George Orwell - Down and Out in Paris and London

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 Rou-

manians 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 more.

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 then?"

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 anxious about.

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 his 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 dosshouses, 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