George Orwell - Down and Out in Paris and London

He had two subjects of conversation, the shame and

come-down of being a tramp, and the best way of getting

a free meal. As we drifted through the streets he would

keep up a monologue in this style, in a whimpering, self-

pitying Irish voice:

"It's hell bein' on de road, eh? It breaks yer heart goin'

into dem bloody spikes. But what's a man to do else, eh?

I ain't had a good meat meal for about two months, an'

me boots is getting bad, an'-Christ! How'd it be if we was

to try for a cup o' tay at one o' dem convents on de way

to Edbury? Most times dey're good for a cup o' tay. Ah,

what'd a man do widout religion, eh? I've took cups o' tay

from de convents, an' de Baptists, an' de Church of

England, an' all sorts. I'm a Catholic meself. Dat's to say,

I ain't been to confession for. about seventeen year, but

still I got me religious feelin's, y'understand. An' dem

convents is always good for a cup o' tay . . ." etc. etc. He

would keep this up all day, almost without stopping.

His ignorance was limitless and appalling. He once

asked me, for instance, whether Napoleon lived before

Jesus Christ or after. Another time, when I was looking

into a bookshop window, he grew very perturbed because

one of the books was called Of the

Imitation of Christ . He

took this for blasphemy. "What de hell do dey want to go

imitatin' of

Him for?" he demanded angrily. He could

read, but he had a kind of loathing for books. On our

way from Romton to Edbury I went into a public library,

and, though Paddy did not want to read, I suggested that

he should come in and rest his

legs. But he preferred to wait on the pavement. "No," he

said, "de sight of all dat bloody print makes me sick."

Like most tramps, he was passionately mean about

matches. He had a box of matches when I met him, but I

never saw him strike one, and he used to lecture me for

extravagance when I struck mine. His method was to

cadge a light from strangers, sometimes going without a

smoke for half an hour rather than strike a match.

Self-pity was the clue to his character. The thought of

his bad luck never seemed to leave him for an instant. He

would break long silences to exclaim, apropos of nothing,

"It's hell when yer clo'es begin to go up de spout, eh?" or

"Dat tay in de spike ain't tay, it's piss," as though there

was nothing else in the world to think about. And he had a

low, worm-like envy of anyone who was better off-not of

the rich, for they were beyond his social horizon, but of

men in work. He pined for work as an artist pines to be

famous. If he saw an old man working he would say

bitterly, "Look at dat old keepin' able-bodied men out o'

work"; or if it was a boy, "It's dem young devils what's

takin' de bread out of our mouths." And all foreigners to

him were "dem bloody dagoes"-for, according to his

theory, foreigners were responsible for unemployment.

He looked at women with a mixture of longing and

hatred. Young, pretty women were too much above him to

enter into his ideas, but his mouth watered at prostitutes.

A couple of scarlet-lipped old creatures would go past;

Paddy's face would flush pale pink, and he would turn and

stare hungrily after the women. "Tarts!" he would

murmur, like a boy at a sweetshop window. He told me

once that he had not had to do with a woman for two

years-since he had lost his job, that is-and he had

forgotten that one could aim higherthan prostitutes.

He had the regular character of a tramp-abject, envious,

a jackal's character.

Nevertheless, he was a good fellow, generous by nature

and capable of sharing his last crust with a friend;

indeed he did literally share his last crust with me

more than once. He was probably capable of work too, if

he had been well fed for a few months. But two years of

bread and margarine had lowered his standards hopelessly.

He had lived on this filthy imitation of food till his own

mind and body were compounded of inferior stuff. It was

malnutrition and not any native vice that had destroyed

his manhood.

XXIX

ON the way to Edbury I told Paddy that I had a friend

from whom I could be sure of getting money, and

suggested going straight into London rather than face

another night in the spike. But Paddy had not been in

Edbury spike recently, and, tramp-like, he would not

waste a night's free lodging. We arranged to go into

London the next morning. I had only a halfpenny, but

Paddy had two shillings, which would get us a bed each

and a few cups of tea.

The Edbury spike did not differ much from the one at

Romton. The worst feature was that all tobacco was

confiscated at the gate, and we were warned that any man

caught smoking would be turned out at once. Under the

Vagrancy Act tramps can be prosecuted for smoking in the

spike-in fact, they can be prosecuted for almost anything;

but the authorities generally save the trouble of a

prosecution by turning disobedient men out of doors.

There was no work to do, and the cells were fairly

comfortable. We slept two in a cell,

"one up, one down"-that is, one on a wooden shelf and

one on the floor, with straw palliasses and plenty of

blankets, dirty but not verminous. The food was the same

as at Romton, except that we had tea instead of cocoa.

One could get extra tea in the morning, as the Tramp

Major was selling it at a halfpenny a mug, illicitly no

doubt. We were each given a hunk of bread and cheese to

take away for our midday meal.

When we got into London we had eight hours to kill

before the lodging-houses opened. It is curious how one

does not notice things. I had been in London innumerable

times, and yet till that day I had never noticed one of the

worst things about London-the fact that it costs money

even to sit down. In Paris, if you had no money and could

not find a public bench, you would sit on the pavement.

Heaven knows what sitting on the pavement would lead to

in London-prison, probably. By four we had stood five

hours, and our feet seemed red-hot from the hardness of

the stones. We were hungry, having eaten our ration as

soon as we left the spike, and I was out of tobacco-it

mattered less to Paddy, who picked up cigarette ends. We

tried two churches and found them locked. Then we tried a

public library, but there were no seats in it.-As a last hope

Paddy suggested trying a Romton House; by the rules they

would not let us in before seven, but we might slip in

unnoticed. We walked up to the magnificent doorway (the

Rowton Houses really are magnificent) and very casually,

trying to look like regular lodgers, began to stroll in.

Instantly a man lounging in the doorway, a sharp-faced

fellow, evidently in some position of authority, barred the

way.

"You men sleep 'ere last night?"

"No."

"Then-off."

We obeyed, and stood two more hours on the street

corner. It was unpleasant, but it taught me not to use the

expression "street corner loafer," so I gained something

from it.

At six we went to a Salvation Army shelter. We could

not book beds till eight and it was not certain that there

would be any vacant, but an official, who called us

"Brother," let us in on the condition that we paid for two

cups of tea. The main hall of the shelter was a great white-

washed barn of a place, oppressively clean and bare, with