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 rendezvous1 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 spoke2 to one of them in bad Urdu he addressed me as ‘turn’ — a thing to make one shudder3, 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 deserted4 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 solitary5 gorges6 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 cadge8 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 acrobats10 and street photographers. On a good pitch — a theatre queue, for instance — a street acrobat9 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 dodge11 to stimulate12 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 tune13, after which his mate, who had a wooden leg and could excite compassion14, 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 Salon15 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 dealers16, and wondering how the devil to raise a bob or two. Then, in the Strand17, 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, arid18 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 pint19 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 nude20 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 ‘immoral21 conduct’ in Hyde Park, in which the police had behaved rather badly. Bozo produced a cartoon of Hyde Park with policemen concealed22 in the trees, and the legend, ‘Puzzle, find the policemen.’ I pointed23 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 hymns24, or sell matches, or bootlaces, or envelopes containing a few grains of lavender — called, euphemistically, perfume. All these people are frankly25 beggars, exploiting an appearance of misery26, 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 forth27 instead of begging outright28 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 hideous29 by droning ‘Nearer, my God, to Thee,’ or scrawl30 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 legitimate31 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 standing32 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 consorted33 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 parasites34, 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 mere7 social excrescence, tolerated because we live in a humane36 age, but essentially37 despicable.
Yet if one looks closely one sees that there is no ESSENTIAL difference between a beggar’s livelihood38 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 veins39, chronic40 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 proprietor41, amiable42 compared with a hire-purchase tout43 — in short, a parasite35, but a fairly harmless parasite. He seldom extracts more than a bare living from the community, and, what should justify44 him according to our ethical45 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 parasitic46; the sole thing demanded is that it shall be profitable. In all the modem47 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 virtue48. 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 modem people, sold his honour; he has merely made the mistake of choosing a trade at which it is impossible to grow rich.
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1
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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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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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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7
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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cadge
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| v.乞讨 | |
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acrobat
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| n.特技演员，杂技演员 | |
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acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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25
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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consorted
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| v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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34
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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37
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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38
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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40
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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41
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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42
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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43
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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44
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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45
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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46
parasitic
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| adj.寄生的 | |
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47
modem
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| n.调制解调器 | |
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48
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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