bottle or so, and there were some broken boxes for seats. The last
small scraping of coals left was raked together in a corner of the
floor. There were some rags in an open cupboard, also on the
floor. In a corner of the room was a crazy old French bed-stead,
with a man lying on his back upon it in a ragged pilot jacket, and
rough oil-skin fantail hat. The room was perfectly black. It was
difficult to believe, at first, that it was not purposely coloured
black, the walls were so begrimed.
As I stood opposite the woman boiling the children’s clothes, – she
had not even a piece of soap to wash them with, – and apologising
for her occupation, I could take in all these things without
appearing to notice them, and could even correct my inventory. I
had missed, at the first glance, some half a pound of bread in the
otherwise empty safe, an old red ragged crinoline hanging on the
handle of the door by which I had entered, and certain fragments of
rusty iron scattered on the floor, which looked like broken tools
and a piece of stove-pipe. A child stood looking on. On the box
nearest to the fire sat two younger children; one a delicate and
pretty little creature, whom the other sometimes kissed.
This woman, like the last, was wofully shabby, and was degenerating
to the Bosjesman complexion. But her figure, and the ghost of a
certain vivacity about her, and the spectre of a dimple in her
cheek, carried my memory strangely back to the old days of the
Adelphi Theatre, London, when Mrs. Fitzwilliam was the friend of
Victorine.
‘May I ask you what your husband is?’
‘He’s a coal-porter, sir,’ – with a glance and a sigh towards the
bed.
‘Is he out of work?’
‘Oh, yes, sir! and work’s at all times very, very scanty with him;
and now he’s laid up.’
‘It’s my legs,’ said the man upon the bed. ‘I’ll unroll ’em.’ And
immediately began.
‘Have you any older children?’
‘I have a daughter that does the needle-work, and I have a son that
does what he can. She’s at her work now, and he’s trying for
work.’
‘Do they live here?’
‘They sleep here. They can’t afford to pay more rent, and so they
come here at night. The rent is very hard upon us. It’s rose upon
us too, now, – sixpence a week, – on account of these new changes
in the law, about the rates. We are a week behind; the landlord’s
been shaking and rattling at that door frightfully; he says he’ll
turn us out. I don’t know what’s to come of it.’
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Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller
The man upon the bed ruefully interposed, ‘Here’s my legs. The
skin’s broke, besides the swelling. I have had a many kicks,
working, one way and another.’
He looked at his legs (which were much discoloured and misshapen)
for a while, and then appearing to remember that they were not
popular with his family, rolled them up again, as if they were
something in the nature of maps or plans that were not wanted to be
referred to, lay hopelessly down on his back once more with his
fantail hat over his face, and stirred not.
‘Do your eldest son and daughter sleep in that cupboard?’
‘Yes,’ replied the woman.
‘With the children?’
‘Yes. We have to get together for warmth. We have little to cover
us.’
‘Have you nothing by you to eat but the piece of bread I see
there?’
‘Nothing. And we had the rest of the loaf for our breakfast, with
water. I don’t know what’s to come of it.’
‘Have you no prospect of improvement?’
‘If my eldest son earns anything to-day, he’ll bring it home. Then
we shall have something to eat to-night, and may be able to do
something towards the rent. If not, I don’t know what’s to come of
it.’
‘This is a sad state of things.’
‘Yes, sir; it’s a hard, hard life. Take care of the stairs as you
go, sir, – they’re broken, – and good day, sir!’