Books: The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

R >> Robert Tressell >> The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56

The only one upon whom the Christians were able to inflict any
suffering was the child. At first when he used to go out into the
street to play, the other children, acting on their parents'
instructions, refused to associate with him, or taunted him with his
parents' poverty. Occasionally he came home heartbroken and in tears
because he had been excluded from some game.

At first, sometimes the mothers of some of the better-class children
used to come out with a comical assumption of superiority and dignity
and compel their children to leave off playing with Frankie and some
other poorly dressed children who used to play in that street. These
females were usually overdressed and wore a lot of jewellery. Most of
them fancied they were ladies, and if they had only had the sense to
keep their mouths shut, other people might possibly have shared the
same delusion.

But this was now a rare occurrence, because the parents of the other
children found it a matter of considerable difficulty to prevent their
youngsters from associating with those of inferior rank, for when left
to themselves the children disregarded all such distinctions.
Frequently in that street was to be seen the appalling spectacle of
the ten-year-old son of the refined and fashionable Trafaim dragging
along a cart constructed of a sugar box and an old pair of
perambulator wheels with no tyres, in which reposed the plebeian
Frankie Owen, armed with a whip, and the dowdy daughter of a barber's
clerk: while the nine-year-old heir of the coal merchant rushed up
behind ...

Owen's wife and little son were waiting for him in the living room.
This room was about twelve feet square and the ceiling - which was low
and irregularly shaped, showing in places the formation of the roof -
had been decorated by Owen with painted ornaments.

There were three or four chairs, and an oblong table, covered with a
clean white tablecloth, set ready for tea. In the recess at the right
of fireplace - an ordinary open grate - were a number of shelves
filled with a miscellaneous collection of books, most of which had
been bought second-hand.

There were also a number of new books, mostly cheap editions in paper
covers.

Over the back of a chair at one side of the fire, was hanging an old
suit of Owen's, and some underclothing, which his wife had placed
there to air, knowing that he would be wet through by the time he
arrived home ...

The woman was half-sitting, half lying, on a couch by the other side
of the fire. She was very thin, and her pale face bore the traces of
much physical and mental suffering. She was sewing, a task which her
reclining position rendered somewhat difficult. Although she was
really only twenty-eight years of age, she appeared older.

The boy, who was sitting on the hearthrug playing with some toys, bore
a strong resemblance to his mother. He also, appeared very fragile
and in his childish face was reproduced much of the delicate
prettiness which she had once possessed. His feminine appearance was
increased by the fact that his yellow hair hung in long curls on his
shoulders. The pride with which his mother regarded this long hair
was by no means shared by Frankie himself, for he was always
entreating her to cut it off.

Presently the boy stood up and walking gravely over to the window,
looked down into the street, scanning the pavement for as far as he
could see: he had been doing this at intervals for the last hour.

`I wonder wherever he's got to,' he said, as he returned to the fire.

`I'm sure I don't know,' returned his mother. `Perhaps he's had to
work overtime.'

`You know, I've been thinking lately,' observed Frankie, after a
pause, `that it's a great mistake for Dad to go out working at all. I
believe that's the very reason why we're so poor.'

`Nearly everyone who works is more or less poor, dear, but if Dad
didn't go out to work we'd be even poorer than we are now. We should
have nothing to eat.'

`But Dad says that the people who do nothing get lots of everything.'

`Yes, and it's quite true that most of the people who never do any
work get lots of everything, but where do they get it from? And how
do they get it?'

`I'm sure i don't know,' replied Frankie, shaking his head in a
puzzled fashion.

`Supposing Dad didn't go to work, or that he had no work to go to, or
that he was ill and not able to do any work, then we'd have no money
to buy anything. How should we get on then?'

`I'm sure I don't know,' repeated Frankie, looking round the room in a
thoughtful manner, `The chairs that's left aren't good enough to sell,
and we can't sell the beds, or your sofa, but you might pawn my velvet
suit.'

`But even if all the things were good enough to sell, the money we'd
get for them wouldn't last very long, and what should we do then?'

`Well, I suppose we'd have to go without, that's all, the same as we
did when Dad was in London .'

`But how do the people who never do any work manage to get lots of
money then?' added Frankie.

`Oh, there's lots of different ways. For instance, you remember when
Dad was in London, and we had no food in the house, I had to sell the
easy chair.'

Frankie nodded. `Yes,' he said, `I remember you wrote a note and I
took it to the shop, and afterwards old Didlum came up here and bought
it, and then his cart came and a man took it away.'

`And do you remember how much he gave us for it?'

`Five shillings,' replied Frankie, promptly. He was well acquainted
with the details of the transaction, having often heard his father
and mother discuss it.

`And when we saw it in his shop window a little while afterwards, what
price was marked on it?'

'Fifteen shillings.'

Well, that's one way of getting money without working.

Frankie played with his toys in silence for some minutes. At last he
said:

`What other ways?'

`Some people who have some money already get more in this way: they
find some people who have no money and say to them, "Come and work for
us." Then the people who have the money pay the workers just enough
wages to keep them alive whilst they are at work. Then, when the
things that the working people have been making are finished, the
workers are sent away, and as they still have no money, they are soon
starving. In the meantime the people who had the money take all the
things that the workers have made and sell them for a great deal more
money than they gave to the workers for making them. That's another
way of getting lots of money without doing any useful work.'

`But is there no way to get rich without doing such things as that?'

`It's not possible for anyone to become rich without cheating other
people.'

`What about our schoolmaster then? He doesn't do any work.'

`Don't you think it's useful and and also very hard work teaching all
those boys every day? I don't think I should like to have to do it.'

`Yes, I suppose what he does is some use,' said Frankie thoughtfully.
`And it must be rather hard too, I should think. I've noticed he
looks a bit worried sometimes, and sometimes he gets into a fine old
wax when the boys don't pay proper attention.'

The child again went over to the window, and pulling back the edge of
the blind looked down the deserted rain washed street.

`What about the vicar?' he remarked as he returned.

Although Frankie did not go to church or Sunday School, the day school
that he had attended was that attached to the parish church, and the
vicar was in the habit of looking in occasionally.

`Ah, he really is one of those who live without doing any necessary
work, and of all the people who do nothing, the vicar is one of the
very worst.'

Frankie looked up at his mother with some surprise, not because he
entertained any very high opinion of clergymen in general, for, having
been an attentive listener to many conversations between his parents,
he had of course assimilated their opinions as far as his infant
understanding permitted, but because at the school the scholars were
taught to regard the gentleman in question with the most profound
reverence and respect.

`Why, Mum?' he asked.

`For this reason, dearie. You know that all the beautiful things
which the people who do nothing have are made by the people who work,
don't you?'

`Yes.'

`And you know that those who work have to eat the very worst food, and
wear the very worst clothes, and live in the very worst homes.'

`Yes,' said Frankie.

`And sometimes they have nothing to eat at all, and no clothes to wear
except rags, and even no homes to live in.'

`Yes,' repeated the child.

`Well, the vicar goes about telling the Idlers that it's quite right
for them to do nothing, and that God meant them to have nearly
everything that is made by those who work. In fact, he tells them
that God made the poor for the use of the rich. Then he goes to the
workers and tells them that God meant them to work very hard and to
give all the good things they make to those who do nothing, and that
they should be very thankful to God and to the idlers for being
allowed to have even the very worst food to eat and the rags, and
broken boots to wear. He also tells them that they mustn't grumble,
or be discontented because they're poor in this world, but that they
must wait till they're dead, and then God will reward them by letting
them go to a place called Heaven.'

Frankie laughed.

`And what about the Idlers?' he asked.

`The vicar says that if they believe everything he tells them and give
him some of the money they make out of the workers, then God will let
them into heaven also.'

`Well, that's not fair doos, is it, Mum?' said Frankie with some
indignation.

`It wouldn't be if it were true, but then you see it's not true, it
can't be true.'

`Why can't it, Mum?'

`Oh, for many reasons: to begin with, the vicar doesn't believe it
himself: he only pretends to. For instance, he pretends to believe
the Bible, but if we read the Bible we find that Jesus said that God
is our father and that all the people in the world are His children,
all brothers and sisters. But the vicar says that although Jesus said
"brothers and sisters" He really ought to have said "masters and
servants". Again, Jesus said that His disciples should not think of
tomorrow, or save up a lot of money for themselves, but they should be
unselfish and help those who are in need. Jesus said that His
disciples must not think about their own future needs at all, because
God will provide for them if they only do as He commands. But the
vicar says that is all nonsense.

`Jesus also said that if anyone tried to do His disciples harm, they
must never resist, but forgive those who injured them and pray God to
forgive them also. But the vicar says this is all nonsense too. He
says that the world would never be able to go on if we did as Jesus
taught. The vicar teaches that the way to deal with those that injure
us is to have them put into prison, or - if they belong to some other
country - to take guns and knives and murder them, and burn their
houses. So you see the vicar doesn't really believe or do any of the
things that Jesus said: he only pretends.'

`But why does he pretend, and go about talking like that, Mum? What
does he do it for?'

`Because he wishes to live without working himself, dear.'

`And don't the people know he's only pretending?'

`Some of them do. Most of the idlers know that what the vicar says is
not true, but they pretend to believe it, and give him money for
saying it, because they want him to go on telling it to the workers so
that they will go on working and keep quiet and be afraid to think for
themselves.'

`And what about the workers? Do they believe it?

`Most of them do, because when they were little children like you,
their mothers taught them to believe, without thinking, whatever the
vicar said, and that God made them for the use of the idlers. When
they went to school, they were taught the same thing: and now that
they're grown up they really believe it, and they go to work and give
nearly everything they make to the idlers, and have next to nothing
left for themselves and their children. That's the reason why the
workers' children have very bad clothes to wear and sometimes no food
to eat; and that's how it is that the idlers and their children have
more clothes than they need and more food than they can eat. Some of
them have so much food that they are not able to eat it. They just
waste it or throw it away.'

`When I'm grown up into a man,' said Frankie, with a flushed face,
`I'm going to be one of the workers, and when we've made a lot of
things, I shall stand up and tell the others what to do. If any of
the idlers come to take our things away, they'll get something they
won't like.'

In a state of suppressed excitement and scarcely conscious of what he
was doing, the boy began gathering up the toys and throwing the
violently one by one into the box.

`I'll teach 'em to come taking our things away,' he exclaimed,
relapsing momentarily into his street style of speaking.

`First of all we'll all stand quietly on one side. Then when the
idlers come in and start touching our things, we'll go up to 'em and
say, "`Ere, watcher doin' of? Just you put it down, will yer?" And
if they don't put it down at once, it'll be the worse for 'em, I can
tell you.'

All the toys being collected, Frankie picked up the box and placed it
noisily in its accustomed corner of the room.

`I should think the workers will be jolly glad when they see me coming
to tell them what to do, shouldn't you, Mum?'

`I don't know dear; you see so many people have tried to tell them,
but they won't listen, they don't want to hear. They think it's quite
right that they should work very hard all their lives, and quite right
that most of the things they help to make should be taken away from
them by the people who do nothing. The workers think that their
children are not as good as the children of the idlers, and they teach
their children that as soon as ever they are old enough they must be
satisfied to work very hard and to have only very bad good and clothes
and homes.'

`Then I should think the workers ought to be jolly ashamed of
themselves, Mum, don't you?'

`Well, in one sense they ought, but you must remember that that's what
they've always been taught themselves. First, their mothers and
fathers told them so; then, their schoolteachers told them so; and
then, when they went to church, the vicar and the Sunday School
teacher told them the same thing. So you can't be surprised that they
now really believe that God made them and their children to make
things for the use of the people who do nothing.'

`But you'd think their own sense would tell them! How can it be right
for the people who do nothing to have the very best and most of
everything thats made, and the very ones who make everything to have
hardly any. Why even I know better than that, and I'm only six and a
half years old.'

`But then you're different, dearie, you've been taught to think about
it, and Dad and I have explained it to you, often.'

`Yes, I know,' replied Frankie confidently. `But even if you'd never
taught me, I'm sure I should have tumbled to it all right by myself;
I'm not such a juggins as you think I am.'

`So you might, but you wouldn't if you'd been brought up in the same
way as most of the workers. They've been taught that it's very wicked
to use their own judgement, or to think. And their children are being
taught so now. Do you remember what you told me the other day, when
you came home from school, about the Scripture lesson?'

`About St Thomas?'

`Yes. What did the teacher say St Thomas was?'

`She said he was a bad example; and she said I was worse than him
because I asked too many foolish questions. She always gets in a wax
if I talk too much.'

`Well, why did she call St Thomas a bad example?'

`Because he wouldn't believe what he was told.'

`Exactly: well, when you told Dad about it what did he say?'

`Dad told me that really St Thomas was the only sensible man in the
whole crowd of Apostles. That is,' added Frankie, correcting himself,
`if there ever was such a man at all.'

`But did Dad say that there never was such a man?'

`No; he said HE didn't believe there ever was, but he told me to just
listen to what the teacher said about such things, and then to think
about it in my own mind, and wait till I'm grown up and then I can use
my own judgement.'

`Well, now, that's what YOU were told, but all the other children's
mothers and fathers tell them to believe, without thinking, whatever
the teacher says. So it will be no wonder if those children are not
able to think for themselves when they're grown up, will it?'

`Don't you think it will be any use, then, for me to tell them what to
do to the Idlers?' asked Frankie, dejectedly.

`Hark!' said his mother, holding up her finger.

`Dad!' cried Frankie, rushing to the door and flinging it open. He
ran along the passage and opened the staircase door before Owen
reached the top of the last flight of stairs.

`Why ever do you come up at such a rate,' reproachfully exclaimed
Owen's wife as he came into the room exhausted from the climb upstairs
and sank panting into the nearest chair.

`I al-ways-for-get,' he replied, when he had in some degree recovered.
As he lay back in the chair, his face haggard and of a ghastly
whiteness, and with the water dripping from his saturated clothing,
Owen presented a terrible appearance.

Frankie noticed with childish terror the extreme alarm with which his
mother looked at his father.

`You're always doing it,' he said with a whimper. `How many more
times will Mother have to tell you about it before you take nay
notice?'

`It's all right, old chap,' said Owen, drawing the child nearer to him
and kissing the curly head. `Listen, and see if you can guess what
I've got for you under my coat.'

In the silence the purring of the kitten was distinctly audible.

`A kitten!' cried the boy, taking it out of its hiding-place. `All
black, and I believe it's half a Persian. Just the very thing I
wanted.'

While Frankie amused himself playing with the kitten, which had been
provided with another saucer of bread and milk, Owen went into the
bedroom to put on the dry clothes, and then, those that he had taken
off having been placed with his boots near the fire to dry, he
explained as they were taking tea the reason of his late homecoming.

`I'm afraid he won't find it very easy to get another job,' he
remarked, referring to Linden. `Even in the summer nobody will be
inclined to take him on. He's too old.'

`It's a dreadful prospect for the two children,' answered his wife.

`Yes,' replied Owen bitterly. `It's the children who will suffer
most. As for Linden and his wife, although of course one can't help
feeling sorry for them, at the same time there's no getting away from
the fact that they deserve to suffer. All their lives they've been
working like brutes and living in poverty. Although they have done
more than their fair share of the work, they have never enjoyed
anything like a fair share of the things they have helped to produce.
And yet, all their lives they have supported and defended the system
that robbed them, and have resisted and ridiculed every proposal to
alter it. It's wrong to feel sorry for such people; they deserve to
suffer.'

After tea, as he watched his wife clearing away the tea things and
rearranging the drying clothing by the fire, Owen for the first time
noticed that she looked unusually ill.

`You don't look well tonight, Nora,' he said, crossing over to her and
putting his arm around her.

`I don't feel well,' she replied, resting her head wearily against his
shoulder. `I've been very bad all day and I had to lie down nearly
all the afternoon. I don't know how I should have managed to get the
tea ready if it had not been for Frankie.'

`I set the table for you, didn't I, Mum?' said Frankie with pride;
`and tidied up the room as well.'

`Yes, darling, you helped me a lot,' she answered, and Frankie went
over to her and kissed her hand.

`Well, you'd better go to bed at once,' said Owen. `I can put Frankie
to bed presently and do whatever else is necessary.'

`But there are so many things to attend to. I want to see that your
clothes are properly dry and to put something ready for you to take in
the morning before you go out, and then there's your breakfast to pack
up -'

`I can manage all that.'

`I didn't want to give way to it like this,' the woman said, `because
I know you must be tired out yourself, but I really do feel quite done
up now.'

`Oh, I'm all right,' replied Owen, who was really so fatigued that he
was scarcely able to stand. `I'll go and draw the blinds down and
light the other lamp; so say good night to Frankie and come at once.'

`I won't say good night properly, now, Mum,' remarked the boy,
`because Dad can carry me into your room before he puts me into bed.'

A little later, as Owen was undressing Frankie, the latter remarked as
he looked affectionately at the kitten, which was sitting on the
hearthrug watching the child's every movement under the impression
that it was part of some game:

`What name do you think we ought to call it, Dad?'

`You may give him any name you like,' replied Owen, absently.

`I know a dog that lives down the road,' said the boy, `his name is
Major. How would that do? Or we might call him Sergeant.'

The kitten, observing that he was the subject of their conversation,
purred loudly and winked as if to intimate that he did not care what
rank was conferred upon him so long as the commisariat department was
properly attended to.

`I don't know, though,' continued Frankie, thoughtfully. `They're all
right names for dogs, but I think they're too big for a kitten, don't
you, Dad?'

`Yes, p'raps they are,' said Owen.

`Most cats are called Tom or Kitty, but I don't want a COMMON name for
him.'

`Well, can't you call him after someone you know?'

`I know; I'll call him after a little girl that comes to our school; a
fine name, Maud! That'll be a good one, won't it Dad?'

`Yes,' said Owen.

`I say, Dad,' said Frankie, suddenly realizing the awful fact that he
was being put to bed. `You're forgetting all about my story, and you
promised that you'd have a game of trains with me tonight.'

`I hadn't forgotten, but I was hoping that you had, because I'm very
tired and it's very late, long past your usual bedtime, you know. You
can take the kitten to bed with you tonight and I'll tell you two
stories tomorrow, because it's Saturday.'

`All right, then,' said the boy, contentedly; `and I'll get the
railway station built and I'll have the lines chalked on the floor,
and the signals put up before you come home, so that there'll be no
time wasted. And I'll put one chair at one end of the room and
another chair at the other end, and tie some string across for
telegraph wires. That'll be a very good idea, won't it, Dad?' and
Owen agreed.

`But of course I'll come to meet you just the same as other Saturdays,
because I'm going to buy a ha'porth of milk for the kitten out of my
penny.'

After the child was in bed, Owen sat alone by the table in the
draughty sitting-room, thinking. Although there was a bright fire,
the room was very cold, being so close to the roof. The wind roared
loudly round the gables, shaking the house in a way that threatened
every moment to hurl it to the ground. The lamp on the table had a
green glass reservoir which was half full of oil. Owen watched this
with unconscious fascination. Every time a gust of wind struck the
house the oil in the lamp was agitated and rippled against the glass
like the waves of a miniature sea. Staring abstractedly at the lamp,
he thought of the future.

A few years ago the future had seemed a region of wonderful and
mysterious possibilities of good, but tonight the thought brought no
such illusions, for he knew that the story of the future was to be
much the same as the story of the past.

The story of the past would continue to repeat itself for a few years
longer. He would continue to work and they would all three continue
to do without most of the necessaries of life. When there was no work
they would starve.

For himself he did not care much because he knew that at the best - or
worst - it would only be a very few years. Even if he were to have
proper food and clothing and be able to take reasonable care of
himself, he could not live much longer; but when that time came, what
was to become of THEM?

There would be some hope for the boy if he were more robust and if his
character were less gentle and more selfish. Under the present system
it was impossible for anyone to succeed in life without injuring other
people and treating them and making use of them as one would not like
to be treated and made use of oneself.

In order to succeed in the world it was necessary to be brutal,
selfish and unfeeling: to push others aside and to take advantage of
their misfortunes: to undersell and crush out one's competitors by
fair means or foul: to consider one's own interests first in every
case, absolutely regardless of the wellbeing of others.