
as Paris is the land of the _bistro_ and the sweatshop.

It was interesting to watch the crowds. The East London women are
pretty (it is the mixture of blood, perhaps), and Limehouse was sprinkled
with Orientals--Chinamen, Chittagonian lascars, Dravidians selling silk
scarves, even a few Sikhs, come goodness knows how. Here and there were
street meetings. In Whitechapel somebody called The Singing Evangel
undertook to save you from hell for the charge of sixpence. In the East
India Dock Road the Salvation Army were holding a service. They were
singing 'Anybody here like sneaking Judas?' to the tune of 'What's to be
done with a drunken sailor?' On Tower Hill two Mormons were trying to
address a meeting. Round their platform struggled a mob of men, shouting
and interrupting. Someone was denouncing them for polygamists. A lame,
bearded man, evidently an atheist, had heard the word God and was heckling
angrily. There was a confused uproar of voices.

'My dear friends, if you would only let us finish what we were saying
--!--That's right, give 'em a say. Don't get on the argue!--No, no,
you answer me. Can you _show_ me God? You _show_ 'im me, then I'll believe in
'im.--Oh, shut up, don't keep interrupting of 'em!--Interrupt yourself!
--polygamists!--Well, there's a lot to be said for polygamy. Take the--
women out of industry, anyway.--My dear friends, if you would just--No,
no, don't you slip out of it. 'Ave you _seen_ God? 'Ave you _touched_ 'im? 'Ave
you shook '_ands_ with 'im?--Oh, don't get on the argue, for Christ's sake
don't get on the _argue_!' etc. etc. I listened for twenty minutes, anxious
to learn something about Mormonism, but the meeting never got beyond
shouts. It is the general fate of street meetings.

In Middlesex Street, among the crowds at the market, a draggled,
down-at-heel woman was hauling a brat of five by the arm. She brandished a
tin trumpet in its face. The brat was squalling.

'Enjoy yourself!' yelled the mother. 'What yer think I brought yer out
'ere for an' bought y' a trumpet an' all? D'ya want to go across my knee?
You little bastard, you _shall_ enjoy yerself!'

Some drops of spittle fell from the trumpet. The mother and the child
disappeared, both bawling. It was all very queer after Paris.

The last night that I was in the Pennyfields lodging-house there was a
quarrel between two of the lodgers, a vile scene. One of the old-age
pensioners, a man of about seventy, naked to the waist (he had been
laundering), was violently abusing a short, thickset stevedore, who stood
with his back to the fire. I could see the old man's face in the light of
the fire, and he was almost crying with grief and rage. Evidently something
very serious had happened.

_The old-age pensioner_: 'You--!'

_The stevedore_: 'Shut yer mouth, you ole--, afore I set about yer!'

_The old-age pensioner_: 'Jest you try it on, you--! I'm thirty year
older'n you, but it wouldn't take much to make me give you one as'd knock
you into a bucketful of piss!'

_The stevedore_: 'Ah, an' then p'raps I wouldn't smash you up after, you
ole--!'

Thus for five minutes. The lodgers sat round, unhappy, trying to
disregard the quarrel. The stevedore looked, sullen, but the old man was
growing more and more furious. He kept making little rushes at the other,
sticking out his face and screaming from a few inches distant like a cat on
a wall, and spitting. He was trying to nerve himself to strike a blow, and
not quite succeeding. Finally he burst out:

'A--, that's what you are, a----! Take that in your dirty gob and
suck it, you--! By--, I'll smash you afore I've done with you. A--,
that's what you are, a son of a--whore. Lick that, you--! That's what I
think of you, you--, you--, you--you BLACK BASTARD!'

Whereat he suddenly collapsed on a bench, took his face in his hands,
and began crying. The other man seeing that public feeling was against him,
went out.

Afterwards I heard Steve explaining the cause of the quarrel. It
appeared that it was all about a shilling's worth of food. In some way the
old man had lost his store of bread and margarine, and so would have
nothing to eat for the next three days, except what the others gave him in
charity. The stevedore, who was in work and well fed, had taunted him;
hence the quarrel.

When my money was down to one and fourpence I went for a night to a
lodging-house in Bow, where the charge was only eightpence. One went down
an area and through an alley-way into a deep, stifling cellar, ten feet
square. Ten men, navvies mostly, were sitting in the fierce glare of the
fire. It was midnight, but the deputy's son, a pale, sticky child of five,
was there playing on the navvies' knees. An old Irishman was whistling to a
blind bullfinch in a tiny cage. There were other songbirds there--tiny,
faded things, that had lived all their lives underground. The lodgers
habitually made water in the fire, to save going across a yard to the
lavatory. As I sat at the table I felt something stir near my feet, and,
looking down, saw a wave of black things moving slowly across the floor;
they were black-beetles.

There were six beds in the dormitory, and the sheets, marked in huge
letters 'Stolen from No.--Road', smelt loathsome. In the next bed to me
lay a very old man, a pavement artist, with some extraordinary curvature of
the spine that made him stick right out of bed, with his back a foot or two
from my face. It was bare, and marked with curious swirls of dirt, like a
marble table-top. During the night a man came in drunk and was sick on the
floor, close to my bed. There were bugs too--not so bad as in Paris, but
enough to keep one awake. It was a filthy place. Yet the deputy and his
wife were friendly people, and ready to make one a cup of tea at any hour
of the day or night.




XXVI



IN the morning after paying for the usual tea-and-two-slices and
buying half an ounce of tobacco, I had a halfpenny left. I did not care to
ask B. for more money yet, so there was nothing for it but to go to a
casual ward. I had very little idea how to set about this, but I knew that
there was a casual ward at Romton, so I walked out there, arriving at three
or four in the afternoon. Leaning against the pigpens in Romton
market-place was a wizened old Irishman, obviously a tramp. I went and
leaned beside him, and presently offered him my tobacco-box. He opened the
box and looked at the tobacco in astonishment:

'By God,' he said, 'dere's sixpennorth o' good baccy here! Where de
hell d'you get hold o' dat? _You_ ain't been on de road long.'

'What, don't you have tobacco on the road?' I said.

'Oh, we _has_ it. Look.'

He produced a rusty tin which had once held Oxo Cubes. In it were
twenty or thirty cigarette ends, picked up from the pavement. The Irishman
said that he rarely got any other tobacco; he added that, with care, one
could collect two ounces of tobacco a day on the London pavements.

'D'you come out o' one o' de London spikes [casual wards], eh?' he
asked me.

I said yes, thinking this would make him accept me as a fellow tramp,
and asked him what the spike at Romton was like. He said:

'Well, 'tis a cocoa spike. Dere's tay spikes, and cocoa spikes, and
skilly spikes. Dey don't give you skilly in Romton, t'ank God--leastways,
dey didn't de last time I was here. I been up to York and round Wales
since.'

'What is skilly?' I said.

'Skilly? A can o' hot water wid some bloody oatmeal at de bottom;
dat's skilly. De skilly spikes is always de worst.'

We stayed talking for an hour or two. The Irishman was a friendly old
man, but he smelt very unpleasant, which was not surprising when one
learned how many diseases he suffered from. It appeared (he described his
symptoms fully) that taking him from top to bottom he had the following
things wrong with him: on his crown, which was bald, he had eczema; he was
shortsighted, and had no glasses; he had chronic bronchitis; he had some
undiagnosed pain in the back; he had dyspepsia; he had urethritis; he had
varicose veins, bunions and flat feet. With this assemblage of diseases he
had tramped the roads for fifteen years.

At about five the Irishman said, 'Could you do wid a cup o' tay? De
spike don't open till six.'

'I should think I could.'

'Well, dere's a place here where dey gives you a free cup o' tay and a
bun. _Good_ tay it is. Dey makes you say a lot o' bloody prayers after; but
hell! It all passes de time away. You come wid me.'

He led the way to a small tin-roofed shed in a side-street, rather
like a village cricket pavilion. About twenty-five other tramps were
waiting. A few of them were dirty old habitual vagabonds, the majority
decent-looking lads from the north, probably miners or cotton operatives
out of work. Presently the door opened and a lady in a blue silk dress,
wearing gold spectacles and a crucifix, welcomed us in. Inside were thirty
or forty hard chairs, a harmonium, and a very gory lithograph of the
Crucifixion.

Uncomfortably we took off our caps and sat down. The lady handed out
the tea, and while we ate and drank she moved to and fro, talking benignly.
She talked upon religious subjects--about Jesus Christ always having a
soft spot for poor rough men like us, and about how quickly the time passed
when you were in church, and what a difference it made to a man on the road
if he said his prayers regularly. We hated it. We sat against the wall
fingering our caps (a tramp feels indecently exposed with his cap off), and
turning pink and trying to mumble something when the lady addressed us.
There was no doubt that she meant it all kindly. As she came up to one of
the north country lads with the plate of buns, she said to him:

'And you, my boy, how long is it since you knelt down and spoke with
your Father in Heaven?'

Poor lad, not a word could he utter; but his belly answered for him,
with a disgraceful rumbling which it set up at sight of the food.
Thereafter he was so overcome with shame that he could scarcely swallow his
bun. Only one man managed to answer the lady in her own style, and he was a
spry, red-nosed fellow looking like a corporal who had lost his stripe for
drunkenness. He could pronounce the words 'the dear Lord Jesus' with less
shame than anyone I ever saw. No doubt he had learned the knack in prison.

Tea ended, and I saw the tramps looking furtively at one another. An
unspoken thought was running from man to man--could we possibly make off
before the prayers started? Someone stirred in his chair--not getting up
actually, but with just a glance at the door, as though half suggesting the
idea of departure. The lady quelled him with one look. She said in a more
benign tone than ever:

'I don't think you need go _quite_ yet. The casual ward doesn't open
till six, and we have time to kneel down and say a few words to our Father
first. I think we should all feel better after that, shouldn't we?'

The red-nosed man was very helpful, pulling the harmonium into place
and handing out the prayerbooks. His back was to the lady as he did this,
and it was his idea of a joke to deal the books like a pack of cards,
whispering to each man as he did so, 'There y'are, mate, there's a--nap
'and for yer! Four aces and a king!' etc.

Bareheaded, we knelt down among the dirty teacups and began to mumble
that we had left undone those things that we ought to have done, and done
those things that we ought not to have done, and there was no health in us.
The lady prayed very fervently, but her eyes roved over us all the time,
making sure that we were attending. When she was not looking we grinned and
winked at one another, and whispered bawdy jokes, just to show that we did
not care; but it stuck in our throats a little. No one except the red-nosed
man was self-possessed enough to speak the responses above a whisper. We
got on better with the singing, except that one old tramp knew no tune but
'Onward, Christian soldiers', and reverted to it sometimes, spoiling the
harmony.

The prayers lasted half an hour, and then, after a handshake at the
door, we made off. 'Well,' said somebody as soon as we were out of hearing,
'the trouble's over. I thought them--prayers was never goin' to end.'

'You 'ad your bun,' said another; 'you got to pay for it.'

'Pray for it, you mean. Ah, you don't get much for nothing. They can't
even give you a twopenny cup of tea without you go down on you--knees for
it.'

There were murmurs of agreement. Evidently the tramps were not
grateful for their tea. And yet it was excellent tea, as different from
coffee-shop tea as good Bordeaux is from the muck called colonial claret,
and we were all glad of it. I am sure too that it was given in a good
spirit, without any intention of humiliating us; so in fairness we ought to
have been grateful--still, we were not.




XXVII



AT about a quarter to six the Irishman led me to the spike. It was a
grim, smoky yellow cube of brick, standing in a corner of the workhouse
grounds. With its rows of tiny, barred windows, and a high wall and iron
gates separating it from the road, it looked much like a prison. Already a
long queue of ragged men had formed up, waiting for the gates to open. They
were of all kinds and ages, the youngest a fresh-faced boy of sixteen, the
oldest a doubled-up, toothless mummy of seventy-five. Some were hardened
tramps, recognizable by their sticks and billies and dust-darkened faces;
some were factory hands out of work, some agricultural labourers, one a
clerk in collar and tie, two certainly imbeciles. Seen in the mass,
lounging there, they were a disgusting sight; nothing villainous or
dangerous, but a graceless, mangy crew, nearly all ragged and palpably
underfed. They were friendly, however, and asked no questions. Many offered
me tobacco--cigarette ends, that is.

We leaned against the wall, smoking, and the tramps began to talk
about the spikes they had been in recently. It appeared from what they said
that all spikes are different, each with its peculiar merits and demerits,
and it is important to know these when you are on the road. An old hand
will tell you the peculiarities of every spike in England, as: at A you are
allowed to smoke but there are bugs in the cells; at B the beds are
comfortable but the porter is a bully; at C they let you out early in the
morning but the tea is undrinkable; at D the officials steal your money if
you have any--and so on interminably. There are regular beaten tracks
where the spikes are within a day's march of one another. I was told that
the Barnet-St Albans route is the best, and they warned me to steer clear
of Billericay and Chelmsford, also Ide Hill in Kent. Chelsea was said to be
the most luxurious spike in England; someone, praising it, said that the
blankets there were more like prison than the spike. Tramps go far afield
in summer, and in winter they circle as much as possible round the large
towns, where it is warmer and there is more charity. But they have to keep
moving, for you may not enter any one spike, or any two London spikes, more
than once in a month, on pain of being confined for a week.

Some time after six the gates opened and we began to file in one at a
time. In the yard was an office where an official entered in a ledger our
names and trades and ages, also the places we were coming from and going to
--this last is intended to keep a check on the movements of tramps. I gave
my trade as 'painter'; I had painted water-colours--who has not? The
official also asked us whether we had any money, and every man said no. It
is against the law to enter the spike with more than eightpence, and any
sum less than this one is supposed to hand over at the gate. But as a rule
the tramps prefer to smuggle their money in, tying it tight in a piece of
cloth so that it will not chink. Generally they put it in the bag of tea
and sugar that every tramp carries, or among their 'papers'. The 'papers'
are considered sacred and are never searched.

After registering at the office we were led into the spike by an
official known as the Tramp Major (his job is to supervise casuals, and he
is generally a workhouse pauper) and a great bawling ruffian of a porter in
a blue uniform, who treated us like cattle. The spike consisted simply of a
bathroom and lavatory, and, for the rest, long double rows of stone cells,
perhaps a hundred cells in all. It was a bare, gloomy place of stone and
whitewash, unwillingly clean, with a smell which, somehow, I had foreseen
from its appearance; a smell of soft soap, Jeyes' fluid and latrines--a
cold, discouraging, prisonish smell.

The porter herded us all into the passage, and then told us to come
into the bathroom six at a time, to be searched before bathing. The search
was for money and tobacco, Romton being one of those spikes where you can
smoke once you have smuggled your tobacco in, but it will be confiscated if
it is found on you. The old hands had told us that the porter never
searched below the knee, so before going in we had all hidden our tobacco
in the ankles of our boots. Afterwards, while undressing, we slipped it
into our coats, which we were allowed to keep, to serve as pillows.

The scene in the bathroom was extraordinarily repulsive. Fifty dirty,
stark-naked men elbowing each other in a room twenty feet square, with only
two bathtubs and two slimy roller towels between them all. I shall never
forget the reek of dirty feet. Less than half the tramps actually bathed (I
heard them saying that hot water is 'weakening' to the system), but they
all washed their faces and feet, and the horrid greasy little clouts known
as toe-rags which they bind round their toes. Fresh water was only allowed
for men who were having a complete bath, so many men had to bathe in water
where others had washed their feet. The porter shoved us to and fro, giving
the rough side of his tongue when anyone wasted time. When my turn came for
the bath, I asked if I might swill out the tub, which was streaked with
dirt, before using it. He answered simply, 'Shut yer--mouth and get on
with yer bath!' That set the social tone of the place, and I did not speak
again.

When we had finished bathing, the porter tied our clothes in bundles
and gave us workhouse shirts--grey cotton things of doubtful cleanliness,
like abbreviated nightgowns. We were sent along to the cells at once, and
presently the porter and the Tramp Major brought our supper across from the
workhouse. Each man's ration was a half-pound wedge of bread smeared with
margarine, and a pint of bitter sugarless cocoa in a tin billy. Sitting on
the floor we wolfed this in five minutes, and at about seven o'clock the
cell doors were locked on the outside, to remain locked till eight in the
morning.

Each man was allowed to sleep with his mate, the cells being intended
to hold two men apiece. I had no mate, and was put in with another solitary
man, a thin scrubby-faced fellow with a slight squint. The cell measured
eight feet by five by eight high, was made of stone, and had a tiny barred
window high up in the wall and a spyhole in the door, just like a cell in a
prison. In it were six blankets, a chamber-pot, a hot water pipe, and
nothing else whatever. I looked round the cell with a vague feeling that
there was something missing. Then, with a shock of surprise, I realized
what it was, and exclaimed:

'But I say, damn it, where are the beds?'

'_Beds_?' said the other man, surprised. 'There aren't no beds! What yer
expect? This is one of them spikes where you sleeps on the floor. Christ!
Ain't you got used to that yet?'

It appeared that no beds was quite a normal condition in the spike. We
rolled up our coats and put them against the hot-water pipe, and made
ourselves as comfortable as we could. It grew foully stuffy, but it was not
warm enough to allow of our putting all the blankets underneath, so that we
could only use one to soften the floor. We lay a foot apart, breathing into
one another's face, with our naked limbs constantly touching, and rolling
against one another whenever we fell asleep. One fidgeted from side to
side, but it did not do much good; whichever way one turned there would be
first a dull numb feeling, then a sharp ache as the hardness of the floor
wore through the blanket. One could sleep, but not for more than ten
minutes on end.

About midnight the other man began making homosexual attempts upon me
--a nasty experience in a locked, pitch-dark cell. He was a feeble
creature and I could manage him easily, but of course it was impossible to
go to sleep again. For the rest of the night we stayed awake, smoking and
talking. The man told me the story of his life--he was a fitter, out of
work for three years. He said that his wife had promptly deserted him when
he lost his job, and he had been so long away from women that he had almost
forgotten what they were like. Homosexuality is general among tramps of
long standing, he said.

At eight the porter came along the passage unlocking the doors and
shouting 'All out!' The doors opened, letting out a stale, fetid stink. At
once the passage was full of squalid, grey-shirted figures, each
chamber-pot in hand, scrambling for the bathroom. It appeared that in the
morning only one tub of water was allowed for the lot of us, and when I
arrived twenty tramps had already washed their faces; I took one glance at
the black scum floating on the water, and went unwashed. After this we were
given a breakfast identical with the previous night's supper, our clothes
were returned to us, and we were ordered out into the yard to work. The
work was peeling potatoes for the pauper's dinner, but it was a mere
formality, to keep us occupied until the doctor came to inspect us. Most of
the tramps frankly idled. The doctor turned up at about ten o'clock and we
were told to go back to our cells, strip and wait in the passage for the
inspection.

Naked, and shivering, we lined up in the passage. You cannot conceive
what ruinous, degenerate curs we looked, standing there in the merciless
morning light. A tramp's clothes are bad, but they conceal far worse
things; to see him as he really is, unmitigated, you must see him naked.
Flat feet, pot bellies, hollow chests, sagging muscles--every kind of
physical rottenness was there. Nearly everyone was under-nourished, and
some clearly diseased; two men were wearing trusses, and as for the old
mummy-like creature of seventy-five, one wondered how he could possibly
make his daily march. Looking at our faces, unshaven and creased from the
sleepless night, you would have thought that all of us were recovering from
a week on the drink.

The inspection was designed merely to detect smallpox, and took no
notice of our general condition. A young medical student, smoking a
cigarette, walked rapidly along the line glancing us up and down, and not
inquiring whether any man was well or ill. When my cell companion stripped
I saw that his chest was covered with a red rash, and, having spent the
night a few inches away from him, I fell into a panic about smallpox. The
doctor, however, examined the rash and said that it was due merely to
under-nourishment.

After the inspection we dressed and were sent into the yard, where the
porter called our names over, gave us back any possessions we had left at
the office, and distributed meal tickets. These were worth sixpence each,
and were directed to coffee-shops on the route we had named the night
before. It was interesting to see that quite a number of the tramps could
not read, and had to apply to myself and other 'scholards' to decipher
their tickets.

The gates were opened, and we dispersed immediately. How sweet the air
does smell--even the air of a back street in the suburbs--after the
shut-in, subfaecal stench of the spike! I had a mate now, for while we were
peeling potatoes I had made friends with an Irish tramp named Paddy Jaques,
a melancholy pale man who seemed clean and decent. He was going to Edbury
spike, and suggested that we should go together. We set out, getting there
at three in the afternoon. It was a twelve-mile walk, but we made it
fourteen by getting lost among the desolate north London slums. Our meal
tickets were directed to a coffee-shop in Ilford. When we got there, the
little chit of a serving-maid, having seen our tickets and grasped that we
were tramps, tossed her head in contempt and for a long time would not
serve us. Finally she slapped on the table two 'large teas' and four slices
of bread and dripping--that is, eightpenny-worth of food. It appeared
that the shop habitually cheated the tramps of twopence or so on each
ticket; having tickets instead of money, the tramps could not protest or go
elsewhere.




XXVIII



PADDY was my mate for about the next fortnight, and, as he was the
first tramp I had known at all well, I want to give an account of him. I
believe that he was a typical tramp and there are tens of thousands in
England like him.

He was a tallish man, aged about thirty-five, with fair hair going
grizzled and watery blue eyes. His features were good, but his cheeks had
lanked and had that greyish, dirty in the grain look that comes of a bread
and margarine diet. He was dressed, rather better than most tramps, in a
tweed shooting-jacket and a pair of old evening trousers with the braid
still on them. Evidently the braid figured in his mind as a lingering scrap
of respectability, and he took care to sew it on again when it came loose.
He was careful of his appearance altogether, and carried a razor and
bootbrush that he would not sell, though he had sold his 'papers' and even
his pocket-knife long since. Nevertheless, one would have known him for a
tramp a hundred yards away. There was something in his drifting style of
walk, and the way he had of hunching his shoulders forward, essentially
abject. Seeing him walk, you felt instinctively that he would sooner take a
blow than give one.

He had been brought up in Ireland, served two years in the war, and
then worked in a metal polish factory, where he had lost his job two years
earlier. He was horribly ashamed of being a tramp, but he had picked up all
a tramp's ways. He browsed the pavements unceasingly, never missing a
cigarette end, or even an empty cigarette packet, as he used the tissue
paper for rolling cigarettes. On our way into Edbury he saw a newspaper
parcel on the pavement, pounced on it, and found that it contained two
mutton sandwiches/rather frayed at the edges; these he insisted on my
sharing. He never passed an automatic machine without giving a tug at the
handle, for he said that sometimes they are out of order and will eject
pennies if you tug at them. He had no stomach for crime, however. When we
were in the outskirts of Romton, Paddy noticed a bottle of milk on a
doorstep, evidently left there by mistake. He stopped, eyeing the bottle
hungrily.

'Christ!' he said, 'dere's good food goin' to waste. Somebody could
knock dat bottle off, eh? Knock it off easy.'

I saw that he was thinking of 'knocking it off' himself. He looked up
and down the street; it was a quiet residential street and there was nobody
in sight. Paddy's sickly, chap-fallen face yearned over the milk. Then he
turned away, saying gloomily:

'Best leave it. It don't do a man no good to steal. T'ank God, I ain't
never stolen nothin' yet.'

It was funk, bred of hunger, that kept him virtuous. With only two or
three sound meals in his belly, he would have found courage to steal the
milk.

He had two subjects of conversation, the shame and come-down of being
a tramp, and the best way of getting a free meal. As we drifted through the
streets he would keep up a monologue in this style, in a whimpering,
self-pitying Irish voice:

'It's hell bein' on de road, eh? It breaks yer heart goin' into dem
bloody spikes. But what's a man to do else, eh? I ain't had a good meat
meal for about two months, an' me boots is getting bad, an'--Christ!
How'd it be if we was to try for a cup o' tay at one o' dem convents on de
way to Edbury? Most times dey're good for a cup o' tay. Ah, what'd a man do
widout religion, eh? I've took cups o' tay from de convents, an' de
Baptists, an' de Church of England, an' all sorts. I'm a Catholic meself.
Dat's to say, I ain't been to confession for about seventeen year, but
still I got me religious feelin's, y'understand. An' dem convents is always
good for a cup o' tay ...' etc. etc. He would keep this up all day, almost
without stopping.

His ignorance was limitless and appalling. He once asked me, for
instance, whether Napoleon lived before Jesus Christ or after. Another
time, when I was looking into a bookshop window, he grew very perturbed
because one of the books was called _Of the Imitation of Christ_. He took
this for blasphemy. 'What de hell do dey want to go imitatin' of _Him_ for?'
he demanded angrily. He could read, but he had a kind of loathing for
books. On our way from Romton to Edbury I went into a public library, and,
though Paddy did not want to read, I suggested that he should come in and
rest his legs. But he preferred to wait on the pavement. 'No,' he said, 'de
sight of all dat bloody print makes me sick.'

Like most tramps, he was passionately mean about matches. He had a box
of matches when I met him, but I never saw him strike one, and he used to
lecture me for extravagance when I struck mine. His method was to cadge a
light from strangers, sometimes going without a smoke for half an hour
rather than strike a match.

Self-pity was the clue to his character. The thought of his bad luck
never seemed to leave him for an instant. He would break long silences to
exclaim, apropos of nothing, 'It's hell when yer clo'es begin to go up de
spout, eh?' or 'Dat tay in de spike ain't tay, it's piss,' as though there
was nothing else in the world to think about. And he had a low, worm-like
envy of anyone who was better off--not of the rich, for they were beyond
his social horizon, but of men in work. He pined for work as an artist
pines to be famous. If he saw an old man working he would say bitterly,
'Look at dat old--keepin' able-bodied men out o' work'; or if it was a
boy, 'It's dem young devils what's takin' de bread out of our mouths.' And
all foreigners to him were 'dem bloody dagoes'--for, according to his
theory, foreigners were responsible for unemployment.

He looked at women with a mixture of longing and hatred. Young, pretty
women were too much above him to enter into his ideas, but his mouth
watered at prostitutes. A couple of scarlet-lipped old creatures would go
past; Paddy's face would flush pale pink, and he would turn and stare
hungrily after the women. 'Tarts!' he would murmur, like a boy at a
sweetshop window. He told me once that he had not had to do with a woman
for two years--since he had lost his job, that is--and he had forgotten
that one could aim higher than prostitutes. He had the regular character of
a tramp--abject, envious, a jackal's character.

Nevertheless, he was a good fellow, generous by nature and capable of
sharing his last crust with a friend; indeed he did literally share his
last crust with me more than once. He was probably capable of work too, if
he had been well fed for a few months. But two years of bread and margarine
had lowered his standards hopelessly. He had lived on this filthy imitation
of food till his own mind and body were compounded of inferior stuff. It
was malnutrition and not any native vice that had destroyed his manhood.




XXIX



ON the way to Edbury I told Paddy that I had a friend from whom I
could be sure of getting money, and suggested going straight into London
rather than face another night in the spike. But Paddy had not been in
Edbury spike recently, and, tramp-like, he would not waste a night's free
lodging. We arranged to go into London the next morning. I had only a
halfpenny, but Paddy had two shillings, which would get us a bed each and a
few cups of tea.

The Edbury spike did not differ much from the one at Romton. The worst
feature was that all tobacco was confiscated at the gate, and we were
warned that any man caught smoking would be turned out at once. Under the
Vagrancy Act tramps can be prosecuted for smoking in the spike--in fact,
they can be prosecuted for almost anything; but the authorities generally
save the trouble of a prosecution by turning disobedient men out of doors.
There was no work to do, and the cells were fairly comfortable. We slept
two in a cell, 'one up, one down'--that is, one on a wooden shelf and one
on the floor, with straw palliasses and plenty of blankets, dirty but not
verminous. The food was the same as at Romton, except that we had tea
instead of cocoa. One could get extra tea in the morning, as the Tramp
Major was selling it at a halfpenny a mug, illicitly no doubt. We were each
given a hunk of bread and cheese to take away for our midday meal.

When we got into London we had eight hours to kill before the
lodging-houses opened. It is curious how one does not notice things. I had
been in London innumerable times, and yet till that day I had never noticed
one of the worst things about London--the fact that it costs money even
to sit down. In Paris, if you had no money and could not find a public
bench, you would sit on the pavement. Heaven knows what sitting on the
pavement would lead to in London--prison, probably. By four we had stood
five hours, and our feet seemed red-hot from the hardness of the stones. We
were hungry, having eaten our ration as soon as we left the spike, and I
was out of tobacco--it mattered less to Paddy, who picked up cigarette
ends. We tried two churches and found them locked. Then we tried a public
library, but there were no seats in it. As a last hope Paddy suggested
trying a Rowton House; by the rules they would not let us in before seven,
but we might slip in unnoticed. We walked up to the magnificent doorway
(the Rowton Houses really are magnificent) and very casually, trying to
look like regular lodgers, began to stroll in. Instantly a man lounging in
the doorway, a sharp-faced fellow, evidently in some position of authority,
barred the way.

'You men sleep 'ere last night?'

'No.'

'Then--off.'

We obeyed, and stood two more hours on the street corner. It was
unpleasant, but it taught me not to use the expression 'street corner
loafer', so I gained something from it.

At six we went to a Salvation Army shelter. We could not book beds
till eight and it was not certain that there would be any vacant, but an
official, who called us 'Brother', let us in on the condition that we paid
for two cups of tea. The main hall of the shelter was a great white-washed
barn of a place, oppressively clean and bare, with no fires. Two hundred
decentish, rather subdued-looking people were sitting packed on long wooden
benches. One or two officers in uniform prowled up and down. On the wall
were pictures of General Booth, and notices prohibiting cooking, drinking,
spitting, swearing, quarrelling, and gambling. As a specimen of these
notices, here is one that I copied word for word:


Any man found gambling or playing cards will be expelled and
will not be admitted under any circumstances.

A reward will be given for information leading to the discovery
of such persons.

The officers in charge appeal to all lodgers to assist them in
keeping this hostel free from the DETESTABLE EVIL OF GAMBLING.


'Gambling or playing cards' is a delightful phrase. To my eye these
Salvation Army shelters, though clean, are far drearier than the worst of
the common lodging-houses. There is such a hopelessness about some of the
people there--decent, broken-down types who have pawned their collars but
are still trying for office jobs. Coming to a Salvation Army shelter, where
it is at least clean, is their last clutch at respectability. At the next
table to me were two foreigners, dressed in rags but manifestly gentlemen.
They were playing chess verbally, not even writing down the moves. One of
them was blind, and I heard them say that they had been saving up for a
long time to buy a board, price half a crown, but could never manage it.
Here and there were clerks out of work, pallid and moody. Among a group of
them a tall, thin, deadly pale young man was talking excitedly. He thumped
his fist on the table and boasted in a strange, feverish style. When the
officers were out of hearing he broke out into startling blasphemies:

'I tell you what, boys, I'm going to get that job tomorrow. I'm not
one of your bloody down-on-the-knee brigade; I can look after myself. Look
at that--notice there! "The Lord will provide!" A bloody lot He's ever
provided me with. You don't catch me trusting to the--Lord. You leave it
to me, boys. _I'm going to get that job_,' etc. etc.

I watched him, struck by the wild, agitated way in which he talked; he
seemed hysterical, or perhaps a little drunk. An hour later I went into a
small room, apart from the main hall, which was intended for reading. It
had no books or papers in it, so few of the lodgers went there. As I opened
the door I saw the young clerk in there all alone; he was on his knees,
_praying_. Before I shut the door again I had time to see his face, and it
looked agonized. Quite suddenly I realized, from the expression of his
face, that he was starving.

The charge for beds was eightpence. Paddy and I had fivepence left,
and we spent it at the 'bar', where food was cheap, though not so cheap as
in some common lodging-houses. The tea appeared to be made with tea _dust_,
which I fancy had been given to the Salvation Army in charity, though they
sold it at threehalfpence a cup. It was foul stuff. At ten o'clock an
officer marched round the hall blowing a whistle. Immediately everyone
stood up.

'What's this for?' I said to Paddy, astonished.

'Dat means you has to go off to bed. An' you has to look sharp about
it, too.'

Obediently as sheep, the whole two hundred men trooped off to bed,
under the command of the officers.

The dormitory was a great attic like a barrack room, with sixty or
seventy beds in it. They were clean and tolerably comfortable, but very
narrow and very close together, so that one breathed straight into one's
neighbour's face. Two officers slept in the room, to see that there was no
smoking and no talking after lights-out. Paddy and I had scarcely a wink of
sleep, for there was a man near us who had some nervous trouble, shellshock
perhaps, which made him cry out 'Pip!' at irregular intervals. It was a
loud, startling noise, something like the toot of a small motor-horn. You
never knew when it was coming, and it was a sure preventer of sleep. It
appeared that Pip, as the others called him, slept regularly in the
shelter, and he must have kept ten or twenty people awake every night. He
was an example of the kind of thing that prevents one from ever getting
enough sleep when men are herded as they are in these lodging-houses.

At seven another whistle blew, and the officers went round shaking
those who did not get up at once. Since then I have slept in a number of
Salvation Army shelters, and found that, though the different houses vary a
little, this semi-military discipline is the same in all of them. They are
certainly cheap, but they are too like workhouses for my taste. In some of
them there is even a compulsory religious service once or twice a week,
which the lodgers must attend or leave the house. The fact is that the
Salvation Army are so in the habit of thinking themselves a charitable body
that they cannot even run a lodging-house without making it stink of
charity.

At ten I went to B.'s office and asked him to lend me a pound. He gave
me two pounds and told me to come again when necessary, so that Paddy and I
were free of money troubles for a week at least. We loitered the day in
Trafalgar Square, looking for a friend of Paddy's who never turned up, and
at night went to a lodging-house in a back alley near the Strand. The
charge was elevenpence, but it was a dark, evil-smelling place, and a
notorious haunt of the 'nancy boys'. Downstairs, in the murky kitchen,
three ambiguous-looking youths in smartish blue suits were sitting on a
bench apart, ignored by the other lodgers. I suppose they were 'nancy
boys'. They looked the same type as the apache boys one sees in Paris,
except that they wore no side-whiskers. In front of the fire a fully
dressed man and a stark-naked man were bargaining. They were newspaper
sellers. The dressed man was selling his clothes to the naked man. He said:

''Ere y'are, the best rig-out you ever 'ad. A tosheroon [half a crown]
for the coat, two 'ogs for the trousers, one and a tanner for the boots,
and a 'og for the cap and scarf. That's seven bob.'

'You got a 'ope! I'll give yer one and a tanner for the coat, a 'og
for the trousers, and two 'ogs for the rest. That's four and a tanner.'

'Take the 'ole lot for five and a tanner, chum.'

'Right y'are, off with 'em. I got to get out to sell my late edition.'

The clothed man stripped, and in three minutes their positions were
reversed; the naked man dressed, and the other kilted with a sheet of the
_Daily Mail_.

The dormitory was dark and close, with fifteen beds in it. There was a
horrible hot reek of urine, so beastly that at first one tried to breathe
in small, shallow puffs, not filling one's lungs to the bottom. As I lay
down in bed a man loomed out of the darkness, leant over me and began
babbling in an educated, half-drunken voice:

'An old public schoolboy, what? [He had heard me say something to
Paddy.] Don't meet many of the old school here. I am an old Etonian. You
know--twenty years hence this weather and all that.' He began to quaver
out the Eton boating-song, not untunefully:


    Jolly boating weather,
    And a hay harvest--


'Stop that--noise!' shouted several lodgers.

'Low types,' said the old Etonian, 'very low types. Funny sort of
place for you and me, eh? Do you know what my friends say to me? They say,
"M--, you are past redemption." Quite true, I _am_ past redemption. I've come
down in the world; not like these ----s here, who couldn't come down if they
tried. We chaps who have come down ought to hang together a bit. Youth will
be still in our faces--you know. May I offer you a drink?'

He produced a bottle of cherry brandy, and at the same moment lost his
balance and fell heavily across my legs. Paddy, who was undressing, pulled
him upright.

'Get back to yer bed, you silly ole--!'

The old Etonian walked unsteadily to his bed and crawled under the
sheets with all his clothes on, even his boots. Several times in the night
I heard him murmuring, 'M--, you are past redemption,' as though the phrase
appealed to him. In the morning he was lying asleep fully dressed, with the
bottle clasped in his arms. He was a man of about fifty, with a refined,
worn face, and, curiously enough, quite fashionably dressed. It was queer
to see his good patent-leather shoes sticking out of that filthy bed. It
occurred to me, too, that the cherry brandy must have cost the equivalent
of a fortnight's lodging, so he could not have been seriously hard up.
Perhaps he frequented common lodging-houses in search of the 'nancy boys'.

The beds were not more than two feet apart. About midnight I woke up
to find that the man next to me was trying to steal the money from beneath
my pillow. He was pretending to be asleep while he did it, sliding his hand
under the pillow as gently as a rat. In the morning I saw that he was a
hunchback, with long, apelike arms. I told Paddy about the attempted theft.
He laughed and said:

'Christ! You got to get used to dat. Desc lodgin' houses is full o'
thieves. In some houses dere's nothin' safe but to sleep wid all yer clo'es
on. I seen 'em steal a wooden leg off a cripple before now. Once I see a
man--fourteen-stone man he was--come into a lodgin'-house wid four
pound ten. He puts it under his mattress. "Now," he says, "any--dat
touches dat money does it over my body," he says. But dey done him all de
same. In de mornin' he woke up on de floor. Four fellers had took his
mattress by de corners an' lifted him off as light as a feather. He never
saw his four pound ten again.'




XXX



THE next morning we began looking once more for Paddy's friend, who
was called Bozo, and was a screever--that is, a pavement artist.
Addresses did not exist in Paddy's world, but he had a vague idea that Bozo
might be found in Lambeth, and in the end we ran across him on the
Embankment, where he had established himself not far from Waterloo Bridge.
He was kneeling on the pavement with a box of chalks, copying a sketch of
Winston Churchill from a penny note-book. The likeness was not at all bad.
Bozo was a small, dark, hook-nosed man, with curly hair growing low on his
head. His right leg was dreadfully deformed, the foot being twisted heel
forward in a way horrible to see. From his appearance one could have taken
him for a Jew, but he used to deny this vigorously. He spoke of his
hooknose as 'Roman', and was proud of his resemblance to some Roman Emperor
--it was Vespasian, I think.

Bozo had a strange way of talking, Cockneyfied and yet very lucid and
expressive. It was as though he had read good books but had never troubled
to correct Us grammar. For a while Paddy and I stayed on the Embankment,
talking, and Bozo gave us an account of the screeving trade. I repeat what
he said more or less in his own words.

'I'm what they call a serious screever. I don't draw in blackboard
chalks like these others, I use proper colours the same as what painters
use; bloody expensive they are, especially the reds. I use five bobs' worth
of colours in a long day, and never less than two bobs' worth*. Cartoons
is my line--you know, politics and cricket and that. Look here'--he
showed me his notebook--'here's likenesses of all the political blokes,
what I've copied from the papers. I have a different cartoon every day. For
instance, when the Budget was on I had one of Winston trying to push an
elephant marked "Debt", and underneath I wrote, "Will he budge it?" See?
You can have cartoons about any of the parties, but you mustn't put
anything in favour of Socialism, because the police won't stand it. Once I
did a cartoon of a boa constrictor marked Capital swallowing a rabbit
marked Labour. The copper came along and saw it, and he says, "You rub that
out, and look sharp about it," he says. I had to rub it out. The copper's
got the right to move you on for loitering, and it's no good giving them a
back answer.'

[* Pavement artists buy their colours in the form of powder,
and work them into cakes in condensed milk]

I asked Bozo what one could earn at screeving. He said:

'This time of year, when it don't rain, I take about three quid
between Friday and Sunday--people get their wages Fridays, you see. I
can't work when it rains; the colours get washed off straight away. Take
the year round, I make about a pound a week, because you can't do much in
the winter. Boat Race day, and Cup Final day, I've took as much as four
pounds. But you have to _cut_ it out of them, you know; you don't take a bob
if you just sit and look at them. A halfpenny's the usual drop [gift], and
you don't get even that unless you give them a bit of backchat. Once
they've answered you they feel ashamed not to give you a drop. The best
thing's to keep changing your picture, because when they see you drawing
they'll stop and watch you. The trouble is, the beggars scatter as soon as
you turn round with the hat. You really want a nobber [assistant] at this
game. You keep at work and get a crowd watching you, and the nobber comes
casual-like round the back of them. They don't know he's the nobber. Then
suddenly he pulls his cap off, and you got them between two fires like.
You'll never get a drop off real toffs. It's shabby sort of blokes you get
most off, and foreigners. I've had even sixpences off Japs, and blackies,
and that. They're not so bloody mean as what an Englishman is. Another
thing to remember is to keep your money covered up, except perhaps a penny
in the hat. People won't give you anything if they see you got a bob or two
already.'

Bozo had the deepest contempt for the other screevers on the
Embankment. He called them 'the salmon platers'. At that time there was a
screever almost every twenty-five yards along the Embankment--twenty-five
yards being the recognized minimum between pitches. Bozo contemptuously
pointed out an old white-bearded screever fifty yards away.

'You see that silly old fool? He's bin doing the same picture every
day for ten years. "A faithful friend" he calls it. It's of a dog pulling a
child out of the water. The silly old bastard can't draw any better than a
child of ten. He's learned just that one picture by rule of thumb, like you
learn to put a puzzle together. There's a lot of that sort about here. They
come pinching my ideas sometimes; but I don't care; the silly ----s can't
think of anything for themselves, so I'm always ahead of them. The whole
thing with cartoons is being up to date. Once a child got its head stuck in
the railings of Chelsea Bridge. Well, I heard about it, and my cartoon was
on the pavement before they'd got the child's head out of the railings.
Prompt, I am.'

Bozo seemed an interesting man, and I was anxious to see more of him.
That evening I went down to the Embankment to meet him, as he had arranged
to take Paddy and myself to a lodging-house south of the river. Bozo washed
his pictures off the pavement and counted his takings--it was about
sixteen shillings, of which he said twelve or thirteen would be profit. We
walked down into Lambeth. Bozo limped slowly, with a queer crablike gait,
half sideways, dragging his smashed foot behind him. He carried a stick in
each hand and slung his box of colours over his shoulder. As we were
crossing the bridge he stopped in one of the alcoves to rest. He fell
silent for a minute or two, and to my surprise I saw that he was looking at
the stars. He touched my arm and pointed to the sky with his stick.

'Say, will you look at Aldebaran! Look at the colour. Like a--great
blood orange!'

From the way he spoke he might have been an art critic in a picture
gallery. I was astonished. I confessed that I did not know which Aldebaran
was--indeed, I had never even noticed that the stars were of different
colours. Bozo began to give me some elementary hints on astronomy, pointing
out-the chief constellations. He seemed concerned at my ignorance. I said
to him, surprised:

'You seem to know a lot about stars.'

'Not a great lot. I know a bit, though. I got two letters from the
Astronomer Royal thanking me for writing about meteors. Now and again I go
out at night and watch for meteors. The stars are a free show; it don't
cost anything to use your eyes.'

'What a good idea! I should never have thought of it.'

'Well, you got to take an interest in something. It don't follow that
because a man's on the road he can't think of anything but
tea-and-two-slices.'

'But isn't it very hard to take an interest in things--things like
stars--living this life?'

'Screeving, you mean? Not necessarily. It don't need turn you into a
bloody rabbit--that is, not if you set your mind to it.'

'It seems to have that effect on most people.'

'Of course. Look at Paddy--a tea-swilling old moocher, only fit to
scrounge for fag-ends. That's the way most of them go. I despise them. But
you don't _need_ to get like that. If you've got any education, it don't
matter to you if you're on the road for the rest of your life.'

'Well, I've found just the contrary,' I said. 'It seems to me that
when you take a man's money away he's fit for nothing from that moment.'

'No, not necessarily. If you set yourself to it, you can live the same
life, rich or poor. You can still keep on with your books and your ideas.
You just got to say to yourself, "I'm a free man in _here_"'--he tapped his
forehead--'and you're all right.'

Bozo talked further in the same strain, and I listened with attention.
He seemed a very unusual screever, and he was, moreover, the first person I
had heard maintain that poverty did not matter. I saw a good deal of him
during the next few days, for several times it rained and he could not
work. He told me the history of his life, and it was a curious one.

The son of a bankrupt bookseller, he had gone to work as a
house-painter at eighteen, and then served three years in France and India
during the war. After the war he had found a house-painting job in Paris,
and had stayed there several years. France suited him better than England
(he despised the English), and he had been doing well in Paris, saving
money, and engaged to a French girl. One day the girl was crushed to death
under the wheels of an omnibus. Bozo went on the drink for a week, and then
returned to work, rather shaky; the same morning he fell from a stage on
which he was working, forty feet on to the pavement, and smashed his right
foot to pulp. For some reason he received only sixty pounds compensation.
He returned to England, spent his money in looking for jobs, tried hawking
books in Middlesex Street market, then tried selling toys from a tray, and
finally settled down as a screever. He had lived hand to mouth ever since,
half starved throughout the winter, and often sleeping in the spike or on
the Embankment.

When I knew him he owned nothing but the clothes he stood up in, and
his drawing materials and a few books. The clothes were the usual beggar's
rags, but he wore a collar and tie, of which he was rather proud. The
collar, a year or more old, was constantly 'going' round the neck, and Bozo
used to patch it with bits cut from the tail of his shirt so that the shirt
had scarcely any tail left. His damaged leg was getting worse and would
probably have to be amputated, and his knees, from kneeling on the stones,
had pads of skin on them as thick as boot-soles. There was, clearly, no
future for him but beggary and a death in the workhouse.

With all this, he had neither fear, nor regret, nor shame, nor
self-pity. He had faced his position, and made a philosophy for himself.
Being a beggar, he said, was not his fault, and he refused either to have
any compunction about it or to let it trouble him. He was the enemy of
society, and quite ready to take to crime if he saw a good opportunity. He
refused on principle to be thrifty. In the summer he saved nothing,
spending his surplus earnings on drink, as he did not care about women. If
he was penniless when winter came on, then society must look after him. He
was ready to extract every penny he could from charity, provided that he
was not expected to say thank you for it. He avoided religious charities,
however, for he said it stuck in his throat to sing hymns for buns. He had
various other points of honour; for instance, it was his boast that never
in his life, even when starving, had he picked up a cigarette end. He
considered himself in a class above the ordinary run of beggars, who, he
said, were an abject lot, without even the decency to be ungrateful.

He spoke French passably, and had read some of Zola's novels, all
Shakespeare's plays, _Gulliver's Travels_, and a number of essays. He could
describe his adventures in words that one remembered. For instance,
speaking of funerals, he said to me:

'Have you-ever seen a corpse burned? I have, in India. They put the
old chap on the fire, and the next moment I almost jumped out of my skin,
because he'd started kicking. It was only his muscles contracting in the
heat--still, it give me a turn. Well, he wriggled about for a bit like a
kipper on hot coals, and then his belly blew up and went off with a bang
you could have heard fifty yards away. It fair put me against cremation.'

Or, again, apropos of his accident:

'The doctor says to me, "You fell on one foot, my man. And bloody
lucky for you you didn't fall on both feet," he says. "Because if you had
of fallen on both feet you'd have shut up like a bloody concertina, and
your thigh bones'd be sticking out of your ears!"'

Clearly the phrase was not the doctor's but Bozo's own. He had a gift
for phrases. He had managed to keep his brain intact and alert, and so
nothing could make him succumb to poverty. He might be ragged and cold, or
even starving, but so long as he could read, think, and watch for meteors,
he was, as he said, free in his own mind.

He was an embittered atheist (the sort of atheist who does not so much
disbelieve in God as personally dislike Him), and took a sort of pleasure
in thinking that human affairs would never improve. Sometimes, he said,
when sleeping on the Embankment, it had consoled him to look up at Mars or
Jupiter and think that there were probably Embankment sleepers there. He
had a curious theory about this. Life on earth, he said, is harsh because
the planet is poor in the necessities of existence. Mars, with its cold
climate and scanty water, must be far poorer, and life correspondingly
harsher. Whereas on earth you are merely imprisoned for stealing sixpence,
on Mars you are probably boiled alive. This thought cheered Bozo, I do not
know why. He was a very exceptional man.




XXXI



THE charge at Bozo's lodging-house was ninepence a night. It was a
large, crowded place, with accommodation for five hundred men, and a
well-known rendezvous of tramps, beggars, and petty criminals. All races,
even black and white, mixed in it on terms of equality. There were Indians
there, and when I spoke to one of them in bad Urdu he addressed me as
'turn'--a thing to make one shudder, if it had been in India. We had got
below the range of colour prejudice. One had glimpses of curious lives. Old
'Grandpa', a tramp of seventy who made his living, or a great part of it,
by collecting cigarette ends and selling the tobacco at threepence an
ounce. 'The Doctor'--he was a real doctor, who had been struck off the
register for some offence, and besides selling newspapers gave medical
advice at a few pence a time. A little Chittagonian lascar, barefoot and
starving, who had deserted his ship and wandered for days through London,
so vague and helpless that he did not even know the name of the city he was
in--he thought it was Liverpool, until I told him. A begging-letter
writer, a friend of Bozo's, who wrote pathetic appeals for aid to pay for
his wife's funeral, and, when a letter had taken effect, blew himself out
with huge solitary gorges of bread and margarine. He was a nasty,
hyena-like creature. I talked to him and found that, like most swindlers,
he believed a great part of his own lies. The lodging-house was an Alsatia
for types like these.

While I was with Bozo he taught me something about the technique of
London begging. There is more in it than one might suppose. Beggars vary
greatly, and there is a sharp social line between those who merely cadge
and those who attempt to give some value for money. The amounts that one
can earn by the different 'gags' also vary. The stories in the Sunday
papers about beggars who die with two thousand pounds sewn into their
trousers are, of course, lies; but the better-class beggars do have runs of
luck, when they earn a living wage for weeks at a time. The most prosperous
beggars are street acrobats and street photographers. On a good pitch--a
theatre queue, for instance--a street acrobat will often earn five pounds
a week. Street photographers can earn about the same, but they are
dependent on fine weather. They have a cunning dodge to stimulate trade.
When they see a likely victim approaching one of them runs behind the
camera and pretends to take a photograph. Then as the victim reaches them,
they exclaim:

'There y'are, sir, took yer photo lovely. That'll be a bob.'

'But I never asked you to take it,' protests the victim.

'What, you didn't want it took? Why, we thought you signalled with
your 'and. Well, there's a plate wasted! That's cost us sixpence, that
'as.'

At this the victim usually takes pity and says he will have the photo
after all. The photographers examine the plate and say that it is spoiled,
and that they will take a fresh one free of charge. Of course, they have
not really taken the first photo; and so, if the victim refuses, they waste
nothing.

Organ-grinders, like acrobats, are considered artists rather than
beggars. An organ-grinder named Shorty, a friend of Bozo's, told me all
about his trade. He and his mate 'worked' the coffee-shops and
public-houses round Whitechapel and the Commercial Road. It is a mistake to
think that organ-grinders earn their living in the street; nine-tenths of
their money is taken in coffee-shops and pubs--only the cheap pubs, for
they are not allowed into the good-class ones. Shorty's procedure was to
stop outside a pub and play one tune, after which his mate, who had a
wooden leg and could excite compassion, went in and passed round the hat.
It was a point of honour with Shorty always to play another tune after
receiving the 'drop'--an encore, as it were; the idea being that he was a
genuine entertainer and not merely paid to go away. He and his mate took
two or three pounds a week between them, but, as they had to pay fifteen
shillings a week for the hire of the organ, they only averaged a pound a
week each. They were on the streets from eight in the morning till ten at
night, and later on Saturdays.

Screevers can sometimes be called artists, sometimes not. Bozo
introduced me to one who was a 'real' artist--that is, he had studied art
in Paris and submitted pictures to the Salon in his day. His line was
copies of Old Masters, which he did marvellously, considering that he was
drawing on stone. He told me how he began as a screever:

'My wife and kids Were starving. I was walking home late at night,
with a lot of drawings I'd been taking round the dealers, and wondering how
the devil to raise a bob or two. Then, in the Strand, I saw a fellow
kneeling on the pavement drawing, and people giving him pennies. As I came
past he got up and went into a pub. "Damn it," I thought, "if he can make
money at that, so can I." So on the impulse I knelt down and began drawing
with his chalks. Heaven knows how I came to do it; I must have been
lightheaded with hunger. The curious thing was that I'd never used pastels
before; I had to learn the technique as I went along. Well, people began to
stop and say that my drawing wasn't bad, arid they gave me ninepence
between them. At this moment the other fellow came out of the pub. "What in
--are you doing on my pitch?" he said. I explained that I was hungry and
had to earn something. "Oh," said he, "come and have a pint with me." So I
had a pint, and since that day I've been a screever. I make a pound a week.
You can't keep six kids on a pound a week, but luckily my wife earns a bit
taking in sewing.

'The worst thing in this life is the cold, and the next worst is the
interference you have to put up with. At first, not knowing any better, I
used sometimes to copy a nude on the pavement. The first I did was outside
St Martin's-in-the-Fields church. A fellow in black--I suppose he was a
churchwarden or something--came out in a tearing rage. "Do you think we
can have that obscenity outside God's holy house?" he cried. So I had to
wash it out. It was a copy of Botticelli's Venus. Another time I copied the
same picture on the Embankment. A policeman passing looked at it, and then,
without a word, walked on to it and rubbed it out with his great flat
feet.'

Bozo told the same tale of police interference. At the time when I was
with him there had been a case of 'immoral conduct' in Hyde Park, in which
the police had behaved rather badly. Bozo produced a cartoon of Hyde Park
with policemen concealed in the trees, and the legend, 'Puzzle, find the
policemen.' I pointed out to him how much more telling it would be to put,
'Puzzle, find the immoral conduct,' but Bozo would not hear of it. He said
that any policeman who saw it would move him on, and he would lose his
pitch for good.

Below screevers come the people who sing hymns, or sell matches, or
bootlaces, or envelopes containing a few grains of lavender--called,
euphemistically, perfume. All these people are frankly beggars, exploiting
an appearance of misery, and none of them takes on an average more than
half a crown a day. The reason why they have to pretend to sell matches and
so forth instead of begging outright is that this is demanded by the absurd
English laws about begging. As the law now stands, if you approach a
stranger and ask him for twopence, he can call a policeman and get you
seven days for begging. But if you make the air hideous by droning 'Nearer,
my God, to Thee,' or scrawl some chalk daubs on the pavement, or stand
about with a tray of matches--in short, if you make a nuisance of
yourself--you are held to be following a legitimate trade and not
begging. Match-selling and street-singing are simply legalized crimes. Not
profitable crimes, however; there is not a singer or match-seller in London
who can be sure of 50 pounds a year--a poor return for standing eighty-four
hours a week on the kerb, with the cars grazing your backside.

It is worth saying something about the social position of beggars, for
when one has consorted with them, and found that they are ordinary human
beings, one cannot help being struck by the curious attitude that society
takes towards them. People seem to feel that there is some essential
difference between beggars and ordinary 'working' men. They are a race
apart--outcasts, like criminals and prostitutes. Working men 'work',
beggars do not 'work'; they are parasites, worthless in their very nature.
It is taken for granted that a beggar does not 'earn' his living, as a
bricklayer or a literary critic 'earns' his. He is a mere social
excrescence, tolerated because we live in a humane age, but essentially
despicable.

Yet if one looks closely one sees that there is no _essential_
difference between a beggar's livelihood and that of numberless respectable
people. Beggars do not work, it is said; but, then, what is _work_? A navvy
works by swinging a pick. An accountant works by adding up figures. A
beggar works by standing out of doors in all weathers and getting varicose
veins, chronic bronchitis, etc. It is a trade like any other; quite
useless, of course--but, then, many reputable trades are quite useless.
And as a social type a beggar compares well with scores of others. He is
honest compared with the sellers of most patent medicines, high-minded
compared with a Sunday newspaper proprietor, amiable compared with a
hire-purchase tout--in short, a parasite, but a fairly harmless parasite.
He seldom extracts more than a bare living from the community, and, what
should justify him according to our ethical ideas, he pays for it over and
over in suffering. I do not think there is anything about a beggar that
sets him in a different class from other people, or gives most modern men
the right to despise him.

Then the question arises, Why are beggars despised?--for they are
despised, universally. I believe it is for the simple reason that they fail
to earn a decent living. In practice nobody cares whether work is useful or
useless, productive or parasitic; the sole thing demanded is that it shall
be profitable. In all the modern talk about energy, efficiency, social
service and the rest of it, what meaning is there except 'Get money, get it
legally, and get a lot of it'? Money has become the grand test of virtue.
By this test beggars fail, and for this they are despised. If one could
earn even ten pounds a week at begging, it would become a respectable
profession immediately. A beggar, looked at realistically, is simply a
businessman, getting his living, like other businessmen, in the way that
comes to hand. He has not, more than most modern people, sold his honour; he
has merely made the mistake of choosing a trade at which it is impossible
to grow rich.




XXXII



I WANT to put in some notes, as short as possible, on London slang and
swearing. These (omitting the ones that everyone knows) are some of the
cant words now used in London:

A gagger--beggar or street performer of any kind. A moocher--one
who begs outright, without pretence of doing a trade. A nobbier--one who
collects pennies for a beggar. A chanter--a street singer. A clodhopper
--a street dancer. A mugfaker--a street photographer. A glimmer--one
who watches vacant motor-cars. A gee (or jee--it is pronounced jee)--
the accomplice of a cheapjack, who stimulates trade by pretending to buy
something. A split--a detective. A flattie--a policeman. A dideki--a
gypsy. A toby--a tramp.

A drop--money given to a beggar. Funkum--lavender or other perfume
sold in envelopes. A boozer--a public-house. A slang--a hawker's
licence. A kip--a place to sleep in, or a night's lodging. Smoke--
London. A judy--a woman. The spike--the casual ward. The lump--the
casual ward. A tosheroon--a half-crown. A deaner--a shilling. A hog--
a shilling. A sprowsie--a sixpence. Clods--coppers. A drum--a billy
can. Shackles--soup. A chat--a louse. Hard-up--tobacco made from
cigarette ends. A stick or cane--a burglar's jemmy. A peter--a safe. A
bly--a burglar's oxy-acetylene blow-lamp.

To bawl--to suck or swallow. To knock off--to steal. To skipper--to sleep
in the open.

About half of these words are in the larger dictionaries. It is
interesting to guess at the derivation of some of them, though one or two
--for instance, 'funkum' and 'tosheroon'--are beyond guessing. 'Deaner'
presumably comes from 'denier'. 'Glimmer' (with the verb 'to glim') may
have something to do with the old word 'glim', meaning a light, or another
old word 'glim', meaning a glimpse; but it is an instance of the formation
of new words, for in its present sense it can hardly be older than
motor-cars. 'Gee' is a curious word; conceivably it has arisen out of
'gee', meaning horse, in the sense of stalking horse. The derivation of
'screever' is mysterious. It must come ultimately from _scribo_, but there
has been no similar word in English for the past hundred and fifty years;
nor can it have come directly from the French, for pavement artists are
unknown in France. 'Judy' and 'bawl' are East End words, not found west of
Tower Bridge. 'Smoke' is a word used only by tramps. 'Kip' is Danish. Till
quite recently the word 'doss' was used in this sense, but it is now quite
obsolete.

London slang and dialect seem to change very rapidly. The old London
accent described by Dickens and Surtees, with v for w and w for v and so
forth, has now vanished utterly. The Cockney accent as we know it seems to
have come up in the 'forties (it is first mentioned in an American book,
Herman Melville's _White Jacket_), and Cockney is already changing; there are
few people now who say 'fice' for 'face', 'nawce' for 'nice' and so forth
as consistently as they did twenty years ago. The slang changes together
with the accent. Twenty-five or thirty years ago, for instance, the
'rhyming slang' was all the rage in London. In the 'rhyming slang'
everything was named by something rhyming with it--a 'hit or miss' for a
kiss, 'plates of meat' for feet, etc. It was so common that it was even
reproduced in novels; now it is almost extinct*. Perhaps all the words I
have mentioned above will have vanished in another twenty years.

[* It survives in certain abbreviations, such as 'use your twopenny' or
'use your head.' 'Twopenny' is arrived at like this: head--loaf of
bread--twopenny loaf--twopenny]

The swear words also change--or, at any rate, they are subject to
fashions. For example, twenty years ago the London working classes
habitually used the word 'bloody'. Now they have abandoned it utterly,
though novelists still represent them as using it. No born Londoner (it is
different with people of Scotch or Irish origin) now says 'bloody', unless
he is a man of some education. The word has, in fact, moved up in the
social scale and ceased to be a swear word for the purposes of the working
classes. The current London adjective, now tacked on to every noun, is
----. No doubt in time ----, like 'bloody', will find its way into the
drawing-room and be replaced by some other word.

The whole business of swearing, especially English swearing, is
mysterious. Of its very nature swearing is as irrational as magic--
indeed, it is a species of magic. But there is also a paradox about it,
namely this: Our intention in swearing is to shock and wound, which we do
by mentioning something that should be kept secret--usually something to
do with the sexual functions. But the strange thing is that when a word is
well established as a swear word, it seems to lose its original meaning;
that is, it loses the thing that made it into a swear word. A word becomes
an oath because it means a certain thing, and, because it has become an
oath, it ceases to mean that thing. For example--. The Londoners do not
now use, or very seldom use, this word in its original meaning; it is on
their lips from morning till night, but it is a mere expletive and means
nothing. Similarly with--, which is rapidly losing its original sense. One
can think of similar instances in French--for example--, which is now a
quite meaningless expletive.

The word--, also, is still used occasionally in Paris, but the people
who use it, or most of them, have no idea of what it once meant. The rule
seems to be that words accepted as swear words have some magical character,
which sets them apart and makes them useless for ordinary conversation.

Words used as insults seem to be governed by the same paradox as swear
words. A word becomes an insult, one would suppose, because it means
something bad; but in practice its insult-value has little to do with its
actual meaning. For example, the most bitter insult one can offer to a
Londoner is 'bastard'--which, taken for what it means, is hardly an
insult at all. And the worst insult to a woman, either in London or Paris,
is 'cow'; a name which might even be a compliment, for cows are among the
most likeable of animals. Evidently a word is an insult simply because it
is meant as an insult, without reference to its dictionary meaning; words,
especially swear words, being what public opinion chooses to make them. In
this connexion it is interesting to see how a swear word can change
character by crossing a frontier. In England you can print '_Je m'en fous_'
without protest from anybody. In France you have to print it '_Je m'en f--_'.
Or, as another example, take the word 'barnshoot'--a corruption of the
Hindustani word _bahinchut_. A vile and unforgivable insult in India, this
word is a piece of gentle badinage in England. I have even seen it in a
school text-book; it was in one of Aristophanes' plays, and the annotator
suggested it as a rendering of some gibberish spoken by a Persian
ambassador. Presumably the annotator knew what _bahinchut_ meant. But,
because it was a foreign word, it had lost its magical swear-word quality
and could be printed.

One other thing is noticeable about swearing in London, and that is
that the men do not usually swear in front of the women. In Paris it is
quite different. A Parisian workman may prefer to suppress an oath in front
of a woman, but he is not at all scrupulous about it, and the women
themselves swear freely. The Londoners are more polite, or more squeamish,
in this matter.

These are a few notes that I have set down more or less at random. It
is a pity that someone capable of dealing with the subject does not keep a
year-book of London slang and swearing, registering the changes accurately.
It might throw useful light upon the formation, development, and
obsolescence of words.




XXXIII



THE two pounds that B. had given me lasted about ten days. That it
lasted so long was due to Paddy, who had learned parsimony on the road and
considered even one sound meal a day a wild extravagance. Food, to him, had
come to mean simply bread and margarine--the eternal tea-and-two-slices,
which will cheat hunger for an hour or two. He taught me how to live, food,
bed, tobacco, and all, at the rate of half a crown a day. And he managed to
earn a few extra shillings by 'glimming' in the evenings. It was a
precarious job, because illegal, but it brought in a little and eked out
our money.

One morning we tried for a job as sandwich men. We went at five to an
alley-way behind some offices, but there was already a queue of thirty or
forty men waiting, and after two hours we were told that there was no work
for us. We had not missed much, for sandwich men have an unenviable job.
They are paid about three shillings a day for ten hours' work--it is hard
work, especially in windy weather, and there is no skulking, for an
inspector comes round frequently to see that the men are on their beat. To
add to their troubles, they are only engaged by the day, or sometimes for
three days, never weekly, so that they have to wait hours for their job
every morning. The number of unemployed men who are ready to do the work
makes them powerless to fight for better treatment. The job all sandwich
men covet is distributing handbills, which is paid for at the same rate.
When you see a man distributing handbills you can do him a good turn by
taking one, for he goes off duty when he has distributed all his bills.

Meanwhile we went on with the lodging-house life--a squalid,
eventless life of crushing boredom. For days together there was nothing to
do but sit in the underground kitchen, reading yesterday's newspaper, or,
when one could get hold of it, a back number of the _Union Jack_. It rained a
great deal at this time, and everyone who came in Steamed, so that the
kitchen stank horribly. One's only excitement was the periodical
tea-and-two-slices. I do not know how many men are living this life in
London--it must be thousands at the least. As to Paddy, it was actually
the best life he had known for two years past. His interludes from
tramping, the times when he had somehow laid hands on a few shillings, had
all been like this; the tramping itself had been slightly worse. Listening
to his whimpering voice--he was always whimpering when he was not eating
--one realized what torture unemployment must be to him. People are wrong
when they think that an unemployed man only worries about losing his wages;
on the contrary, an illiterate man, with the work habit in his bones, needs
work even more than he needs money. An educated man can put up with
enforced idleness, which is one of the worst evils of poverty. But a man
like Paddy, with no means of filling up time, is as miserable out of work
as a dog on the chain. That is why it is such nonsense to pretend that
those who have 'come down in the world' are to be pitied above all others.
The man who really merits pity is the man who has been down from the start,
and faces poverty with a blank, resourceless mind.

It was a dull rime, and little of it stays in my mind, except for
talks with Bozo. Once the lodging-house was invaded by a slumming-party.
Paddy and I had been out, and, coming back in the afternoon, we heard
sounds of music downstairs. We went down to find three gentle-people,
sleekly dressed, holding a religious service in our kitchen. They Were a
grave and reverend seignior in a frock coat, a lady sitting at a portable
harmonium, and a chinless youth toying with a crucifix. It appeared that
they had marched in and started to hold the service, without any kind of
invitation whatever.

It was a pleasure to see how the lodgers met this intrusion. They did
not offer the smallest rudeness to the slummers; they just ignored them. By
common consent everyone in the kitchen--a hundred men, perhaps--behaved
as though the slummers had not existed. There they stood patiently singing
and exhorting, and no more notice was taken of them than if they had been
earwigs. The gentleman in the frock coat preached a sermon, but not a word
of it was audible; it was drowned in the usual din of songs, oaths, and the
clattering of pans. Men sat at their meals and card games three feet away
from the harmonium, peaceably ignoring it. Presently the slummers gave it
up and cleared out, not insulted in any way, but merely disregarded. No
doubt they consoled themselves by thinking how brave they had been, 'freely
venturing into the lowest dens,' etc. etc.

Bozo said that these people came to the lodging-house several times a
month. They had influence with the police, and the 'deputy' could not
exclude them. It is curious how people take it for granted that they have a
right to preach at you and pray over you as soon as your income falls below
a certain level.

After nine days B.'s two pounds was reduced to one and ninepence.
Paddy and I set aside eighteenpence for our beds, and spent threepence on
the usual tea-and-two-slices, which we shared--an appetizer rather than a
meal. By the afternoon we were damnably hungry and Paddy remembered a
church near King's Cross Station where a free tea was given once a week to
tramps. This was the day, and we decided to go there. Bozo, though it was
rainy weather and he was almost penniless, would not come, saying that
churches were not his style.

Outside the church quite a hundred men were waiting, dirty types who
had gathered from far and wide at the news of a free tea, like kites round
a dead buffalo. Presently the doors opened and a clergyman and some girls
shepherded us into a gallery at the top of the church. It was an
evangelical church, gaunt and wilfully ugly, with texts about blood and
fire blazoned on the walls, and a hymn-book containing twelve hundred and
fifty-one hymns; reading some of the hymns, I concluded that the book would
do as it stood for an anthology of bad verse. There was to be a service
after the tea, and the regular congregation were sitting in the well of the
church below. It was a week-day, and there were only a few dozen of them,
mostly stringy old women who reminded one of boiling-fowls. We ranged
ourselves in the gallery pews and were given our tea; it was a one-pound
jam-jar of tea each, with six slices of bread and margarine. As soon as tea
was over, a dozen tramps who had stationed themselves near the door bolted
to avoid the service; the rest stayed, less from gratitude than lacking the
cheek to go.

The organ let out a few preliminary hoots and the service began. And
instantly, as though at a signal, the tramps began to misbehave in the most
outrageous way. One would not have thought such scenes possible in a
church. All round the gallery men lolled in their pews, laughed, chattered,
leaned over and flicked pellets of bread among the congregation; I had to
restrain the man next to me, more or less by force, from lighting a
cigarette. The tramps treated the service as a purely comic spectacle. It
was, indeed, a sufficiently ludicrous service--the kind where there are
sudden yells of 'Hallelujah!' and endless extempore prayers--but their
behaviour passed all bounds. There was one old fellow in the congregation
--Brother Bootle or some such name--who was often called on to lead us
in prayer, and whenever he stood up the tramps would begin stamping as
though in a theatre; they said that on a previous occasion he had kept up
an extempore prayer for twenty-five minutes, until the minister had
interrupted him. Once when Brother Bootle stood up a tramp called out, 'Two
to one 'e don't beat seven minutes!' so loud that the whole church must
hear. It was not long before we were making far more noise than the
minister. Sometimes somebody below would send up an indignant 'Hush!' but
it made no impression. We had set ourselves to guy the service, and there
was no stopping us.

It was a queer, rather disgusting scene. Below were the handful of
simple, well-meaning people, trying hard to worship; and above were the
hundred men whom they had fed, deliberately making worship impossible. A
ring of dirty, hairy faces grinned down from the gallery, openly jeering.
What could a few women and old men do against a hundred hostile tramps?
They were afraid of us, and we were frankly bullying them. It was our
revenge upon them for having humiliated us by feeding us.

The minister was a brave man. He thundered steadily through a long
sermon on Joshua, and managed almost to ignore the sniggers and chattering
from above. But in the end, perhaps goaded beyond endurance, he announced
loudly:

'I shall address the last five minutes of my sermon to the _unsaved_
sinners!'

Having said which, he turned his face to the gallery and kept it so
for five minutes, lest there should be any doubt about who were saved and
who unsaved. But much we cared! Even while the minister was threatening
hell fire, we were rolling cigarettes, and at the last amen we clattered
down the stairs with a yell, many agreeing to come back for another free
tea next week.

The scene had interested me. It was so different from the ordinary
demeanour of tramps--from the abject worm-like gratitude with which they
normally accept charity. The explanation, of course, was that we
outnumbered the congregation and so were not afraid of them. A man
receiving charity practically always hates his benefactor--it is a fixed
characteristic of human nature; and, when he has fifty or a hundred others
to back him, he will show it.

In the evening, after the free tea, Paddy unexpectedly earned another
eighteenpence at 'glimming'. It was exactly enough for another night's
lodging, and we put it aside and went hungry till nine the next evening.
Bozo, who might have given us some food, was away all day. The pavements
were wet, and he had gone to the Elephant and Castle, where he knew of a
pitch under shelter. Luckily I still had some tobacco, so that the day
might have been worse.

At half past eight Paddy took me to the Embankment, where a clergyman
was known to distribute meal tickets once a week. Under Charing Cross
Bridge fifty men were waiting, mirrored in the shivering puddles. Some of
them were truly appalling specimens--they were Embankment sleepers, and
the Embankment dredges up worse types than the spike. One of them, I
remember, was dressed in an overcoat without buttons, laced up with rope, a
pair of ragged trousers, and boots exposing his toes--not a rag else. He
was bearded like a fakir, and he had managed to streak his chest and
shoulders with some horrible black filth resembling train oil. What one
could see of his face under the dirt and hair was bleached white as paper
by some malignant disease. I heard him speak, and he had a goodish accent,
as of a clerk or shopwalker.

Presently the clergyman appeared and the men ranged themselves in a
queue in the order in which they had arrived. The clergyman was a nice,
chubby, youngish man, and, curiously enough, very like Charlie, my friend
in Paris. He was shy and embarrassed, and did not speak except for a brief
good evening; he simply hurried down the line of men, thrusting a ticket
upon each, and not waiting to be thanked. The consequence was that, for
once, there was genuine gratitude, and everyone said that the clergyman was
a--good feller. Someone (in his hearing, I believe) called out: 'Well,
_he'll_ never be a--bishop!'--this, of course, intended as a warm
compliment.

The tickets were worth sixpence each, and were directed to an
eating-house not far away. When we got there we found that the proprietor,
knowing that the tramps could not go elsewhere, was cheating by only giving
four pennyworth of food for each ticket. Paddy and I pooled our tickets,
and received food which we could have got for sevenpence or eightpence at
most coffee-shops. The clergyman had distributed well over a pound in
tickets, so that the proprietor was evidently swindling the tramps to the
tune of seven shillings or more a week. This kind of victimization is a
regular part of a tramp's life, and it will go on as long as people
continue to give meal tickets instead of money.

Paddy and I went back to the lodging-house and, still hungry, loafed
in the kitchen, making the warmth of the fire a substitute for food. At
half-past ten Bozo arrived, tired out and haggard, for his mangled leg made
walking an agony. He had not earned a penny at screeving, all the pitches
under shelter being taken, and for several hours he had begged outright,
with one eye on the policemen. He had amassed eightpence--a penny short
of his kip. It was long past the hour for paying, and he had only managed
to slip indoors when the deputy was not looking; at any moment he might be
caught and turned out, to sleep on the Embankment. Bozo took the things out
of his pockets and looked them over, debating what to sell. He decided on
his razor, took it round the kitchen, and in a few minutes he had sold it
for threepence--enough to pay his kip, buy a basin of tea, and leave a
half-penny over.

Bozo got his basin of tea and sat down by the fire to dry his clothes.
As he drank the tea I saw that he was laughing to himself, as though at
some good joke. Surprised, I asked him what he had to laugh at.

'It's bloody funny!' he said. 'It's funny enough for _Punch_. What do
you think I been and done?'

'What?'

'Sold my razor without having a shave first: Of all the--fools!'

He had not eaten since the morning, had walked several miles with a
twisted leg, his clothes were drenched, and he had a halfpenny between
himself and starvation. With all this, he could laugh over the loss of his
razor. One could not help admiring him.




XXXIV



THE next morning, our money being at an end, Paddy and I set out for
the spike. We went southward by the Old Kent Road, making for Cromley; we
could not go to a London spike, for Paddy had been in one recently and did
not care to risk going again. It was a sixteen-mile walk over asphalt,
blistering to the heels, and we were acutely hungry. Paddy browsed the
pavement, laying up a store of cigarette ends against his time in the
spike. In the end his perseverance was rewarded, for he picked up a penny.
We bought a large piece of stale bread, and devoured it as we walked.

When we got to Cromley, it was too early to go to the spike, and we
walked several miles farther, to a plantation beside a meadow, where one
could sit down. It was a regular caravanserai of tramps--one could tell
it by the worn grass and the sodden newspaper and rusty cans that they had
left behind. Other tramps were arriving by ones and twos. It was jolly
autumn weather. Near by, a deep bed of tansies was growing; it seems to me
that even now I can smell the sharp reek of those tansies, warring with the
reek of tramps. In the meadow two carthorse colts, raw sienna colour with
white manes and tails, were nibbling at a gate. We. sprawled about on the
ground, sweaty and exhausted. Someone managed to find dry sticks and get a
fire going, and we all had milkless tea out of a tin 'drum' which was
passed round.

Some of the tramps began telling stories. One of them, Bill, was an
interesting type, a genuine sturdy beggar of the old breed, strong as
Hercules and a frank foe of work. He boasted that with his great strength
he could get a navvying job any time he liked, but as soon as he drew his
first week's wages he went on a terrific drunk and was sacked. Between
whiles he 'mooched', chiefly from shopkeepers. He talked like this:

'I ain't goin' far in--Kent. Kent's a tight county, Kent is. There's
too many bin' moochin' about 'ere. The--bakers get so as they'll throw
their bread away sooner'n give it you. Now Oxford, that's the place for
moochin', Oxford is. When I was in Oxford I mooched bread, and I mooched
bacon, and I mooched beef, and every night I mooched tanners for my kip off
of the students. The last night I was twopence short of my kip, so I goes
up to a parson and mooches 'im for threepence. He give me threepence, and
the next moment he turns round and gives me in charge for beggin'. "You bin
beggin'," the copper says. "No I ain't," I says, "I was askin' the
gentleman the time," I says. The copper starts feelin' inside my coat, and
he pulls out a pound of meat and two loaves of bread. "Well, what's all
this, then?" he says. "You better come 'long to the station," he says. The
beak give me seven days. I don't mooch from no more--parsons. But Christ!
what do I care for a lay-up of seven days?' etc. etc.

It seemed that his whole life was this--a round of mooching, drunks,
and lay-ups. He laughed as he talked of it, taking it all for a tremendous
joke. He looked as though he made a poor thing out of begging, for he wore
only a corduroy suit, scarf, and cap--no socks or linen. Still, he was
fat and jolly, and he even smelt of beer, a most unusual smell in a tramp
nowadays.

Two of the tramps had been in Cromley spike recently, and they told a
ghost story connected with it. Years earlier, they said, there had been a
suicide there. A tramp had managed to smuggle a razor into his cell, and
there cut his throat. In the morning, when the Tramp Major came round, the
body was jammed against the door, and to open it they had to break the dead
man's arm. In revenge for this, the dead man haunted his cell, and anyone
who slept there was certain to die within the year; there were copious
instances, of course. If a cell door stuck when you tried to open it, you
should avoid that cell like the plague, for it was the haunted one.

Two tramps, ex-sailors, told another grisly story. A man (they swore
they had known him) had planned to stow away on a boat bound for Chile. It
was laden with manufactured goods packed in big wooden crates, and with the
help of a docker the stowaway had managed to hide himself in one of these.
But the docker had made a mistake about the order in which the crates were
to be loaded. The crane gripped the stowaway, swung him aloft, and
deposited him--at the very bottom of the hold, beneath hundreds of
crates. No one discovered what had happened until the end of the voyage,
when they found the stowaway rotting, dead of suffocation.

Another tramp told the story of Gilderoy, the Scottish robber.
Gilderoy was the man who was condemned to be hanged, escaped, captured the
judge who had sentenced him, and (splendid fellow!) hanged him. The tramps
liked the story, of course, but the interesting thing was to see that they
had got it all wrong. Their version was that Gilderoy escaped to America,
whereas in reality he was recaptured and put to death. The story had been
amended, no doubt deliberately; just as children amend the stories of
Samson and Robin Hood, giving them happy endings which are quite imaginary.

This set the tramps talking about history, and a very old man declared
that the 'one bite law' was a survival from days when the nobles hunted men
instead of deer. Some of the others laughed at him, but he had the idea
firm in his head. He had heard, too, of the Corn Laws, and the _jus primae
noctis_ (he believed it had really existed); also of the Great Rebellion,
which he thought was a rebellion of poor against rich--perhaps he had got
it mixed up with the peasant rebellions. I doubt whether the old man could
read, and certainly he was not repeating newspaper articles. His scraps of
history had been passed from generation to generation of tramps, perhaps
for centuries in some cases. It was oral tradition lingering on, like a
faint echo from the Middle Ages.

Paddy and I went to the spike at six in the evening, getting out at
ten in the morning. It was much like Romton and Edbury, and we saw nothing
of the ghost. Among the casuals were two young men named William and Fred,
ex-fishermen from Norfolk, a lively pair and fond of singing. They had a
song called 'Unhappy Bella' that is worth writing down. I heard them sing
it half a dozen times during the next two days, and I managed to get it by
heart, except a line or two which I have guessed. It ran:


Bella was young and Bella was fair
With bright blue eyes and golden hair,
O unhappy Bella!
Her step was light and her heart was gay,
But she had no sense, and one fine day
She got herself put in the family way
By a wicked, heartless, cruel deceiver.

Poor Bella was young, she didn't believe
That the world is hard and men deceive,
O unhappy Bella!
She said, 'My man will do what's just,
He'll marry me now, because he must';
Her heart was full of loving trust
In a wicked, heartless, cruel deceiver.

She went to his house; that dirty skunk
Had packed his bags and done a bunk,
O unhappy Bella!
Her landlady said, 'Get out, you whore,
I won't have your sort a-darkening my door.'
Poor Bella was put to affliction sore
By a wicked, heartless, cruel deceiver.

All night she tramped the cruel snows,
What she must have suffered nobody knows,
O unhappy Bella!
And when the morning dawned so red,
Alas, alas, poor Bella was dead,
Sent so young to her lonely bed
By a wicked, heartless, cruel deceiver.

So thus, you see, do what you will,
The fruits of sin are suffering still,
O unhappy Bella!
As into the grave they laid her low,
The men said, 'Alas, but life is so,'
But the women chanted, sweet and low,
'It's all the men, the dirty bastards!'


Written by a woman, perhaps.

William and Fred, the singers of this song, were thorough scallywags,
the sort of men who get tramps a bad name. They happened to know that the
Tramp Major at Cromley had a stock of old clothes, which were to be given
at need to casuals. Before going in William and Fred took off their boots,
ripped the seams and cut pieces off the soles, more or less ruining them.
Then they applied for two pairs of boots, and the Tramp Major, seeing how
bad their boots were, gave them almost new pairs. William and Fred were
scarcely outside the spike in the morning before they had sold these boots
for one and ninepence. It seemed to them quite worth while, for one and
ninepence, to make their own boots practically unwearable.

Leaving the spike, we all started southward, a long slouching
procession, for Lower Binfield and Ide Hill. On the way there was a fight
between two of the tramps. They had quarrelled overnight (there was some
silly _casus belli_ about one saying to the other, 'Bull shit', which was
taken for Bolshevik--a deadly insult), and they fought it out in a field.
A dozen of us stayed to watch them. The scene sticks in my mind for one
thing--the man who was beaten going down, and his cap falling off and
showing that his hair was quite white. After that some of us intervened and
stopped the fight. Paddy had meanwhile been making inquiries, and found
that the real cause of the quarrel was, as usual, a few pennyworth of food.

We got to Lower Binfield quite early, and Paddy filled in the time by
asking for work at back doors. At one house he was given some boxes to chop
up for firewood, and, saying he had a mate outside, he brought me in and we
did the work together. When it was done the householder told the maid to
take us out a cup of tea. I remember the terrified way in which she brought
it out, and then, losing her courage, set the cups down on the path and
bolted back to the house, shutting herself in the kitchen. So dreadful is
the name of 'tramp'. They paid us sixpence each, and we bought a threepenny
loaf and half an ounce of tobacco, leaving fivepence.

Paddy thought it wiser to bury our fivepence, for the Tramp Major at
Lower Binfield was renowned as a tyrant and might refuse to admit us if we
had any money at all. It is quite a common practice of tramps to bury their
money. If they intend to smuggle at all a large sum into the spike they
generally sew it into their clothes, which may mean prison if they are
caught, of course. Paddy and Bozo used to tell a good story about this. An
Irishman (Bozo said it was an Irishman; Paddy said an Englishman), not a
tramp, and in possession of thirty pounds, was stranded in a small village
where he could not get a bed. He consulted a tramp, who advised him to go
to the workhouse. It is quite a regular proceeding, if one cannot get a bed
elsewhere, to get one at the workhouse, paying a reasonable sum for it. The
Irishman, however, thought he would be clever and get a bed for nothing, so
he presented himself at the workhouse as an ordinary casual. He had sewn
the thirty pounds into his clothes. Meanwhile the tramp who had advised him
had seen his chance, and that night he privately asked the Tramp Major for
permission to leave the spike early in the morning, as he had to see about
a job. At six in the morning he was released and went out--in the
Irishman's clothes. The Irishman complained of the theft, and was given
thirty days for going into a casual ward under false pretences.




XXXV



ARRIVED at Lower Binfield, we sprawled for a long time on the green,
watched by cottagers from their front gates. A clergyman and his daughter
came and stared silently at us for a while, as though we had been aquarium
fishes, and then went away again. There were several dozen of us waiting.
William and Fred were there, still singing, and the men who had fought, and
Bill the moocher. He had been mooching from bakers, and had quantities of
stale bread tucked away between his coat and his bare body. He shared it
out, and we were all glad of it. There was a woman among us, the first
woman tramp I had ever seen. She was a fattish, battered, very dirty woman
of sixty, in a long, trailing black skirt. She put on great airs of
dignity, and if anyone sat down near her she sniffed and moved farther off.

'Where you bound for, missis?' one of the tramps called to her.

The woman sniffed and looked into the distance.

'Come on, missis,' he said, 'cheer up. Be chummy. We're all in the
same boat 'ere.'

'Thank you,' said the woman bitterly, 'when I want to get mixed up
with a set of _tramps_, I'll let you know.'

I enjoyed the way she said _tramps_. It seemed to show you in a flash
the whole other soul; a small, blinkered, feminine soul, that had learned
absolutely nothing from years on the road. She was, no doubt, a respectable
widow woman, become a tramp through some grotesque accident.

The spike opened at six. This was Saturday, and we were to be confined
over the week-end, which is the usual practice; why, I do not know, unless
it is from a vague feeling that Sunday merits something disagreeable. When
we registered I gave my trade as 'journalist'. It was truer than 'painter',
for I had sometimes earned money from newspaper articles, but it was a
silly thing to say, being bound to lead to questions. As soon as we were
inside the spike and had been lined up for the search, the Tramp Major
called my name. He was a stiff, soldierly man of forty, not looking the
bully he had been represented, but with an old soldier's gruffness. He said
sharply:

'Which of you is Blank?' (I forget what name I had given.)

'Me, sir.'

'So you are a journalist?'

'Yes, sir,' I said, quaking. A few questions would betray the fact
that I had been lying, which might mean prison. But the Tramp Major only
looked me up and down and said:

'Then you are a gentleman?'

'I suppose so.'

He gave me another long look. 'Well, that's bloody bad luck, guv'nor,'
he said; 'bloody bad luck that is.' And thereafter he treated me with
unfair favouritism, and even with a kind of deference. He did not search
me, and in the bathroom he actually gave me a clean towel to myself--an
unheard-of luxury. So powerful is the word 'gentleman' in an old soldier's
ear.

By seven we had wolfed our bread and tea and were in our cells. We
slept one in a cell, and there were bedsteads and straw palliasses, so that
one ought to have had a good night's sleep. But no spike is perfect, and
the peculiar shortcoming at Lower Binfield was the cold. The hot pipes were
not working, and the two blankets we had been given were thin cotton things
and almost useless. It was only autumn, but the cold was bitter. One spent
the long twelve-hour night in turning from side to side, falling asleep for
a few minutes and waking up shivering. We could not smoke, for our tobacco,
which we had managed to smuggle in, was in our clothes and we should not
get these back till the morning. All down the passage one could hear
groaning noises, and sometimes a shouted oath. No one, I imagine, got more
than an hour or two of sleep.

In the morning, after breakfast and the doctor's inspection, the Tramp
Major herded us all into the dining-room and locked the door upon us. It
was a limewashed, stone-floored room, unutterably dreary, with its
furniture of deal boards and benches, and its prison smell. The barred
windows were too high to look out of, and there were no ornaments save a
clock and a copy of the workhouse rules. Packed elbow to elbow on the
benches, we were bored already, though it was barely eight in the morning.
There was nothing to do, nothing to talk about, not even room to move. The
sole consolation was that one could smoke, for smoking was connived at so
long as one was not caught in the act. Scotty, a little hairy tramp with a
bastard accent sired by Cockney out of Glasgow, was tobaccoless, his tin of
cigarette ends having fallen out of his boot during the search and been
impounded. I stood him the makings of a cigarette. We smoked furtively,
thrusting our cigarettes into our pockets, like schoolboys, when we heard
the Tramp Major coming.

Most of the tramps spent ten continuous hours in this comfortless,
soulless room. Heaven knows how they put up with it. I was luckier than the
others, for at ten o'clock the Tramp Major told off a few men for odd jobs,
and he picked me out to help in the workhouse kitchen, the most coveted job
of all. This, like the clean towel, was a charm worked by the word
'gentleman'.

There was no work to do in the kitchen, and I sneaked off into a small
shed used for storing potatoes, where some workhouse paupers were skulking
to avoid the Sunday morning service. There were comfortable packing-cases
to sit on, and some back numbers of the _Family Herald_, and even a copy of
_Raffles_ from the workhouse library. The paupers talked interestingly about
workhouse life. They told me, among other things, that the thing really
hated in the workhouse, as a stigma of charity, is the uniform; if the men
could wear their own clothes, or even their own caps and scarves, they
would not mind being paupers. I had my dinner from the workhouse table, and
it was a meal fit for a boa-constrictor--the largest meal I had eaten
since my first day at the Hôtel X. The paupers said that they habitually
gorged to the bursting-point on Sunday and were underfed the rest of the
week. After dinner the cook set me to do the washing up, and told me to
throw away the food that remained. The wastage was astonishing and, in the
circumstances, appalling. Half-eaten joints of meat, and bucketfuls of
broken bread and vegetables, were pitched away like so much rubbish and
then defiled with tea-leaves. I filled five dustbins to overflowing with
quite eatable food. And while I did so fifty tramps were sitting in the
spike with their bellies half filled by the spike dinner of bread and
cheese, and perhaps two cold boiled potatoes each in honour of Sunday.
According to the paupers, the food was thrown away from deliberate policy,
rather than that it should be given to the tramps.

At three I went back to the spike. The tramps had been sitting there
since eight, with hardly room to move an elbow, and they were now half mad
with boredom. Even smoking was at an end, for a tramp's tobacco is
picked-up cigarette ends, and he starves if he is more than a few hours
away from the pavement. Most of the men were too bored even to talk; they
just sat packed on the benches, staring at nothing, their scrubby faces
split in two by enormous yawns. The room stank of _ennui_.

Paddy, his backside aching from the hard bench, was in a whimpering
mood, and to pass the time away I talked with a rather superior tramp, a
young carpenter who wore a collar and tie and was on the road, he said, for
lack of a set of tools. He kept a little aloof from the other tramps, and
held himself more like a free man than a casual. He had literary tastes,
too, and carried a copy of _Quentin Durward_ in his pocket. He told me that
he never went into a spike unless driven there by hunger, sleeping under
hedges and behind ricks in preference. Along the south coast he had begged
by day and slept in bathing-huts for weeks at a time.

We talked of life on the road. He criticized the system that makes a
tramp spend fourteen hours a day in the spike, and the other ten in walking
and dodging the police. He spoke of his own case--six months at the
public charge for want of a few pounds' worth of tools. It was idiotic, he
said.

Then I told him about the wastage of food in the workhouse kitchen,
and what I thought of it. And at that he changed his tone instantly. I saw
that I had awakened the pew-renter who sleeps in every English workman.
Though he had been famished along with the others, he at once saw reasons
why the food should have been thrown away rather that given to the tramps.
He admonished me quite severely.

'They have to do it,' he said. 'If they made these places too
comfortable, you'd have all the scum of the country flocking into them.
It's only the bad food as keeps all that scum away. These here tramps are
too lazy to work, that's all that's wrong with them. You don't want to go
encouraging of them. They're scum.'

I produced arguments to prove him wrong, but he would not listen. He
kept repeating:

'You don't want to have any pity on these here tramps--scum, they
are. You don't want to judge them by the same standards as men like you and
me. They're scum, just scum.'

It was interesting to see the subtle way in which he disassociated
himself from 'these here tramps'. He had been on the road six months, but
in the sight of God, he seemed to imply, he was not a tramp. I imagine
there are quite a lot of tramps who thank God they are not tramps. They are
like the trippers who say such cutting things about trippers.

Three hours dragged by. At six supper arrived, and turned out to be
quite uneatable; the bread, tough enough in the morning (it had been cut
into slices on Saturday night), was now as hard as ship's biscuit. Luckily
it was spread with dripping, and we scraped the dripping off and ate that
alone, which was better than nothing. At a quarter past six we were sent to
bed. New tramps were arriving, and in order not to mix the tramps of
different days (for fear of infectious diseases) the new men were put in
the cells and we in dormitories. Our dormitory was a barn-like room with
thirty beds close together, and a tub to serve as a common chamber-pot. It
stank abominably, and the older men coughed and got up all night. But being
so many together kept the room warm, and we had some sleep.

We dispersed at ten in the morning, after a fresh medical inspection,
with a hunk of bread and cheese for our midday dinner. William and Fred,
strong in the possession of a shilling, impaled their bread on the spike
railings--as a protest, they said. This was the second spike in Kent that
they had made too hot to hold them, and they thought it a great joke. They
were cheerful souls, for tramps. The imbecile (there is an imbecile in
every collection of tramps) said that he was too tired to walk and clung to
the railings, until the Tramp Major had to dislodge him and start him with
a kick. Paddy and I turned north, for London. Most of the others were going
on to Ide Hill, said to be about the worst spike in England*.

[* I have been in it since, and it is not so bad.]

Once again it was jolly autumn weather, and the road was quiet, with
few cars passing. The air was like sweet-briar after the spike's mingled
stenches of sweat, soap, and drains. We two seemed the only tramps on the
road. Then I heard a hurried step behind us, and someone calling. It was
little Scotty, the Glasgow tramp, who had run after us panting. He produced
a rusty tin from his pocket. He wore a friendly smile, like someone
repaying an obligation.

'Here y'are, mate,' he said cordially. 'I owe you some fag ends. You
stood me a smoke yesterday. The Tramp Major give me back my box of fag ends
when we come out this morning. One good turn deserves another--here
y'are.'

And he put four sodden, debauched, loathly cigarette ends into my
hand.




XXXVI



I WANT to set down some general remarks about tramps. When one comes
to think of it, tramps are a queer product and worth thinking over. It is
queer that a tribe of men, tens of thousands in number, should be marching
up and down England like so many Wandering Jews. But though the case
obviously wants considering, one cannot even start to consider it until one
has got rid of certain prejudices. These prejudices are rooted in the idea
that every tramp, _ipso facto_, is a blackguard. In childhood we have been
taught that tramps are blackguards, and consequently there exists in our
minds a sort of ideal or typical tramp--a repulsive, rather dangerous
creature, who would die rather than work or wash, and wants nothing but to
beg, drink, and rob hen-houses. This tramp-monster is no truer to life than
the sinister Chinaman of the magazine stories, but he is very hard to get
rid of. The very word 'tramp' evokes his image. And the belief in him
obscures the real questions of vagrancy.

To take a fundamental question about vagrancy: Why do tramps exist at
all? It is a curious thing, but very few people know what makes a tramp
take to the road. And, because of the belief in the tramp-monster, the most
fantastic reasons are suggested. It is said, for instance, that tramps
tramp to avoid work, to beg more easily, to seek opportunities for crime,
even--least probable of reasons--because they like tramping. I have
even read in a book of criminology that the tramp is an atavism, a
throw-back to the nomadic stage of humanity. And meanwhile the quite
obvious cause of vagrancy is staring one in the face. Of course a tramp is
not a nomadic atavism--one might as well say that a commercial traveller
is an atavism. A tramp tramps, not because he likes it, but for the same
reason as a car keeps to the left; because there happens to be a law
compelling him to do so. A destitute man, if he is not supported by the
parish, can only get relief at the casual wards, and as each casual ward
will only admit him for one night, he is automatically kept moving. He is a
vagrant because, in the state of the law, it is that or starve. But people
have been brought up to believe in the tramp-monster, and so they prefer to
think that there must be some more or less villainous motive for tramping.

As a matter of fact, very little of the tramp-monster will survive
inquiry. Take the generally accepted idea that tramps are dangerous
characters. Quite apart from experience, one can say _a priori_ that very few
tramps are dangerous, because if they were dangerous they would be treated
accordingly. A casual ward will often admit a hundred tramps in one night,
and these are handled by a staff of at most three porters. A hundred
ruffians could not be controlled by three unarmed men. Indeed, when one
sees how tramps let themselves be bullied by the workhouse officials, it is
obvious that they are the most docile, broken-spirited creatures
imaginable. Or take the idea that all tramps are drunkards--an idea
ridiculous on the face of it. No doubt many tramps would drink if they got
the chance, but in the nature of things they cannot get the chance. At this
moment a pale watery stuff called beer is sevenpence a pint in England. To
be drunk on it would cost at least half a crown, and a man who can command
half a crown at all often is not a tramp. The idea that tramps are impudent
social parasites ('sturdy beggars') is not absolutely unfounded, but it is
only true in a few per cent of the cases. Deliberate, cynical parasitism,
such as one reads of in Jack London's books on American tramping, is not in
the English character. The English are a conscience-ridden race, with a
strong sense of the sinfulness of poverty. One cannot imagine the average
Englishman deliberately turning parasite, and this national character does
not necessarily change because a man is thrown out of work. Indeed, if one
remembers that a tramp is only an Englishman out of work, forced by law to
live as a vagabond, then the tramp-monster vanishes. I am not saying, of
course, that most tramps are ideal characters; I am only saying that they
are ordinary human beings, and that if they are worse than other people it
is the result and not the cause of their way of life.

It follows that the 'Serve them damned well right' attitude that is
normally taken towards tramps is no fairer than it would be towards
cripples or invalids. When one has realized that, one begins to put oneself
in a tramp's place and understand what his life is like. It is an
extraordinarily futile, acutely unpleasant life. I have described the
casual ward--the routine of a tramp's day--but there are three especial
evils that need insisting upon. The first is hunger, which is the almost
general fate of tramps. The casual ward gives them a ration which is
probably not even meant to be sufficient, and anything beyond this must be
got by begging--that is, by breaking the law. The result is that nearly
every tramp is rotted by malnutrition; for proof of which one need only
look at the men lining up outside any casual ward. The second great evil of
a tramp's life--it seems much smaller at first sight, but it is a good
second--is that he is entirely cut off from contact with women. This
point needs elaborating.

Tramps are cut off from women, in the first place, because there are
very few women at their level of society. One might imagine that among
destitute people the sexes would be as equally balanced as elsewhere. But
it is not so; in fact, one can almost say that below a certain level
society is entirely male. The following figures, published by the L.C.C.
from a night census taken on February 13th, 1931, will show the relative
numbers of destitute men and destitute women:


Spending the night in the streets, 60 men, 18 women*.
In shelters and homes not licensed as common lodging-houses, 1,057 men,
137 women.
In the crypt of St Martin's-in-the-Fields Church, 88 men, 12 women.
In L.C.C. casual wards and hostels, 674 men, 15 women.

[* This must be an underestimate. Still, the proportions probably
hold good.]


It will be seen from these figures that at the charity level men
outnumber women by something like ten to one. The cause is presumably that
unemployment affects women less than men; also that any presentable woman
can, in the last resort, attach herself to some man. The result, for a
tramp, is that he is condemned to perpetual celibacy. For of course it goes
without saying that if a tramp finds no women at his own level, those above
--even a very little above--are as far out of his reach as the moon. The
reasons are not worth discussing, but there is no doubt that women never,
or hardly ever, condescend to men who are much poorer than themselves. A
tramp, therefore, is a celibate from the moment when he takes to the road.
He is absolutely without hope of getting a wife, a mistress, or any kind of
woman except--very rarely, when he can raise a few shillings--a
prostitute.

It is obvious what the results of this must be: homosexuality, for
instance, and occasional rape cases. But deeper than these there is the
degradation worked in a man who knows that he is not even considered fit
for marriage. The sexual impulse, not to put it any higher, is a
fundamental impulse, and starvation of it can be almost as demoralizing as
physical hunger. The evil of poverty is not so much that it makes a man
suffer as that it rots him physically and spiritually. And there can be no
doubt that sexual starvation contributes to this rotting process. Cut off
from the whole race of women, a tramp feels himself degraded to the rank of
a cripple or a lunatic. No humiliation could do more damage to a man's
self-respect.

The other great evil of a tramp's life is enforced idleness. By our
vagrancy laws things are so arranged that when he is not walking the road
he is sitting in a cell; or, in the intervals, lying on the ground waiting
for the casual ward to open. It is obvious that this is a dismal,
demoralizing way of life, especially for an uneducated man.

Besides these one could enumerate scores of minor evils--to name
only one, discomfort, which is inseparable from life on the road; it is
worth remembering that the average tramp has no clothes but what he stands
up in, wears boots that are ill-fitting, and does not sit in a chair for
months together. But the important point is that a tramp's sufferings are
entirely useless. He lives a fantastically disagreeable life, and lives it
to no purpose whatever. One could not, in fact, invent a more futile
routine than walking from prison to prison, spending perhaps eighteen hours
a day in the cell and on the road. There must be at the least several tens
of thousands of tramps in England. Each day they expend innumerable
foot-pounds of energy--enough to plough thousands of acres, build miles
of road, put up dozens of houses--in mere, useless walking. Each day they
waste between them possibly ten years of time in staring at cell walls.
They cost the country at least a pound a week a man, and give nothing in
return for it. They go round and round, on an endless boring game of
general post, which is of no use, and is not even meant to be of any use to
any person whatever. The law keeps this process going, and we have got so
accustomed to it that We are not surprised. But it is very silly.

Granting the futility of a tramp's life, the question is whether
anything could be done to improve it. Obviously it would be possible, for
instance, to make the casual wards a little more habitable, and this is
actually being done in some cases. During the last year some of the casual
wards have been improved--beyond recognition, if the accounts are true--
and there is talk of doing the same to all of them. But this does not go to
the heart of the problem. The problem is how to turn the tramp from a
bored, half alive vagrant into a self-respecting human being. A mere
increase of comfort cannot do this. Even if the casual wards became
positively luxurious (they never will)* a tramp's life would still be
wasted. He would still be a pauper, cut off from marriage and home life,
and a dead loss to the community. What is needed is to depauperize him, and
this can only be done by finding him work--not work for the sake of
working, but work of which he can enjoy the benefit. At present, in the
great majority of casual wards, tramps do no work whatever. At one time
they were made to break stones for their food, but this was stopped when
they had broken enough stone for years ahead and put the stone-breakers out
of work. Nowadays they are kept idle, because there is seemingly nothing
for them to do. Yet there is a fairly obvious way of making them useful,
namely this: Each workhouse could run a small farm, or at least a kitchen
garden, and every able-bodied tramp who presented himself could be made to
do a sound day's work. The produce of the farm or garden could be used for
feeding the tramps, and at the worst it would be better than the filthy
diet of bread and margarine and tea. Of course, the casual wards could
never be quite self-supporting, but they could go a long way towards it,
and the rates would probably benefit in the long run. It must be remembered
that under the present system tramps are as dead a loss to the country as
they could possibly be, for they do not only do no work, but they live on a
diet that is bound to undermine their health; the system, therefore, loses
lives as well as money. A scheme which fed them decently, and made them
produce at least a part of their own food, would be worth trying.

[* In fairness, it must be added that a few of the casual wards have been
improved recently, at least from the point of view of sleeping
accommodation. But most of them are the same as ever, and there has been
no real improvement in the food.]

It may be objected that a farm or even a garden could not be run with
casual labour. But there is no real reason why tramps should only stay a
day at each casual ward; they might stay a month or even a year, if there
were work for them to do. The constant circulation of tramps is something
quite artificial. At present a tramp is an expense to the rates, and the
object of each workhouse is therefore to push him on to the next; hence the
rule that he can stay only one night. If he returns within a month he is
penalized by being confined for a week, and, as this is much the same as
being in prison, naturally he keeps moving. But if he represented labour to
the workhouse, and the workhouse represented sound food to him, it would be
another matter. The workhouses would develop into partially self-supporting
institutions, and the tramps, settling down here or there according as they
were needed, would cease to be tramps. They would be doing something
comparatively useful, getting decent food, and living a settled life. By
degrees, if the scheme worked well, they might even cease to be regarded as
paupers, and be able to marry and take a respectable place in society.

This is only a rough idea, and there are some obvious objections to
it. Nevertheless, it does suggest a way of improving the status of tramps
without piling new burdens on the rates. And the solution must, in any
case, be something of this kind. For the question is, what to do with men
who are underfed and idle; and the answer--to make them grow their own
food--imposes itself automatically.




XXXVII



A WORD about the sleeping accommodation open to a homeless person in
London. At present it is impossible to get a _bed_ in any non-charitable
institution in London for less than sevenpence a night. If you cannot
afford seven-pence for a bed, you must put up with one of the following
substitutes:

1. The Embankment. Here is the account that Paddy gave me of sleeping
on the Embankment:

'De whole t'ing wid de Embankment is gettin' to sleep early. You got
to be on your bench by eight o'clock, because dere ain't too many benches
and sometimes dey're all taken. And you got to try to get to sleep at once.
'Tis too cold to sleep much after twelve o'clock, an' de police turns you
off at four in de mornin'. It ain't easy to sleep, dough, wid dem bloody
trams flyin' past your head all de time, an' dem sky-signs across de river
flickin' on an' off in your eyes. De cold's cruel. Dem as sleeps dere
generally wraps demselves up in newspaper, but it don't do much good. You'd
be bloody lucky if you got t'ree hours' sleep.'

I have slept on the Embankment and found that it corresponded to
Paddy's description. It is, however, much better than not sleeping at all,
which is the alternative if you spend the night in the streets, elsewhere
than on the Embankment. According to the law in London, you may sit down
for the night, but the police must move you on if they see you asleep; the
Embankment and one or two odd corners (there is one behind the Lyceum
Theatre) are special exceptions. This law is evidently a piece of wilful
offensiveness. Its object, so it is said, is to prevent people from dying
of exposure; but clearly if a man has no home and is going to die of
exposure, die he will, asleep or awake. In Paris there is no such law.
There, people sleep by the score under the Seine bridges, and in doorways,
and on benches in the squares, and round the ventilating shafts of the
Métro, and even inside the Métro stations. It does no apparent harm. No one
will spend a night in the street if he can possibly help it, and if he is
going to stay out of doors he might as well be allowed to sleep, if he can.

2. The Twopenny Hangover. This comes a little higher than the
Embankment. At the Twopenny Hangover, the lodgers sit in a row on a bench;
there is a rope in front of them, and they lean on this as though leaning
over a fence. A man, humorously called the valet, cuts the rope at five in
the morning. I have never been there myself, but Bozo had been there often.
I asked him whether anyone could possibly sleep in such an attitude, and he
said that it was more comfortable than it sounded--at any rate, better
than bare floor. There are similar shelters in Paris, but the charge there
is only twenty-five centimes (a halfpenny) instead of twopence.

3. The Coffin, at fourpence a night. At the Coffin you sleep in a
wooden box, with a tarpaulin for covering. It is cold, and the worst thing
about it are the bugs, which, being enclosed in a box, you cannot escape.

Above this come the common lodging-houses, with charges varying
between sevenpence and one and a penny a night. The best are the Rowton
Houses, where the charge is a shilling, for which you get a cubicle to
yourself, and the use of excellent bathrooms. You can also pay half a crown
for a 'special', which is practically hotel accommodation. The Rowton
Houses are splendid buildings, and the only objection to them is the strict
discipline, with rules against cooking, card-playing, etc. Perhaps the best
advertisement for the Rowton Houses is the fact that they are always full
to overflowing. The Bruce Houses, at one and a penny, are also excellent.

Next best, in point of cleanliness, are the Salvation Army hostels, at
sevenpence or eightpence. They vary (I have been in one or two that were
not very unlike common lodging-houses), but most of them are clean, and
they have good bathrooms; you have to pay extra for a bath, however. You
can get a cubicle for a shilling. In the eightpenny dormitories the beds
are comfortable, but there are so many of them (as a rule at least forty to
a room), and so close together, that it is impossible to get a quiet night.
The numerous restrictions stink of prison and charity. The Salvation Army
hostels would only appeal to people who put cleanliness before anything
else.

Beyond this there are the ordinary common lodging-houses. Whether you
pay sevenpence or a shilling, they are all stuffy and noisy, and the beds
are uniformly dirty and uncomfortable. What redeems them are their
_laissez-faire_ atmosphere and the warm home-like kitchens where one can
lounge at all hours of the day or night. They are squalid dens, but some
kind of social life is possible in them. The women's lodging-houses are
said to be generally worse than the men's, and there are very few houses
with accommodation for married couples. In fact, it is nothing out of the
common for a homeless man to sleep in one lodging-house and his wife in
another.

At this moment at least fifteen thousand people in London are living
in common lodging-houses. For an unattached man earning two pounds a week,
or less, a lodging-house is a great convenience. He could hardly get a
furnished room so cheaply, and the lodging-house gives him free firing, a
bathroom of sorts, and plenty of society. As for the dirt, it is a minor
evil. The really bad fault of lodging-houses is that they are places in
which one pays to sleep, and in which sound sleep is impossible. All one
gets for one's money is a bed measuring five feet six by two feet six, with
a hard convex mattress and a pillow like a block of wood, covered by one
cotton counterpane and two grey, stinking sheets. In winter there are
blankets, but never enough. And this bed is in a room where there are never
less than five, and sometimes fifty or sixty beds, a yard or two apart. Of
course, no one can sleep soundly in such circumstances. The only other
places where people are herded like this are barracks and hospitals. In the
public wards of a hospital no one even hopes to sleep well. In barracks the
soldiers are crowded, but they have good beds, and they are healthy; in a
common lodging-house nearly all the lodgers have chronic coughs, and a
large number have bladder diseases which make them get up at all the hours
of the night. The result is a perpetual racket, making sleep impossible. So
far as my observation goes, no one in a lodging-house sleeps more than five
hours a night--a damnable swindle when one has paid sevenpence or more.

Here legislation could accomplish something. At present there is all
manner of legislation by the L.C.C. about lodging-houses, but it is not
done in the interests of the lodgers. The L.C.C. only exert themselves to
forbid drinking, gambling, fighting, etc. etc. There is no law to say that
the beds in a lodging-house must be comfortable. This would be quite an
easy thing to enforce--much easier, for instance, than restrictions upon
gambling. The lodging-house keepers should be compelled to provide adequate
bedclothes and better mattresses, and above all to divide their dormitories
into cubicles. It does not matter how small a cubicle is, the important
thing is that a man should be alone when he sleeps. These few changes,
strictly enforced, would make an enormous difference. It is not impossible
to make a lodging-house reasonably comfortable at the usual rates of
payment. In the Croydon municipal lodging-house, where the charge is only
ninepence, there are cubicles, good beds, chairs (a very rare luxury in
lodging-houses), and kitchens above ground instead of in a cellar. There is
no reason why every ninepenny lodging-house should not come up to this
standard.

Of course, the owners of lodging-houses would be opposed _en bloc_ to
any improvement, for their present business is an immensely profitable one.
The average house takes five or ten pounds a night, with no bad debts
(credit being strictly forbidden), and except for rent the expenses are
small. Any improvement would mean less crowding, and hence less profit.
Still, the excellent municipal lodging-house at Croydon shows how well one
_can_ be served for ninepence. A few well-directed laws could make these
conditions general. If the authorities are going to concern themselves with
lodging-houses at all, they ought to start by making them more comfortable,
not by silly restrictions that would never be tolerated in a hotel.




XXXVIII



AFTER we left the spike at Lower Binfield, Paddy and I earned half a
crown at weeding and sweeping in somebody's garden, stayed the night at
Cromley, and walked back to London. I parted from Paddy a day or two later.
B. lent me a final two pounds, and, as I had only another eight days to
hold out, that was the end of my troubles. My tame imbecile turned out
worse than I had expected, but not bad enough to make me wish myself back
in the spike or the Auberge de Jehan Cottard.

Paddy set out for Portsmouth, where he had a. friend who might
conceivably find work for him, and I have never seen him since. A short
time ago I was told that he had been run over and killed, but perhaps my
informant was mixing him up with someone else. I had news of Bozo only
three days ago. He is in Wandsworth--fourteen days for begging. I do not
suppose prison worries him very much.

My story ends here. It is a fairly trivial story, and I can only hope
that it has been interesting in the same way as a travel diary is
interesting. I can at least say, Here is the world that awaits you if you
are ever penniless. Some days I want to explore that world more thoroughly.
I should like to know people like Mario and Paddy and Bill the moocher, not
from casual encounters, but intimately; I should like to understand what
really goes on in the souls of _plongeurs_ and tramps and Embankment
sleepers. At present I do not feel that I have seen more than the fringe of
poverty.

Still I can point to one or two things I have definitely learned by
being hard up. I shall never again think that all tramps are drunken
scoundrels, nor expect a beggar to be grateful when I give him a penny, nor
be surprised if men out of work lack energy, nor subscribe to the Salvation
Army, nor pawn my clothes, nor refuse a handbill, nor enjoy a meal at a
smart restaurant. That is a beginning.



THE END



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