The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp

by W. H. Davies

  Weeks and weeks went by and, having now started to drink, and losing control of my will in this disappointment, I had come down to my last ten shillings, and had a good seven months to go before my money was again due. First of all I had serious thoughts of destroying this work—the whole two hundred and odd copies, which were under lock and key in my room, and to then set to work carefully on new matter, and, when my income was again due, to again mortgage it in another attempt. Being very impulsive, this no doubt would have been there and then commenced, had I not been confronted with the difficulty of doing so. There was only one way of doing this properly, and that was by fire, which would require privacy. My room was the only place where I could do this without being seen, but that contained neither stove nor grate; and, even if it had, two hundred books would take a number of sleepless nights to render into ashes. I thought with some bitterness of having to go on tramp again, and it was in one of these bitter moments that I swore a great oath that these copies, good or bad, should maintain me until the end of the year. For I would distribute the books here and there, sending them to successful people, and they would probably pay for their copies, perhaps not so much for what merit they might think the work contained, as for the sake of circumstances. This idea no sooner possessed me than I began preparing for its execution. For this purpose I obtained stamps and envelopes, and six copies were at once posted. The result was seen in a couple of days—three letters, two containing the price of the book, and the third from the Charity Organisation, the latter writing on behalf of a gentleman who had become interested, and would like to come to my assistance. Remembering these people in the past, through my former experience with them, I had no great hopes at the present time, in spite of the kind hearted interest of the gentleman in question. However, I called on them the next morning, and after the usual long wait in a side room—which, I believe, is not through any great stress of business, but so as to bring one’s heart down to the freezing point of abject misery, and to extinguish one by one his many hopes—after this weary waiting, I received an interview. There is not sufficient venom in my disposition to allow me to describe this meeting in words fit and bitter for its need. This life is too short to enable me to recover from my astonishment, which will fill me for a good many years to come. The questions and answers which had passed between us on our former interview,—two years previous, were now before them. But they questioned again in the same strain, and my answers corresponded with those of the past, for I told no lies. Apparently they had no chance here, so they came at once to the business in hand. “You have written to a gentleman, asking for his assistance?” Not liking this way of explaining my conduct, I said—“No, not exactly that, but have been trying to sell him some work that I had done.” It seemed that they knew nothing of this work—or that it better suited their purpose to appear ignorant—so it was necessary to give them the full particulars. “Was not the book a success?” they asked. Not caring to admit failure, and still thinking the work worthy of a little success, I answered—“Not yet, but it is too early to judge it as a failure.” Then I gave it in confidence that a gentleman, well known in Southwark, and who often wrote articles on literary subjects, had promised to review it in one of the evening papers, which might lead to other notices. “What is the name of this gentleman?” The name was at once mentioned, for there was no reason that I knew of, to withhold it. But instead of this name doing me good, as I then expected, it probably made this case of mine more unfavorable; for I have been told since that this gentleman had more than once attacked the ways and methods of this Organisation, both on the public platform and through the press. Not knowing this, at that time, I thought it extremely fortunate to be enabled to mention the favour of such a well known local man. All went smoothly for a while—although I could plainly see that these people did not recognise the writing of books as work, and were plainly disgusted at the folly of sacrificing an income to that end. Their next question confirmed this opinion—“Do you ever do anything for a living?” I mentioned that I had tramped the country as a hawker, during the previous summer, but had suffered through want of courage, could not make anything like a living, and was often in want and without shelter. There was a rather long pause, and the Charity Organisation rose slowly to their feet, and said—“Mr. Davies, do you really expect this gentleman, who has written to us, to maintain you? Is there anything the matter with you?” What was the matter with me did not seem to escape many people, and it was most certainly noted by the smallest toddler that played in the street, but the Charity Organisation did not think proper to recognise any other than an able man, strong in the use of all his limbs. “No,” said these people, “you must do the same as you did last summer;” which, in other words was—go on tramp, starve, and be shelterless as you were before. And then in the deep silence which followed, for I was speechless with indignation, a voice soft and low, but emphatic and significant, said—“We strongly advise you to do this, but you really must not write any more begging letters. Mr. Davies, we do not consider ourselves justified in putting your case before the committee.” That ended the interview, and I left them with the one sarcastic remark, which I could not keep unsaid, “that I had not come there with any great hopes of receiving benefit, and that I was not leaving greatly disappointed at this result.” These people passed judgment in a few minutes, and were so confident that they did not think it worth while to call at the Farmhouse for the opinion of a man who had known me for a considerable time. No doubt they had made another mistake. For, some time before this, an old pensioner, an old lodger of the Farmhouse, had interviewed these people, telling them a story of poverty, and of starving wife and children. The story was a fabrication from beginning to end, yet they assisted this man on his bare word to the extent of ten shillings, so as to enable him to lie about the Farmhouse drunk for several days. Then, some days after this, the Charity Organisation called at the Farmhouse to see the manager, and to make enquiries of this man whom they had so mysteriously befriended. “What,” cried that gentleman, “you have assisted this drunken fellow on his bare word, and when I send cases to you, that I know are deserving, you sternly refuse to entertain them.” Perhaps it was this instance, fresh in their minds, which gave them an idea that no good could come out of the Farmhouse. Yet, as far as my experience goes, the object of these people was not so much to do good, but to prevent good from being done; for here, for the second time, they stepped between me and one who might have rendered me some aid. What I found the most distasteful part of their system was the way in which they conceal the name of a would-be benefactor. I had sent six books, three to men and three to women. One man had replied with a kind encouraging letter and the price of the book enclosed, and one of the two others had written to the Organisation, but, on no account, would they mention his name. Now, when these people answer a letter of enquiry, they have no other option than to say one of two things—either that the applicant is an impostor, and deserves no notice, or that the case is genuine and deserving consideration. They, of course, answered in the former strain, withholding the gentleman’s name, so as to leave no opportunity to vindicate one’s character.

  The interference of these people put me on my mettle, and I was determined not to follow their advice and tramp through another hard winter. I had something like three shillings, at the time of this interview; so, buying two shillings’ worth of stamps, I posted a dozen books that very night, being still warm with resentment. The result of these were four kind letters, each containing the price of the book. Only one or two were returned to me, whether purchased or not, which was done at my own wish. Before I again became penniless, off went another dozen. In this way I disposed of some sixty copies, with more or less success; some of these well known people receiving the book as an unacknowledged gift, and others quickly forwarding the price of the same. The strangest part of this experience was this: that people, from whom I expected sympathy, having seen their names so often mentioned as champion
s of unfortunate cases, received the book as a gift; whilst others, from whom I had less hope, because they appeared sarcastic and unfeeling in their writings, returned the price of the work. The Manager was astonished at my receiving no answer from two or three well known people whom he had recommended. At last, after disposing of sixty copies in this way, two well known writers corresponded with me, one of whom I saw personally, and they both promised to do something through the press. Relying on these promises, I sent away no more copies, being enabled to wait a week or two owing to the kindness of a playwriter, an Irishman, as to whose mental qualification the world is divided, but whose heart is unquestionably great. Private recognition was certainly not long forthcoming, which was soon followed by a notice in a leading daily paper, and in a literary paper of the same week. These led to others, to interviews and a kindness that more than made amends for past indifference. It was all like a dream. In my most conceited moments I had not expected such an amount of praise, and they gathered in favour as they came, until one wave came stronger than the others and threw me breathless of all conceit, for I felt myself unworthy of it, and of the wonderful sea on which I had embarked. Sleep was out of the question, and new work was impossible. What surprised me agreeably was the reticence of my fellow lodgers, who all knew, but mentioned nothing in my hearing that was in any way disconcerting. They were, perhaps, a little less familiar, but showed not the least disrespect in their reserve, as would most certainly have been the case if I had succeeded to a peerage or an immense fortune. The lines on Irish Tim, which were several times quoted, were a continual worry to me, thinking some of the more waggish lodgers would bring them to his notice. Poor Tim, no doubt, would have sulked, resenting this publicity, but, if the truth were known, I would as soon do Tim a good turn as any other man in the Farmhouse. Boozy Bob, I suppose, had been shown his name in print; but Bob thought it a great honour to be called Boozy; so, when he stood drunk before me, with his face beaming with smiles of gratitude for making use of his name, at the same time saying—“Good evening, Mr. Davies, how are you?”—I at once understood the meaning of this unusual civility, and we both fell a-laughing, but nothing more was said. What a lot of decent, honest fellows these were: “You must not be surprised,” said a gentleman to me, at that time, “to meet less sincere men than these in other walks of life.” I shall consider myself fortunate in not doing so.

  CHAPTER 33

  SUCCESS

  HOWEVER MUCH CAUSE I MAY HAVE at some future date to complain of severe criticism, I have certainly no complaint up to the present against any connected with the making of books. Some half a dozen lines of work were submitted to publishers, and three times I received letters with a view to publication, which, of course, failed through the want of friends to assist me. Knowing how rough and unequal the work was, and that critics could find—if so inclined—plenty to justify extreme severity, has undeceived me as to my former unreasonable opinion, that critics were more prone to cavil than to praise. I would like it to be understood that I say this without bidding for any future indulgence; for I am thankful to any man who will show me my faults, and am always open to advice.

  As I have said, the first notice appeared in a leading daily paper, a full column, in which I saw myself described, a rough sketch of the ups and downs of my life, in short telling sentences, with quotations from my work. The effect of this was almost instantaneous, for correspondence immediately followed. Letters came by every post. Of course, all my thoughts had been concentrated on the reading world, so that I was much surprised when two young men came to the house and requested a photo for an illustrated paper. I could not oblige them at that moment, but with a heart overflowing with gratitude was persuaded to accompany them at once to the nearest photographer, now that interest was at its high point. “Now,” said one of these young men, when I was on my way with them, delighted with this mission—“now, if you could give me a few lines on the war in the East, to go with your photograph, it would be of much greater interest to the public.” Not caring to blow the froth off my mind in this indifferent manner, and feeling too conscientious to take advantage of public interest by writing in such haste, which, to tell the truth, appeared a difficult task—I quickly turned the subject to other matters, thinking he would soon forget his request. But it was of no use; for, every other step or two, he wanted to be informed whether I was concentrating my mind on the war. At last, being under the impression that my natural reserve and feeble attempts at conversation would lead him to believe that something was being done in that direction, I made a great effort to become voluble, and, I believe, succeeded until the photograph was taken. When I left him, his last question was—“What about the war?”

  The next morning, after the last mentioned episode, being Sunday, I was enjoying a stroll through the city, which is so very quiet on this one morning of the week; and was thinking of nothing else but my own affairs, more especially of the photo that was soon to appear. The street was forsaken, with the exception—yes, there they were: two men with a camera, and both of them looking my way, anxiously awaiting my approach. “This,” I said to myself, “is fame with a vengeance.” I felt a little mortification at being expected to undergo this operation in the public streets. One of these photographers quickly stepped forward to meet me, and, smiling blandly, requested me kindly to stand for a moment where I was. It certainly shocked and mortified me more to learn that they desired to photograph an old fashioned dwelling of brick and mortar, and that they considered my presence as no adornment to the front.

  A few days after this first review, a critic of fine literature, who had interested himself privately on my behalf, sent a notice to a weekly literary paper; and it was the respect due to this man’s name that drew the attention of some other papers of good standing, for their representatives mentioned this man’s name with every respect, knowing, at the same time, that he would not waste his hours on what was absolutely worthless.

  What kind hearted correspondents I had, and what offers they made, what questions they asked! and all of them received grateful answers—with one exception. This gentleman, who did not require a book, presumably being more interested in the strange conditions under which I had lived and worked, offered me a pleasant home in the country, where I could cultivate my talents surrounded with a little more comfort and quieter scenes. The letter was long, delightful, poetical, and worked warmly on my imagination, sentence for sentence; until the last sentence came like a douche of cold water on a warm body—“Of course,” finished this gentleman, “it is necessary to supply me with strict references as to honesty and respectability.” Where was I to get these? after having failed to get a library form signed, which would entitle me to borrow books.

  No doubt the manager of the Farmhouse would have willingly done the latter, as was afterwards done by him, but I was then under the impression that the keeper of a lodging house was ineligible for such a purpose, knowing this to have been the case elsewhere. Where could I obtain these references, seeing that I knew no one who would take the responsibility of doing such a petty kindness as signing a library form? This gentleman’s letter, I need scarcely say, remained unanswered, for which, I believe, none will blame me.

  Several other letters were received, which I found extremely difficult to answer. One addressed me familiarly in rhyme, beginning—“Dear brother poet, brother Will;” and went on to propose that we two should take a firm stand together, side by side, to the everlasting benefit of poetry and posterity.

  Another had written verse, and would be glad to find a publisher, and another could, and would, do me many a good turn, if I felt inclined to correct his work, and to add lines here and there as needed. Not for a moment would I hold these people to ridicule, but it brought to mind that I was without a publisher for my own work, and I believed, in all sincerity, that better work than mine might go begging, as it often had.

  In the main my correspondents were kind, sympathetic and s
ensible, making genuine offers of assistance, for which I thanked them with all my heart, but thought myself now beyond the necessity of accepting them.

  As a matter of fact, no one man in a common lodging house is supposed to be regarded with any special favour. The common kitchen is his library, his dining room and his parlour, and better accommodation cannot be expected at the low price of fourpence per night. We are all equal, without a question of what a man’s past may have been, or what his future is likely to realise. Any man who puts on superior airs is invariably subjected to this sarcastic enquiry—“How much do you pay?” or the incontrovertible remark that one man’s fourpence is as good as another’s. The Manager has to use great tact in not indulging in too long a conversation with one particular man, and a lodger must notjeopardise his popularity by an overweening anxiety to exchange civilities, or to repose confidence in those who are in authority; for these lodgers are in general distrustful and suspicious. If a fish porter—a good number of these men were here—was warned after any misconduct, he would turn to one of his pals and say—“Billingsgate, I see, is not favoured in this place.” And if a paperseller—of which there were about an equal number—was called to account in the same way, his remark would be that had he been a fish porter the misconduct would have been overlooked. Such was the state of feeling in the Farmhouse, although the caretaker, time after time, almost daily, reiterated the remark that one man was as good as another, and that no distinction was made between the two classes. Knowing this state of feeling, and the child-like distrust and jealousy of these honest fellows, it was no wonder that I felt a little awkward at the change of circumstances; for, after all, I was still a lodger, and paying no more than them for the same conveniences. In spite of this, I don’t believe I suffered the least in popularity when the Manager, determined that I should not suffer any longer for want of privacy to pursue my aims, threw open his own private rooms for my convenience. And, every time I took advantage of his kindness, the Manager’s wife would take advantage of this by supplying a hot dinner or tea, as the hour might be, so that my studies might not be interrupted, or food postponed through an anxiety to perform a certain task.