These words I discharged carelessly over my shoulder at a stout2 and elderly woman, of whose fare I was partaking in a greasy3 coffee-house down near the Pool and not very far from Limehouse.
“Oh yus,” she answered shortly, my appearance possibly not approximating the standard of affluence4 required by her house.
I said no more, consuming my rasher of bacon and pint5 of sickly tea in silence. Nor did she take further interest in me till I came to pay my reckoning (fourpence), when I pulled all of ten shillings out of my pocket. The expected result was produced.
“Yus, sir,” she at once volunteered; “I ’ave nice lodgin’s you’d likely tyke a fancy to. Back from a voyage, sir?”
“How much for a room?” I inquired, ignoring her curiosity.
She looked me up and down with frank surprise. “I don’t let rooms, not to my reg’lar lodgers6, much less casuals.”
“Then I’ll have to look along a bit,” I said, with marked disappointment.
But the sight of my ten shillings had made her keen. “I can let you have a nice bed in with two hother men,” she urged. “Good, respectable men, an’ steady.”
“But I don’t want to sleep with two other men,” I objected.
“You don’t ’ave to. There’s three beds in the room, an’ hit’s not a very small room.”
“How much?” I demanded.
“’Arf a crown a week, two an’ six, to a regular lodger7. You’ll fancy the men, I’m sure. One works in the ware’ouse, an’ ’e’s been with me two years now. An’ the hother’s bin9 with me six — six years, sir, an’ two months comin’ nex’ Saturday. ’E’s a scene-shifter,” she went on. “A steady, respectable man, never missin’ a night’s work in the time ’e’s bin with me. An’ ’e likes the ’ouse; ’e says as it’s the best ’e can do in the w’y of lodgin’s. I board ’im, an’ the hother lodgers too.”
“I suppose he’s saving money right along,” I insinuated10 innocently.
“Bless you, no! Nor can ’e do as well helsewhere with ’is money.”
And I thought of my own spacious11 West, with room under its sky and unlimited12 air for a thousand Londons; and here was this man, a steady and reliable man, never missing a night’s work, frugal13 and honest, lodging in one room with two other men, paying two dollars and a half per month for it, and out of his experience adjudging it to be the best he could do! And here was I, on the strength of the ten shillings in my pocket, able to enter in with my rags and take up my bed with him. The human soul is a lonely thing, but it must be very lonely sometimes when there are three beds to a room, and casuals with ten shillings are admitted.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Thirteen years, sir; an’ don’t you think you’ll fancy the lodgin’?”
The while she talked she was shuffling14 ponderously15 about the small kitchen in which she cooked the food for her lodgers who were also boarders. When I first entered, she had been hard at work, nor had she let up once throughout the conversation. Undoubtedly16 she was a busy woman. “Up at half-past five,” “to bed the last thing at night,” “workin’ fit ter drop,” thirteen years of it, and for reward, grey hairs, frowzy17 clothes, stooped shoulders, slatternly figure, unending toil18 in a foul19 and noisome20 coffee-house that faced on an alley21 ten feet between the walls, and a waterside environment that was ugly and sickening, to say the least.
“You’ll be hin hagain to ’ave a look?” she questioned wistfully, as I went out of the door.
And as I turned and looked at her, I realized to the full the deeper truth underlying22 that very wise old maxim23: “Virtue is its own reward.”
I went back to her. “Have you ever taken a vacation?” I asked.
“Vycytion!”
“A trip to the country for a couple of days, fresh air, a day off, you know, a rest.”
“Lor’ lumme!” she laughed, for the first time stopping from her work. “A vycytion, eh? for the likes o’ me? Just fancy, now! — Mind yer feet!”— this last sharply, and to me, as I stumbled over the rotten threshold.
Down near the West India Dock I came upon a young fellow staring disconsolately24 at the muddy water. A fireman’s cap was pulled down across his eyes, and the fit and sag25 of his clothes whispered unmistakably of the sea.
“Hello, mate,” I greeted him, sparring for a beginning. “Can you tell me the way to Wapping?”
“Worked yer way over on a cattle boat?” he countered, fixing my nationality on the instant.
And thereupon we entered upon a talk that extended itself to a public-house and a couple of pints26 of “arf an’ arf.” This led to closer intimacy27, so that when I brought to light all of a shilling’s worth of coppers28 (ostensibly my all), and put aside sixpence for a bed, and sixpence for more arf an’ arf, he generously proposed that we drink up the whole shilling.
“My mate, ’e cut up rough las’ night,” he explained. “An’ the bobbies got ’m, so you can bunk29 in wi’ me. Wotcher say?”
I said yes, and by the time we had soaked ourselves in a whole shilling’s worth of beer, and slept the night on a miserable30 bed in a miserable den31, I knew him pretty fairly for what he was. And that in one respect he was representative of a large body of the lower-class London workman, my later experience substantiates32.
He was London-born, his father a fireman and a drinker before him. As a child, his home was the streets and the docks. He had never learned to read, and had never felt the need for it — a vain and useless accomplishment33, he held, at least for a man of his station in life.
He had had a mother and numerous squalling brothers and sisters, all crammed34 into a couple of rooms and living on poorer and less regular food than he could ordinarily rustle35 for himself. In fact, he never went home except at periods when he was unfortunate in procuring36 his own food. Petty pilfering37 and begging along the streets and docks, a trip or two to sea as mess-boy, a few trips more as coal-trimmer, and then a full-fledged fireman, he had reached the top of his life.
And in the course of this he had also hammered out a philosophy of life, an ugly and repulsive38 philosophy, but withal a very logical and sensible one from his point of view. When I asked him what he lived for, he immediately answered, “Booze.” A voyage to sea (for a man must live and get the wherewithal), and then the paying off and the big drunk at the end. After that, haphazard39 little drunks, sponged in the “pubs” from mates with a few coppers left, like myself, and when sponging was played out another trip to sea and a repetition of the beastly cycle.
“But women,” I suggested, when he had finished proclaiming booze the sole end of existence.
“Wimmen!” He thumped40 his pot upon the bar and orated eloquently41. “Wimmen is a thing my edication ’as learnt me t’ let alone. It don’t pay, matey; it don’t pay. Wot’s a man like me want o’ wimmen, eh? jest you tell me. There was my mar8, she was enough, a-bangin’ the kids about an’ makin’ the ole man mis’rable when ’e come ’ome, w’ich was seldom, I grant. An’ fer w’y? Becos o’ mar! She didn’t make ’is ’ome ’appy, that was w’y. Then, there’s the other wimmen, ’ow do they treat a pore stoker with a few shillin’s in ’is trouseys? A good drunk is wot ’e’s got in ’is pockits, a good long drunk, an’ the wimmen skin ’im out of his money so quick ’e ain’t ’ad ’ardly a glass. I know. I’ve ’ad my fling, an’ I know wot’s wot. An’ I tell you, where’s wimmen is trouble — screechin’ an’ carryin’ on, fightin’, cuttin’, bobbies, magistrates42, an’ a month’s ’ard labour back of it all, an’ no pay-day when you come out.”
“But a wife and children,” I insisted. “A home of your own, and all that. Think of it, back from a voyage, little children climbing on your knee, and the wife happy and smiling, and a kiss for you when she lays the table, and a kiss all round from the babies when they go to bed, and the kettle singing and the long talk afterwards of where you’ve been and what you’ve seen, and of her and all the little happenings at home while you’ve been away, and —”
“Garn!” he cried, with a playful shove of his fist on my shoulder. “Wot’s yer game, eh? A missus kissin’ an’ kids clim’in’, an’ kettle singin’, all on four poun’ ten a month w’en you ’ave a ship, an’ four nothin’ w’en you ’aven’t. I’ll tell you wot I’d get on four poun’ ten — a missus rowin’, kids squallin’, no coal t’ make the kettle sing, an’ the kettle up the spout43, that’s wot I’d get. Enough t’ make a bloke bloomin’ well glad to be back t’ sea. A missus! Wot for? T’ make you mis’rable? Kids? Jest take my counsel, matey, an’ don’t ’ave ’em. Look at me! I can ’ave my beer w’en I like, an’ no blessed missus an’ kids a-crying for bread. I’m ’appy, I am, with my beer an’ mates like you, an’ a good ship comin’, an’ another trip to sea. So I say, let’s ’ave another pint. Arf an’ arf’s good enough for me.”
Without going further with the speech of this young fellow of two-and-twenty, I think I have sufficiently44 indicated his philosophy of life and the underlying economic reason for it. Home life he had never known. The word “home” aroused nothing but unpleasant associations. In the low wages of his father, and of other men in the same walk in life, he found sufficient reason for branding wife and children as encumbrances45 and causes of masculine misery46. An unconscious hedonist, utterly47 unmoral and materialistic48, he sought the greatest possible happiness for himself, and found it in drink.
A young sot; a premature49 wreck50; physical inability to do a stoker’s work; the gutter51 or the workhouse; and the end — he saw it all as clearly as I, but it held no terrors for him. From the moment of his birth, all the forces of his environment had tended to harden him, and he viewed his wretched, inevitable52 future with a callousness53 and unconcern I could not shake.
And yet he was not a bad man. He was not inherently vicious and brutal54. He had normal mentality55, and a more than average physique. His eyes were blue and round, shaded by long lashes57, and wide apart. And there was a laugh in them, and a fund of humour behind. The brow and general features were good, the mouth and lips sweet, though already developing a harsh twist. The chin was weak, but not too weak; I have seen men sitting in the high places with weaker.
His head was shapely, and so gracefully58 was it poised59 upon a perfect neck that I was not surprised by his body that night when he stripped for bed. I have seen many men strip, in gymnasium and training quarters, men of good blood and upbringing, but I have never seen one who stripped to better advantage than this young sot of two-and-twenty, this young god doomed60 to rack and ruin in four or five short years, and to pass hence without posterity61 to receive the splendid heritage it was his to bequeath.
It seemed sacrilege to waste such life, and yet I was forced to confess that he was right in not marrying on four pounds ten in London Town. Just as the scene-shifter was happier in making both ends meet in a room shared with two other men, than he would have been had he packed a feeble family along with a couple of men into a cheaper room, and failed in making both ends meet.
And day by day I became convinced that not only is it unwise, but it is criminal for the people of the Abyss to marry. They are the stones by the builder rejected. There is no place for them, in the social fabric62, while all the forces of society drive them downward till they perish. At the bottom of the Abyss they are feeble, besotted, and imbecile. If they reproduce, the life is so cheap that perforce it perishes of itself. The work of the world goes on above them, and they do not care to take part in it, nor are they able. Moreover, the work of the world does not need them. There are plenty, far fitter than they, clinging to the steep slope above, and struggling frantically63 to slide no more.
In short, the London Abyss is a vast shambles64. Year by year, and decade after decade, rural England pours in a flood of vigorous strong life, that not only does not renew itself, but perishes by the third generation. Competent authorities aver56 that the London workman whose parents and grand-parents were born in London is so remarkable65 a specimen66 that he is rarely found.
Mr. A. C. Pigou has said that the aged67 poor, and the residuum which compose the “submerged tenth,” constitute 71 per cent, of the population of London. Which is to say that last year, and yesterday, and to-day, at this very moment, 450,000 of these creatures are dying miserably68 at the bottom of the social pit called “London.” As to how they die, I shall take an instance from this morning’s paper.
Self-Neglect
Yesterday Dr. Wynn Westcott held an inquest at Shoreditch, respecting the death of Elizabeth Crews, aged 77 years, of 32 East Street, Holborn, who died on Wednesday last. Alice Mathieson stated that she was landlady69 of the house where deceased lived. Witness last saw her alive on the previous Monday. She lived quite alone. Mr. Francis Birch, relieving officer for the Holborn district, stated that deceased had occupied the room in question for thirty-five years. When witness was called, on the 1st, he found the old woman in a terrible state, and the ambulance and coachman had to be disinfected after the removal. Dr. Chase Fennell said death was due to blood-poisoning from bed-sores, due to self-neglect and filthy70 surroundings, and the jury returned a verdict to that effect.
The most startling thing about this little incident of a woman’s death is the smug complacency with which the officials looked upon it and rendered judgment71. That an old woman of seventy-seven years of age should die of SELF-NEGLECT is the most optimistic way possible of looking at it. It was the old dead woman’s fault that she died, and having located the responsibility, society goes contentedly72 on about its own affairs.
Of the “submerged tenth” Mr. Pigou has said: “Either through lack of bodily strength, or of intelligence, or of fibre, or of all three, they are inefficient73 or unwilling74 workers, and consequently unable to support themselves . . . They are often so degraded in intellect as to be incapable75 of distinguishing their right from their left hand, or of recognising the numbers of their own houses; their bodies are feeble and without stamina76, their affections are warped77, and they scarcely know what family life means.”
Four hundred and fifty thousand is a whole lot of people. The young fireman was only one, and it took him some time to say his little say. I should not like to hear them all talk at once. I wonder if God hears them?
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1
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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ponderously
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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frowzy
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| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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sag
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| v.下垂，下跌，消沉；n.下垂，下跌，凹陷，[航海]随风漂流 | |
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pints
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| n.品脱( pint的名词复数 )；一品脱啤酒 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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substantiates
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| v.用事实支持（某主张、说法等），证明，证实( substantiate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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pilfering
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的现在分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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encumbrances
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| n.负担( encumbrance的名词复数 )；累赘；妨碍；阻碍 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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callousness
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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aver
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| v.极力声明；断言；确证 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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shambles
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| n.混乱之处；废墟 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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71
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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72
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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73
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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74
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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75
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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76
stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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77
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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