CHAPTER VI

WEarenotconcernedwiththeverypoor.Theyareunthinkableandonlytobeapproachedbythestatisticianorthepoet.Thisstorydealswithgentlefolk,orwiththosewhoareobligedtopretendthattheyaregentlefolk. Theboy,LeonardBast,stoodattheextremevergeofgentility.Hewasnotintheabyss,buthecouldseeit,andattimespeoplewhomheknewhaddroppedin,andcountednomore.Heknewthathewaspoor,andwouldadmitithewouldhavediedsoonerthanconfessanyinferioritytotherich.Thismaybesplendidofhim.Buthewasinferiortomostrichpeople,thereisnottheleastdoubtofit.Hewasnotascourteousastheaveragerichman,norasintelligent,norashealthy,noraslovable.Hismindandhisbodyhadbeenalikeunderfed,becausehewaspoor,andbecausehewasmoderntheywerealwayscravingbetterfood.Hadhelivedsomecenturiesago,inthebrightlycolouredcivilisationsofthepast,hewouldhavehadadefinitestatus,hisrankandhisincomewouldhavecorresponded.ButinhisdaytheangelofDemocracyhadarisen,enshadowingtheclasseswithleathernwings,andproclaiming,“Allmenareequal—allmen,thatistosay,whopossessumbrellas,”andsohewasobligedtoassertgentility,lestheslipintotheabysswherenothingcounts,andthestatementsofDemocracyareinaudible. AshewalkedawayfromWickhamPlace,hisfirstcarewastoprovethathewasasgoodastheMissSchlegels.Obscurelywoundedinhispride,hetriedtowoundtheminreturn.Theywereprobablynotladies.Wouldrealladieshaveaskedhimtotea?Theywerecertainlyill-naturedandcold.Ateachstephisfeelingofsuperiorityincreased.Wouldarealladyhavetalkedaboutstealinganumbrella?Perhapstheywerethievesafterall,andifhehadgoneintothehousetheywouldhaveclappedachloroformedhandkerchiefoverhisface.HewalkedoncomplacentlyasfarastheHousesofParliament.Thereanemptystomachasserteditself,andtoldhimthathewasafool. “Evening,Mr.Bast.” “Evening,Mr.Dealtry.” “Niceevening.” “Evening.” Mr.Dealtry,afellowclerk,passedon,andLeonardstoodwonderingwhetherhewouldtakethetramasfarasapennywouldtakehim,orwhetherhewouldwalk.Hedecidedtowalk—itisnogoodgivingin,andhehadspentmoneyenoughatQueen’sHall—andhewalkedoverWestminsterBridge,infrontofSt.Thomas’sHospital,andthroughtheimmensetunnelthatpassesundertheSouth-WesternmainlineatVauxhall.Inthetunnelhepausedandlistenedtotheroarofthetrains.Asharppaindartedthroughhishead,andhewasconsciousoftheexactformofhiseyesockets.Hepushedonforanothermile,anddidnotslackenspeeduntilhestoodattheentranceofaroadcalledCameliaRoadwhichwasatpresenthishome. Herehestoppedagain,andglancedsuspiciouslytorightandleft,likearabbitthatisgoingtoboltintoitshole.Ablockofflats,constructedwithextremecheapness,toweredoneitherhand.Fartherdowntheroadtwomoreblockswerebeingbuilt,andbeyondtheseanoldhousewasbeingdemolishedtoaccommodateanotherpair.ItwasthekindofscenethatmaybeobservedalloverLondon,whateverthelocality—bricksandmortarrisingandfallingwiththerestlessnessofthewaterinafountainasthecityreceivesmoreandmoremenuponhersoil.CameliaRoadwouldsoonstandoutlikeafortress,andcommand,foralittle,anextensiveview.Onlyforalittle.PlanswereoutfortheerectionofflatsinMagnoliaRoadalso.Andagainafewyears,andalltheflatsineitherroadmightbepulleddown,andnewbuildings,ofavastnessatpresentunimaginable,mightarisewheretheyhadfallen. “Evening,Mr.Bast.” “Evening,Mr.Cunningham.” “Veryseriousthingthisdeclineofthebirth-rateinManchest