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419 pages

English

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. In writing this book my intention was to present, in the form of an interesting story, a faithful picture of working-class life- more especially of those engaged in the Building trades- in a small town in the south of England.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819949343
Langue	English

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The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
by
Robert Tressell
Preface
In writing this book my intention was to present, inthe form of an interesting story, a faithful picture ofworking-class life— more especially of those engaged in theBuilding trades— in a small town in the south of England.
I wished to describe the relations existing betweenthe workmen and their employers, the attitude and feelings of thesetwo classes towards each other; their circumstances when at workand when out of employment; their pleasures, their intellectualoutlook, their religious and political opinions and ideals.
The action of the story covers a period of only alittle over twelve months, but in order that the picture might becomplete it was necessary to describe how the workers arecircumstanced at all periods of their lives, from the cradle to thegrave. Therefore the characters include women and children, a youngboy— the apprentice— some improvers, journeymen in the prime oflife, and worn-out old men.
I designed to show the conditions relating frompoverty and unemployment: to expose the futility of the measurestaken to deal with them and to indicate what I believe to be theonly real remedy, namely— Socialism. I intended to explain whatSocialists understand by the word 'poverty': to define theSocialist theory of the causes of poverty, and to explain howSocialists propose to abolish poverty.
It may be objected that, considering the number ofbooks dealing with these subjects already existing, such a work asthis was uncalled for. The answer is that not only are the majorityof people opposed to Socialism, but a very brief conversation withan average anti-socialist is sufficient to show that he does notknow what Socialism means. The same is true of all theanti-socialist writers and the 'great statesmen' who makeanti-socialist speeches: unless we believe that they are deliberateliars and imposters, who to serve their own interests labour tomislead other people, we must conclude that they do not understandSocialism. There is no other possible explanation of theextraordinary things they write and say. The thing they cry outagainst is not Socialism but a phantom of their own imagining.
Another answer is that 'The Philanthropists' is nota treatise or essay, but a novel. My main object was to write areadable story full of human interest and based on the happeningsof everyday life, the subject of Socialism being treatedincidentally.
This was the task I set myself. To what extent Ihave succeeded is for others to say; but whatever their verdict,the work possesses at least one merit— that of being true. I haveinvented nothing. There are no scenes or incidents in the storythat I have not either witnessed myself or had conclusive evidenceof. As far as I dared I let the characters express themselves intheir own sort of language and consequently some passages may beconsidered objectionable. At the same time I believe that— becauseit is true— the book is not without its humorous side.
The scenes and characters are typical of every townin the South of England and they will be readily recognized bythose concerned. If the book is published I think it will appeal toa very large number of readers. Because it is true it will probablybe denounced as a libel on the working classes and their employers,and upon the religious-professing section of the community. But Ibelieve it will be acknowledged as true by most of those who arecompelled to spend their lives amid the surroundings it describes,and it will be evident that no attack is made upon sincerereligion.
Chapter 1
An Imperial Banquet. A PhilosophicalDiscussion. The
Mysterious Stranger. Britons Never shall beSlaves
The house was named 'The Cave'. It was a largeold-fashioned three-storied building standing in about an acre ofground, and situated about a mile outside the town of Mugsborough.It stood back nearly two hundred yards from the main road and wasreached by means of a by-road or lane, on each side of which was ahedge formed of hawthorn trees and blackberry bushes. This househad been unoccupied for many years and it was now being altered andrenovated for its new owner by the firm of Rushton & Co. ,Builders and Decorators.
There were, altogether, about twenty-five menworking there, carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, bricklayers andpainters, besides several unskilled labourers. New floors werebeing put in where the old ones were decayed, and upstairs two ofthe rooms were being made into one by demolishing the parting walland substituting an iron girder. Some of the window frames andsashes were so rotten that they were being replaced. Some of theceilings and walls were so cracked and broken that they had to bereplastered. Openings were cut through walls and doors were beingput where no doors had been before. Old broken chimney pots werebeing taken down and new ones were being taken up and fixed intheir places. All the old whitewash had to be washed off theceilings and all the old paper had to be scraped off the wallspreparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. The air wasfull of the sounds of hammering and sawing, the ringing of trowels,the rattle of pails, the splashing of water brushes, and thescraping of the stripping knives used by those who were removingthe old wallpaper. Besides being full of these the air was heavilyladen with dust and disease germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster,and the dirt that had been accumulating within the old house foryears. In brief, those employed there might be said to be living ina Tariff Reform Paradise— they had Plenty of Work.
At twelve o'clock Bob Crass— the painters' foreman—blew a blast upon a whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen,where Bert the apprentice had already prepared the tea, which wasready in the large galvanized iron pail that he had placed in themiddle of the floor. By the side of the pail were a number of oldjam-jars, mugs, dilapidated tea-cups and one or two empty condensedmilk tins. Each man on the 'job' paid Bert threepence a week forthe tea and sugar— they did not have milk— and although they hadtea at breakfast-time as well as at dinner, the lad was generallyconsidered to be making a fortune.
Two pairs of steps, laid parallel on their sides ata distance of about eight feet from each other, with a plank laidacross, in front of the fire, several upturned pails, and thedrawers belonging to the dresser, formed the seating accommodation.The floor of the room was covered with all manner of debris, dust,dirt, fragments of old mortar and plaster. A sack containing cementwas leaning against one of the walls, and a bucket containing somestale whitewash stood in one corner.
As each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar orcondensed milk tin with tea from the steaming pail, before sittingdown. Most of them brought their food in little wicker basketswhich they held on their laps or placed on the floor besidethem.
At first there was no attempt at conversation andnothing was heard but the sounds of eating and drinking and thedrizzling of the bloater which Easton, one of the painters, wastoasting on the end of a pointed stick at the fire.
'I don't think much of this bloody tea, ' suddenlyremarked Sawkins, one of the labourers.
'Well it oughter be all right, ' retorted Bert;'it's been bilin' ever since 'arf past eleven. '
Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-facedboy, fifteen years of age and about four feet nine inches inheight. His trousers were part of a suit that he had once worn forbest, but that was so long ago that they had become too small forhim, fitting rather lightly and scarcely reaching the top of hispatched and broken hob-nailed boots. The knees and the bottoms ofthe legs of his trousers had been patched with square pieces ofcloth, several shades darker than the original fabric, and thesepatches were now all in rags. His coat was several sizes too largefor him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. He was apitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there onan upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that,like his clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt.
'Well then, you can't have put enough tea in, orelse you've bin usin' up wot was left yesterday, ' continuedSawkins.
'Why the bloody 'ell don't you leave the boy alone?' said Harlow, another painter. 'If you don't like the tea youneedn't drink it. For my part, I'm sick of listening to you aboutit every damn day. '
'It's all very well for you to say I needn't drinkit, ' answered Sawkins, 'but I've paid my share an' I've got aright to express an opinion. It's my belief that 'arf the money wegives 'him is spent on penny 'orribles: 'e's always got one in 'ishand, an' to make wot tea 'e does buy last, 'e collects all theslops wot's left and biles it up day after day. '
'No, I don't! ' said Bert, who was on the verge oftears. 'It's not me wot buys the things at all. I gives the money Igets to Crass, and 'e buys them 'imself, so there! '
At this revelation, some of the men furtivelyexchanged significant glances, and Crass, the foreman, became veryred.
'You'd better keep your bloody thruppence and makeyour own tea after this week, ' he said, addressing Sawkins, 'andthen p'raps we'll 'ave a little peace at meal-times. '
'An' you needn't ask me to cook no bloaters or baconfor you no more, ' added Bert, tearfully, 'cos I won't do it. '
Sawkins was not popular with any of the others.When, about twelve months previously, he first came to work forRushton & Co. , he was a simple labourer, but since then he had'picked up' a slight knowledge of the trade, and having armedhimself with a putty-knife and put on a white jacket, regardedhimself as a fully qualified painter. The others did not perhapsobject to him trying to better his condition, but his wages—fivepence an hour— were twopence an hour less than the standardrate, and the result was that in slack times often a better workmanwas 'stood off' when S