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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
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
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
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
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
'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.