PEOPLE WHO HAVE "COME DOWN"
London's abyss contains a very mixed population. Naturally the "born
poor" predominate, of whom the larger portion are helpless and hopeless,
for environment and temperament are against them.
Amongst these, but not of these, exists a strange medley of people who
have "come down" in life. Drunkenness, fast living, gambling, and
general rascality have hurried many educated men into the abyss; and
such fellows descend to depths of wickedness and uncleanliness that the
gross and ignorant poor cannot emulate, for nothing I have met in life
is quite so disgusting and appalling as the demoralized educated men
living in Inferno.
Misfortune, sorrow, ill-health, loss of friends, position or money, and
ill-advised speculations, are often prime causes of "descent," producing
pitiful lives and strange characters; while others--sometimes women,
sometimes men--have been cursed by very small annuities, not sufficient
for living purposes, but quite sufficient to prevent them attempting any
honest labour. Often these are ashamed to work, but by no means ashamed
to beg. Clinging to the rags of their gentility, they exhibit open
contempt for the ignorant poor, who treat them with awesome respect,
because "they have come down in life."
The postman brings them numerous letters--replies to their systematic
begging appeals--and not before a detective calls to make inquiries do
the poor question the _bona fides_ of, or lose their respect for, "the
poor lady upstairs."
Backboneless men and women in a moral sense are numerous in the abyss,
with no vices, but with virtues of a negative character. Possessing no
grit, no adaptability, no idea of making a fight for life, they appear
to think that because their parents were well-to-do, and they themselves
had "received" an education, it is somebody's business to keep them.
They are as sanguine as Mr. Micawber, always expecting something to
"turn up," but never proceeding to turn up anything on their own
account.
Waiting, hoping, starving, they go down to premature death--if, indeed,
the workhouse infirmary does not swallow them alive.
But what courage and endurance, what industry and self-respect others
exhibit, deprived by death or misfortune of the very means of existence,
brought face to face with absolute poverty! Men and women, precipitated
into the abyss through no fault of their own, shine resplendent in the
dark regions they have been forced to inhabit. Not soured by misfortune,
not despondent because of disappointment, hand in hand and heart to
heart, I have seen elderly couples living in one-roomed homes, joining
bravely in the great struggle for existence.
Others are made bitter by their misfortune, and nurse a sense of their
grievances; they "keep themselves to themselves," and generally put on
airs and graces in any dealings they may have with their neighbours.
They quickly resent any approach to friendship; any kindness done to
them is received with freezing politeness, and any attempt to search out
the truth with regard to their antecedents is the signal for storm.
Personally, I have suffered much at the hands of scornful ladies "who
have come down." Sometimes I am afraid that my patience and my temper
have been exhausted when dealing with them, for such ladies require
careful handling.
Experience is, however, a great teacher, and I learned at least to hear
myself with becoming humility when such ladies condescended to receive
at my hands any help that I might be able to give.
"Do you know, sir, that you are speaking to an officer's daughter? How
dare you ask me for references! My word is surely good enough for a
Police-Court Missionary. You are a fitting representative of your
office. Please leave my room."
I looked at her. She was over sixty, and there was the unmistakable air
about her that told of better days. She was starving in a little room
situated in a little court--not St. James's. She owed a month's rent to
people who were poor and ill, and who had two epileptics in the family;
and now their worries were increased by the loss of rent, and the
knowledge that they had a starving "lady" upstairs. She had brought
down to the abyss to keep her company a grandchild, a pretty boy of
seven. I sat still, and she continued: "I know I am poor, but still I
have some self-respect, and I will not be insulted. References, indeed!"
"Well, madam," I at length ventured to say, "you sought my help; I did
not seek you." "Yes; and I made a great mistake. Sir, are you going?"
"No, madam, I am not going at present, for I am going to pay the rent
you owe the poor, suffering people below. Shame on you! Have you no
thought for them? How are they to pay their rent if yours remains
unpaid? Please don't put on any airs, and don't insult me, or I will
have you and the child taken to the workhouse. Find me your rent-book."
She sat down and cried. I called the child to me, and from my bag
produced some cake, fruit, and sweets, filling the child's pinafore. He
instantly began to eat, and running to the irate lady, said: "Look,
grandma, what the gentleman has given me! Have some--do have some,
grandma."
That was oil on the fire.
"I knew you were no gentleman; now I know that you are a coward. You
know that I cannot take them away from the child." I said: "I should be
ashamed of you if you had, and I should have left your room and never
re-entered it. See how the child is enjoying those grapes! Do have some
with him. Let us be friends. Bring your grandma some grapes." And as the
child came to her, I saw the light of love in her old eyes--that
wonderful love of a grandmother. The child's enjoyment of the food
conquered her: the child "beguiled her, and she did eat"; but she
considered I had taken a mean advantage, and she never thoroughly
forgave me--never, though we became cool friends.
I found the utmost difficulty in obtaining her confidence, although I
visited her many times, and removed her most pressing wants.
She was always on heights to which I could not hope to attain, and she
treated me with becoming, but freezing, dignity. I wanted to be of
assistance to her, but she made my work difficult and my task thankless.
When I called upon her one day to pay a week's rent, etc., she said in a
lofty way: "Small assistance is of little use to me, but I can't expect
anything better from one in your position." I put up with the snub, and
humbly told her that it would be possible for me to do more if she would
condescend to give me the names and addresses of her friends.
This bare suggestion was enough. She rose majestically, opened the room
door, and in a dramatic manner said, "Go!" I sat still, and examined
some needlework she was doing for a factory. Beautiful work it was--all
done by hand. I knew that she would not earn more than one penny per
hour, for her eyes were getting dim, and the room was not well lighted.
So I talked about her work and her pay. Many times since that day have I
been glad that I stayed on after that unceremonious "Go," for I learned
a lesson worth the knowing, for as I sat the postman's tap-tap was
heard, and the epileptic girl from below brought up a letter. "Excuse
me, sir, while I read this," she said. I, of course, bowed
acquiescence, and watched her while she read. I saw her tremulous
fingers and quivering face. Presently she sat down; the letter and a
ten-pound note dropped on the floor. For a moment she sat quite silent,
then the tears burst forth. She rose, picked up the letter and note, and
her eyes flashed as she cried: "Read that! read that! and then dare to
ask me for a reference." She threw the letter at me. It was from an old
servant of hers, who was a cook for a regimental officers' mess, getting
forty pounds a year. This is the letter:
"DEAR MRS. ----,
"Yesterday I received my quarter's salary, and I am sending it to
you, hoping that you will kindly receive it as a small
acknowledgment of your many kindnesses to me.
"When I think of the happy days I spent in your service, of your
goodness to everyone in trouble, and of the beautiful home you have
lost, I cannot rest night or day. I wish I could send you a hundred
times as much, that I might really help you and the dear little
boy."
The letter was better than any testimonial; it was too much for me.
"Madam," I said, "I am very sorry that I hurt your feelings by
questioning you. That letter makes me ashamed. It more than answers any
questions I put to you. Will you kindly lend me the letter, that I may
show it to my friend?"
She looked triumphant, and said that I might have the letter for a short
time. I sent the letter to ladies and gentlemen who had not "come
down." Some old friends were found who cheerfully subscribed a
sufficient sum to furnish a commodious boarding-house in a fashionable
watering-place, so she again had a beautiful home of her own. But she
was very "touchy," and I had no pleasant task in making arrangements.
She never gave me the least credit, and it always appeared that she was
conferring favours by allowing me the privilege of consulting her.
However, the boarding-house was ready at last. She entered possession,
and with some help prepared to receive visitors. My wife, myself, and
some friends were her first "paying guests," paying, of course, the
usual charges. We spent a miserable three weeks. We were not of the
class she wanted and had been used to; she kept us in our places. I had
to speak to her, and treat her as a distinguished, but quite unknown,
lady. We were all glad when our time for leaving came; neither have we
paid her another visit.
She was a remarkable woman, indomitable, industrious, and clever:
cooking, or managing a house, needlework, dressmaking, or anything
pertaining to woman's life, she was equal to; but her superiority was
too much for us all. We could not live up to it--the strain was too
great.
She, however, did us a great honour the day previous to our leaving. As
a special favour, she invited us to take tea with her in the "boudoir."
The remembrance of that occasion remains with me through the years. She
prepared not only a nice little tea, with cream, knick-knacks, etc., but
the room was tastefully decorated, and she was suitably arrayed. Her
old silks and laces had been renovated, her old jewellery polished and
attended to; and at a definite time, after a formal invitation, we were
ushered into the "boudoir." She rose and gracefully bowed as we were
announced, and directed us to our seats. We had a stiff time of it. No
doubt it was good discipline for us all, for we realized more fully than
ever the inferiority of our birth, breeding, and manners.
Poor woman! She never forgave us for knowing that she had been in the
"abyss," neither did she ever forgive me for helping her out. Our
acquaintance ended with that five o'clock tea in her "boudoir." She has
not written to me, neither have I inquired after her. Freely will I
forgive her all the snubs and insults she flung at me if she will "keep
her distance." She was a terror. One in a lifetime is quite sufficient
for me.
Still, she was a good woman, and I can only suppose that privations and
disappointments had on the one side embittered her, and on the other had
developed a natural feeling until it became a craze, and the idea of
being a "lady" dominated her existence.
Some men, too, that have come down are by no means pleasant
companions--often the reverse. Several clergymen that I saw much of were
too terrible for words, so I pass them; but of one I must tell, for when
I called on him in the early afternoon, he was lying on a miserable bed,
unwashed, wearing a cassock. Penny packets of cigarettes--five for a
penny--were strongly in evidence. There being no chairs in the room, I
sat down upon an inverted packing-case.
He rose from his bed, lit another cigarette, and asked me what I wanted.
I had previously spoken to his wife, and had made up my mind that she
was demented. I had seen a big-headed girl of seventeen, with a vacant
face and thick, slobbering lips, nursing and laughing over a little
doll. I had also spoken to a cunning-looking boy of fourteen. I had now
to speak to a demoralized clergyman.
I felt that a horsewhip was needed more than the monetary help that I
was commissioned to offer from friends, on certain conditions being
complied with.
He was a choice specimen of manhood: his reading seemed confined to
penny illustrated papers of a dubious kind, embellished with
questionable pictures. He no sooner learned that friends had empowered
me to act for them than his estimate of himself went up considerably.
His market value went up also.
Thirty shillings per week was not enough; he was not to be bought at the
price. He must also have his wardrobe replenished. The Bishop must find
him a curacy. No, he would not leave London. Preaching to intelligent
people was his vocation. He was a Welshman, but London was good enough
for him. I sat on the box and listened; the vacant-faced girl with her
doll sat on another box in front of me; the clergyman in his cassock,
cigarette in his fingers while he talked, and in his lips when he was
silent, sat on the edge of the bed; and his demented wife stood by.
Such was my introduction to the fellow, of whom I saw much during the
next three years; but every time I met him I became the more enamoured
of the horsewhip treatment.
For three years he received more than generous help from friends of the
Church, who were anxious for his good, and more than anxious that no
scandal should come upon the Church they loved. It was all in vain, and
the last sight I had of him was in Tottenham, where I studiously avoided
him; but, nevertheless, I had opportunities of watching him. He stood
outside a public-house. He wore an old clerical coat, green and greasy;
his clerical collar was crumpled and dirty; his boots were old and
broken, and his trousers were frayed and torn. He had a rough stick in
his hand and an old cloth cap on his head. The cunning-looking boy has
been in the hands of the police for snatching a lady's purse, and the
imbecile girl, now a woman, continues to nurse her doll somewhere in
London's abyss; for the demented mother loves her afflicted child, and
only death will part them.
Artists are numerous among those who have "come down." I never meet a
poor fellow in London's streets carrying a picture wrapped in canvas
without experiencing feelings of deepest pity. One look at such a man
tells me whether his picture has been done to order, or whether he is
seeking, rather than hoping to find, a customer. The former goes briskly
enough to his destination, and though he will receive but little
payment from the picture-dealer, he sorely needs that little, and
hastens to get it.
But the other poor fellow has no objective: he walks slowly and
aimlessly about; there is a wistful, shamefaced air about him. When he
arrives at a picture-dealer's, he enters with reluctance and timidity.
Sometimes broken-down men will hawk their pictures from door to door,
and will sell decent pictures, upon which they have spent much time and
labour, for a few shillings. Occasionally an alert policeman watches
them, and ultimately arrests them for hawking goods and not being in
possession of the necessary licence.
A boy of fourteen who was hawking his father's pictures was arrested and
charged. The police had discovered that he did not hold a pedlar's
licence. The pictures were quite works of art, done on pieces of
cardboard about twelve inches square, some being original sketches;
others were copies of famous pictures. They were done in
black-and-white, and competent judges declared that the work was
exceedingly well done. The boy said his father was ill in bed, and had
sent him out to sell the pictures; his mother was dead, and his father
and himself lived together in Hackney.
I went with the boy to their one room, and there, in a miserable street
and in a still more miserable room, lay the artist in bed. There was
nothing of any value in the room, excepting some pictures, and as I
entered I found him sitting up in bed at work upon another. They had no
money at all, and that morning the boy had been sent out to try and
sell the pictures and bring back food and coals. The lad's mother had
died some years before, and the father and son were living together.
The father had learned no other business, and at one time there was some
demand for his work, so he married. One can easily picture the life they
led--the gradual shadows, the disappointments that came upon the wife,
the hopeless struggle with poverty, the early death, and the misery of
the husband when the partner of his poverty was taken away. Now, partly
paralyzed in his legs, some days able to rise and dress himself and pay
an occasional call on the "trade," and to return home more hopeless, he
was glad to sell a picture for five shillings, unframed, that had cost
him much effort and time.
I bought one of his pictures at a fair price, and saw that he had both
food and coals, for it was winter-time. I called on him frequently, and
did what I could to cheer him, and other friends bought his pictures.
But he gradually grew worse in health, until the gates of one of our
great infirmaries closed upon him, and the world saw him no more, and it
was left to me to make some suitable provision for the boy.
One Christmas Eve some years ago there was a cry of "Police! police!" In
a little upper room in North London an elderly man had been found in a
pool of blood; his throat had been cut, and as a razor lay beside him,
it was evident the injury was self-inflicted. It was a frightful gash,
but he was carried to a neighbouring hospital, where all the resources
of skill and science were at hand. In three months' time he was able to
stand in the dock, and evidence was given against him. He was
sixty-three years of age, had on a very old frock-coat that had been
originally blue, and an ancient fez that bore traces of silver braid.
When the evidence had been taken, and the magistrate was about to commit
him for trial, a singular-looking man stepped up, and said he was the
prisoner's brother, and that he would take care of him if his Worship
would discharge him. He said a friend had given his brother some drink,
and it was when under the influence of the drink that the prisoner had
tried to cut his own throat; that he himself was a teetotaller--and he
pointed triumphantly to a piece of blue ribbon on his very shabby
coat--and that he would take care that his brother had no more drink.
The magistrate very kindly accepted him as surety, and asked me to visit
them, which I accordingly did, and found myself in very strange company.
Three brothers were living together: sixty-five, sixty-three, and sixty
were their ages. The one who had been charged was the middle brother,
and was an artist; the other two were quaint individuals: they had been
brought up in luxury, and now, being reduced to poverty, had not the
slightest idea of how to earn a shilling.
The blue-ribbon brother was the youngest member of the family, and
though he drank cold water, he appeared to have a strong aversion to its
external use. He was of a religious turn of mind, and had he exercised
himself one-half as much about work as he did about religious subjects,
the catastrophe that had happened might have been avoided.
The elder brother was in weak health, and walked with some difficulty.
The artist was certainly by far the best man of the three; still, they
all had an air of faded gentility. Briefly, they were the sons of a
well-known artist, who, many years ago, was a frequent exhibitor in the
Royal Academy, and whose frescoes adorn one of the royal palaces.
After his death the three brothers and a sister lived together. Each was
left an income of about twenty-five pounds per annum, and the sister
managed their affairs. As long as she lived and the artist brother could
sell pictures, all went fairly well; but when she died the brothers were
left to struggle for themselves. Gradually their home went down--dirt
and discomfort ensued, fewer pictures were sold, and then one Christmas
the artist fell into my care. What a room it was, and how hopeless it
all seemed! I found the artist himself had exhibited in the Royal
Academy, and that he was undoubtedly a talented man. I found him as
simple as a child, and his two brothers as innocent as babes.
I sold some of his pictures, and obtained orders for others; but I
discovered that, instead of the younger brother looking after the
artist, the artist had to look after the younger brother, and I also
found, to my cost, that, instead of having one unfortunate man to look
after, I had three of them on my hands. The elder brother sat reading
goody books hour after hour; the younger one went to his
prayer-meetings, but never brought a shilling home; while the artist
stuck to his work, when he had any to do, splendidly.
One day I took counsel with the three of them, and we formed a committee
of ways and means. To the elder one I said: "What are you going to do to
bring a little grist to this mill?" In a sweetly simple manner, and
rubbing his hands, he said: "Oh, I read while Charles paints." To the
younger one I said: "What are you going to do to help the finances?"
"Oh," he said, "I'll write some texts of Scripture on cardboard, and you
can sell them for me." It was a quaint sight to see this band of
brothers go marketing, to buy their bits of meat, vegetables, etc. I
have watched them, too, at their culinary preparations, and noticed that
the artist himself washed the plates and dishes, and handled and cooked
the food.
Their rooms are now larger, and in much better order. The paintings left
by their father are more visible, for the dust and dirt have been
removed. They are still living together, and the artist, without any
blue ribbon on his coat, is still working away, when he can secure
orders. They are quaint specimens of humanity, but I think much of them,
for they are kind-hearted and gentle to each other; there are no
heart-burnings and bickerings; poverty has not soured their
dispositions, and if times are sometimes hard, they make the best of
things, and hope that God will give them better days.
None the less, my artist friend has to bear the brunt of it, and when
he sells a picture he is more than willing to share his means with his
helpless brothers.
One picture I have of his conveys a striking lesson. It is founded upon
the old story of the Prodigal Son. A tall, gaunt, weary man, with his
sandals worn out, his staff by his side, and his gourd empty, sits upon
a piece of rock upon the hill-side looking down into the valley, where
he sees his father's house. He is debating within himself whether or not
he shall attempt to travel that last mile and reach his old home. The
old home looks inviting and the gardens pleasant, and he feels impelled
to go thither. Beside him is a huge cactus, and in a tree at the back of
him are two vultures waiting to pick his bones.
The failure of a popular financial scheme is often accompanied by
disastrous consequences to refined and elderly people.
I have met many who, being ruined by the collapse of such investments,
were compelled to resort to that forlorn hope of distressed middle-aged
women--some branch of sewing-machine work done at home.
The struggles they make in order to secure the pretence of an existence
are often heroic, and their endeavours to maintain an appearance of
respectability and comfort are great, almost passing belief.
In the great world of London life and suffering no figures stand out
quite so vividly as they do, for no other class of individuals exhibit
quite the same qualities of endurance and pathetic heroism.
On arriving home one Saturday I found two women, a mother and her
daughter, awaiting me, evidently in great distress. I had known them for
some years, and their struggles and difficulties were familiar to me.
The husband of the elder woman lay in their little home paralyzed and
ill. For years the girl and her mother had supported him and maintained
themselves by making children's costumes.
He had been an accountant for many years with an old-established firm,
and had saved money, which he invested in the Liberator. Just when the
smash came their troubles were intensified by the death of his old
employer, and the consequent loss of his employment. A paralytic stroke
came upon him, and though he recovered somewhat, he became utterly unfit
for any kind of work. They received a little assistance from the
Liberator Relief Fund, and while this lasted mother and daughter gave
three months' service each, and were taught the children's costume
trade. A catastrophe had now overtaken them, hence their visit to me.
They had worked incessantly all the week in the hope of finishing some
work and getting it to the factory before twelve on Saturday. Friday
night found them behindhand. At two o'clock on Saturday morning mother
and daughter lay down on their beds without removing their clothes. At
five they rose again, and sat down to their machines.
The hours passed, their task made progress, and at 11.30 they finished;
but the factory was far away--nearly an hour's ride on the tram-car.
Still, the younger one hurried with her bundle, only to find on arriving
that the factory was closed, and that no work would be taken in till
Tuesday morning. There was the rent to pay, the poor stock of provisions
to be obtained, some little comfort to be got for the father, who had
watched their brave but tragic struggle, and no money, after all.
My wife set food before them, and they made a pitiful pretence of
eating. Their hearts were too full, though undoubtedly their stomachs
were empty.
When I put a sovereign into the tremulous hand of the elder woman, they
both broke down, and went away weeping.
A few weeks later the father died, and mother and daughter were left to
comfort and care for each other.
Years have passed, and they still live and work together. Rising early
and retiring late, they manage to "live." But the mother is getting
feeble; her eyesight and powers for work are decaying. Never murmuring
or repining, the daughter bears the brunt of the battle. She works,
whilst her mother goes to and from the factory. And now--in June,
1908--another catastrophe has befallen them; for the feeble old woman
has slipped and fallen from the tram-car, and lies at home with a broken
arm and other injuries; but the daughter works for both.
Sometimes my experiences of women who have "come down" have been far
more unpleasant, as the following instance may serve to show:
I received a letter from a titled lady asking me to inquire into the
case of two sisters who had repeatedly appealed to her for help, and to
whose appeal she had several times responded. This lady recognized the
futility of sending a few pounds at intervals to two elderly women, of
whom she knew nothing excepting that their father had once built a house
for her. She knew, too, that their father had been in a large way of
business, employing five hundred men at one time. Her ladyship also
forwarded to me a letter she had received from the sisters, and asked me
to find out what could be done for them, promising that if I could
suggest anything reasonable, she would send me the necessary funds.
Their letter was of the usual begging-letter style, telling of their own
wrongs and poverty, and pleading for help on account of their dear
lamented father.
Though their "dear lamented father" had been dead for twenty-nine years,
I called at the address given, and found it to be an old-clothes shop in
a very poor district. In the midst of old clothes and dirt I found the
landlady. No, she said, the sisters did not live there. Sometimes they
did a bit of needlework for her, and she allowed them to use her address
for postal purposes. "They had a letter this morning?" I said. "Yes,
there was one." "How many more?" "One only this morning." "Do they often
have letters?" "Sometimes." "How many do they receive a week?" "What is
that to you?" "Well, I come on behalf of a friend who wishes to help
them. The letter they received this morning was from her, and there was
money in it. How much did they give you this morning?" "Two shillings."
"They work for you: why should they give you money?" "I have been good
to them and lent them money; they owe me a good deal; but they have
expectations." "Did you know they had 'come down' in life?" "Oh yes, I
knew." "Now, tell me, where do they live?" "They are on the move." "What
do you mean by that?" "On the move--looking for a place." "Where did
they sleep last night?" "Somewhere close by." "Now, tell me truly as you
would a friend, what do you think about them?" "I think they are a pair
of unfortunate ladies. They have been robbed." "Would you help them if
you could?" "Certainly I would." "Shall you see them to-day?" "Oh yes;
they are sure to come in." So I gave her my address, and told her to ask
the sisters to call on me. Woe to me! I did foolishly, and had to suffer
for it. In the evening when I arrived home, one of the sisters was
waiting for me. She had been waiting some time, to the consternation of
my wife and the maid. The front door had no sooner been opened to her
imperative tap, than she marched in without any ceremony, smelling, I
was told, of the public-house and dirt. My wife said: "She is in the
drawing-room. I could not ask her in here: we were just having tea." I
found her without any difficulty. The evidence of my nose was enough. I
opened wide the window, and then looked at her, or it, or something! I
was just getting my breath, when, "Oh, you have heard from Lady ----,
and she is wanting to help me." I said: "Yes, and you have heard from
Lady ----. She sent you some money, and I see you have been spending
it." "What do you mean, sir? I will let you know that I am a lady." I
groaned and said: "You are letting me know it; I fully realize it."
"Look here, sir; attend to me. I am going to keep a butter and cheese
shop. I want twenty pounds to set me up. You must write to her ladyship
for it." "Very good, then." "Now I want to tell you about our troubles;"
and she did. It took me two good hours to get her safely outside the
front door, after which I gave positive orders to the whole household
that in future all business with this "lady" must be transacted on the
doorstep, with a half-closed door.
She was a Welshwoman, and possessed a double amount of that nation's
eloquence. Those two hours I shall never forget. It took all the
diplomacy at my command to get her out; but she promised to come again
and bring her sister. I was terribly alarmed at the prospect, but did
not tell her not to come, for my courage failed me. However, she had
given me her address, which, unfortunately, was close by; so, finally, I
told her that, after hearing from Lady ----, I would call upon her and
give her whatever help was sent. She called every day for a week, and
every time she came my wife hid herself, and the servant was mindful of
my instructions about the door. Nevertheless, our house was attracting
some attention, for our respectable neighbours were alive to the
situation. I often wished she had made a mistake, like poor old
Cakebread did, and had gone to the wrong house; but I did not get even
that scrap of comfort. At length I sent a note to her, telling her that
I was going to call on her at ten o'clock next morning. This I
accordingly did, and found that the sisters had obtained a room in the
house of a poor but very decent woman who had four young children. The
landlady let me in, and called to the sisters that a gentleman had come
to see them. "Tell him we are not quite ready to receive visitors," I
heard a familiar voice reply.
The landlady asked me to step into her room. I did so, and she carefully
closed the door, and then burst out: "What can I do with them? How can I
get rid of them? We shall be ill." "Have they paid you any rent?" "No; I
won't take any. They gave me a shilling deposit before they moved in."
"Give it to them back, and tell them to go." "They won't take it, and
they won't go." "Tell your husband to put them out." "He won't touch
them, and he blames me for taking them in." "Why did you take them in?"
"We are poor; I am going to have another. I thought they were ladies who
had 'come down.' They gave me a letter from a lady to read. Whatever
shall we do?" "When did they come in?" "Just a week ago. They were drunk
the first night. One had a black eye!"
In due time they were ready to receive visitors, and I went to their
room. I knew what to expect, but it was too much for me. Phew! They were
there, black eye and all. Half undressed, quite unwashed, a nice pair of
harridans; no furniture saving an old rusty bedstead, on which were some
rags. The thought of the poor woman below and her young children gave me
courage. "I see how it is, you old sinners. Shame on you for forcing
yourselves into this poor woman's house! You are not fit to live
anywhere but in a pigsty. If you don't get out I will have the pair of
you carted to the workhouse. I will see that you get no more from Lady
----. If you don't get out pretty quick, I will myself put you out." One
of them came forward in a threatening attitude, saying: "I will let you
know that my father was your superior." I told them that I was glad I
never knew their father if he at all resembled them.
I called the landlady, and told her to fetch a policeman, as they were
trespassers, and had no right in her room. But the landlady said, if
that was the case, her husband would put them out in the afternoon; it
being Saturday, he would be home early. Then the torrent of abuse began.
They rose to the occasion, and gave vent to their feelings, I am sorry
to say, in vulgar English. Had it been Welsh, it would not have
mattered, but slum English expressed with Welsh fervour was too much for
me. I left. I was, however, to have a still more striking proof of the
power that Welsh "ladies" have to express themselves in very vulgar
English, for the same evening, after having refreshed themselves, they
forced an entrance when my front door responded to their knock and ring.
Fortunately my wife was away. I was called to interview the two "ladies"
and the black eye. They were inside--there could be no mistake about
that; the door was closed, too. As soon as they saw me there was a
soprano and contralto duet. "What did you write to Lady ---- for? Do
you say we are dirty? Who told you we got drunk? Why did you come so
early? Ragged, are we? Help to have us put out, would you? You are a
nice Christian!" I brushed past them and opened the front door. "Fetch a
policeman, will you? We'll have the law for you, you scoundrel! robber!
thief!" I seized the one with the decorated eye, and out she went. In a
twinkling the other sister was after her, and before they realized it,
the front door was closed and bolted. Then the storm began, and for
thirty-five minutes they kept it up. Every choice expression known to
the blackguards of London tripped lightly but emphatically from their
tongues; sometimes in unison, sometimes in horrible discord, sometimes
singly, and sometimes together they kept it up. They ran through the
whole gamut of discordant notes--_fortissimo_ generally, _piano_ only
when breath failed. When quite exhausted, one took charge of the
knocker, the other of the bell, and instrumental music followed the
vocal. A good many of my respectable neighbours came to the concert, but
blushingly retired; they could not stand it. I knew very well that they
could not keep up the pace long; but it was the longest thirty-five
minutes I ever endured. When quite worn out and too hoarse to vocalize,
they retired, and our street resumed its normal respectability. But to
the valour of Wales they added the perseverance of women. After again
refreshing themselves, they returned to the poor woman they had "taken
in," and gave her a concert, much to her terror. Her husband called the
police, but this only roused them. Ultimately they were taken into
custody for being drunk and disorderly, and, sad to relate, the
following Monday they were fined by the magistrate.
I heard more bad language in that thirty-five minutes than I ever
listened to in a month, even in a police-court. I must have received
considerable mental and moral damage, and I really think that I ought to
receive some compensation from Lady ----.
But, at all events, I hope that I have completed my experience of people
who have "come down."
THE END
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