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George Orwell > Down and Out in Paris and London > Chapter XXII

Down and Out in Paris and London

Chapter 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 modem 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, FAINEANT 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 modem 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 Gato 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

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.

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