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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mankind, for the inhabitants instinctively formed themselves into
groups, the more superior types drawing together, separating
themselves from the inferior, and rising naturally to the top, while
the others gathered themselves into distinct classes, grading
downwards, or else isolated themselves altogether; being refused
admission to the circles they desired to enter, and in their turn
refusing to associate with their inferiors.
The most exclusive set consisted of the families of the coal merchant,
the two retired jerry-builders and Mr Trafaim, whose superiority was
demonstrated by the fact that, to say nothing of his French
extraction, he wore - in addition to the top hat aforesaid - a frock
coat and a pair of lavender trousers every day. The coal merchant and
the jerry builders also wore top hats, lavender trousers and frock
coats, but only on Sundays and other special occasions. The estate
agent’s clerk and the insurance agent, though excluded from the higher
circle, belonged to another select coterie from which they excluded in
their turn all persons of inferior rank, such as shop assistants or
barbers.
The only individual who was received with equal cordiality by all
ranks, was the tallyman’s traveller. But whatever differences existed
amongst them regarding each other’s social standing they were
unanimous on one point at least: they were indignant at Owen’s
presumption in coming to live in such a refined locality.
This low fellow, this common workman, with his paint-bespattered
clothing, his broken boots, and his generally shabby appearance, was a
disgrace to the street; and as for his wife she was not much better,
because although whenever she came out she was always neatly dressed,
yet most of the neighbours knew perfectly well that she had been
wearing the same white straw hat all the time she had been there. In
fact, the only tolerable one of the family was the boy, and they were
forced to admit that he was always very well dressed; so well indeed
as to occasion some surprise, until they found out that all the boy’s
clothes were home-made. Then their surprise was changed into a
somewhat grudging admiration of the skill displayed, mingled with
contempt for the poverty which made its exercise necessary.
The indignation of the neighbours was increased when it became known
that Owen and his wife were not Christians: then indeed everyone
agreed that the landlord ought to be ashamed of himself for letting
the top flat to such people.
But although the hearts of these disciples of the meek and lowly
Jewish carpenter were filled with uncharitableness, they were
powerless to do much harm. The landlord regarded their opinion with
indifference. All he cared about was the money: although he also was
a sincere Christian, he would not have hesitated to let the top flat
to Satan himself, provided he was certain of receiving the rent
regularly.
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
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