Down and Out in Paris and London - George Orwell

appeared (there was some complicated explanation)

that the Jew owed Boris three hundred francs, and

was repaying this by letting him sleep on the floor and

allowing him two francs a day for food. Two francs

would buy a bowl of coffee and three rolls. The Jew

went to work at seven in the mornings, and after that

Boris would leave his sleepingplace (it was beneath the

skylight, which let in the rain) and get into the bed. He

could not sleep much even there owing to the bugs,

but it rested his back after the floor.

   It was a great disappointment, when I had come to

Boris for help, to find him even worse off than myself. I

explained that I had only about sixty francs left and

must get a job immediately. By this time, however,

Boris had eaten the rest of the bread and was feeling

cheerful and talkative. He said carelessly:

   "Good heavens, what are you worrying about? Sixty

francs-why, it's a fortune! Please hand me that shoe,

mon ami. I'm going to smash some of those bugs if they

come within reach."

   "But do you think there's any chance of getting a

job?"

   "Chance? It's a certainty. In fact, I have got some-

thing already. There is a new Russian restaurant which

is to open in a few days in the Rue du Commerce. It is

une chose entendue

that I am to be

maitre d'hôtel. I can

easily get you a job in the kitchen. Five hundred francs

a month and your food-tips, too, if you are lucky."

   "But in the meantime? I've got to pay my rent before

long."

   "Oh, we shall find something. I have got a few cards

up my sleeve. There are people who owe me money, for

"instance-Paris is full of them. One of them is bound to

pay up before long. Then think of all the women who

have been my mistress! A woman never forgets, you

know-I have only to ask and they will help me. 'Besides,

the Jew tells me he is going to steal some magnetos

from the garage where he works, and he will pay us five

francs a day to clean them before he sells them. That

alone would keep us. Never worry, mon ami. Nothing is

easier to get than money."

   "Well, let's go out now and look for a job."

   "Presently, mon ami. We shan't starve, don't you fear.

This is only the fortune of war-I've been in a worse hole

scores of times. It's only a question of persisting.

Remember Foch's maxim: '

Attaquez! Attaquez! Attaquez!' "

   It was midday before Boris decided to get up. All the

clothes he now had left were one suit, with one shirt,

collar and tie, a pair of shoes almost worn out, and a

pair of socks all holes. He had also an overcoat which

was to be pawned in the last extremity. He had

a suitcase, a wretched twenty-franc carboard thing, but

very important, because the

patron of the hotel believed

that it was full of clothes-without that, he would

probably have turned Boris out of doors. What it

actually contained were the medals and photographs,

various odds and ends, and huge bundles of loveletters.

In spite of all this Boris managed to keep a fairly smart

appearance. He shaved without soap and with a razor-

blade two months old, tied his tie so that the holes did

not show, and carefully stuffed the soles of his shoes

with newspaper. Finally, when he was dressed, he

produced an ink-bottle and inked the skin of his ankles

where it showed through his socks. You would never

have thought, when it was finished, that he had recently

been sleeping under the Seine bridges.

   We went to a small café off the Rue de Rivoli, a well-

known rendezvous of hotel managers and employees. At

the back was a, dark, cave-like room where all kinds of

hotel workers were sitting-smart young waiters, others

not so smart and clearly hungry, fat pink cooks, greasy

dishwashers, battered old scrubbing-women. Everyone

had an untouched glass of black coffee in front of him.

The place was, in effect, an employment bureau, and the

money spent on drinks was the patron's commission.

Sometimes a stout, importantlooking man, obviously a

restaurateur, would come in and speak to the barman,

and the barman would call to one of the people at the

back of the café. But he never called to Boris or me, and

we left after two hours, as the etiquette was that you

could only stay two hours for one drink. We learned

afterwards, when it was too late, that the dodge was to

bribe the barman; if you could afford twenty francs he

would generally get you a job.

   We went to the Hôtel Scribe and waited an hour on

the pavement, hoping that the manager would come

out, but he never did. Then we dragged ourselves down

to the Rue du Commerce, only to find that the new

restaurant, which was being redecorated, was shut up

and the

patron away. It was now night. We had walked

fourteen kilometres over pavement, and we were so

tired that we had to waste one franc-fifty on going

home by Metro. Walking was agony to Boris with his game

leg,

  and his optimism wore thinner and thinner as the day

went on. When he got out of the Metro at the Place

d'Italie he was in despair. He began to say that it was

no use looking for work-there was nothing for it but to

try crime.

   "Sooner rob than starve,

mon ami. I have often

planned it. A fat, rich American-some dark corner

down Montparnasse way-a cobblestone in a stocking -

bang! And then go through his pockets and bolt. It is

feasible, do you not think? I would not flinch-I have

been a soldier, remember."

   He decided against the plan in the end, because we

were both foreigners and easily recognised.

   When we had got back to my room we spent another

one franc-fifty on bread and chocolate. Boris devoured

his share, and at once cheered up like magic; food

seemed to act on his system as rapidly as a cocktail. He

took out a pencil and began making a list of the people

who would probably give us jobs. There were dozens

of them, he said.

   "To-morrow we shall find something,

mon ami, I

know it in my bones. The luck always changes. Besides,

we both have brains-a man with brains can't starve.

   "What things a man can do with brains! Brains will =-

make money out of anything. I had a friend once, a

Pole, a real man of genius; and what do you think he

used to do? He would buy a gold ring and pawn it for

fifteen francs. Then-you know how carelessly the clerks

fill up the tickets-where the clerk had written ' en or' he

would add '

et diamants' and he would change 'fifteen

francs' to 'fifteen thousand.' Neat, eh? Then, you see,

he could borrow a thousand francs on the security of the

ticket. That is what I mean by brains . . ."

   For the rest of the evening Boris was in a hopeful

mood, talking of the times we should have together

when we were waiters together at Nice or Biarritz, with

smart rooms and enough money to set up mistresses. He

was too tired to walk the three kilometres back to his

hotel, and slept the night on the floor of my room, with

his coat rolled round his shoes for a pillow.

                         VI

WE again failed to find work the next day, and it was

three weeks before the luck changed. My two hundred

francs saved me from trouble about the rent, but

everything else went as badly as possible. Day after day

Boris and I went up and down Paris, drifting at two

miles an hour through the crowds, bored and hungry,

and finding nothing. One day, I remember, we crossed

the Seine eleven times. We loitered for hours outside

service doorways, and when the manager came out we

would go up to him ingratiatingly, cap in hand. We

always got the same answer: they did not want a lame

man, nor a man without experience. Once we were very

nearly engaged. While we spoke to the manager Boris

stood straight upright, not supporting himself with his

stick, and the manager did not see that he was lame.

"Yes," he said, "we want two men in the cellars.

Perhaps you would do. Come inside." Then Boris

moved, the game was up. « Ah, » said the manager,

"you limp.

Malheureusement---

"

   We enrolled our names at agencies and answered

advertisements,_ but walking everywhere made us

slow, and we seemed to miss every job by half an

hour. Once we very nearly got a job swabbing out

railway trucks, but at the last moment they rejected us

in favour of Frenchmen. Once we answered an

advertisement calling for hands at a circus. You had to

shift benches and clean up litter, and, during the

performance, stand on two tubs and let a lion jump

through your legs. When we got to the place, an hour

before the time named, we found a queue of fifty men

already waiting. There is some attraction in lions,

evidently.

   Once an agency to which I had applied months

earlier sent me a

petit bleu, telling me of an Italian

gentleman who wanted English lessons. The

petit bleu

said "Come at once" and promised twenty francs an

hour. Boris and I were in despair. Here was a splendid

chance, and I could not take it, for it was impossible to

go to the agency with my coat out at the elbow. Then it

occurred to us that I could wear Boris's coat-it did did

not match my trousers, but the trousers were grey and

might pass for flannel at a short distance. The coat was

so much too big for me that I had to wear it unbuttoned

and keep one hand in my pocket. I hurried out, and

wasted seventy-five centimes on a bus fare to get to the

agency. When I got there I found that the Italian had

changed his mind and left Paris.

   Once Boris suggested that I should go to Les Halles

and try for a job as a porter. I arrived at half-past four

the morning, when the work was getting into its swing.

Seeing a short, fat man in a bowler hat directing some

porters, I went up to him and asked for work.

Before answering he seized my right hand and felt the palm.

   "You are strong, eh?" he said.

   "Very strong," I said untruly.

   "

Bien. Let me see you lift that crate."

   It was a huge wicker basket full of potatoes. I took

hold of it, and found that, so far from lifting it, I could

not even move it. The man in the bowler hat watched

me, then shrugged his shoulders and turned away. I

made off When I had gone some distance I looked

back and saw

four men lifting the basket on to a cart.

It weighed three hundredweight, possibly. The man

had seen that I was no use, and taken this way of

getting rid of me.

   Sometimes in his hopeful moments Boris spent

fifty centimes on a stamp and wrote to one of his ex-

mistresses, asking for money. Only one of them ever

replied. It was a woman who, besides having been