Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (fiction novels to read .txt) 📕
Another answer is that `The Philanthropists' is not a treatise oressay, but a novel. My main object was to write a readable story fullof human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, thesubject of Socialism being treated incidentally.
This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded isfor others to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses atleast one merit - that of being true. I have invented nothing. Thereare no scenes or incidents in the story that I have not eitherwitnessed myself or had conclusive evidence of. As far as I dared Ilet th
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evening of the day when old Linden was dismissed. There was no reason
to believe or hope that the existing state of things would be altered
for a long time to come.
Thousands of people like himself dragged out a wretched existence on
the very verge of starvation, and for the greater number of people
life was one long struggle against poverty. Yet practically none of
these people knew or even troubled themselves to inquire why they were
in that condition; and for anyone else to try to explain to them was a
ridiculous waste of time, for they did not want to know.
The remedy was so simple, the evil so great and so glaringly evident
that the only possible explanation of its continued existence was that
the majority of his fellow workers were devoid of the power of
reasoning. If these people were not mentally deficient they would of
their own accord have swept this silly system away long ago. It would
not have been necessary for anyone to teach them that it was wrong.
Why, even those who were successful or wealthy could not be sure that
they would not eventually die of want. In every workhouse might be
found people who had at one time occupied good positions; and their
downfall was not in every case their own fault.
No matter how prosperous a man might be, he could not be certain that
his children would never want for bread. There were thousands living
in misery on starvation wages whose parents had been wealthy people.
As Owen strode rapidly along, his mind filled with these thoughts, he
was almost unconscious of the fact that he was wet through to the
skin. He was without an overcoat, it was pawned in London, and he had
not yet been able to redeem it. His boots were leaky and sodden with
mud and rain.
He was nearly home now. At the corner of the street in which he lived
there was a newsagent’s shop and on a board outside the door was
displayed a placard:
TERRIBLE DOMESTIC TRAGEDY
DOUBLE MURDER AND SUICIDE
He went in to buy a copy of the paper. He was a frequent customer
here, and as he entered the shopkeeper greeted him by name.
`Dreadful weather,’ he remarked as he handed Owen the paper. `It
makes things pretty bad in your line, I suppose?’
`Yes,’ responded Owen, `there’s a lot of men idle, but fortunately I
happen to be working inside.’
`You’re one of the lucky ones, then,’ said the other. `You know,
there’ll be a job here for some of ‘em as soon as the weather gets a
little better. All the outside of this block is going to be done up.
That’s a pretty big job, isn’t it?’
`Yes,’ returned Owen. `Who’s going to do it?’
`Makehaste and Sloggit. You know, they’ve got a place over at
Windley.’
`Yes, I know the firm,’ said Owen, grimly. He had worked for them
once or twice himself.
`The foreman was in here today,’ the shopkeeper went on. `He said
they’re going to make a start Monday morning if it’s fine.’
`Well, I hope it will be,’ said Owen, `because things are very quiet
just now.’
Wishing the other `Good nigh’, Owen again proceeded homewards.
Half-way down the street he paused irresolutely: he was thinking of
the news he had just heard and of Jack Linden.
As soon as it became generally known that this work was about to be
started there was sure to be a rush for it, and it would be a case of
first come, first served. If he saw Jack tonight the old man might be
in time to secure a job.
Owen hesitated: he was wet through: it was a long way to Linden’s
place, nearly twenty minutes’ walk. Still, he would like to let him
know, because unless he was one of the first to apply, Linden would
not stand such a good chance as a younger man. Owen said to himself
that if he walked very fast there was not much risk of catching cold.
Standing about in wet clothes might be dangerous, but so long as one
kept moving it was all right.
He turned back and set off in the direction of Linden’s house:
although he was but a few yards from his own home, he decided not to
go in because his wife would be sure to try to persuade him not to go
out again.
As he hurried along he presently noticed a small dark object on the
doorstep of an untenanted house. He stopped to examine it more
closely and perceived that it was a small black kitten. The tiny
creature came towards him and began walking about his feet, looking
into his face and crying piteously. He stooped down and stroked it,
shuddering as his hands came in contact with its emaciated body. Its
fur was saturated with rain and every joint of its backbone was
distinctly perceptible to the touch. As he caressed it, the starving
creature mewed pathetically.
Owen decided to take it home to the boy, and as he picked it up and
put it inside his coat the little outcast began to purr.
This incident served to turn his thoughts into another channel. If,
as so many people pretended to believe, there was an infinitely loving
God, how was it that this helpless creature that He had made was
condemned to suffer? It had never done any harm, and was in no sense
responsible for the fact that it existed. Was God unaware of the
miseries of His creatures? If so, then He was not all-knowing. Was
God aware of their sufferings, but unable to help them? Then He was
not all-powerful. Had He the power but not the will to make His
creatures happy? Then He was not good. No; it was impossible to
believe in the existence of an individual, infinite God.. In fact, no
one did so believe; and least of all those who pretended for various
reasons to be the disciples and followers of Christ. The anti-Christs
who went about singing hymns, making long prayers and crying Lord,
Lord, but never doing the things which He said, who were known by
their words to be unbelievers and infidels, unfaithful to the Master
they pretended to serve, their lives being passed in deliberate and
systematic disregard of His teachings and Commandments. It was not
necessary to call in the evidence of science, or to refer to the
supposed inconsistencies, impossibilities, contradictions and
absurdities contained in the Bible, in order to prove there was no
truth in the Christian religion. All that was necessary was to look
at the conduct of the individuals who were its votaries.
The Clock-case
Jack Linden lived in a small cottage in Windley. He had occupied this
house ever since his marriage, over thirty years ago.
His home and garden were his hobby: he was always doing something;
painting, whitewashing, papering and so forth. The result was that
although the house itself was not of much account he had managed to
get it into very good order, and as a result it was very clean and
comfortable.
Another result of his industry was that - seeing the improved
appearance of the place - the landlord had on two occasions raised the
rent. When Linden first took the house the rent was six shillings a
week. Five years after, it was raised to seven shillings, and after
the lapse of another five years it had been increased to eight
shillings.
During the thirty years of his tenancy he had paid altogether nearly
six hundred pounds in rent, more than double the amount of the present
value of the house. Jack did not complain of this - in fact he was
very well satisfied. He often said that Mr Sweater was a very good
landlord, because on several occasions when, being out of work, he had
been a few weeks behind with his rent the agent acting for the
benevolent Mr Sweater had allowed Linden to pay off the arrears by
instalments. As old Jack was in the habit of remarking, many a
landlord would have sold up their furniture and turned them into the
street.
As the reader is already aware, Linden’s household consisted of his
wife, his two grandchildren and his daughter-in-law, the window and
children of his youngest son, a reservist, who died while serving in
the South African War. This man had been a plasterer, and just before
the war he was working for Rushton & Co.
They had just finished their tea when Owen knocked at their front
door. The young woman went to see who was there.
`Is Mr Linden in?’
`Yes. Who is it?’
`My name’s Owen.’
Old Jack, however, had already recognized Owen’s voice, and came to
the door, wondering what he wanted.
`As I was going home I heard that Makehaste and Sloggit are going to
start a large job on Monday, so I thought I’d run over and let you
know.’
`Are they?’ said Linden. `I’ll go and see them in the morning. But
I’m afraid I won’t stand much chance, because a lot of their regular
hands are waiting for a job; but I’ll go and see ‘em all the same.’
`Well, you know, it’s a big job. All the outside of that block at the
corner of Kerk Street and Lord Street. They’re almost sure to want a
few extra hands.’
`Yes, there’s something in that,’ said Linden. `Anyhow, I’m much
obliged to you for letting me know; but come in out of the rain. You
must be wet through.’
`No; I won’t stay,’ responded Owen. `I don’t want to stand about any
longer than I can help in these wet clothes.’
`But it won’t take you a minit to drink a cup of tea,’ Linden
insisted. `I won’t ask you to stop longer than that.’
Owen entered; the old man closed the door and led the way into the
kitchen. At one side of the fire, Linden’s wife, a frail-looking old
lady with white hair, was seated in a large armchair, knitting.
Linden sat down in a similar chair on the other side. The two
grandchildren, a boy and girl about seven and eight years,
respectively, were still seated at the table.
Standing by the side of the dresser at one end of the room was a
treadle sewing machine, and on one end of the dresser was a a pile of
sewing: ladies’ blouses in process of making. This was another
instance of the goodness of Mr Sweater, from whom Linden’s
daughter-in-law obtained the work. It was not much, because she was
only able to do it in her spare time, but then, as she often remarked,
every little helped.
The floor was covered with linoleum: there were a number of framed
pictures on the walls, and on the high mantelshelf were a number of
brightly polished tins and copper utensils. The room had that
indescribably homelike, cosy air that is found only in those houses in
which the inhabitants have dwelt for a very long time.
The younger woman was already pouring out a cup of tea.
Old Mrs Linden, who had never seen Owen before, although she had heard
of him, belonged to the Church of England and was intensely religious.
She looked curiously at the Atheist as he entered the room. He had
taken off his hat and she was surprised to find that he was not
repulsive to look at, rather the contrary. But then she remembered
that Satan often
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