THE WOMAN AND THE COATS
Mr. Davis looked about him with bloodshot eyes. His battered bowler
was perched rakishly on the back of his head, and his hands were
thrust deep into his trousers pockets. He did not seem to find the
aspect of the room enlivening. His wife, standing at a small oblong
deal table, was making a parcel of two black coats to which she had
just been giving the finishing stitches. The man, the woman, the
table, and the coats, practically represented the entire contents of
the apartment.
The fact appeared to cause Mr. Davis no slight dissatisfaction. His
bearing, his looks, his voice, all betrayed it.
'I want some money,' he observed.
'Then you'll have to want,' returned his wife.
'Ain't you got none?'
'No, nor shan't have, not till I've took these two coats in.'
'Then what'll it be?'
'You know very well what it'll be--three-and-six--one-and-nine
apiece--if there ain't no fines.'
'And this is what they call the land of liberty, the 'ome of the
free, where people slave and slave--for one-and-nine.'
Mr. Davis seemed conscious that the conclusion of his sentence was
slightly impotent, and spat on the floor as if to signify his regret.
''Tain't much slaving you do, anyhow.'
'No, nor it ain't much I'm likely to do; I'm no servile wretch; I'm
free-born.'
'Prefers to make your living off me, you do.'
'Well, and why not? Ain't woman the inferior animal? Didn't Nature
mean it to be her pride to minister to man? Ain't it only the false
veneer of a rotten civilization what's upset all that? If I gives my
talents for the good of the species, as I do do, as is well known I
do do, ain't it only right that you should give me something in
return, if it's only a crust and water? Ain't that law and justice--
natural law, mind you, and natural justice?'
'I don't know nothing about law, natural or otherwise, but I do know
it ain't justice.'
Mr. Davis looked at his wife, more in sorrow than in anger. He was
silent for some seconds, as if meditating on the peculiar baseness of
human nature. When he spoke there was a whine in his raucous voice,
which was, perhaps, meant to denote his consciousness of how much he
stood in need of sympathy.
'I'm sorry, Matilda, to hear you talk to me like that, because it
forces me to do something what I shouldn't otherwise have done. Give
me them coats.'
She had just finished packing up the coats in the linen wrapper, and
was pinning up one end. Snatching up the parcel, she clasped it to
her bosom as if it had been some precious thing.
'No, Tommy, not the coats!'
'Matilda, once more I ask you to give me them coats.'
'What do you want them for?'
'Once more, Matilda, I ask you to give me them coats.'
'No, Tommy, that I won't--never! not if you was to kill me! You know
what happened the last time, and all I had to go through; and you
promised you'd never do it again, and you shan't, not while I can
help it--no, that you shan't!'
Clasping the parcel tightly to her, she drew back towards a corner of
the room, like some wild creature standing at bay. Mr. Davis,
advancing towards the table, leaned on it, addressing her as if he
desired to impress her with the fact that he was endeavouring not to
allow his feelings to get the better of his judgment.
'Listen to me, Matilda. I'm soft and tender, as well you know, and
should therefore regret having to start knocking you about; but want
is want, and I want 'arf a sovereign this day, and have it I must.'
'What do you want it for?'
Mr. Davis brought his clenched fist sharply down upon the
table--possibly by way of a hint.
'Never you mind what I want it for. I do want it, and that's enough
for you. You trouble yourself with your own affairs, and don't poke
your nose into mine, my girl; you'll find it safest.'
'I'll try to get it for you, Tommy.'
Mr. Davis was scornful.
'Oh, you will, will you! How are you going to set about getting 'arf
a sovereign? Perhaps you'll be so good as to let me know. Because if
you can lay hands on 'arf a sovereign whenever one's wanted, it's a
trick worth knowing. You're such a clever one at getting 'old of the
pieces, you are, and always have been.'
The man's irony seemed to cause the woman to wince. She drew a little
farther back towards her corner.
'I don't rightly know how I shall get hold of it, not just now, I
don't; but I daresay I shall manage somehow.'
'Oh, you do, do you? Shall I tell you how you'll manage? You listen
to me. You'll go to them there slave-drivers with them two coats, and
they'll keep you waiting for two mortal hours or more. Then they'll
dock sixpence for fines--you're always getting fined; you 'ardly ever
take anything in without you're fined; you're a slovenly workwoman,
that's what you are, my lass, and that's the truth!--you'll come away
with three bob, and spend 'arf a crown on rent, or some such silly
nonsense; and then when it comes to me, you'll start snivelling, and
act the crybaby, and I shall have to treat you to a kicking, and find
myself further off my 'arf sovereign than ever I was. I don't want no
more of your nonsense. Give me them two coats!'
'You'll pawn 'em if I do.'
'Of course I'll pawn 'em. What do you suppose I'm going to do with
them--eat 'em, or give them to the Queen?'
'You'll get me into trouble again! They're due in to-day. You know
what happened last time. If they lock me up again, I'll be sent
away.'
'Then be sent away, and be 'anged to you for a nasty, mean,
snivelling cat! Why don't you earn enough to keep your 'usband like a
gentleman? If you don't, it's your fault, isn't it? Give me them two
coats!'
'No, Tommy, I won't!'
He went closer to her.
'For the last time; will you give me them two coats?'
'No!'
She hugged the parcel closer, and she closed her eyes, so that she
should not see him strike her. He hit her once, twice, thrice,
choosing his mark with care and discretion. Under the first two blows
she reeled; the last sent her in a heap to the floor. When she was
down he kicked her in a business-like, methodical fashion, then
picked up the parcel which had fallen from her grasp.
'You've brought it on yourself, as you very well know. It's the kind
of thing I don't care to have to do. I'm not like some, what's always
spoiling to knock their wives about; but when I do have to do it,
there's no one does it more thorough, I will say that.'
He left her lying in a heap on the boards. On his way to the
pawnbroker's he encountered a friend, Joe Cooke. Mr. Cooke stopped
and hailed him.
'What yer, Tommy! Are you coming along with us to-night on that there
little razzle?'
'Of course I am. Didn't I say I was? And when I say I'm coming, don't
I always come?'
'All right, old coxybird! Keep your 'air on! No one said you didn't.
Got the rhino?'
'I have. Leastways, I soon shall have, when I've turned this little
lot into coin of the realm.'
He pointed to the bundle which he bore beneath his arm. Mr. Cooke
grinned.
'What yer got there?'
'I've got a couple of coats what my wife's been wearing out her eyes
on for a set of slave-driving sweaters. Three-and-six they was to pay
her for them. I rather reckon that I'll get more than three-and-six
for them, unless I'm wrong. And when I have melted 'em, Joe, I don't
mind if I do you a wet.'
Joe did not mind, either. The two fell in side by side. Mr. Cooke
drew his hand across his mouth.
'Ever since my old woman died I've felt I ought to have
another--a good one, mind you. There's nothing like having someone to
whom you can turn for a bob or so.'
'It's more than a bob or so I get out of my old woman, you may take
my word. If she don't keep me like a gentleman, she hears of it.'
Mr. Cooke regarded his friend with genuine admiration.
'Ah! but we're not all so fly as you, Tommy, nor yet so lucky.'
'Perhaps not--not, mind you, that that's owing to any fault of yours.
It's as we're made.'
Mr. Davis, with the bundle under his arm, bore himself with an air of
modest pride, as one who appreciated his natural advantages.
They reached the pawnbroker's. The entrance to the pledge department
was in a little alley leading off the main street. As Mr. Davis stood
at the mouth of this alley to say a parting word to his friend as a
prelude to the important business of the pledging, someone touched
him on the arm.
A voice accosted him.
'What is it that you would do?'
Mr. Davis spun round like a teetotum. He stared at the Stranger.
'Hollo, matey! Who are you?'
'I am He that you know not of.'
Mr. Davis drew a little back, as if a trifle disconcerted. His voice
was huskier than even it was wont to be.
'What's the little game?'
'I bid you tell me what is this thing that you would do?'
Mr. Davis seemed to find in the words, which were quietly uttered, a
compelling influence which made him curiously frank.
'I am going to pawn these here two coats which my wife's been
making.'
'Is it well?'
Mr. Davis slunk farther from the Stranger. 'What's it got to do with
you?'
'Is it well?'
There was a sorrowful intonation in the repetition of the inquiry,
blended with a singularly penetrant sternness. Mr. Davis cowered as
if he had been struck a blow. He turned to his friend.
'Say, Joe, who is this bloke?'
The Stranger spoke to Mr. Cooke.
'Look on Me, and you shall know.'
Mr. Cooke looked--and knew. He began to tremble as if he would have
fallen to the ground. Mr. Davis, noting his friend's condition,
became uneasy.
'Say, Joe, what's the matter with you? What's he done to you, Joe?'
Mr. Cooke was silent. The Stranger answered:
'Would that that which has been done to him could be done to you, and
to all this city! But you are of those that cannot know, for in them
is no knowledge. Yet return to your wife, and make your peace with
her, lest worse befall.'
Mr. Davis began to slink out of the alley, with furtive air and face
carefully averted from the Stranger. As he reached the pavement, a
big man, with a scarlet handkerchief twisted round his neck, caught
him by the shoulder. The big man's speech was flavoured with
adjectives.
'Why, Tommy! what's up with you? You look as if you was just
a-going to see Jack Ketch.'
Then came the flood of adjectives to give the sentence balance. Mr.
Davis tried to wriggle from his questioner's too strenuous grip.
'Let me go, Pug--let me go!'
'What for? What's wrong? Who's been doing something to yer?'
Mr. Davis made a movement of his head towards the Stranger. He spoke
in a husky whisper.
'That bloke--over there.'
The big man dragged the unwilling Mr. Davis forward.
'What's my friend been doing to you, and what have you been doing to
him?'
There was the usual adjectival torrent. The Stranger replied to the
inquiry with another.
'Why are you so unclean of mouth? Is it because you are unclean of
heart, or because you do not know what the things are which you
utter?'
The retorted question seemed to take the big man aback. His manner
became still more blusterous:
'I don't want none of your lip, and I won't have any, and you can
take that from me! I don't know what kind of a Gospel-pitcher you
are; but if you think because preaching's your lay that you can come
it over me, I'll just show you can't by knocking the head right off
yer.'
'What big things the little say!'
The retort seemed to goad Mr. Davis's friend to a state of
considerable excitement.
'Little, am I? I'll show you! I'll learn you! I'll give you a lesson
free gratis, and for nothing now, right straight off.' He began to
tear off his cap and coat. 'Here, some of you chaps, catch hold while
I'm a-showing him!' As he turned up his shirtsleeves, he addressed
the crowd which had gathered: 'These blokes come to us, and because
we're poor they think they can treat us as if we was dirt, and come
the pa and ma game over us as if we was a lot of kids. I've had
enough of it--in fact, I've had too much. For the future I mean to
set about every one of them as tries to come it over me. Now, then,
my bloke, put up your dooks or eat your words. Don't think you're
going to get out of it by standing still, because if you don't beg
pardon for what you said to me just now I'll----'
The man, who was by profession a pugilist, advanced towards the
Stranger in professional style. The Stranger raised His right hand.
'Stay! and let your arm be withered. Better lose your arm than all
that you have.'
Before the eyes of those who were standing by the man's arm began to
dwindle till there was nothing protruding from the shirtsleeve which
he had rolled up to his shoulder but a withered stump. The man stood
as if rooted to the ground, the expression of his countenance so
changed as to amount to complete transfiguration. The crowd was still
until a voice inquired of the Stranger:
'Who are you?'
The Stranger pointed to the man whose arm was withered.
'Can you not see? The world still looks for a sign.'
There were murmurs among the people.
'He's a conjurer!'
'The bloke's a mesmerist, that's what he is!'
'He's one of those hanky-panky coves!'
'I am none of these things. I come from a city not built of hands to
this city of man's glory and his shame to bring to you a message--no
new thing, but that old one which the world has forgotten.'
'What's the message, Guv'nor?'
'Those who see Me and know Me will know what is My message; those who
know Me not, neither will they know My message.'
Mr. Cooke fell on his knees on the pavement.
'Oh, Guv'nor, what shall I do?'
'Cease to weep; there are more than enough tears already.'
'I'm only a silly fool, Guv'nor; tell me what I ought to do.'
'Do well; be clean; judge no one.'
A woman came hurrying through the crowd. It was Mrs. Davis. At sight
of her husband she burst into exclamations:
'Oh, Tommy, have you pawned them?'
'No, Matilda, I haven't, and I'm not going to, neither.'
'Thank God!'
She threw her arms about her husband's neck and kissed him.
'That is good hearing,' said the Stranger.
The people's attention had been diverted by Mrs. Davis's appearance.
When they turned again to look for the Stranger He was gone.