The Nether World

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Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)

George Gissing

The Nether World

CHAPTER I

A THRALL OF THRALLS

In the troubled twilight of a March evening ten years ago, an old
man, whose equipment and bearing suggested that he was fresh from
travel, walked slowly across Clerkenwell Green, and by the graveyard
of St. James's Church stood for a moment looking about him. His age
could not be far from seventy, but, despite the stoop of his
shoulders, he gave little sign of failing under the burden of years;
his sober step indicated gravity of character rather than bodily
feebleness, and his grasp of a stout stick was not such as bespeaks
need of support. His attire was neither that of a man of leisure,
nor of the kind usually worn by English mechanics. Instead of coat
and waistcoat, he wore a garment something like a fisherman's
guernsey, and over this a coarse short cloak, picturesque in
appearance as it was buffeted by the wind. His trousers were of
moleskin; his boots reached almost to his knees; for head-covering
he had the cheapest kind of undyed felt, its form exactly that of
the old petasus. To say that his aspect was Venerable would serve to
present him in a measure, yet would not be wholly accurate, for
there was too much of past struggle and present anxiety in his
countenance to permit full expression of the natural dignity of the
features. It was a fine face and might have been distinctly noble,
but circumstances had marred the purpose of Nature; you perceived
that his cares had too often been of the kind which are created by
ignoble necessities, such as leave to most men of his standing a
bare humanity of visage. He had long thin white hair; his beard was
short and merely grizzled. In his left hand he carried a bundle,
which probably contained clothing.

The burial-ground by which he had paused was as little restful to
the eye as are most of those discoverable in the byways of London.
The small trees that grew about it shivered in their leaflessness;
the rank grass was wan under the failing day; most of the stones
leaned this way or that, emblems of neglect (they were very white at
the top, and darkened downwards till the damp soil made them black),
and certain cats and dogs were prowling or sporting among the
graves. At this corner the east wind blew with malice such as it
never puts forth save where there are poorly clad people to be
pierced; it swept before it thin clouds of unsavoury dust, mingled
with the light refuse of the streets. Above the shapeless houses
night was signalling a murky approach; the sky--if sky it could be
called--gave threatening of sleet, perchance of snow. And on every
side was the rumble of traffic, the voiceful evidence of toil and of
poverty; hawkers were crying their goods; the inevitable organ was
clanging before a public-house hard by; the crumpet-man was
hastening along, with monotonous ringing of his bell and hoarse
rhythmic wail.

The old man had fixed his eyes half absently on the inscription of a
gravestone near him; a lean cat springing out between the iron
railings seemed to recall his attention, and with a slight sigh he
went forward along the narrow street which is called St. James's
Walk. In a few minutes he had reached the end of it, and found
himself facing a high grey-brick wall, wherein, at this point, was
an arched gateway closed with black doors. He looked at the gateway,
then fixed his gaze on something that stood just above--something
which the dusk half concealed, and by so doing made more impressive.
It was the sculptured counterfeit of a human face, that of a man
distraught with agony. The eyes stared wildly from their sockets,
the hair struggled in maniac disorder, the forehead was wrung with
torture, the cheeks sunken, the throat fearsomely wasted, and from
the wide lips there seemed to be issuing a horrible cry. Above this
hideous effigy was carved the legend: 'MIDDLESEX HOUSE OF
DETENTION.'

Something more than pain came to the old man's face as he looked and
pondered; his lips trembled like those of one in anger, and his eyes
had a stern resentful gleaming. He walked on a few paces, then
suddenly stopped where a woman was standing at an open door.

'I ask your pardon,' he said, addressing her with the courtesy which
owes nothing to refined intercourse, 'but do you by chance know
anyone of the name of Snowdon hereabouts?'

The woman replied with a brief negative; she smiled at the
appearance of the questioner, and, with the vulgar instinct, looked
about for someone to share her amusement.

'Better inquire at the 'ouse at the corner,' she added, as the man
was moving away. 'They've been here a long time, I b'lieve.'

He accepted her advice. But the people at the public-house could not
aid his search. He thanked them, paused for a moment with his eyes
down, then again sighed slightly and went forth into the gathering
gloom.

Less than five minutes later there ran into the same house of
refreshment a little slight girl, perhaps thirteen years old; she
carried a jug, and at the bar asked for 'a pint of old six.' The
barman, whilst drawing the ale, called out to a man who had entered
immediately after the child:

'Don't know nobody called Snowdon about 'ere, do you, Mr. Squibbs?'

The individual addressed was very dirty, very sleepy, and seemingly
at odds with mankind. He replied contemptuously with a word which,
in phonetic rendering may perhaps be spelt 'Nay-oo.'

But the little girl was looking eagerly from one man to the other;
what had been said appeared to excite keen interest in her. She
forgot all about the beer-jug that was waiting, and, after a brief
but obvious struggle with timidity, said in an uncertain voice:

'Has somebody been asking for that name, sir?'

'Yes, they have,' the barman answered, in surprise. 'Why?'

My name's Snowdon, sir--Jane Snowdon.'

She reddened over all her face as soon as she had given utterance to
the impulsive words. The barman was regarding her with a sort of
semi-interest, and Mr. Squibbs also had fixed his bleary (or beery)
eyes upon her. Neither would have admitted an active interest in so
pale and thin and wretchedly-clad a little mortal. Her hair hung
loose, and had no covering; it was hair of no particular colour, and
seemed to have been for a long time utterly untended; the wind, on
her run hither, had tossed it into much disorder. Signs there were
of some kind of clothing beneath the short, dirty, worn dress, but
it was evidently of the scantiest description. The freely exposed
neck was very thin, but, like the outline of her face, spoke less of
a feeble habit of body than of the present pinch of sheer hunger.
She did not, indeed, look like one of those children who are born in
disease and starvation, and put to nurse upon the pavement; her
limbs were shapely enough, her back was straight, she had features
that were not merely human, but girl-like, and her look had in it
the light of an intelligence generally sought for in vain among the
children of the street. The blush and the way in which she hung her
head were likewise tokens of a nature endowed with ample
sensitiveness.

'Oh, your name's Jane Snowdon, is it?' said the barman. 'Well,
you're just three minutes an' three-quarters too late. P'r'aps it's
a fortune a-runnin' after you. He was a rum old party as inquired.
Never mind; it's all in a life. There's fortunes lost every week by
a good deal less than three minutes when it's 'orses--eh, Mr.
Squibbs?'

Mr. Squibbs swore with emphasis.

The little girl took her jug of beer and was turning away.

'Hollo!' cried the barman. 'Where's the money, Jane?--if _you_
don't mind.'

She turned again in increased confusion, and laid coppers on the
counter. Thereupon the man asked her where she lived; she named a
house in Clerkenwell Close, near at hand.

'Father live there?'

She shook her head.

'Mother?'

'I haven't got one, sir.'

'Who is it as you live with, then?'

'Mrs. Peckover, sir.'

'Well, as I was sayin', he was a queer old joker as arsted for the
name of Snowdon. Shouldn't wonder if you see him goin' round.'

And he added a pretty full description of this old man, to which the
girl listened closely. Then she went thoughtfully--a little sadly--on
her way.

In the street, all but dark by this time, she cast anxious glances
onwards and behind, but no old man in an odd hat and cloak and with
white hair was discoverable. Linger she might not. She reached a
house of which the front-door stood open; it looked black and
cavernous within; but she advanced with the step of familiarity, and
went downstairs to a front-kitchen. Through the half-open door came
a strong odour and a hissing sound, plainly due to the frying of
sausages. Before Jane could enter she was greeted sharply in a voice
which was young and that of a female, but had no other quality of
graciousness.

'You've taken your time, my lady! All right! just wait till I've 'ad
my tea, that's all! Me an' you'll settle accounts to-night, see if
we don't. Mother told me as she owed you a lickin', and I'll pay it
off, with a little on my own account too. Only wait till I've 'ad my
tea, that's all. What are you standin' there for, like a fool? Bring
that beer 'ere, an' let's see 'ow much you've drank.'

'I haven't put my lips near it, miss; indeed I haven't,' pleaded the
child, whose face of dread proved both natural timidity and the
constant apprehension of ill-usage.

'Little liar! that's what you always was, an' always will be.--
Take that!'

The speaker was a girl of sixteen, tall, rather bony, rudely
handsome; the hand with which she struck was large and
coarse-fibred, the muscles that impelled it vigorous. Her dress was
that of a work-girl, unsubstantial, ill-fitting, but of ambitious
cut; her hair was very abundant, and rose upon the back of her head
in thick coils, an elegant fringe depending in front. The fire had
made her face scarlet, and in the lamplight her large eyes glistened
with many joys.

First and foremost, Miss Clementina Peckover rejoiced because she
had left work much earlier than usual, and was about to enjoy what
she would have described as a 'blow out.' Secondly, she rejoiced
because her mother, the landlady of the house, was absent for the
night, and consequently she would exercise sole authority over the
domestic slave, Jane Snowdon--that is to say, would indulge to the
uttermost her instincts of cruelty in tormenting a defenceless
creature. Finally--a cause of happiness antecedent to the others,
but less vivid in her mind at this moment--in the next room lay
awaiting burial the corpse of Mrs. Peckover's mother-in-law, whose
death six days ago had plunged mother and daughter into profound
delight, partly because they were relieved at length from making a
pretence of humanity to a bed-ridden old woman, partly owing to the
fact that the deceased had left behind her a sum of seventy-five
pounds, exclusive of moneys due from a burial-club.

'Ah!' exclaimed Miss Peckover (who was affectionately known to her
intimates as 'Clem'), as she watched Jane stagger back from the
blow, and hide her face in silent endurance of pain. 'That's just a
morsel to stay your appetite, my lady! You didn't expect me back
'ome at this time, did you? You thought as you was goin' to have the
kitchen to yourself when mother went. Ha ha! ho ho!--These
sausages is done; now you clean that fryin'-pan; and if I can find a
speck of dirt in it as big as 'arlf a farden, I'll take you by the
'air of the 'ed an' clean it with your face, _that's_ what I'll do I
Understand? Oh, I mean what I say, my lady! Me an' you's a-goin' to
spend a evenin' together, there's no two ways about that. Ho ho! he
he!'

The frankness of Clem's brutality went far towards redeeming her
character. The exquisite satisfaction with which she viewed Jane's
present misery, the broad joviality with which she gloated over the
prospect of cruelties shortly to be inflicted, put her at once on a
par with the noble savage running wild in woods. Civilisation could
bring no charge against this young woman; it and she had no common
criterion. Who knows but this lust of hers for sanguinary domination
was the natural enough issue of the brutalising serfdom of her
predecessors in the family line of the Peckovers? A thrall suddenly
endowed with authority will assuredly make bitter work for the
luckless creature in the next degree of thraldom.

A cloth was already spread across one end of the deal table, with
such other preparations for a meal as Clem deemed adequate. The
sausages--five in number--she had emptied from the frying-pan
directly on to her plate, and with them all the black rich juice
that had exuded in the process of cooking--particularly rich,
owing to its having several times caught fire and blazed
triumphantly. On sitting down and squaring her comely frame to work,
the first thing Clem did was to take a long draught out of the
beer-jug; refreshed thus, she poured the remaining liquor into a
glass. Ready at hand was mustard, made in a tea-cup; having taken a
certain quantity of this condiment on to her knife, she proceeded to
spread each sausage with it from end to end, patting them in a
friendly way as she finished the operation. Next she sprinkled them
with pepper, and after that she constructed a little pile of salt on
the side of the plate, using her fingers to convey it from the
salt-cellar. It remained to cut a thick slice of bread--she held
the loaf pressed to her bosom whilst doing this--and to crush it
down well into the black grease beside the sausages; then Clem was
ready to begin.

For five minutes she fed heartily, showing really remarkable skill
in conveying pieces of sausage to her mouth by means of the knife
alone. Finding it necessary to breathe at last, she looked round at
Jane. The hand-maiden was on her knees near the fire, scrubbing very
hard at the pan with successive pieces of newspaper. It was a sight
to increase the gusto of Clem's meal, but of a sudden there came
into the girl's mind a yet more delightful thought. I have mentioned
that in the back-kitchen lay the body of a dead woman; it was
already encoffined, and waited for interment on the morrow, when
Mrs. Peckover would arrive with a certain female relative from St.
Albans. Now the proximity of this corpse was a ceaseless occasion of
dread and misery to Jane Snowdon; the poor child had each night to
make up a bed for herself in this front-room, dragging together a
little heap of rags when mother and daughter were gone up to their
chamber, and since the old woman's death it was much if Jane had
enjoyed one hour of unbroken sleep. She endeavoured to hide these
feelings, but Clem, with her Bed Indian scent, divined them
accurately enough. She hit upon a good idea.

'Go into the next room,' she commanded suddenly, 'and fetch the
matches off of the mantel-piece. I shall want to go upstairs
presently, to see if you've scrubbed the bed-room well.'

Jane was blanched; but she rose from her knees at once, and reached
a candlestick from above the fireplace.

'What's that for?' shouted Clem, with her mouth full. 'You've no
need of a light to find the mantel-piece. If you're not off--'

Jane hastened from the kitchen. Clem yelled to her to close the
door, and she had no choice but to obey. In the dark passage outside
there was darkness that might be felt. The child all but fainted
with the sickness of horror as she turned the handle of the other
door and began to grope her way. She knew exactly where the coffin
was; she knew that to avoid touching it in the diminutive room was
all but impossible. And touch it she did. Her anguish uttered
itself, not in a mere sound of terror, but in a broken word or two
of a prayer she knew by heart, including a name which sounded like a
charm against evil. She had reached the mantel-piece; oh, she could
not, could not find the matches I Yes, at last her hand closed on
them. A blind rush, and she was out again in the passage. She
re-entered the front-kitchen with limbs that quivered, with the
sound of dreadful voices ringing about her, and blankness before her
eyes.

Clem laughed heartily, then finished her beer in a long, enjoyable
pull. Her appetite was satisfied; the last trace of oleaginous
matter had disappeared from her plate, and now she toyed with little
pieces of bread lightly dipped into the mustard-pot. These _bonnes
bouches_ put her into excellent humour; presently she crossed her
arms and leaned back. There was no denying that Clem was handsome;
at sixteen she had all her charms in apparent maturity, and they
were of the coarsely magnificent order. Her forehead was low and of
great width; her nose was well shapen, and had large sensual
apertures; her cruel lips may be seen on certain fine antique busts;
the neck that supported her heavy head was splendidly rounded. In
laughing, she became a model for an artist, an embodiment of fierce
life independent of morality. Her health was probably less sound
than it seemed to be; one would have compared her, not to some piece
of exuberant normal vegetation, but rather to a rank,
evilly-fostered growth. The putrid soil of that nether world yields
other forms besides the obviously blighted and sapless.

'Have you done any work for Mrs. Hewett to-day?' she asked of her
victim, after sufficiently savouring the spectacle of terror.

'Yes, miss; I did the front-room fireplace, an' fetched fourteen of
coals, an' washed out a few things.'

'What did she give you?'

'A penny, miss. I gave it to Mrs. Peckover before she went.'

'Oh, you did? Well, look 'ere; you'll just remember in future that
all you get from the lodgers belongs to me, an' not to mother. It's
a new arrangement, understand. An' if you dare to give up a 'apenny
to mother, I'll lick you till you're nothin' but a bag o' bones.
Understand?'

Having on the spur of the moment devised this ingenious difficulty
for the child, who was sure to suffer in many ways from such a
conflict of authorities, Clem began to consider how she should spend
her evening. After all, Jane was too poor-spirited a victim to
afford long entertainment. Clem would have liked dealing with some
one who showed fight--some one with whom she could try savage
issue in real tooth-and-claw conflict. She had in mind a really
exquisite piece of cruelty, but it was a joy necessarily postponed
to a late hour of the night. In the meantime, it would perhaps be as
well to take a stroll, with a view of meeting a few friends as they
came away from the work-rooms. She was pondering the invention of
some long and hard task to be executed by Jane in her absence, when
a knocking at the house-door made itself heard. Clem at once went up
to see who the visitor was.

A woman in a long cloak and a showy bonnet stood on the step,
protecting herself with an umbrella from the bitter sleet which the
wind was now driving through the darkness. She said that she wished
to see Mrs. Hewett.

'Second-floor front,' replied Clem in the offhand, impertinent tone
wherewith she always signified to strangers her position in the
house.

The visitor regarded her with a look of lofty contempt, and, having
deliberately closed her umbrella, advanced towards the stairs. Clem
drew into the back regions for a few moments, but as soon as she
heard the closing of a door in the upper part of the house, she too
ascended, going on tip-toe, with a noiselessness which indicated
another side of her character. Having reached the room which the
visitor had entered, she brought her ear close to the keyhole, and
remained in that attitude for a long time--nearly twenty minutes,
in fact. Her sudden and swift return to the foot of the stairs was
followed by the descent of the woman in the showy bonnet.

'Miss Peckover I' cried the latter when she had reached the foot of
the stairs.

'Well, what is it?' asked Clem, seeming to come up from the kitchen.

'Will you 'ave the goodness to go an' speak to Mrs. Hewett for a
hinstant?' said the woman, with much affectation of refined speech.

'All right! I will just now, if I've time.'

The visitor tossed her head and departed, whereupon Clem at once ran
upstairs. In five minutes she was back in the kitchen.

'See 'ere,' she addressed Jane. 'You know where Mr. Kirkwood works
in St. John's Square? You've been before now. Well, you're to go an'
wait at the door till he comes out, and then you're to tell him to
come to Mrs. Hewett at wunst. Understand?--Why ain't these
tea-things all cleared away? All right Wait till you come back,
that's all. Now be off, before I skin you alive!'

On the floor in a corner of the kitchen lay something that had once
been a girl's hat. This Jane at once snatched up and put on her
head. Without other covering, She ran forth upon her errand.

CHAPTER II

A FRIEND IN REQUEST

It was the hour of the unyoking of men. In the highways and byways
of Clerkenwell there was a thronging of released toilers, of young
and old, of male and female. Forth they streamed from factories and
workrooms, anxious to make the most of the few hours during which
they might live for themselves. Great numbers were still bent over
their labour, and would be for hours to come, but the majority had
leave to wend stablewards. Along the main thoroughfares the
wheel-track was clangorous; every omnibus that clattered by was
heavily laden with passengers; tarpaulins gleamed over the knees of
those who sat outside. This way and that the lights were blurred
into a misty radiance; overhead was mere blackness, whence descended
the lashing rain. There was a ceaseless scattering of mud; there
were blocks in the traffic, attended with rough jest or angry curse;
there was jostling on the crowded pavement. Public-houses began to
brighten up, to bestir themselves for the evening's business.
Streets that had been hives of activity since early morning were
being abandoned to silence and darkness and the sweeping wind.

At noon to-day there was sunlight on the Surrey hills; the fields
and lanes were fragrant with the first breath of spring, and from
the shelter of budding copses many a primrose looked tremblingly up
to the vision of blue sky. But of these things Clerkenwell takes no
count; here it had been a day like any other, consisting of so many
hours, each representing a fraction of the weekly wage. Go where you
may in Clerkenwell, on every hand are multiform evidences of toil,
intolerable as a nightmare. It is not as in those parts of London
where the main thoroughfares consist of shops and warehouses and
workrooms, whilst the streets that are hidden away on either hand
are devoted in the main to dwellings Here every alley is thronged
with small industries; all but every door and window exhibits the
advertisement of a craft that is carried on within. Here you may see
how men have multiplied toil for toil's sake, have wrought to devise
work superfluous, have worn their lives away in imagining new forms
of weariness. The energy, the ingenuity daily put forth in these
grimy burrows task the brain's power of wondering. But that those
who sit here through the livelong day, through every season, through
all the years of the life that is granted them, who strain their
eyesight, who overtax their muscles, who nurse disease in their
frames, who put resolutely from them the thought of what existence
_might_ be--that these do it all without prospect or hope of
reward save the permission to eat and sleep and bring into the world
other creatures to strive with them for bread, surely that thought
is yet more marvellous.

Workers in metal, workers in glass and in enamel, workers in weed,
workers in every substance on earth, or from the waters under the
earth, that can be made commercially valuable. In Clerkenwell the
demand is not so much for rude strength as for the cunning fingers
and the contriving brain. The inscriptions on the house-fronts would
make you believe that you were in a region of gold and silver and
precious stones. In the recesses of dim byways, where sunshine and
free air are forgotten things, where families herd together in
dear-rented garrets and cellars, craftsmen are for ever handling
jewellery, shaping bright ornaments for the necks and arms of such
as are born to the joy of life. Wealth inestimable is ever flowing
through these workshops, and the hands that have been stained with
gold-dust may, as likely as not, some day extend themselves in
petition for a crust. In this house, as the announcement tells you,
business is carried on by a trader in diamonds, and next door is a
den full of children who wait for their day's one meal until their
mother has come home with her chance earnings. A strange enough
region wherein to wander and muse. Inextinguishable laughter were
perchance the fittest result of such musing; yet somehow the heart
grows heavy, somehow the blood is troubled in its course, and the
pulses begin to throb hotly.

Amid the crowds of workpeople, Jane Snowdon made what speed she
might. It was her custom, whenever dispatched on an errand, to run
till she could run no longer, then to hasten along panting until
breath and strength were recovered. When it was either of the
Peckovers who sent her, she knew that reprimand was inevitable on
her return, be she ever so speedy; but her nature was incapable
alike of rebellion and of that sullen callousness which would have
come to the aid of most girls in her position. She did not serve her
tyrants with willingness, for their brutality filled her with a
sense of injustice; yet the fact that she was utterly dependent upon
them for her livelihood, that but for their grace--as they were
perpetually reminding her--she would have been a workhouse child,
had a mitigating effect upon the bitterness she could not wholly
subdue.

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