NEARING THE END
There was no especial reason as far as I know for closing that last
chapter, and commencing a new one, except that it was getting too long
in my opinion. For the story I was telling was incomplete, I having
gone off at an unexpected angle on the question of food supplies.
However, I will now resume and say that the influx of work I mentioned
lasted for a fortnight, during the whole of which time I can aver that,
except on Sundays, I was never in bed after 3 a.m. or before 11 p.m.,
and that I was often so weary on coming home from the city with a load
of moulding, that I would sit down on a chair in the shop and be unable
to rise for half an hour. But as I would not allow myself to think
about the future, or ask myself what was the good of it all, I was not
unhappy, and I was able to take a good deal of pride in my work. And by
the time the pressure slackened, I had settled that wretched summons,
had paid my rates, and a few other immediate liabilities, besides being
able to buy a few sorely needed articles of clothing for the family.
There was however no lightening of the old burden of debt, and in
fact I realised that nothing short of a miracle would enable me to do
that. For if I got all the work I craved for I should surely break
down, while the utmost that I could earn would not do much more than
pay the heavy current expenses of the shop. Had I been able to employ
some help, it might have been better, but I don't know about that. I
had to do my own errands--I could not delegate my buying in the city
to anybody else, although it did entail such a heavy burden upon me
physically. Meanwhile I paid cash for everything I had, though I did
not pay anything of the bills already incurred.
In this connection I have an amusing recollection. The moulding
merchant with whom I dealt was an elderly German in a large way of
business, and I had always heard of him as a kindly old soul, but had
never come into personal contact with him. Now, however, I owed him
nearly £30, for which I had given a bill, and was constantly renewing
it; and, consequently, although I dealt with the firm for all my
mouldings, and paid cash, I dreaded meeting one of the principals, and
indeed slank in and out of the premises like a thief. One day, however,
I ran right into the old gentleman, who looked at me keenly and said,
"Ach, Meesder Boollen, aindt id?" I humbly answered, "Yes, sir." "Yes,
sir," he rather mockingly replied, "now I haf peen in pizness here in
London for more as tirty year, andt I nefer ad a gustomer dot righdt
me sooch nice ledders as you. But you tondt send me no money, hein? I
likes to read dose ledders, dey vas very goot, but vy tondt you pay
some money too, hein?"
I endeavoured to give him such reasons as I had, and he listened
carefully, saying when I had done, "Ach so! Vell, you pay ven you
can, undt tondt you go puying your mouldings someveres ellas mit your
ready money. Ve all haf droubles, undt ve get over 'em. You get over
yours somedime I hope, and den you pay your bill. Goodt efening." And
he turned and went into his office, while I went on into the moulding
shop with a warm feeling of gratitude to the kind old man, and a firm
determination that he should not suffer loss through me if I could
possibly help it.
Thenceforward I struggled on, sometimes feeling as if the waters which
were always about my chin would suddenly submerge me, but compelled to
go on. I often compared myself at this time to a man running in front
of a train, between two high walls, allowing of no escape to either
side, having no choice but to run or be run over. Still I found solace
in my books and newspapers, and relieved my mind of some of its cares
by taking an intense interest in political matters as well as the open
air propaganda of religion.
What I suppose will strike some people with amazement is the fact that
starting as an extreme radical, never a Home Ruler, I gradually became
utterly disgusted with the radical position. Full of admiration for
the socialism of Christ, I grew to detest the socialism that I saw
being practised by the noisy party in the vestry, and the doctrines
I heard preached by the socialists in the open air simply filled me
with dismay. For it was nothing else but the survival of the unfit and
incurably idle, the morally degenerate, at the expense of the fit,
the hard-working and ever-striving classes, an effort in short not to
level up, but to level down, a complete subversion of the golden rule
of do to all men as ye would they should do unto you. Get all you can
for yourself, and the devil take anybody else. Eat and drink all you
can at somebody else's expense, no matter who. Beget as many children
as you like, and let somebody else care for them. And so on. Oh! it
used to make me very sick and sorry, but I am glad to say that in my
preaching of what I felt to be right, I always had a most sympathetic
and respectful hearing; and I really do believe that the detestable
doctrines of loaferdom and savagery which masquerade as socialism have
very little hold upon the ordinary people of our streets.
Another great solace of mine was an occasional chat with my fellow
shopkeepers, most of whom, like myself, had a severe struggle to live.
It makes me positively ill to hear the blatant cant that is talked
about the working man, meaning journeymen and labourers only. The
small London suburban shopkeeper toils far harder than any of them, is
preyed upon by them to an extent which must be incredible to those
who don't know, is taxed almost out of existence to support them in
the schemes continually being propounded for their benefit by their
representatives on the Borough Councils, and is quoted in radical
newspapers as the bitter enemy of the working classes.
I found them a kindly, genial, well-informed class of men, shrewd
and keen, as indeed they need be in order to live, and particularly
free from the petty vices of public-house loafing, betting, and bad
language, which are so peculiarly the characteristics of the "working
man." But the hardest hit of them all I think were the small grocers.
I knew two or three of them intimately, men whose lives were one long
grey grind of labour. Who could not live unless they opened very early
in the morning, before the big capitalist shops, such as the Home and
Colonial, Lipton's, etc., and kept open late at night for the same
reason. Even then they would not have been able to live but for giving
credit, which the big combinations do not allow their employees to do.
Many hundreds of families would come to the workhouse long before they
do, especially in hard winters, but for these small tradesmen giving
them credit for the bare necessities of life, and thus tiding them
over the pinching time. This system of first aid can hardly be called
philanthropy, since those who extend it do it for a living, and yet in
the multitudinous life of poor London it is a huge and most important
factor. Even the poor itinerant coal merchant, who goes to the wharf
and buys his coal by the ton, and then retails it through the streets
in small quantities from dawn to dark, may be seen on Saturdays,
the hardest day of all, when his selling of coal is done, painfully
dragging his weary way from door to door, collecting the payment for
the coal he has been vending on credit all the week.
The costermonger, who has a regular pitch and regular customers,
competing with the tradesmen to whom he stands opposite in the most
unfair way, in that he has no rent, rates, or taxes to pay, will give
credit, and generously too, although he may often through a bad week
have to pay usurious interest in order to borrow the money to go to
market with. In fact all the small traders give credit, for the reasons
I have already stated. Of course, in this way much very inferior stuff
is got rid of, because it is certain that he who buys on credit retail
with either tradesman will have to pay higher prices than for cash,
or will have to put up with inferior goods, since it is impossible to
scrutinise too closely what you are receiving on credit unless indeed
you are of sufficient rank to make a tradesman glad to serve you on any
terms.
One great exception to the universal rule of credit is the publican.
Because his wares are a luxury, and the indulgence in them in many
cases prevents the payment of legitimate claims, money can always be
found for him much, to the other shopkeepers' disgust. So far is this
system of credit carried out that I have known men get their ha'penny
morning and evening paper on credit, and even take their workman's
ticket, which their news vendor kept a supply of for the convenience of
customers, with the casual remark, "Stony broke this mornin', old man,
pay you on Saturday." More fools they to allow it, I hear some folks
say, but such poor traders allow a good many things to be done to them
rather than get the name of being close-fisted with their customers.
To return for a moment to the work of the small shopkeeper, take for
instance the butcher. He must needs go to market, no matter what the
weather may be, as early as three or four in the morning; he is hard
at work all day fully exposed to the weather, and on Saturday must
keep open until one o'clock on Sunday morning. In addition to this in
many neighbourhoods it is imperative for him to open again on Sunday
for a few hours in order to satisfy the demands of those curious folk
who will not do their marketing on Saturday while the "houses" (public
understood) are open, and when they close at twelve o'clock are unfit
for anything but quarrelling or reeling home to bed. Hence Sunday
trading with all its attendant evils and its cruel strain upon the
small tradesman.
I must confess, however, that although I sympathised so deeply with
all my shopkeeping associates, personally, I did not suffer as they
did. For my business being of a non-essential character it did not
greatly matter how late I opened my shop or how early I closed it. That
I had to carry my materials home from the city was due to the facts of
my position being so bad that I could not lay in a stock, and partly
because I found it cheaper and more convenient, if more laborious,
to buy my moulding as I got orders for frames. Another thing I must
say in justice to my customers, and in spite of the reputation of the
neighbourhood as impressed upon me when I started in business there--I
made practically no bad debts. Perhaps that was partly due to the fact
that people do not, in humble walks of life that is, have pictures
framed until they have the money ready to pay for the work; and another
thing, when I took work home, I always waited for the money, for I
always wanted it urgently.
Occasionally, it is true, I had a little difficulty with people who
talked grandiloquently of calling round in a day or two, and paying
a bill of a few shillings, or of sending a cheque, say, of seven and
sixpence, but they were exceedingly seldom. But I had many heart
burnings through the vagaries of a certain type of person who would
come in and waste hours of my time (and I noticed that these visits
usually occurred when I was urgently busy) examining mouldings and
getting estimates up to several pounds in value. After which they
vanished, and I never saw them again.
Once I was fairly victimised, though fortunately for only a small
amount, but I must plead that it took a long time. And as the story
is, in my opinion at any rate, exceedingly romantic, I may be pardoned
for telling it at length. In the course of business we had made the
acquaintance of a French lady, said to be a countess, and through her
we became intimate with her son and a lady from Sweden reputed to be
his wife. He was a pupil of Schubert, and an exquisite violinist,
and as I was always a great lover of music, and he was exceedingly
hospitable, we often went to his house, which was close at hand in
Melbourne Grove. There we met a truculent individual, black-avised, as
the old description runs, speaking a most hideous travesty of English,
and withal behaving as if he owned the establishment. His name I never
rightly knew, but it was nearly all consonants I remember, and he
was introduced to me as a Russian prince who had taken a prominent
part in the tragedy of Plevna, and held the rank of Captain in the
Preobrajensky Guards. Only a day or two elapsed after my first meeting
with this warrior when he appeared in my shop, and endeavoured to
tell me a wonderful tale of a diamond necklace worth some thousands
of pounds, the property of a French lady of high rank. This splendid
article had been pawned for a large sum, and the ticket had nearly
run out, but if it were redeemed it could be repledged for a greatly
increased sum, and the kindly person who would advance the cash for
this transaction would make something like 200 per cent. for his
amiability. How I understood all this I do not know but I did, and
smiled sardonically at the idea of me being selected for the operation,
_me!_ who never had any money except what I was in immediate and
pressing need of.
His highness seemed genuinely and pathetically surprised, also somewhat
incredulous, when I managed to convey to him the true state of affairs
concerning myself. I did not, however, trouble to tell him that I felt
absolutely bristling with caution towards him, regarding him as the
worst type of the _Chevalier d'industrie_ I had ever heard of. So he
went away, but did not cease his visits to me, sometimes flashing a
pocketful of gold, sometimes without a sou. At last he made his grand
coup. He advertised in the French papers for a valet to attend upon
a Russian nobleman, who, as he had much valuable jewellery, would
require a deposit of £70 as security against dishonesty. Then he took
a house in East Dulwich Grove on a twenty-one year lease, and entered
into negotiations with a furnishing company to fit it up. Of course he
got his valet and his security, with part of which he paid the first
instalment of the purchase of his furniture. Within a week he had
sold every item of that furniture, and leaving his hapless valet to
starve in the empty house, had departed to the wilds of Soho to lead
a gay life as long as the money lasted. For this was his peculiarity,
stamping him indubitably as one of the _boys_ so graphically depicted
by Mr Ernest Binstead; he would lie, swindle, steal, do anything to
obtain money, sell the bed from under his dying mother, let us say,
or worse than that if it were possible, and when the money was in his
possession he would fling it broadcast with both hands as if he were
lord of millions.
He had hardly disappeared before a man came to me who gave me his
card, which described him as a diamond merchant. He told me a pitiful
story of how the vanished nobleman had victimised him in the matter
of a diamond necklace, at which I felt the corners of my mouth relax
as I thought "same old song and dance." In consequence of the evil
wrought in his accounts by this most untoward transaction, he was
under the painful necessity of raising a loan on a bill of sale. His
house was fairly well furnished, but--he had no pictures. Now I knew
what pictures were to a house and--by the way--what a beautiful lot of
engravings I had framed to be sure. (I almost purred.) If I would only
lend him a few just to hang on his walls while the money-lender looked
around, he would be glad to pay me a pound for the accommodation, and
I could have the pictures back the next morning. Of course I wanted a
pound very badly, and I didn't see much risk, and the pictures had
been in stock so long that I didn't reckon them at more than £2. 10s.
anyhow, so I said, "All right, I'll bring them round in an hour's
time." He thanked me and left. He had not been gone more than five
minutes, when a neighbour who was a baker came in and asked me if that
wasn't the tenant of No. -- East Dulwich Grove, who had just gone out.
I said it was, and gave an outline of the transaction just completed.
My neighbour quietly said that they owed him fifty bob for bread, and
he meant to have it, and left.
I took the pictures up and hung them. They looked very well, and the
family was loud in expressions of admiration. After many assurances
that I should have them back the next day, I left, meeting on my way
back my baker neighbour. He called on me about two hours later, saying
that he'd got his money, but only after kicking up such a row that the
respectable Grove was quite scandalised, and even the paupers at the
workhouse infirmary opposite were interested. I only smiled, for I
thought I understood. When, however, I found an my arrival home next
day that my pictures had _not_ been returned, and on calling round at
the house found it empty, I realised that in spite of all my confidence
in my own astuteness I had been done. Two days later, I saw my pictures
exposed for sale in a local pawnshop at a far higher price than I had
ever dared to ask for them. I had a chat with the pawnbroker on the
subject, and he seemed very much amused. I found it difficult to
understand why then, although it is clearer to me now.
I also had a visit once from a certain notorious adventuress, whose
alias was, I believe, Mrs Gordon. She made quite a lot of interesting
copy for the newspapers about that time, and her picture was published
in various journals. But her plan for getting something out of me
was not very ingenious, at any rate I easily evaded it, and took
considerable credit to myself for my cleverness in doing so.
Taking things all round, however, I was very fortunate in not being
victimised to any extent, for there is a large number of ingenious folk
going about London whose business it is to entrap unwary tradesmen who
deal in goods which may be easily disposed of for a trifle of ready
money. Dealers in perishable commodities, such as butchers, bakers,
grocers, or green-grocers, are tolerably safe from the attentions of
these gentry, but jewellers, furniture dealers, picture dealers, etc.,
are particularly liable to be preyed upon, as I found, and indeed my
poverty was several times my only protection. I could not fall into
their traps, because I wanted money on account, which they never had.
Now, strange as it may seem, I really did build up a fairly good
reputation in the neighbourhood as a picture-framer of taste and
punctuality, but owing to the fact that I could not wait upon customers
at all hours, could not, that is, attend to both businesses at once, I
was unable to do well. And then there is for suburban picture-framers
a distinctly slack season which extends from June until November. Then
when people are saving for their holidays, enjoying them or recovering
from them, the poor maker of frames may as well close his shop unless
he has other strings to his bow. The expenses still go on, rent must
be paid, gas bills met, etc., but my takings averaged five shillings a
week.
At one of these periods, having received an invitation from a distant
relative in the wilds of Wiltshire to spend a fortnight down there
at an inclusive cost which was less than I must have spent had I
remained at home, I decided to go away. On leaving I pasted a notice
on the shutters: "Gone for a much needed holiday, return on the 25th
of August.--F. T. Bullen." When I did return, I was greeted by all my
shopkeeping neighbours with sardonic surprise, not unmixed with scorn.
They all said they never thought to see me again, having fully expected
that I had "done a guy," as they inelegantly put it, and several hinted
rather plainly that they considered me a fool for ever coming back;
which went to show very clearly that they knew as well as I did myself
that I was in difficulties. Indeed in a small community such as ours
was, it was not possible to conceal one's straits any more than it
would be in a little country town. I have no doubt that every one of my
neighbours knew how few were the customers that came into my shop as
well as they knew what the expenses of the shop were, in fact, as they
put it frequently to one another, I kept the shop, the shop didn't keep
me.
Yes, everything seemed to trend downwards towards a place of the depth
of which I had no conception. Every fresh run of orders at the rare
intervals when they did arrive, only seemed to stave off the evil day
which would surely come, and it is not putting the matter one whit too
strongly to say that I had lost all hope of ever doing any good for
myself and family. Neither did I see how I was going to get rid of what
had come to be a perfectly diabolical burden, the shop. Despite all my
efforts I got deeper and deeper into debt, and among other things the
crushing load of the rates, then going up by leaps and bounds, owing
to the socialistic tendency of the local authorities, made me feel
peculiarly bitter; especially when I saw the troops of able-bodied men
slouching about the workhouse recreation grounds.