Читать книгу Collected Works - Джордж Оруэлл, George Orwell - Страница 45

Ginger: “ ’Oo’s got a fill of ’ard-up? I’ve smoked my last bleeding fag-end.”

Mr. Tallboys (as at the altar): “Dearly beloved brethren we are gathered together in the sight of God for the solemnisation of unholy blasphemy. He has afflicted us with dirt and cold, with hunger and solitude, with the pox and the itch, with the headlouse and the crablouse. Our food is damp crusts and slimy meat-scraps handed out in packets from hotel doorways. Our pleasure is stewed tea and sawdust cakes bolted in reeking cellars, bar-rinsings and spittle of common ale, the embrace of toothless hags. Our destiny is the pauper’s grave, twenty-five deep in deal coffins, the kip-house of underground. It is very meet, right and our bounden duty at all times and in all places to curse Him and revile Him. Therefore with Demons and Archdemons,” etc., etc., etc.

Mrs. McElligot (drowsily): “By holy Jesus, I’m half asleep right now, only some b ——’s lyin’ across me legs an crushin’ ’em.”

Mr. Tallboys: “Amen. Evil from us deliver, but temptation into not us lead,” etc., etc., etc.

(As he reaches the first word of the prayer he tears the consecrated bread across. The blood runs out of it. There is a rolling sound, as of thunder, and the landscape changes. Dorothy’s feet are very cold. Monstrous winged shapes of Demons and Archdemons are dimly visible, moving to and fro. Something, beak or claw, closes upon Dorothy’s shoulder, reminding her that her feet and hands are aching with cold.)

The policeman (shaking Dorothy by the shoulder): “Wake up, now, wake up, wake up! Haven’t you got an overcoat? You’re as white as death. Don’t you know better than to let yourself sprawl about in the cold like that?”

(Dorothy finds that she is stiff with cold. The sky is now quite clear, with gritty little stars twinkling like electric lamps enormously remote. The pyramid has unrolled itself.)

Mrs. McElligot: “De poor kid, she ain’t used to roughin’ it de way us others are.”

Ginger (beating his arms): “Brr! Woo! ’Taters in the bleeding mould!”

Mrs. Wayne: “She’s a lady born and bred.”

The policeman: “Is that so?—See here, Miss, you best come down to the M.A.B. with me. They’ll give you a bed all right. Anyone can see with half an eye as you’re a cut above these others here.”

Mrs. Bendigo: “Thank you, constable, thank you! ’Ear that, girls? ‘A cut above us,’ ’e says. Nice, ain’t it? (To the policeman) Proper bloody Ascot swell yourself, ain’t you?”

Dorothy: “No, no! Leave me. I’d rather stay here.”

The policeman: “Well, please yourself. You looked real bad just now. I’ll be along later and take a look at you.” (Moves off doubtfully.)

Charlie: “Wait’ll the perisher’s round the corner and then pile up agen. Only perishing way we’ll keep warm.”

Mrs. McElligot: “Come on, kid. Get underneath an’ let’m warm you.”

Snouter: “Ten minutes to —— two. Can’t last for ever, I s’pose.”

Mr. Tallboys (chanting): “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: My heart also in the midst of my body is like unto melting wax! . . .”

(Once more the people pile themselves on the bench. But the temperature is now not many degrees above freezing-point, and the wind is blowing more cuttingly. The people wriggle their wind-nipped faces into the heap like sucking pigs struggling for their mother’s teats. One’s interludes of sleep shrink to a few seconds, and one’s dreams grow more monstrous, troubling and undreamlike. There are times when the nine people are talking almost normally, times when they can even laugh at their situation, and times when they press themselves together in a kind of frenzy, with deep groans of pain. Mr. Tallboys suddenly becomes exhausted and his monologue degenerates into a stream of nonsense. He drops his vast bulk on top of the others, almost suffocating them. The heap rolls apart. Some remain on the bench, some slide to the ground and collapse against the parapet or against the others’ knees. The policeman enters the Square and orders those on the ground to their feet. They get up, and collapse again the moment he is gone. There is no sound from the ten people save of snores that are partly groans. Their heads nod like those of jointed porcelain Chinamen as they fall asleep and re-awake as rhythmically as the ticking of a clock. Three strikes somewhere. A voice yells like a trumpet from the eastern end of the Square: “Boys! Up you get! The noospapersis come!”)

Charlie (starting from his sleep): “The perishing papers! C’m on, Ginger! Run like Hell!”

(They run, or shamble, as fast as they can to the corner of the Square, where three youths are distributing surplus posters given away in charity by the morning newspapers. Charlie and Ginger come back with a thick wad of posters. The five largest men now jam themselves together on the bench, Deafie and the four women sitting across their knees; then, with infinite difficulty (as it has to be done from the inside), they wrap themselves in a monstrous cocoon of paper, several sheets thick, tucking the loose ends into their necks or breasts or between their shoulders and the back of the bench. Finally nothing is uncovered save their heads and the lower part of their legs. For their heads they fashion hoods of paper. The paper constantly comes loose and lets in cold shafts of wind, but it is now possible to sleep for as much as five minutes consecutively. At this time—between three and five in the morning—it is customary with the police not to disturb the Square sleepers. A measure of warmth steals through everyone and extends even to their feet. There is some furtive fondling of the women under cover of the paper. Dorothy is too far gone to care.

By a quarter past four the paper is all crumpled and torn to nothing, and it is far too cold to remain sitting down. The people get up, swear, find their legs somewhat rested, and begin to slouch to and fro in couples, frequently halting from mere lassitude. Every belly is now contorted with hunger. Ginger’s tin of condensed milk is torn open and the contents devoured, everyone dipping their fingers into it and licking them. Those who have no money at all leave the Square for the Green Park, where they will be undisturbed till seven. Those who can command even a halfpenny make for Wilkins’s café not far from the Charing Cross Road. It is known that the café will not open till five o’clock; nevertheless, a crowd is waiting outside the door by twenty to five.)

Mrs. McElligot: “Got your halfpenny, dearie? Dey won’t let more’n four of us in on one cup o’ tea, de stingy ole gets!”

Mr. Tallboys (singing): “The roseate hu-ues of early da-awn—”

Ginger: “God, that bit of sleep we ’ad under the newspapers done me some good. (Singing): But I’m dan-cing with tears—in my eyes——”

Charlie: “Oh, boys, boys! Look through that perishing window, will you? Look at the ’eat steaming down the window pane! Look at the tea-urns jest on the boil, and them great piles of ’ot toast and ’am sandwiches, and them there sausages sizzling in the pan! Don’t it make your belly turn perishing summersaults to see ’em?”

Dorothy: “I’ve got a penny. I can’t get a cup of tea for that, can I?”

Snouter: “—— lot of sausages we’ll get this morning with fourpence between us. ’Alf a cup of tea and a —— doughnut more likely. There’s a breakfus’ for you!”

Mrs. McElligot: “You don’t need buy a cup o’ tea all to yourself. I got a halfpenny an’ so’s Daddy, an’ we’ll put’m to your penny an’ have a cup between de t’ree of us. He’s got sores on his lip, but Hell! who cares? Drink near de handle an’ dere’s no harm done.”

(A quarter to five strikes.)

Mrs. Bendigo: “I’d bet a dollar my ole man’s got a bit of ’addock to ’is breakfast. I ’ope it bloody chokes ’im.”

Ginger (singing): “But I’m dan-cing with tears—in my eyes——”

Mr. Tallboys (singing): “Early in the morning my song shall rise to Thee!”

Mrs. McElligot: “You gets a bit o’ kip in dis place, dat’s one comfort. Dey lets you sleep wid your head on de table till seven o’clock. It’s a bloody godsend to us Square Tobies.”

Charlie (slavering like a dog): “Sausages! Perishing sausages! Welsh rabbit! ’Ot dripping toast! And a rumpsteak two inches thick with chips and a pint of Ole Burton! Oh, perishing Jesus!” (He bounds forward, pushes his way through the crowd and rattles the handle of the glass door. The whole crowd of people, about forty strong, surge forward and attempt to storm the door, which is stoutly held within by Mr. Wilkins, the proprietor of the café. He menaces them through the glass. Some press their breasts and faces against the window as though warming themselves. With a whoop and a rush Florry and four other girls, comparatively fresh from having spent part of the night in bed, debouch from a neighbouring alley, accompanied by a gang of youths in blue suits. They hurl themselves upon the rear of the crowd with such momentum that the door is almost broken. Mr. Wilkins pulls it furiously open and shoves the leaders back. A fume of sausages, kippers, coffee and hot bread streams into the outer cold.)

Youths’ voices from the rear: “Why can’t he —— open before five? We’re starving for our —— tea! Ram the —— door in!” etc., etc.

Mr. Wilkins: “Get out! Get out, the lot of you! Or by God not one of you comes in this morning!”

Girls’ voices from the rear: “Mis-ter Wil-kins! Mis-ter Wil-kins! Be a sport and let us in! I’ll give y’a kiss all free for nothing. Be a sport now!” etc., etc.

Mr. Wilkins: “Get on out of it! We don’t open before five, and you know it.” (Slams the door.)

Mrs. McElligot: “Oh, holy Jesus, if dis ain’t de longest ten minutes o’ de whole bloody night! Well, I’ll give me poor ole legs a rest, anyway.” (Squats on her heels coal-miner-fashion. Many others do the same.)

Ginger: “ ’Oo’s got a ’alfpenny? I’m ripe to go fifty-fifty on a doughnut.”

Youths’ voices (imitating military music, then singing):

“ ‘——!’ was all the band could play;

‘——! ——!’ And the same to you!”

Dorothy (to Mrs. McElligot): “Look at us all! Just look at us! What clothes! What faces!”

Mrs. Bendigo: “You’re no Greta Garbo yourself, if you don’t mind my mentioning it.”

Mrs. Wayne: “Well, now, the time do seem to pass slowly when you’re waiting for a nice cup of tea, don’t it now?”

Mr. Tallboys (chanting): “For our soul is brought low, even unto the dust: our belly cleaveth unto the ground!’

Charlie: “Kippers! Perishing piles of ’em! I can smell ’em through the perishing glass.”

Ginger (singing):

“But I’m dan-cing with tears—in my eyes—

Cos the girl—in my arms—isn’t you-o-ou!”

(Much time passes. Five strikes. Intolerable ages seem to pass. Then the door is suddenly wrenched open and the people stampede in to fight for the corner seats. Almost swooning in the hot air, they fling themselves down and sprawl across the tables, drinking in the heat and the smell of food through all their pores.)

Mr. Wilkins: “Now then, all! You know the rules, I s’pose. No hokey-pokey this morning! Sleep till seven if you like, but if I see any man asleep after that, out he goes on his neck. Get busy with that tea, girls!”

A deafening chorus of yells: “Two teas ’ere! Large tea and a doughnut between us four! Kippers! Mis-ter Wil-kins! ’Ow much them sausages? Two slices! Mis-ter Wil-kins! Got any fag papers? Kipp-ers!” etc., etc.

Mr. Wilkins: “Shut up, shut up! Stop that hollering or I don’t serve any of you.”

Mrs. McElligot: “D’you feel de blood runnin’ back into your toes, dearie?”

Mrs. Wayne: “He do speak rough to you, don’t he? Not what I’d call a reely gentlemanly kind of man.”

Snouter: “This is —— Starvation Corner, this is. Cripes! Couldn’t I do a couple of them sausages!”

The tarts (in chorus): “Kippers ’ere! ’Urry up with them kippers! Mis-ter Wil-kins! Kippers all round! And a doughnut!”

Charlie: “Not ’alf! Got to fill up on the smell of ’em this morning. Sooner be ’ere than on the perishing Square, all the same.”

Ginger: “ ’Ere, Deafie! You’ve ’ad your ’alf! Gimme me that bleeding cup.”

Mr. Tallboys (chanting): “Then was our mouth filled with laughter, and our tongue with joy! . . .”

Mrs. McElligot: “Begod I’m half asleep already. It’s de heat o’ de room as does it.”

Mr. Wilkins: “Stop that singing there! You know the rules.”

The tarts (in chorus): “Kipp-ers!”

Snouter: “—— doughnuts! Cold prog! It turns my belly sick.”

Daddy: “Even the tea they give you ain’t no more than water with a bit of dust in it.” (Belches.)

Charlie: “Bes’ thing—’ave a bit of shut-eye and forget about it. Dream about perishing cut off the joint and two veg. Less get our ’eads on the table and pack up comfortable.”

Mrs. McElligot: “Lean up agen me shoulder, dearie. I’ve got more flesh on me bones’n what you have.”

Ginger: “I’d give a tanner for a bleeding fag, if ’ad a bleeding tanner.”

Charlie: “Pack up. Get your ’ead agenst mine, Snouter. That’s right. Jesus, won’t I perishing sleep!”

(A dish of smoking kippers is borne past to the tarts’ table.)

Snouter (drowsily): “More —— kippers. Wonder ’ow many times she’s bin on ’er back to pay for that lot.”

Mrs. McElligot (half asleep): “ ’Twas a pity, ’twas a real pity, when Michael went off on his jack an’ left me wid de bloody baby an’ all. . . .”

Mrs. Bendigo (furiously, following the dish of kippers with accusing finger): “Look at that, girls! Look at that! Kippers! Don’t it make you bloody wild? We don’t get kippers for breakfast, do we, girls? Bloody tarts swallering down kippers as fast as they can turn ’em out of the pan, and us ’ere with a cup of tea between four of us and lucky to get that! Kippers!”

Mr. Tallboys (stage curate-wise): “The wages of sin is kippers.”

Ginger: “Don’t breathe in my face, Deafie. I can’t bleeding stand it.”

Charlie (in his sleep): “Charles-Wisdom-drunk-and-incapable-drunk?-yes-six-shillings-move-on-next!

Dorothy (on Mrs. McElligot’s bosom): “Oh, joy, joy!” (They are asleep.)

§II

And so it goes on.

Dorothy endured this life for ten days—to be exact, nine days and ten nights. It was hard to see what else she could do. Her father, seemingly, had abandoned her altogether, and though she had friends in London who would readily have helped her, she did not feel that she could face them after what had happened, or what was supposed to have happened. And she dared not apply to organised charity because it would almost certainly lead to the discovery of her name, and hence, perhaps, to a fresh hullabaloo about the “Rector’s Daughter.”

So she stayed in London, and became one of that curious tribe, rare but never quite extinct—the tribe of women who are penniless and homeless, but who make such desperate efforts to hide it that they very nearly succeed; women who wash their faces at drinking fountains in the cold of the dawn, and carefully uncrumple their clothes after sleepless nights, and carry themselves with an air of reserve and decency, so that only their faces, pale beneath sunburn, tell you for certain that they are destitute. It was not in her to become a hardened beggar like most of the people about her. Her first twenty-four hours on the Square she spent without any food whatever, except for the cup of tea that she had had overnight and a third of a cup more that she had had at Wilkins’s café in the morning. But in the evening, made desperate by hunger and the others’ example, she walked up to a strange woman, mastered her voice with an effort, and said: “Please, Madam, could you give me twopence? I have had nothing to eat since yesterday.” The woman stared, but she opened her purse and gave Dorothy threepence. Dorothy did not know it, but her educated accent, which had made it impossible to get work as a servant, was an invaluable asset to her as a beggar.

After that she found that it was really very easy to beg the daily shilling or so that was needed to keep her alive. And yet she never begged—it seemed to her that actually she could not do it—except when hunger was past bearing or when she had got to lay in the precious penny that was the passport to Wilkins’s café in the morning. With Nobby, on the way to the hopfields, she had begged without fear or scruple. But it had been different then; she had not known what she was doing. Now, it was only under the spur of actual hunger that she could screw her courage to the point, and ask for a few coppers from some women whose face looked friendly. It was always women that she begged from, of course. She did once try begging from a man—but only once.

For the rest, she grew used to the life that she was leading—used to the enormous sleepless nights, the cold, the dirt, the boredom and the horrible communism of the square. After a day or two she had ceased to feel even a flicker of surprise at her situation. She had come, like everyone about her, to accept this monstrous existence almost as though it were normal. The dazed, witless feeling that she had known on the way to the hopfields had come back upon her more strongly than before. It is the common effect of sleeplessness and still more of exposure. To live continuously in the open air, never going under a roof for more than an hour or two, blurs your perceptions like a strong light glaring in your eyes or a noise drumming in your ears. You act and plan and suffer, and yet all the while it is as though everything were a little out of focus, a little unreal. The world, inner and outer, grows dimmer till it reaches almost the vagueness of a dream.

Meanwhile, the police were getting to know her by sight. On the Square people are perpetually coming and going, more or less unnoticed. They arrive from nowhere with their drums and their bundles, camp for a few days and nights and then disappear as mysteriously as they came. If you stay for more than a week or thereabouts, the police will mark you down as an habitual beggar, and they will arrest you sooner or later. It is impossible for them to enforce the begging laws at all regularly, but from time to time they make a sudden raid and capture two or three of the people they have had their eye on. And so it happened in Dorothy’s case.

One evening she was “knocked off,” in company with Mrs. McElligot and another woman whose name she did not know. They had been careless and begged off a nasty old lady with a face like a horse, who had promptly walked up to the nearest policeman and given them in charge.

Dorothy did not mind very much. Everything was dreamlike now—the face of the nasty old lady, eagerly accusing them, and the walk to the station with a young policeman’s gentle, almost deferential hand on her arm; and then the white-tiled cell, with the fatherly sergeant handing her a cup of tea through the grille and telling her that the magistrate wouldn’t be too hard on her if she pleaded guilty. In the cell next door Mrs. McElligot stormed at the sergeant, called him a bloody get and then spent half the night in bewailing her fate. But Dorothy had no feeling save vague relief at being in so clean and warm a place. She crept immediately on to the plank bed that was fixed like a shelf to the wall, too tired even to pull the blankets about her, and slept for ten hours without stirring. It was only on the following morning that she began to grasp the reality of her situation, as the Black Maria rolled briskly up to Old Street Police Court, to the tune of “Adeste fideles” shouted by five drunks inside.