It was not a room. Courtesy to the language will no more permit it to be called a room than it will permit a hovel to be called a mansion2. It was a den3, a lair4. Seven feet by eight were its dimensions, and the ceiling was so low as not to give the cubic air space required by a British soldier in barracks. A crazy couch, with ragged5 coverlets, occupied nearly half the room. A rickety table, a chair, and a couple of boxes left little space in which to turn around. Five dollars would have purchased everything in sight. The floor was bare, while the walls and ceiling were literally6 covered with blood marks and splotches. Each mark represented a violent death — of an insect, for the place swarmed7 with vermin, a plague with which no person could cope single-handed.
The man who had occupied this hole, one Dan Cullen, docker, was dying in hospital. Yet he had impressed his personality on his miserable8 surroundings sufficiently9 to give an inkling as to what sort of man he was. On the walls were cheap pictures of Garibaldi, Engels, Dan Burns, and other labour leaders, while on the table lay one of Walter Besant’s novels. He knew his Shakespeare, I was told, and had read history, sociology, and economics. And he was self-educated.
On the table, amidst a wonderful disarray10, lay a sheet of paper on which was scrawled11: Mr. Cullen, please return the large white jug12 and corkscrew I lent you— articles loaned, during the first stages of his sickness, by a woman neighbour, and demanded back in anticipation13 of his death. A large white jug and a corkscrew are far too valuable to a creature of the Abyss to permit another creature to die in peace. To the last, Dan Cullen’s soul must be harrowed by the sordidness14 out of which it strove vainly to rise.
It is a brief little story, the story of Dan Cullen, but there is much to read between the lines. He was born lowly, in a city and land where the lines of caste are tightly drawn15. All his days he toiled17 hard with his body; and because he had opened the books, and been caught up by the fires of the spirit, and could “write a letter like a lawyer,” he had been selected by his fellows to toil16 hard for them with his brain. He became a leader of the fruit-porters, represented the dockers on the London Trades Council, and wrote trenchant18 articles for the labour journals.
He did not cringe to other men, even though they were his economic masters, and controlled the means whereby he lived, and he spoke19 his mind freely, and fought the good fight. In the “Great Dock Strike” he was guilty of taking a leading part. And that was the end of Dan Cullen. From that day he was a marked man, and every day, for ten years and more, he was “paid off” for what he had done.
A docker is a casual labourer. Work ebbs21 and flows, and he works or does not work according to the amount of goods on hand to be moved. Dan Cullen was discriminated22 against. While he was not absolutely turned away (which would have caused trouble, and which would certainly have been more merciful), he was called in by the foreman to do not more than two or three days’ work per week. This is what is called being “disciplined,” or “drilled.” It means being starved. There is no politer word. Ten years of it broke his heart, and broken-hearted men cannot live.
He took to his bed in his terrible den, which grew more terrible with his helplessness. He was without kith or kin20, a lonely old man, embittered23 and pessimistic, fighting vermin the while and looking at Garibaldi, Engels, and Dan Burns gazing down at him from the blood-bespattered walls. No one came to see him in that crowded municipal barracks (he had made friends with none of them), and he was left to rot.
But from the far reaches of the East End came a cobbler and his son, his sole friends. They cleansed25 his room, brought fresh linen26 from home, and took from off his limbs the sheets, greyish-black with dirt. And they brought to him one of the Queen’s Bounty27 nurses from Aldgate.
She washed his face, shook up his conch, and talked with him. It was interesting to talk with him — until he learned her name. Oh, yes, Blank was her name, she replied innocently, and Sir George Blank was her brother. Sir George Blank, eh? thundered old Dan Cullen on his death-bed; Sir George Blank, solicitor28 to the docks at Cardiff, who, more than any other man, had broken up the Dockers’ union of Cardiff, and was knighted? And she was his sister? Thereupon Dan Cullen sat up on his crazy couch and pronounced anathema29 upon her and all her breed; and she fled, to return no more, strongly impressed with the ungratefulness of the poor.
Dan Cullen’s feet became swollen30 with dropsy. He sat up all day on the side of the bed (to keep the water out of his body), no mat on the floor, a thin blanket on his legs, and an old coat around his shoulders. A missionary31 brought him a pair of paper slippers32, worth fourpence (I saw them), and proceeded to offer up fifty prayers or so for the good of Dan Cullen’s soul. But Dan Cullen was the sort of man that wanted his soul left alone. He did not care to have Tom, Dick, or Harry33, on the strength of fourpenny slippers, tampering34 with it. He asked the missionary kindly35 to open the window, so that he might toss the slippers out. And the missionary went away, to return no more, likewise impressed with the ungratefulness of the poor.
The cobbler, a brave old hero himself, though unaneled and unsung, went privily36 to the head office of the big fruit brokers37 for whom Dan Cullen had worked as a casual labourer for thirty years. Their system was such that the work was almost entirely38 done by casual hands. The cobbler told them the man’s desperate plight39, old, broken, dying, without help or money, reminded them that he had worked for them thirty years, and asked them to do something for him.
“Oh,” said the manager, remembering Dan Cullen without having to refer to the books, “you see, we make it a rule never to help casuals, and we can do nothing.”
Nor did they do anything, not even sign a letter asking for Dan Cullen’s admission to a hospital. And it is not so easy to get into a hospital in London Town. At Hampstead, if he passed the doctors, at least four months would elapse before he could get in, there were so many on the books ahead of him. The cobbler finally got him into the Whitechapel Infirmary, where he visited him frequently. Here he found that Dan Cullen had succumbed40 to the prevalent feeling, that, being hopeless, they were hurrying him out of the way. A fair and logical conclusion, one must agree, for an old and broken man to arrive at, who has been resolutely41 “disciplined” and “drilled” for ten years. When they sweated him for Bright’s disease to remove the fat from the kidneys, Dan Cullen contended that the sweating was hastening his death; while Bright’s disease, being a wasting away of the kidneys, there was therefore no fat to remove, and the doctor’s excuse was a palpable lie. Whereupon the doctor became wroth, and did not come near him for nine days.
Then his bed was tilted42 up so that his feet and legs were elevated. At once dropsy appeared in the body, and Dan Cullen contended that the thing was done in order to run the water down into his body from his legs and kill him more quickly. He demanded his discharge, though they told him he would die on the stairs, and dragged himself, more dead than alive, to the cobbler’s shop. At the moment of writing this, he is dying at the Temperance Hospital, into which place his staunch friend, the cobbler, moved heaven and earth to have him admitted.
Poor Dan Cullen! A Jude the Obscure, who reached out after knowledge; who toiled with his body in the day and studied in the watches of the night; who dreamed his dream and struck valiantly43 for the Cause; a patriot44, a lover of human freedom, and a fighter unafraid; and in the end, not gigantic enough to beat down the conditions which baffled and stifled45 him, a cynic and a pessimist24, gasping46 his final agony on a pauper’s couch in a charity ward47 — “For a man to die who might have been wise and was not, this I call a tragedy.”
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1
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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2
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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3
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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4
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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7
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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8
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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9
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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10
disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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11
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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14
sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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15
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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16
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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17
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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18
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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19
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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20
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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21
ebbs
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| 退潮( ebb的名词复数 )； 落潮； 衰退 | |
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22
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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23
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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25
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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27
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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28
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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29
anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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30
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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31
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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32
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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33
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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34
tampering
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| v.窜改( tamper的现在分词 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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35
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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36
privily
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| adv.暗中，秘密地 | |
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37
brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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38
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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39
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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40
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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41
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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42
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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43
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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44
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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45
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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46
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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47
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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