And, by Jove, tomorrow we WERE sober!
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Gordon emerged from some long, sickly dream to the consciousness
that the books in the lending library were the wrong way up. They
were all lying on their sides. Moreover, for some reason their
backs had turned white--white and shiny, like porcelain.
He opened his eyes a little wider and moved an arm. Small rivulets
of pain, seemingly touched off by the movement, shot through his
body at unexpected places--down the calves of his legs, for
instance, and up both sides of his head. He perceived that he was
lying on his side, with a hard smooth pillow under his cheek and a
coarse blanket scratching his chin and pushing its hairs into his
mouth. Apart from the minor pains that stabbed him every time he
moved, there was a large, dull sort of pain which was not localized
but which seemed to hover all over him.
Suddenly he flung off the blanket and sat up. He was in a police
cell. At this moment a frightful spasm of nausea overcame him.
Dimly perceiving a W.C. in the corner, he crept towards it and was
violently sick, three or four times.
After that, for several minutes, he was in agonizing pain. He
could scarcely stand on his feet, his head throbbed as though it
were going to burst, and the light seemed like some scalding white
liquid pouring into his brain through the sockets of his eyes. He
sat on the bed holding his head between his hands. Presently, when
some of the throbbing had died down, he had another look about him.
The cell measured about twelve feet long by six wide and was very
high. The walls were all of white porcelain bricks, horribly white
and clean. He wondered dully how they cleaned as high up as the
ceiling. Perhaps with a hose, he reflected. At one end there was
a little barred window, very high up, and at the other end, over
the door, an electric bulb let into the wall and protected by a
stout grating. The thing he was sitting on was not actually a bed,
but a shelf with one blanket and a canvas pillow. The door was of
steel, painted green. In the door there was a little round hole
with a flap on the outside.
Having seen this much he lay down and pulled the blanket over him
again. He had no further curiosity about his surroundings. As to
what had happened last night, he remembered everything--at least,
he remembered everything up to the time when he had gone with Dora
into the room with the aspidistra. God knew what had happened
after that. There had been some kind of bust-up and he had landed
in the clink. He had no notion of what he had done; it might be
murder for all he knew. In any case he did not care. He turned
his face to the wall and pulled the blanket over his head to shut
out the light.
After a long time the spyhole in the door was pushed aside. Gordon
managed to turn his head round. His neck-muscles seemed to creak.
Through the spyhole he could see a blue eye and a semi-circle of
pink chubby cheek.
''Ja do with a cup of tea?' a voice said.
Gordon sat up and instantly felt very sick again. He took his head
between his hands and groaned. The thought of a cup of hot tea
appealed to him, but he knew it would make him sick if it had sugar
'Please,' he said.
The police constable opened a partition in the top half of the door
and passed in a thick white mug of tea. It had sugar in it. The
constable was a solid rosy young man of about twenty-five, with a
kind face, white eyelashes, and a tremendous chest. It reminded
Gordon of the chest of a carthorse. He spoke with a good accent
but with vulgar turns of speech. For a minute or so he stood
'You weren't half bad last night,' he said finally.
'I'm bad now.'
'You was worse last night, though. What you go and hit the
'Did I hit the sergeant?'
'Did you? Coo! He wasn't half wild. He turns to me and he says--
holding his ear he was, like this--he says, "Now, if that man
wasn't too drunk to stand, I'd knock his block off." It's all gone
down on your charge sheet. Drunk and disorderly. You'd only ha'
bin drunk and incapable if you hadn't of hit the sergeant.'
'Do you know what I shall get for this?'
'Five quid or fourteen days. You'll go up before Mr Groom. Lucky
for you it wasn't Mr Walker. He'd give you a month without the
option, Mr Walker would. Very severe on the drunks he is.
Gordon had drunk some of the tea. It was nauseatingly sweet but
its warmth made him feel stronger. He gulped it down. At this
moment a nasty, snarling sort of voice--the sergeant whom Gordon
had hit, no doubt--yelped from somewhere outside:
'Take that man out and get him washed. Black Maria leaves at half
The constable hastened to open the cell door. As soon as Gordon
stepped outside he felt worse then ever. This was partly because
it was much colder in the passage than in the cell. He walked a
step or two, and then suddenly his head was going round and round.
'I'm going to be sick!' he cried. He was falling--he flung out a
hand and stopped himself against the wall. The constable's strong
arm went round him. Across the arm, as over a rail, Gordon sagged,
doubled up and limp. A jet of vomit burst from him. It was the
tea, of course. There was a gutter running along the stone floor.
At the end of the passage the moustachio'd sergeant, in tunic
without a belt, stood with his hand on his hip, looking on
'Dirty little tyke,' he muttered, and turned away.
'Come on, old chap,' said the constable. 'You'll be better in half
He half led, half dragged Gordon to a big stone sink at the end of
the passage and helped him to strip to the waist. His gentleness
was astonishing. He handled Gordon almost like a nurse handling a
child. Gordon had recovered enough strength to sluice himself with
the ice-cold water and rinse his mouth out. The constable gave him
a torn towel to dry himself with and then led him back to the cell.
'Now you sit quiet till the Black Maria comes. And take my tip--
when you go up to the court, you plead guilty and say you won't do
it again. Mr Groom won't be hard on you.'
'Where are my collar and tie?' said Gordon.
'We took 'em away last night. You'll get 'em back before you go up
to court. We had a bloke hung himself with his tie, once.'
Gordon sat down on the bed. For a little while he occupied himself
by calculating the number of porcelain bricks in the walls, then
sat with his elbows on his knees, his head between his hands. He
was still aching all over; he felt weak, cold, jaded, and, above
all, bored. He wished that boring business of going up to the
court could be avoided somehow. The thought of being put into some
jolting vehicle and taken across London to hang about in chilly
cells and passages, and of having to answer questions and be
lectured by magistrates, bored him indescribably. All he wanted
was to be left alone. But presently there was the sound of several
voices farther down the passage, and then of feet approaching. The
partition in the door was opened.
'Couple of visitors for you,' the constable said.
Gordon was bored by the very thought of visitors. Unwillingly he
looked up, and saw Flaxman and Ravelston looking in upon him. How
they had got there together was a mystery, but Gordon felt not the
faintest curiosity about it. They bored him. He wished they would
'Hullo, chappie!' said Flaxman.
'YOU here?' said Gordon with a sort of weary offensiveness.
Ravelston looked miserable. He had been up since the very early
morning, looking for Gordon. This was the first time he had seen
the interior of a police cell. His face shrank with disgust as he
looked at the chilly white-tiled place with its shameless W.C. in
the corner. But Flaxman was more accustomed to this kind of thing.
He cocked a practised eye at Gordon.
'I've seen 'em worse,' he said cheerfully. 'Give him a prairie
oyster and he'd buck up something wonderful. D'you know what your
eyes look like, chappie?' he added to Gordon. 'They look as if
they'd been taken out and poached.'
'I was drunk last night,' said Gordon, his head between his hands.
'I gathered something of the kind, old chappie.'
'Look here, Gordon,' said Ravelston, 'we came to bail you out, but
it seems we're too late. They're taking you up to court in a few
minutes' time. This is a bloody show. It's a pity you didn't give
them a false name when they brought you here last night.'
'Did I tell them my name?'
'You told them everything. I wish to God I hadn't let you out of
my sight. You slipped out of that house somehow and into the
'Wandering up and down Shaftesbury Avenue, drinking out of a
bottle,' said Flaxman appreciatively. 'But you oughtn't to have
hit the sergeant, old chappie! That was a bit of bloody
foolishness. And I don't mind telling you Mother Wisbeach is on
your track. When your pal here came round this morning and told
her you'd been for a night on the tiles, she took on as if you'd
done a bloody murder.'
'And look here, Gordon,' said Ravelston.
There was the familiar note of discomfort in his face. It was
something about money, as usual. Gordon looked up. Ravelston was
gazing into the distance.
'About your fine. You'd better leave that to me. I'll pay it.'
'No, you won't.'
'My dear old chap! They'll send you to jail if I don't.'
'Oh, hell! I don't care.'
He did not care. At this moment he did not care if they sent him
to prison for a year. Of course he couldn't pay his fine himself.
He knew without even needing to look that he had no money left. He
would have given it all to Dora, or more probably she would have
pinched it. He lay down on the bed again and turned his back on
the others. In the sulky, sluggish state that he was in, his sole
desire was to get rid of them. They made a few more attempts to
talk to him, but he would not answer, and presently they went away.
Flaxman's voice boomed cheerfully down the passage. He was giving
Ravelston minute instructions as to how to make a prairie oyster.
The rest of that day was very beastly. Beastly was the ride in the
Black Maria, which, inside, was like nothing so much as a miniature
public lavatory, with tiny cubicles down each side, into which you
were locked and in which you had barely room to sit down.
Beastlier yet was the long wait in one of the cells adjoining the
magistrate's court. This cell was an exact replica of the cell at
the police station, even to having precisely the same number of
porcelain bricks. But it differed from the police station cell in
being repulsively dirty. It was cold, but the air was so fetid as
to be almost unbreathable. Prisoners were coming and going all the
time. They would be thrust into the cell, taken out after an hour
or two to go up to the court, and then perhaps brought back again
to wait while the magistrate decided upon their sentence or fresh
witnesses were sent for. There were always five or six men in the
cell, and there was nothing to sit on except the plank bed. And
the worst was that nearly all of them used the W.C.--there,
publicly, in the tiny cell. They could not help it. There was
nowhere else to go. And the plug of the beastly thing did not even
Until the afternoon Gordon felt sick and weak. He had had no
chance to shave, and his face was hatefully scrubby. At first he
merely sat on the corner of the plank bed, at the end nearest the
door, as far away from the W.C. as he could get, and took no notice
of the other prisoners. They bored and disgusted him; later, as
his headache wore off, he observed them with a faint interest.
There was a professional burglar, a lean worried-looking man with
grey hair, who was in a terrible stew about what would happen to
his wife and kids if he were sent to jail. He had been arrested
for 'loitering with intent to enter'--a vague offence for which you
generally get convicted if there are previous convictions against
you. He kept walking up and down, flicking the fingers of his
right hand with a curious nervous gesture, and exclaiming against
the unfairness of it. There was also a deaf mute who stank like a
ferret, and a small middle-aged Jew with a fur-collared overcoat,
who had been buyer to a large firm of kosher butchers. He had
bolted with twenty-seven pounds, gone to Aberdeen, of all places,
and spent the money on tarts. He too had a grievance, for he said
his case ought to have been tried in the rabbi's court instead of
being turned over to the police. There was also a publican who
had embezzled his Christmas club money. He was a big, hearty,
prosperous-looking man of about thirty-five, with a loud red face
and a loud blue overcoat--the sort of man who, if he were not a
publican, would be a bookie. His relatives had paid back the
embezzled money, all except twelve pounds, but the club members had
decided to prosecute. There was something in this man's eyes that
troubled Gordon. He carried everything off with a swagger, but all
the while there was that blank, staring look in his eyes; he would
fall into a kind of reverie at every gap in the conversation. It
was somehow rather dreadful to see him. There he was, still in his
smart clothes, with the splendour of a publican's life only a month
or two behind him; and now he was ruined, probably for ever. Like
all London publicans he was in the claw of the brewer, he would be
sold up and his furniture and fittings seized, and when he came out
of jail he would never have a pub or a job again.
The morning wore on with dismal slowness. You were allowed to
smoke--matches were forbidden, but the constable on duty outside
would give you a light through the trap in the door. Nobody had
any cigarettes except the publican, who had his pockets full of
them and distributed them freely. Prisoners came and went. A
ragged dirty man who claimed to be a coster 'up' for obstruction
was put into the cell for half an hour. He talked a great deal,
but the others were deeply suspicious of him; when he was taken out
again they all declared he was a 'split'. The police, it was said,
often put a 'split' into the cells, disguised as a prisoner, to
pick up information. Once there was great excitement when the
constable whispered through the trap that a murderer, or would-be
murderer, was being put into the cell next door. He was a youth of
eighteen who had stabbed his 'tart' in the belly, and she was not
expected to live. Once the trap opened and the tired, pale face of
a clergyman looked in. He saw the burglar, said wearily, 'YOU here
again, Jones?' and went away again. Dinner, so-called, was served
out at about twelve o'clock. All you got was a cup of tea and two
slices of bread and marg. You could have food sent in, though, if
you could pay for it. The publican had a good dinner sent in in
covered dishes; but he had no appetite for it, and gave most of it
away. Ravelston was still hanging about the court, waiting for
Gordon's case to come on, but he did not know the ropes well enough
to have food sent in to Gordon. Presently the burglar and the
publican were taken away, sentenced, and brought back to wait till
the Black Maria should take them off to jail. They each got nine
months. The publican questioned the burglar about what prison was
like. There was a conversation of unspeakable obscenity about the
lack of women there.
Gordon's case came on at half past two, and it was over so quickly
that it seemed preposterous to have waited all that time for it.
Afterwards he could remember nothing about the court except the
coat of arms over the magistrate's chair. The magistrate was
dealing with the drunks at the rate of two a minute. To the tune
of 'John-Smith-drunk six-shillings-move-on-NEXT!' they filed past
the railings of the dock, precisely like a crowd taking tickets at
a booking-office. Gordon's case, however, took two minutes instead
of thirty seconds, because he had been disorderly and the sergeant
had to testify that Gordon had struck him on the ear and called him
a ---- bastard. There was also a mild sensation in the court
because Gordon, when questioned at the police station, had
described himself as a poet. He must have been very drunk to say a
thing like that. The magistrate looked at him suspiciously.
'I see you call yourself a POET. ARE you a poet?'
'I write poetry,' said Gordon sulkily.
'Hm! Well, it doesn't seem to teach you to behave yourself, does
it? You will pay five pounds or go to prison for fourteen days.
And that was all. Nevertheless, somewhere at the back of the court
a bored reporter had pricked up his ears.
On the other side of the court there was a room where a police
sergeant sat with a large ledger, entering up the drunks' fines and
taking payment. Those who could not pay were taken back to the
cells. Gordon had expected this to happen to himself. He was
quite resigned to going to prison. But when he emerged from the
court it was to find that Ravelston was waiting there and had
already paid his fine for him. Gordon did not protest. He allowed
Ravelston to pack him into a taxi and take him back to the flat in
Regent's Park. As soon as they got there Gordon had a hot bath; he
needed one, after the beastly contaminating grime of the last
twelve hours. Ravelston lent him a razor, lent him a clean shirt
and pyjamas and socks and underclothes, even went out of doors and
bought him a toothbrush. He was strangely solicitous about Gordon.
He could not rid himself of a guilty feeling that what had happened
last night was mainly his own fault; he ought to have put his foot
down and taken Gordon home as soon as he showed signs of being
drunk. Gordon scarcely noticed what was being done for him. Even
the fact the Ravelston had paid his fine failed to trouble him.
For the rest of that afternoon he lay in one of the armchairs in
front of the fire, reading a detective story. About the future he
refused to think. He grew sleepy very early. At eight o'clock he
went to bed in the spare bedroom and slept like a log for nine
It was not till next morning that he began to think seriously about
his situation. He woke in the wide caressing bed, softer and
warmer than any bed he had ever slept in, and began to grope about
for his matches. Then he remembered that in places like this you
didn't need matches to get a light, and felt for the electric
switch that hung on a cord at the bedhead. Soft light flooded the
room. There was a syphon of soda water on the bed-table. Gordon
discovered that even after thirty-six hours there was still a vile
taste in his mouth. He had a drink and looked about him.
It was a queer feeling, lying there in somebody else's pyjamas in
somebody else's bed. He felt that he had no business there--that
this wasn't the sort of place where he belonged. There was a sense
of guilt in lying here in luxury when he was ruined and hadn't a
penny in the world. For he was ruined right enough, there was no
doubt about that. He seemed to know with perfect certainty that
his job was lost. God knew what was going to happen next. The
memory of that stupid dull debauch rolled back upon him with
beastly vividness. He could recall everything, from his first pink
gin before he started out to Dora's peach-coloured garters. He
squirmed when he thought of Dora. WHY does one do these things?
Money again, always money! The rich don't behave like that. The
rich are graceful even in their vices. But if you have no money
you don't even know how to spend it when you get it. You just
splurge it frantically away, like a sailor in a bawdy-house his
first night ashore.
He had been in the clink, twelve hours. He thought of the cold
faecal stench of that cell at the police court. A foretaste of
future days. And everyone would know that he had been in the
clink. With luck it might be kept from Aunt Angela and Uncle
Walter, but Julia and Rosemary probably knew already. With
Rosemary it didn't matter so much, but Julia would be ashamed and
miserable. He thought of Julia. Her long thin back as she bent
over the tea-caddy; her good, goose-like, defeated face. She had
never lived. From childhood she had been sacrificed to him--to
Gordon, to 'the boy'. It might be a hundred quid he had 'borrowed'
from her in all these years; and then even five quid he couldn't
spare her. Five quid he had set aside for her, and then spent it
on a tart!
He turned out the light and lay on his back, wide awake. At this
moment he saw himself with frightful clarity. He took a sort of
inventory of himself and his possessions. Gordon Comstock, last of
the Comstocks, thirty years old, with twenty-six teeth left; with
no money and no job; in borrowed pyjamas in a borrowed bed; with
nothing before him except cadging and destitution, and nothing
behind him except squalid fooleries. His total wealth a puny body
and two cardboard suitcases full of worn-out clothes.
At seven Ravelston was awakened by a tap on his door. He rolled
over and said sleepily, 'Hullo?' Gordon came in, a dishevelled
figure almost lost in the borrowed silk pyjamas. Ravelston roused
himself, yawning. Theoretically he got up at the proletarian hour
of seven. Actually he seldom stirred until Mrs Beaver, the
charwoman, arrived at eight. Gordon pushed the hair out of his
eyes and sat down on the foot of Ravelston's bed.
'I say, Ravelston, this is bloody. I've been thinking things over.
There's going to be hell to pay.'
'I shall lose my job. McKechnie can't keep me on after I've been
in the clink. Besides, I ought to have been at work yesterday.
Probably the shop wasn't opened all day.'
Ravelston yawned. 'It'll be all right, I think. That fat chap--
what's his name? Flaxman--rang McKechnie up and told him you were
down with flu. He made it pretty convincing. He said your
temperature was a hundred and three. Of course your landlady
knows. But I don't suppose she'd tell McKechnie.'
'But suppose it's got into the papers!'
'Oh, lord! I suppose that might happen. The char brings the
papers up at eight. But do they report drunk cases? Surely not?'
Mrs Beaver brought the Telegraph and the Herald. Ravelston sent
her out for the Mail and the Express. They searched hurriedly
through the police-court news. Thank God! it hadn't 'got into the
papers' after all. There was no reason why it should, as a matter
of fact. It was not as if Gordon had been a racing motorist or a
professional footballer. Feeling better, Gordon managed to eat
some breakfast, and after breakfast Ravelston went out. It was
agreed that he should go up to the shop, see Mr McKechnie, give him
further details of Gordon's illness, and find out how the land lay.
It seemed quite natural to Ravelston to waste several days in
getting Gordon out of his scrape. All the morning Gordon hung
about the flat, restless and out of sorts, smoking cigarettes in an
endless chain. Now that he was alone, hope had deserted him. He
knew by profound instinct that Mr McKechnie would have heard about
his arrest. It wasn't the kind of thing you could keep dark. He
had lost his job, and that was all about it.
He lounged across to the window and looked out. A desolate day;
the whitey-grey sky looked as if it could never be blue again; the
naked trees wept slowly into the gutters. Down a neighbouring
street the cry of the coal-man echoed mournfully. Only a fortnight
to Christmas now. Jolly to be out of work at this time of year!
But the thought, instead of frightening him, merely bored him. The
peculiar lethargic feeling, the stuffy heaviness behind the eyes,
that one has after a fit of drunkenness, seemed to have settled
upon him permanently. The prospect of searching for another job
bored him even more than the prospect of poverty. Besides, he
would never find another job. There are no jobs to be had
nowadays. He was going down, down into the sub-world of the
unemployed--down, down into God knew what workhouse depths of dirt
and hunger and futility. And chiefly he was anxious to get it over
with as little fuss and effort as possible.
Ravelston came back at about one o'clock. He pulled his gloves off
and threw them into a chair. He looked tired and depressed.
Gordon saw at a glance that the game was up.
'He's heard, of course?' he said.
'Everything, I'm afraid.'
'How? I suppose that cow of a Wisbeach woman went and sneaked to
'No. It was in the paper after all. The local paper. He got it
out of that.'
'Oh, hell! I'd forgotten that.'
Ravelston produced from his coat pocket a folded copy of a bi-
weekly paper. It was one that they took in at the shop because Mr
McKechnie advertised in it--Gordon had forgotten that. He opened
it. Gosh! What a splash! It was all over the middle page.
BOOKSELLER'S ASSISTANT FINED
MAGISTRATE'S SEVERE STRICTURE
There were nearly two columns of it. Gordon had never been so
famous before and never would be again. They must have been very
hard up for a bit of news. But these local papers have a curious
notion of patriotism. They are so avid for local news that a
bicycle-accident in the Harrow Road will occupy more space than a
European crisis, and such items of news as 'Hampstead Man on Murder
Charge' or 'Dismembered Baby in Cellar in Camberwell' are displayed
with positive pride.
Ravelston described his interview with Mr McKechnie. Mr McKechnie,
it seemed, was torn between his rage against Gordon and his desire
not to offend such a good customer as Ravelston. But of course,
after such a thing like that, you could hardly expect him to take
Gordon back. These scandals were bad for trade, and besides, he
was justly angry at the lies Flaxman had told him over the phone.
But he was angriest of all at the thought of HIS assistant being
drunk and disorderly. Ravelston said that the drunkenness seemed
to anger him in a way that was peculiar. He gave the impression
that he would almost have preferred Gordon to pinch money out of
the till. Of course, he was a teetotaller himself. Gordon had
sometimes wondered whether he wasn't also a secret drinker, in the
traditional Scottish style. His nose was certainly very red. But
perhaps it was snuff that did it. Anyway, that was that. Gordon
was in the soup, full fathom five.
'I suppose the Wisbeach will stick to my clothes and things,' he
said. 'I'm not going round there to fetch them. Besides, I owe
her a week's rent.'
'Oh, don't worry about that. I'll see to your rent and everything.'
'My dear chap, I can't let you pay my rent!'
'Oh, dash it!' Ravelston's face grew faintly pink. He looked
miserably into the distance, and then said what he had to say all
in a sudden burst: 'Look here, Gordon, we must get this settled.
You've just got to stay here till this business has blown over.
I'll see you through about money and all that. You needn't think
you're being a nuisance, because you're not. And anyway, it's only
till you get another job.'
Gordon moved moodily away from him, his hands in his pockets. He
had foreseen all this, of course. He knew that he ought to refuse,
he WANTED to refuse, and yet he had not quite the courage.
'I'm not going to sponge on you like that,' he said sulkily.
'Don't use such expressions, for God's sake! Besides, where could
you go if you didn't stay here?'
'I don't know--into the gutter, I suppose. It's where I belong.
The sooner I get there the better.'
'Rot! You're going to stay here till you've found another job.'
'But there isn't a job in the world. It might be a year before I
found a job. I don't WANT a job.'
'You mustn't talk like that. You'll find a job right enough.
Something's bound to turn up. And for God's sake don't talk about
SPONGING on me. It's only an arrangement between friends. If you
really want to, you can pay it all back when you've got the money.'
But in the end he let himself be persuaded. He had known that he
would let himself be persuaded. He stayed on at the flat, and
allowed Ravelston to go round to Willowbed Road and pay his rent
and recover his two cardboard suitcases; he even allowed Ravelston
to 'lend' him a further two pounds for current expenses. His heart
sickened while he did it. He was living on Ravelston--sponging on
Ravelston. How could there ever be a real friendship between them
again? Besides, in his heart he didn't want to be helped. He only
wanted to be left alone. He was headed for the gutter; better to
reach the gutter quickly and get it over. Yet for the time being
he stayed, simply because he lacked the courage to do otherwise.
But as for this business of getting a job, it was hopeless from the
start. Even Ravelston, though rich, could not manufacture jobs out
of nothing. Gordon knew beforehand that there were no jobs going
begging in the book trade. During the next three days he wore his
shoes out traipsing from bookseller to bookseller. At shop after
shop he set his teeth, marched in, demanded to see the manager, and
three minutes later marched out again with his nose in the air.
The answer was always the same--no jobs vacant. A few booksellers
were taking on an extra man for the Christmas rush, but Gordon was
not the type they were looking for. He was neither smart nor
servile; he wore shabby clothes and spoke with the accent of a
gentleman. Besides, a few questions always brought it out that he
had been sacked from his last job for drunkenness. After only
three days he gave it up. He knew it was no use. It was only to
please Ravelston that he had even been pretending to look for work.
In the evening he trailed back to the flat, footsore and with his
nerves on edge from a series of snubs. He was making all his
journeys on foot, to economize Ravelston's two pounds. When he got
back Ravelston had just come up from the office and was sitting in
one of the armchairs in front of the fire, with some long galley-
proofs over his knee. He looked up as Gordon came in.
'Any luck?' he said as usual.
Gordon did not answer. If he had answered it would have been with
a stream of obscenities. Without even looking at Ravelston he went
straight into his bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and flung himself
on the bed. He hated himself at this moment. Why had he come
back? What right had he to come back and sponge on Ravelston when
he hadn't even the intention of looking for a job any longer? He
ought to have stayed out in the streets, slept in Trafalgar Square,
begged--anything. But he hadn't the guts to face the streets as
yet. The prospect of warmth and shelter had tugged him back. He
lay with his hands beneath his head, in a mixture of apathy and
self-hatred. After about half an hour he heard the door-bell ring
and Ravelston get up to answer it. It was that bitch Hermione
Slater, presumably. Ravelston had introduced Gordon to Hermione a
couple of days ago, and she had treated him like dirt. But a
moment later there was a knock at the bedroom door.
'What is it?' said Gordon.
'Somebody's come to see you,' said Ravelston.
'To see ME?'
'Yes. Come on into the other room.'
Gordon swore and rolled sluggishly off the bed. When he got to the
other room he found that the visitor was Rosemary. He had been
half expecting her, of course, but it wearied him to see her. He
knew why she had come; to sympathize with him, to pity him, to
reproach him--it was all the same. In his despondent, bored mood
he did not want to make the effort of talking to her. All he
wanted was to be left alone. But Ravelston was glad to see her.
He had taken a liking to her in their single meeting and thought
she might cheer Gordon up. He made a transparent pretext to go
downstairs to the office, leaving the two of them together.
They were alone, but Gordon made no move to embrace her. He was
standing in front of the fire, round-shouldered, his hands in his
coat pockets, his feet thrust into a pair of Ravelston's slippers
which were much too big for him. She came rather hesitantly
towards him, not yet taking off her hat or her coat with the lamb-
skin collar. It hurt her to see him. In less than a week his
appearance had deteriorated strangely. Already he had that
unmistakable, seedy, lounging look of a man who is out of work.
His face seemed to have grown thinner, and there were rings round
his eyes. Also it was obvious that he had not shaved that day.
She laid her hand on his arm, rather awkwardly, as a woman does
when it is she who has to make the first embrace.
He said it almost sulkily. The next moment she was in his arms.
But it was she who had made the first movement, not he. Her head
was on his breast, and behold! she was struggling with all her
might against the tears that almost overwhelmed her. It bored
Gordon dreadfully. He seemed so often to reduce her to tears! And
he didn't want to be cried over; he only wanted to be left alone--
alone to sulk and despair. As he held her there, one hand
mechanically caressing her shoulder, his main feeling was boredom.
She had made things more difficult for him by coming here. Ahead
of him were dirt, cold, hunger, the streets, the workhouse, and the
jail. It was against THAT that he had got to steel himself. And
he could steel himself, if only she would leave him alone and not
come plaguing him with these irrelevant emotions.
He pushed her a little way from him. She had recovered herself
quickly, as she always did.
'Gordon, my dear one! Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry!'
'Sorry about what?'
'You losing your job and everything. You look so unhappy.'
'I'm not unhappy. Don't pity me, for God's sake.'
He disengaged himself from her arms. She pulled her hat off and
threw it into a chair. She had come here with something definite
to say. It was something she had refrained from saying all these
years--something that it had seemed to her a point of chivalry not
to say. But now it had got to be said, and she would come straight
out with it. It was not in her nature to beat about the bush.
'Gordon, will you do something to please me?'
'Will you go back to the New Albion?'
So that was it! Of course he had foreseen it. She was going to
start nagging at him like all the others. She was going to add
herself to the band of people who worried him and badgered him to
'get on'. But what else could you expect? It was what any woman
would say. The marvel was that she had never said it before. Go
back to the New Albion! It had been the sole significant action of
his life, leaving the New Albion. It was his religion, you might
say, to keep out of that filthy money-world. Yet at this moment he
could not remember with any clarity the motives for which he had
left the New Albion. All he knew was that he would never go back,
not if the skies fell, and that the argument he foresaw bored him
He shrugged his shoulders and looked away. 'The New Albion
wouldn't take me back,' he said shortly.
'Yes, they would. You remember what Mr Erskine said. It's not so
long ago--only two years. And they're always on the look-out for
good copywriters. Everyone at the office says so. I'm sure they'd
give you a job if you went and asked them. And they'd pay you at
least four pounds a week.'
'Four pounds a week! Splendid! I could afford to keep an
aspidistra on that, couldn't I?'
'No, Gordon, don't joke about it now.'
'I'm not joking. I'm serious.'
'You mean you won't go back to them--not even if they offered you a
'Not in a thousand years. Not if they paid me fifty pounds a
'But why? Why?'
'I've told you why,' he said wearily.
She looked at him helplessly. After all, it was no use. There was
this money-business standing in the way--these meaningless scruples
which she had never understood but which she had accepted merely
because they were his. She felt all the impotence, the resentment
of a woman who sees an abstract idea triumphing over common sense.
How maddening it was, that he should let himself be pushed into the
gutter by a thing like that! She said almost angrily:
'I don't understand you, Gordon, I really don't. Here you are out
of work, you may be starving in a little while for all you know;
and yet when there's a good job which you can have almost for the
asking, you won't take it.'
'No, you're quite right. I won't.'
'But you must have SOME kind of job, mustn't you?'
'A job, but not a GOOD job. I've explained that God knows how
often. I dare say I'll get a job of sorts sooner or later. The
same kind of job as I had before.'
'But I don't believe you're even TRYING to get a job, are you?'
'Yes, I am. I've been out all today seeing booksellers.'
'And you didn't even shave this morning!' she said, changing her
ground with feminine swiftness.
He felt his chin. 'I don't believe I did, as a matter of fact.'
'And then you expect people to give you a job! Oh, Gordon!'
'Oh, well, what does it matter? It's too much fag to shave every
'You're letting yourself go to pieces,' she said bitterly. 'You
don't seem to WANT to make any effort. You want to sink--just
'I don't know--perhaps. I'd sooner sink than rise.'
There were further arguments. It was the first time she had ever
spoken to him like this. Once again the tears came into her eyes,
and once again she fought them back. She had come here swearing to
herself that she would not cry. The dreadful thing was that her
tears, instead of distressing him, merely bored him. It was as
though he COULD not care, and yet at his very centre there was an
inner heart that cared because he could not care. If only she
would leave him alone! Alone, alone! Free from the nagging
consciousness of his failure; free to sink, as she had said, down,
down into quiet worlds where money and effort and moral obligation
did not exist. Finally he got away from her and went back to the
spare bedroom, it was definitely a quarrel--the first really deadly
quarrel they had ever had. Whether it was to be final he did not
know. Nor did he care, at this moment. He locked the door behind
him and lay on the bed smoking a cigarette. He must get out of
this place, and quickly! Tomorrow morning he would clear out.
No more sponging on Ravelston! No more blackmail to the gods
of decency! Down, down, into the mud--down to the streets, the
workhouse, and the jail. It was only there that he could be at
Ravelston came upstairs to find Rosemary alone and on the point of
departure. She said good-bye and then suddenly turned to him and
laid her hand on his arm. She felt that she knew him well enough
now to take him into her confidence.
'Mr Ravelston, please--WILL you try and persuade Gordon to get a
'I'll do what I can. Of course it's always difficult. But I
expect we'll find him a job of sorts before long.'
'It's so dreadful to see him like this! He goes absolutely to
pieces. And all the time, you see, there's a job he could quite
easily get if he wanted it--a really GOOD job. It's not that he
can't, it's simply that he won't.'
She explained about the New Albion. Ravelston rubbed his nose.
'Yes. As a matter of fact I've heard all about that. We talked it
over when he left the New Albion.'
'But you don't think he was right to leave them?' she said,
promptly divining that Ravelston DID think Gordon right.
'Well--I grant you it wasn't very wise. But there's a certain
amount of truth in what he says. Capitalism's corrupt and we ought
to keep outside it--that's his idea. It's not practicable, but in
a way it's sound.'
'Oh, I dare say it's all right as a theory! But when he's out of
work and when he could get this job if he chose to ask for it--
SURELY you don't think he's right to refuse?'
'Not from a common-sense point of view. But in principle--well,
'Oh, in principle! We can't afford principles, people like us.
THAT'S what Gordon doesn't seem to understand.'
Gordon did not leave the flat next morning. One resolves to do
these things, one WANTS to do them; but when the time comes, in the
cold morning light, they somehow don't get done. He would stay
just one day more he told himself; and then again it was 'just one
day more', until five whole days had passed since Rosemary's visit,
and he was still lurking there, living on Ravelston, with not even
a flicker of a job in sight. He still made some pretence of
searching for work, but he only did it to save his face. He would
go out and loaf for hours in public libraries, and then come home
to lie on the bed in the spare bedroom, dressed except for his
shoes, smoking endless cigarettes. And for all that inertia and
the fear of the streets still held him there, those five days were
awful, damnable, unspeakable. There is nothing more dreadful in
the world than to live in somebody else's house, eating his bread
and doing nothing in return for it. And perhaps it is worst of all
when your benefactor won't for a moment admit that he is your
benefactor. Nothing could have exceeded Ravelston's delicacy. He
would have perished rather than admit that Gordon was sponging on
him. He had paid Gordon's fine, he had paid his arrears of rent,
he had kept him for a week, and he had 'lent' him two pounds on top
of that; but it was nothing, it was a mere arrangement between
friends, Gordon would do the same for him another time. From time
to time Gordon made feeble efforts to escape, which always ended in
the same way.
'Look here, Ravelston, I can't stay here any longer. You've kept
me long enough. I'm going to clear out tomorrow morning.'
'But my dear old chap! Do be sensible. You haven't--' But no!
Not even now, when Gordon was openly on the rocks, could Ravelston
say, 'You haven't got any money.' One can't say things like that.
He compromised: 'Where are you going to live, anyway?'
'God knows--I don't care. There are common lodging-houses and
places. I've got a few bob left.'
'Don't be such an ass. You'd much better stay here till you've
found a job.'
'But it might be months, I tell you. I can't live on you like
'Rot, my dear chap! I like having you here.'
But of course, in his inmost heart, he didn't really like having
Gordon there. How should he? It was an impossible situation.
There was a tension between them all the time. It is always so
when one person is living on another. However delicately
disguised, charity is still horrible; there is a malaise, almost a
secret hatred, between the giver and the receiver. Gordon knew
that his friendship with Ravelston would never be the same again.
Whatever happened afterwards, the memory of this evil time would be
between them. The feeling of his dependent position, of being in
the way, unwanted, a nuisance, was with him night and day. At
meals he would scarcely eat, he would not smoke Ravelston's
cigarettes, but bought himself cigarettes out of his few remaining
shillings. He would not even light the gas-fire in his bedroom.
He would have made himself invisible if he could. Every day, of
course, people were coming and going at the flat and at the office.
All of them saw Gordon and grasped his status. Another of
Ravelston's pet scroungers, they all said. He even detected a
gleam of professional jealousy in one or two of the hangers-on of
Antichrist. Three times during that week Hermione Slater came.
After his first encounter with her he fled from the flat as soon as
she appeared; on one occasion, when she came at night, he had to
stay out of doors till after midnight. Mrs Beaver, the charwoman,
had also 'seen through' Gordon. She knew his type. He was another
of those good-for-nothing young 'writing gentlemen' who sponged on
poor Mr Ravelston. So in none too subtle ways she made things
uncomfortable for Gordon. Her favourite trick was to rout him out
with broom and pan--'Now, Mr Comstock, I've got to do this room
out, IF you please'--from whichever room he had settled down in.
But in the end, unexpectedly and through no effort of his own,
Gordon did get a job. One morning a letter came for Ravelston from
Mr McKechnie. Mr McKechnie had relented--not to the extent of
taking Gordon back, of course, but to the extent of helping him
find another job. He said that a Mr Cheeseman, a bookseller in
Lambeth, was looking for an assistant. From what he said it was
evident that Gordon could get the job if he applied for it; it was
equally evident that there was some snag about the job. Gordon had
vaguely heard of Mr Cheeseman--in the book trade everybody knows
everybody else. In his heart the news bored him. He didn't really
want this job. He didn't want ever to work again; all he wanted
was to sink, sink, effortless, down into the mud. But he couldn't
disappoint Ravelston after all Ravelston had done for him. So the
same morning he went down to Lambeth to inquire about the job.
The shop was in the desolate stretch of road south of Waterloo
Bridge. It was a poky, mean-looking shop, and the name over it,
in faded gilt, was not Cheeseman but Eldridge. In the window,
however, there were some valuable calf folios, and some sixteenth-
century maps which Gordon thought must be worth money. Evidently
Mr Cheeseman specialized in 'rare' books. Gordon plucked up his
courage and went in.
As the door-bell ping'd, a tiny, evil-looking creature, with a
sharp nose and heavy black eyebrows, emerged from the office behind
the shop. He looked up at Gordon with a kind of nosy malice. When
he spoke it was in an extraordinary clipped manner, as though he
were biting each word in half before it escaped from him. 'Ot c'n
I do f'yer!'--that approximately was what it sounded like. Gordon
explained why he had come. Mr Cheeseman shot a meaning glance at
him and answered in the same clipped manner as before:
'Oh, eh? Comstock, eh? Come 'is way. Got mi office back here.
Bin 'specting you.'
Gordon followed him. Mr Cheeseman was a rather sinister little
man, almost small enough to be called a dwarf, with very black
hair, and slightly deformed. As a rule a dwarf, when malformed,
has a full-sized torso and practically no legs. With Mr Cheeseman
it was the other way about. His legs were normal length, but the
top half of his body was so short that his buttocks seemed to
sprout almost immediately below his shoulder blades. This gave
him, in walking, a resemblance to a pair of scissors. He had the
powerful bony shoulders of the dwarf, the large ugly hands, and the
sharp nosing movements of the head. His clothes had that peculiar
hardened, shiny texture of clothes that are very old and very
dirty. They were just going into the office when the door-bell
ping'd again, and a customer came in, holding out a book from the
sixpenny box outside and half a crown. Mr Cheeseman did not take
the change out of the till--apparently there was no till--but
produced a very greasy wash-leather purse from some secret place
under his waistcoat. He handled the purse, which was almost lost
in his big hands, in a peculiarly secretive way, as though to hide
it from sight.
'I like keep mi money i' mi pocket,' he explained, with an upward
glance, as they went into the office.
It was apparent that Mr Cheeseman clipped his words from a notion
that words cost money and ought not to be wasted. In the office
they had a talk, and Mr Cheeseman extorted from Gordon the
confession that he had been sacked for drunkenness. As a matter of
fact he knew all about this already. He had heard about Gordon
from Mr McKechnie, whom he had met at an auction a few days
earlier. He had pricked up his ears when he heard the story, for
he was on the look-out for an assistant, and clearly an assistant
who had been sacked for drunkenness would come at reduced wages.
Gordon saw that his drunkenness was going to be used as a weapon
against him. Yet Mr Cheeseman did not seem absolutely unfriendly.
He seemed to be the kind of person who will cheat you if he can,
and bully you if you give him the chance, but who will also regard
you with a contemptuous good-humour. He took Gordon into his
confidence, talked of conditions in the trade, and boasted with
much chuckling of his own astuteness. He had a peculiar chuckle,
his mouth curving upwards at the corners and his large nose seeming
about to disappear into it.
Recently, he told Gordon, he had had an idea for a profitable side-
line. He was going to start a twopenny library; but it would have
to be quite separate from the shop, because anything so low-class
would frighten away the book-lovers who came to the shop in search
of 'rare' books. He had taken premises a little distance away, and
in the lunch-hour he took Gordon to see them. They were farther
down the dreary street, between a flyblown ham-and-beef shop and a
smartish undertaker. The ads in the undertaker's window caught
Gordon's eye. It seems you can get underground for as little as
two pounds ten nowadays. You can even get buried on the hire-
purchase. There was also an ad for cremations--'Reverent,
Sanitary, and Inexpensive.'
The premises consisted of a single narrow room--a mere pipe of a
room with a window as wide as itself, furnished with a cheap desk,
one chair, and a card index. The new-painted shelves were ready
and empty. This was not, Gordon saw at a glance, going to be the
kind of library that he had presided over at McKechnie's.
McKechnie's library had been comparatively highbrow. It had
dredged no deeper than Dell, and it even had books by Lawrence and
Huxley. But this was one of those cheap arid evil little libraries
('mushroom libraries', they are called) which are springing up all
over London and are deliberately aimed at the uneducated. In
libraries like these there is not a single book that is ever
mentioned in the reviews or that any civilized person has ever
heard of. The books are published by special low-class firms and
turned out by wretched hacks at the rate of four a year, as
mechanically as sausages and with much less skill. In effect they
are merely fourpenny novelettes disguised as novels, and they only
cost the library-proprietor one and eightpence a volume. Mr
Cheeseman explained that he had not ordered the books yet. He
spoke of 'ordering the books' as one might speak of ordering a ton
of coals. He was going to start with five hundred assorted titles,
he said. The shelves were already marked off into sections--'Sex',
'Crime', 'Wild West', and so forth.
He offered Gordon the job. It was very simple. All you had to do
was to remain there ten hours a day, hand out the book, take the
money, and choke off the more obvious book-pinchers. The pay, he
added with a measuring, sidelong glance, was thirty shillings a
Gordon accepted promptly. Mr Cheeseman was perhaps faintly
disappointed. He had expected an argument, and would have enjoyed
crushing Gordon by reminding him that beggars can't be choosers.
But Gordon was satisfied. The job would do. There was no TROUBLE
about a job like this; no room for ambition, no effort, no hope.
Ten bob less--ten bob nearer the mud. It was what he wanted.
He 'borrowed' another two pounds from Ravelston and took a
furnished bed-sitting room, eight bob a week, in a filthy alley
parallel to Lambeth Cut. Mr Cheeseman ordered the five hundred
assorted titles, and Gordon started work on the twentieth of
December. This, as it happened, was his thirtieth birthday.