SCREEVING.—AN OLD SONG.—MR. FORD’S CLIENT.—THE PENNY GAFF.—JAN RUNS AWAY.
THERE was a large crowd, but large crowds gather quickly in London from
small causes. It was in an out-of-the-way spot too, and the police had
not yet tried to disperse it.
The crowd was gathered round a street-artist who was “screeving,” or
drawing pictures on the pavement in colored chalks. A good many men have
followed the trade in London with some success, but this artist was a
wan, meagre-looking child. It was Jan. He drew with extraordinary
rapidity; not with the rapidity of slovenliness, but with the rapidity of
a genius in the choice of what Ruskin calls “fateful lines.” At his back
stood the hunchback, who “pattered” in description of the drawings as
glibly as he used to “puff” his own wares as a Cheap Jack.
[Picture: The crowd was gathered . . .]
“Cats on the roof of a ’ouse. Look at ’em, ladies and gentlemen; and
from their harched backs to their tails and whiskers, and the moon
a-shining in the sky, you’ll say they’re as natteral as life. Bo-serve
the fierceness in the eye of that black Tom. The one that’s a-coming
round the chimney-pot is a Sandy; yellow ochre in the body, and the
markings in red. There isn’t a harpist living could do ’em better,
though I says it that’s the lad’s father.”
The cats were very popular, and so were the Prize Pig, Playful Porkers,
Sow and her Little Ones, as exhibited by the Cheap Jack. But the prime
favorite was “The Faithful Friend,” consisting of sketches of Rufus in
various attitudes, including a last sleep on the grave of a
supposititious master, which Jan drew with a heart that ached as if it
must break.
It was growing dark, but the exhibition had been so successful that day,
and the crowd was still so large, that the hunchback was loath to desist.
At a sign from him, Jan put his colored chalks into a little pouch in
front of him, and drew in powerful chiaroscuro with soft black chalk and
whitening. These sketches were visible for some time, and the interest
of the crowd did not abate.
Suddenly a flush came over Jan’s wan cheeks. A baker who had paused for
a moment to look, and then passed on, was singing as he went, and the
song and the man’s accent were both familiar to Jan.
“The swallow twitters on the barn,
The rook is cawing on the tree,
And in the wood the ring-dove coos”—
“What’s your name, boy?”
The peremptory tone of the question turned Jan’s attention from the song,
which died away down the street, and looking up he met a pair of eyes as
black as his own, and Mr. Ford’s client repeated his question. On seeing
that a “swell” had paused to look, the Cheap Jack hurried to Jan’s side,
and was in time to answer.
“John Smith’s his name, sir. He’s slow of speech, my lord, though very
quick with his pencil. There’s not many artists can beat him, though I
says it that shouldn’t, being his father.”
“_You_ his father?” said the gentleman. “He is not much like you.”
“He favours his mother more, my lord,” said the Cheap Jack; “and that’s
where he gets his talents too.”
“No one ever thought he got ’em from you, old hump!” said one of the
spectators, and there was a roar of laughter from the bystanders.
Mr. Ford’s client still lingered, though the staring and pushing of the
rude crowd were annoying to him.
“Do you really belong to this man?” he asked of Jan, and Jan replied,
trembling, “Yes, sir.”
“Your son doesn’t look as if you treated him very well,” said the
gentleman, turning to the Cheap Jack. “Take that, and give him a good
supper this evening. He deserves it.”
As the Cheap Jack stooped for the half crown thrown to him, Mr. Ford’s
client gave Jan some pence, saying, “You can keep these yourself.” Jan’s
face, with a look of gratitude upon it, seemed to startle him afresh, but
it was getting dark, and the crowd was closing round him. Jan had just
entertained a wild thought of asking his protection, when he was gone.
What the strange gentleman had said about his unlikeness to the Cheap
Jack, and also the thoughts awakened by hearing the old song, gave new
energy to a resolve to which Jan had previously come. He had resolved to
run away.
Since he awoke from the stupor of the draught which Sal had given him at
the cross-roads, and found himself utterly in the power of the
unscrupulous couple who pretended to be his parents, his life had been
miserable enough. They had never intended to take him back to the mill,
and, since they came to London and he was quite at their mercy, they had
made no pretence of kindness. That they kept him constantly at work
could hardly be counted an evil, for his working hours were the only ones
with happiness in them, except when he dreamed of home. Not the cold
pavement chilling him through his ragged clothes, not the strange staring
and jesting of the rough crowds, not even the hideous sense of the
hunchback’s vigilant oversight of him, could destroy his pleasure in the
sense of the daily increasing powers of his fingers, in which genius
seemed to tremble to create. In the few weeks of his apprenticeship to
screeving, Jan had improved more quickly than he might have done under
such teaching as the Squire had been willing to procure for the village
genius. At the peril of floggings from the Cheap Jack, too many of which
had already scarred his thin shoulders, he ransacked his brains for
telling subjects, and forced from his memory the lines which told most,
and told most quickly, of the pathetic look on Rufus’s face, the anger,
pleasure, or playfulness of the mill cats. Perhaps none of us know what
might be forced, against our natural indolence, from the fallow ground of
our capabilities in many lines. The spirit of a popular subject in the
fewest possible strokes was what Jan had to aim at for his daily bread,
under peril of bodily harm hour after hour, for day after day, and his
hand gained a cunning it might never otherwise have learned, and could
never unlearn now.
In other respects, his learning was altogether of evil. Perhaps because
they wished to reconcile him to his life, perhaps because his innocent
face and uncorrupted character were an annoyance and reproach to the
wicked couple, they encouraged Jan to associate with the boys of their
own and the neighboring courts.
Many people are sorry to believe that there are a great many wicked and
depraved grown-up people in all large towns, whose habits of vice are so
firm, and whose moral natures are so loose, that their reformation is
practically almost hopeless. But much fewer people realize the fact that
thousands of little children are actively, hideously vicious and
degraded. And yet it is better that this should be remembered than that,
since, though it is more painful, it is more hopeful. It is hard to
reform vicious children, but it is easier than to reform vicious men and
women.
Little boys and little girls of eight or nine or ten years old, who are
also drunkards, sweaters, thieves, gamblers, liars, and vicious, made Jan
a laughing-stock, because of his simple childlike ways. They called him
“green;” but, when he made friends with them by drawing pictures for
them, they tried to teach him their own terrible lore. Once the Cheap
Jack gave Jan a penny to go with some other boys to a penny theatre, or
“gaff.” The depravity of the entertainment was a light matter to the
depravity of the children by whom the place was crowded, and who had not
so much lost as never found shame. Jan was standing amongst them, when
he caught sight of a boy with a white head leaning over the gallery,
whose face had a curious accidental likeness to Abel’s. The expression
was quite different, for this one was partly imbecile, but there was just
likeness enough to recall the past with an unutterable pang. What would
Abel have said to see him there? Jan could not breathe in the place.
The others were engaged, and he fought his way out.
What he had heard and seen rang in his ears and danced before his eyes
after he crept to bed, as the dawn broke over the streets. But as if
Abel himself had watched by his bedside as he used to do, and kept evil
visions away, it did not trouble his dreams. He dreamed of the windmill,
and of his foster-mother; of the little wood, and of Master Swift and
Rufus.
After that night Jan had resolved that, whether Sal were his mother or
not, he would run away. In the strength of his foster-brother’s pious
memory he would escape from this evil life. He would beg his way back to
the village, and to the upright, godly old schoolmaster, or at least die
in the country on the road thither. He had not associated with the
ragamuffins of the court without learning a little of their cunning; and
he had waited impatiently for a chance of eluding the watchfulness of the
Cheap Jack.
But the sound of that song and the meeting with Mr. Ford’s client
determined him to wait no longer, but to make a desperate effort for
freedom then and there. The Cheap Jack was collecting the pence, and Jan
had made a few bold black strokes as a beginning of a new sketch, when he
ran up to the Cheap Jack and whispered, “Get me a ha’perth of whitening,
father, as fast as you can. There’s an oil-shop yonder.”
“All right, Jan,” said the hunchback. “Keep ’em together, my dear,
meanwhile. We’re doing prime, and you shall have a sausage for supper.”
As the Cheap Jack waddled away for the whitening, Jan said to the
lockers-on, “Keep your places, ladies and gentlemen, till I return, and
keep your eyes on the drawing, which is the last of the series,” and ran
off down a narrow street, at right angles to the oil-shop.
The crowd waited patiently for some moments. Then the Cheap Jack hurried
back with the whitening. But Jan returned no more.