Liza of Lambeth by Somerset Maugham (1897)

This is Somerset Maugham’s first novel, the first publication in a writing career which went on to last over 60 years.

Maugham trained as a doctor for five year at St Thomas’s Hospital in Lambeth and saw at first hand the terrible poverty in the slums of the area, the drunkenness and the narrowness of working lives and expectations.

But this novel also tapped into a popular movement among the cultural elite, because the 1890s saw a wave of novels and factual books about working class poverty and the slums of London, such as the notoriously brutal and pessimistic A Child of the Jago by Arthur Morrison.

This is the cultural context for Maugham’s relatively brief (120 pages) tale of bright, vivacious Liza Kemp from the Lambeth slums and how she falls in love with another woman’s husband.

The plot

Liza is 18, a lively working class girl who lives with her widowed mother in Vere Street, Lambeth, off Westminster Bridge Road.

Everyone liked her, and was glad to have her company.

Liza works in a local factory. She dresses colourfully and is always the first to make a joke or start a sing-song. For all that she is, in reality, an underdeveloped teenager from the slums.

She looked at her own thin arms, just two pieces of bone with not a muscle on them, but very white and showing distinctly the interlacement of blue veins: she did not notice that her hands were rough, and red and dirty with the nails broken, and bitten to the quick.

Chapter one The opening scene establishes her as ‘the pride of her alley’, the most confident, best-dressed young woman in the street, who all the men want to dance with. The scene where the young women dance to the music of an organ grinder and Liza finds herself by accident running into the arms of a tall dark stranger could be from a musical, could almost be from West Side Story (though with Victorian bustles and corsets).

Chapter two This man is Jim Blakeston, tall, bearded and virile, who’s just moved into the street along with his fat wife and five kids.

‘E’s got a big family – five kids. Ain’t yer seen ‘is wife abaht the street? She’s a big, fat woman, as does ‘er ‘air funny.’

Meanwhile Liza has been pursued for some time by earnest young Tom, who works in another factory, earning a respectable 23 shillings (95p) a week.

It was a young man with light yellow hair and a little fair moustache, which made him appear almost boyish; he was light-complexioned and blue-eyed, and had a frank and pleasant look mingled with a curious bashfulness that made him blush when people spoke to him.

The pair had walked out together earlier in the year, but then Liza lost interest. Which doesn’t stop Tom pestering her.

Chapter three Liza’s home life, i.e. her mother is an alcoholic who steals Liza’s wages and moans about her hard lot in life. Liza steps outside and is confronted by pale, shy Tom who invites her to come on a street outing to Chingford, but she says she can’t cos she doesn’t want to lead him on.

Liza walks over to her friend Sally’s house, and they banter, walk down to the bridge where Sally meets her young man and Liza walks back to the street alone, then comes across the new man, big strong tall bearded Tom, playing with two little kiddies on his knee, who cheekily asks her for another kiss. She gives him what for and strolls on only to be playfully attacked by some of the young boys, wrestling free and finally making it home in time to cook Sunday dinner.

Chapter four Bank Holiday and the day of the big outing to Chingford leaving from the Red Lion pub. Liza initially says no but allows herself to be persuaded to go by the wheedling of her would-be lover, Tom when, possibly, it’s the fact that big Jim is also going on the outing which decides her.

Chapter five The Bank Holiday outing to Chingford aboard a horse-drawn carriage, with a riotous crew of proles dressed up the nines and bantering fit to bust. Frequent stops at pubs, much drinking and then, at Chingford, a vast picnic.

Then they all set to. Pork-pies, saveloys, sausages, cold potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, cold bacon, veal, ham, crabs and shrimps, cheese, butter, cold suet-puddings and treacle, gooseberry-tarts, cherry-tarts, butter, bread, more sausages, and yet again pork-pies! They devoured the provisions like ravening beasts, stolidly, silently, earnestly, in large mouthfuls which they shoved down their throats unmasticated.

At one point couples paired off but Liza didn’t want to get caught with Tom, and preferred walking through the woods with Jim and his wife, so that Tom, after some arguing, went off in a huff. More beer, a hilarious donkey ride, a coconut shy, more beer and then the concertinas come out for a sing-song. Tom is too shy to take part, whereas Jim is a big confident singer. You can see where this is all heading.

The long ride home starts out with drunken singing but soon the couples sink into silence, many falling asleep. Liza is sitting between Tom and Jim and isn’t surprised that Tom sheepishly slips his arm round her waist, but is surprised when Jim slips his hand along her thigh to hold her hand. Torn between two lovers.

Back in Westminster Bridge Road the men peel off to the pub to have a last drink, Liza setting off with Sally and then finally walking by herself, when Jim comes running up the empty street behind her, and insists on having a good night kiss which she at first resists, and then acquiesces in.

Chapter six Next day at the factor everyone’s nursing a hangover (Maugham doesn’t tell us what is produced in this factory). On the way home Liza and her friend Sally admire the poster for a play. Further on she passes Jim’s house, he strolls out and then along with her for a bit and asks her to the theatre.

Back at her house Liza sits on the stoop with Mrs Stanley whose husband was drunk the night before and battered her so badly she had to go to hospital. Still, he’s a sweetie when he’s sober (how many times have we heard that?) Liza finds her mind drifting off, at work and while chatting to Mrs Stanley, over and again to thoughts of big strong Jim.

Chapter seven A few days later Sally is late for work and explains she was up late going to the play with her man, ‘Arry, and how Liza ought to get Tom to take her. Liza boils over with contradictory emotions, despising Tom, massively attracted to Jim but also angry with Jim because he hasn’t mentioned going to the theatre again, because he didn’t stroll round to her house the other night as he’d mentioned doing.

On the last night of the play’s run, the night Jim originally suggested taking her, she dolls herself up and goes along and finds Jim waiting for her outside the theatre, but determines to act affronted and offended. In they go to see the play and there’s a full description of the night’s complicated entertainment, with singers while they queue, the melodramatic play itself, which has an interval with a comic turn before returning to the climax.

Then they go for a drink near the theatre, walk back towards the river and sit on a bench between trees under the stars. Maugham describes Liza’s feelings of breathless helplessness, swooning against the big man. He puts his arm round her and they go for another drink at a more local pub, where Liza’s petrified they’ll be seen. Lastly they loiter at the side alley which leads into Vere Street, Jim kissing and her and then – I think – asking to have sex with her.

‘Liza,’ he said in a whisper, ‘will yer?’
‘Will I wot?’ she said, looking down.
‘You know, Liza. Sy, will yer?’
‘Na,’ she said.
He bent over her and repeated –
‘Will yer?’
She did not speak, but kept beating down on his hand.
‘Liza,’ he said again, his voice growing hoarse and thick – ‘Liza, will yer?’

To my astonishment Jim then punches her in the stomach?????

Suddenly he shook himself, and closing his fist gave her a violent, swinging blow in the belly.
‘Come on,’ he said.
And together they slid down into the darkness of the passage.

‘Whaaaaat?’ as my kids, mimicking American TV, like to say, ‘was that all about?’ Is it meant to be an accurate representation of working class playfulness? A violent blow? And she just accepts it??

Chapter eight Liza awakes yawning and stretching luxuriously on Sunday morning. It seems they did have sex – ‘the delicious sensation of love came over her’ – in which case a) where, in the street? b) wasn’t she a virgin? Wouldn’t there have been some amount of pain and discomfort involved? And fear of pregnancy? And sexually transmitted disease?

Not in this story. Liza wakes, stretches, surveys her sordid little room littered with cheap knick-knacks with pleasure and pride, dresses and goes out into the street where she joins in with a gang of boys playing cricket, even includes Tom, passing by, in her spirit of wellbeing. Then she spies Jim’s daughter Polly emerging from his house, further down the street, and runs over to introduce herself, and then strolls along arm in arm with Polly on the family errand (which is to buy some ice cream).

‘I was just goin’ dahn into the road ter get some ice-cream for dinner. Father ‘ad a bit of luck last night, ‘e says, and ‘e’d stand the lot of us ice-cream for dinner ter-day.’
‘I’ll come with yer if yer like.’

That evening, after dark, Jim taps lightly at her window and she sneaks out of the house to meet him in the dark and kiss passionately.

Chapter nine There follow weeks of happiness as the couple meet at various locations along Westminster Bridge Road where they stroll hand in hand, or in the park where they lie in the summer sunshine in one another’s arms, or, when September rains comes, she sits on his knee on benches on the Embankment, wrapped in his coat, safe in his enfolding arms, saying nothing, exchanging long passionate kisses.

But they are spotted, a few times that they’re aware of and probably plenty of others, with a predictable response from ‘the community’. Polly stops talking to her. Mrs Blakeston regards her with anger in her eyes. Jim reports that his wife has stopped talking to him. Clumps of women gossip about her, then go silent and frigid as she walks by. Even the boys she used to play cricket with start mocking her and her ‘husband’. Everyone knows about the affair.

Sally gets married to her ‘Arry. (I wonder if this is where they got the names for the movie from. I doubt it.) Their comic marriage service (with a few pints in the pub beforehand to stoke up courage and much sniggering and poking in the ribs by ‘Arry’s mates at the most suggestive parts of the service) brings the community together and is obviously designed – in its innocence and community – to provide a comparison with the bad feeling generated by Liza and Jim’s affair.

Chapter ten November comes. It’s cold and foggy. Liza and Jim take to meeting in the warm waiting rooms of railway stations at Waterloo and Charing Cross, but they’re smelly and packed with people. One day Liza says she can’t go on like this. Jim asks her to move in with him. She says she can’t leave her mother. Anyway, they’d have to get married and live together decent-like, and they can’t do that while Jim’s married to his missus. And so on. They’re both miserable.

One day she bumps into Tom, who is nowadays embarrassed to talk to her. She reflects how simple and innocent life with him would have been and wishes he’d make a first move and they could be friends again, but he blanks her.

Sally is disgustingly happy with her married state for the first few weeks, but ‘Arry is a traditionalist who insists his missus stops working in the factory and stays in the kitchen and gets ready for baby care. He’s backed up by Sally’s mother who points out that she herself:

‘ad twelve, ter sy nothin’ of two stills an’ one miss.’

But quite soon ‘Arry starts beating Sally. Only when he’s had a few drops, mind. Otherwise he’s a sweetie, Sally tells Liza through her sobs.

Liza spends so long comforting Sally that she’s late for that night’s rendezvous with Jim. He emerges from a local pub, quite drunk and irritated that she’s late. For the first time they argue, she tries to restrain him from going back into the pub, he lashes out and, not really meaning to, catches her face with his arm. He is instantly full of contrition and apologies and they make up.

But next morning she has a black eye and passersby and loafers in the street call out all kinds of hilarious banter about her and her big-fisted lover. Mortified, LIza runs home sobbing tears of shame.

Chapter eleven ‘Arry’s behaviour gets worse.

”E ain’t wot I thought ‘e wos,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind sayin’ thet; but ‘e ‘as a lot ter put up with; I expect I’m rather tryin’ sometimes, an’ ‘e means well. P’raps ‘e’ll be kinder like when the biby’s born.’

Sally warns Liza that Mrs Blakeston (Jim’s wife) is gunning for her and, sure enough, Mrs B finally confronts Liza outside the Vere Street pub. Quite a crowd gathers to cheer her on as she accuses Liza of stealing her husband, breaking up a happy home, taking his money, and being nothing more than a common prostitute. She slaps Liza, then spits in her face, at which point it becomes a cat fight.

This is bitter fighting with teeth and claws and blows rained everywhere. The watching men ironically shout ‘Time’ and start to organise it as a proper fight, with seconds to refresh each of the fighters and time out between rounds. The women without exception back Mrs Blakeston, calling Liza a homebreaker and whore.

Suddenly Jim pushes through the crowd and forces the two women apart. Then another man pushes through. It is mild-mannered long-suffering Tom and he takes Liza home, up to her room and gently dabs away the blood and sweat with a wetted towel. She bursts into tears, says what a bad woman she is, how she is not worthy of him, apologises for snubbing him. Tom accepts it all and asks her if she will marry him. But she says no, she is not worthy, and then clinches it by telling him she thinks she’s in the family way. Taken aback for a moment, Tom girds his loins and still offers to marry her. But Liza still says no. He leaves. She sinks on her bed in utter misery.

Cut to Jim dragging his wife home (her nagging all the way) upstairs to their room where she refuses to shut up, bating him till he snaps and really violently attacks her. Daughter Polly tries to drag him off but Jim slaps her hard and sends her reeling across the room, so she runs downstairs to the two men and a woman having tea in the flat below. One man refuses to interfere between man and wife on principle and the other is scared of being hit, so it is the exasperated woman who runs upstairs to find Jim kneeling on his wife’s chest and beating and beating and beating her in the face.

The woman drags Jim off and shames him into stopping so, with one last vicious kick of his bleeding wife, Jim slams the door and goes to the pub.

Liza’s mum comes home to find her daughter bedraggled from the fight outside the pub, with a blood-stained face and one eye swollen up. She offers Liza a nip of spirits. In a long scene the two women get slowly drunk, Liza realising, for the first time, how spirits (previously she was a beer girl) make you feel just fine. I think we are witnessing the birth of an alcoholic – like mother, like daughter.

Chapter twelve For a day and two nights Liza lies sweating and in increasing agony. Her mum thinks it’s her first whiskey hangover, but in facts it’s fever leading to a miscarriage. Mrs Kemp runs upstairs to fetch Mrs Hodges, who turns out to be a sort of nurse who helps with confinements. Only then do they fetch the doctor, who makes an examination and predicts that Liza is going to die. A crowd gather in the hallway outside. Tom pushes through into the room, and tries to make Liza hear him but she is unconscious. Later Jim comes, seizes her face in her hands and tries to apologise. She hears nothing as her life ebbs away.

What makes this chapter a tour de force is the fact that, amid Liza’s slowl decline and death, Maugham depicts the friendship that quickly grows between whining, complaining Mrs Kemp (Liza’s mum) and the tidy, discreet, nodding Mrs Hodges from upstairs. They discuss which liquor is best and swap stories about coffins and undertakers, all the while sipping brandy – purely for medicinal purposes – as Liza slowly dies.

The cackling camaraderie of the two old ladies is brilliantly done, and much more vivid and eerie than all the love scenes which preceded it. They are like two alcoholic Norns, prattling inconsequentially while life drains out of the young girl on the bed.

Eventually, there is a dry rattle from Liza’s emaciated body and everyone in the room feels the cold, blanking presence of Death.

It’s a genuinely macabre and spooky ending, and it strongly anticipates Maugham’s gift for creating powerful scenes and prattling characters, which he would turn out to be able to express better in the stream of plays he wrote in the Edwardian era, than in his less-successful novels.


Social history

Well, they’re not as poor as the Jagos depicted in Arthur Morrison’s brutal novel, A Child of the Jago. In the Jago (an East End slum) nobody has a job so they literally starve unless they can steal something every day.

Whereas all the characters in Vere Street appear to have a job, and enough wages to splash around on drinking and eating at pubs. Nobody seems to think twice about going to the theatre, or splashing out on the Bank Holiday outing to Chingford. These are all things the inhabitants of Morrison’s novels could only dream of.

The women are baby factories. Jim’s wife has borne him nine children – of whom only five are still living – plus the miscarriage, and she’s pregnant again. Sally’s mum had twelve live births, two still-births and a  miscarriage. Liza’s mum had 13 children. Obviously, only free birth control and sex education could begin to tackle this plague of babies.

Alcohol is the only escape (none of the mass-produced drugs of our era, or the addictive medicines e.g. opioids).

Men beat their wives, sometimes unconscious. Everyone accepts this, even the wives.

Maugham’s style

There’s something very flat and mechanical and literal about Maugham’s descriptions. He doesn’t jump to the interesting bit of an action, as a narrator he doesn’t make any sudden moves, but describes every event flatly and factually like an instructions manual.

The organ-man was an Italian, with a shock of black hair and a ferocious moustache. Drawing his organ to a favourable spot, he stopped, released his shoulder from the leather straps by which he dragged it, and cocking his large soft hat on the side of his head, began turning the handle. It was a lively tune, and in less than no time a little crowd had gathered round to listen, chiefly the young men and the maidens, for the married ladies were never in a fit state to dance, and therefore disinclined to trouble themselves to stand round the organ.

The text is marked by the heaviness of phrasing which was never really to leave him, as well as the occasional odd infelicity of word order.

The dancers stopped to see the sight, and the organ-grinder, having come to the end of his tune, ceased turning the handle and looked to see what was the excitement.

Wouldn’t that be better as ‘what the excitement was’ – or the more flowing ‘what was causing all the excitement’? ‘Stilted’ might describe the relationship between young William and his readers.

‘Look at ‘er stockin’s!’ shouted another; and indeed they were remarkable, for Liza had chosen them of the same brilliant hue as her dress, and was herself most proud of the harmony.

He was sitting on a stool at the door of one of the houses, playing with two young children, to whom he was giving rides on his knee.

On every pages there are sentences which make you stumble and choke a bit. Compare and contrast with the bounding fluency of the writer I’ve just been reading, E.W. Hornung and his high-spirited Raffles stories.

Raffles had been leaning back in the saddle-bag chair, watching me with keen eyes sheathed by languid lids; now he started forward, and his eyes leapt to mine like cold steel from the scabbard.

Exciting and melodramatic, Hornung is always zeroing in on the vivid look and gesture. Maugham is the exact opposite, describing mundane details in a very mundane style.

It really seemed an age since the previous night, and all that had happened seemed very long ago. She had not spoken to Jim all day, and she had so much to say to him. Then, wondering whether he was about, she went to the window and looked out; but there was nobody there. She closed the window again and sat just beside it; the time went on, and she wondered whether he would come, asking herself whether he had been thinking of her as she of him; gradually her thoughts grew vague, and a kind of mist came over them. She nodded. (Chapter 8)

On the plus side, Maugham’s prose is remarkably free of the facetiousness and irony of a writer like Arthur Morrison who, in his stories of slum life, is addicted to sometimes archaic and ponderous phraseology.

Scarce was it dark when the Dove-Laners, in a succession of hilarious groups – but withal a trifle suspicious – began to push through Mother Gapp’s doors. (A Child of the Jago chapter 22)

By contrast Maugham’s prose is – for its period – surprisingly clean and streamlined.

Bank Holiday was a beautiful day: the cloudless sky threatened a stifling heat for noontide, but early in the morning, when Liza got out of bed and threw open the window, it was fresh and cool. She dressed herself, wondering how she should spend her day; she thought of Sally going off to Chingford with her lover, and of herself remaining alone in the dull street with half the people away. She almost wished it were an ordinary work-day, and that there were no such things as bank holidays. (Chapter 4)

Compared to the elaborate facetiousness and sprinkling of archaisms in Morrison or Wells, this is the streamlined prose of the future. In her brilliant biography of Maugham, Selina Hastings points out that he deliberately chose the style of the French realists, of Zola and especially Maupassant:

I had at that time a great admiration for Guy de Maupassant… who had so great a gift for telling a story clearly, straightforwardly and effectively.

(The novel’s composition, publication and reception are discussed on pages 53-57 of Hastings’s biography, including the accusation that he had plagiarised some of it from A Child of the Jago.)

Censorship

When I read A Child of the Jago I was very struck by the remark of Robert Blatchford, a contemporary socialist activist and reviewer, whose review is included in the appendices and who said A Child of the Jago was hopelessly unrealistic for two glaring reason:

  1. it omitted the fierce swearing which the underclass used incessantly
  2. it omitted sex

Maugham addresses the issue of swearing in the text, calmly explaining that due to the censorship he cannot reproduce working class speech:

That is not precisely what she said, but it is impossible always to give the exact unexpurgated words of Liza and the other personages of the story, the reader is therefore entreated with his thoughts to piece out the necessary imperfections of the dialogue. (Chapter 1)

‘Oh, you ——!’ she said. Her expression was quite unprintable; nor can it be euphemized. (Chapter 1)

‘I know wot yer mean, you —— you!’ Her language was emphatic, her epithets picturesque, but too forcible for reproduction. (Chapter 2)

‘Bli’me if I speak to ‘im again, the ——.’ (Chapter 7)

‘Well, I think you’re a —— brute!’ She felt very much inclined to cry. (Chapter 7)

‘You’ve come in at last, you ——, you!’ snarled Mrs. Kemp, as Liza entered the room. (Chapter 8)

‘I tell yer I shan’t shut up. I don’t care ‘oo knows it, you’re a ——, you are!’ (Chapter 11)

‘Be quiet!’ he said, and, closing his hand, gave her a heavy blow in the chest that made her stagger.
‘Oh, you ——!’ she screamed.

Fill in the blanks. Are they just ‘damn’, ‘bastard’ and ‘bitch’? Or something much worse? (In fact these blanks cant be concealing the word ‘bitch’ because ‘bitch’, to my surprise, is actually spelled out in chapter 11.)

As to the sex, because Maugham’s subject is several love affairs, there are numerous momewnts of at least chaste physical contact between the sexes, with strong hints of something more. On the Chingford outing ‘Arry boldly puts his arm round Sally’s waist, Tom tries to put his arm round Liza’s waist (‘Keep off the grass’, she banters).

On the tense night when I think she loses her virginity, there is a heavily symbolic moment when Liza puts her hand on a bollard and Jim puts his big strong one on top and refuses to move it, despite her pleas.

And this bollard scene is full of feverish descriptions of Liza’s feelings as she alternately rebelling against Jim, and then swoons against him overcome by the sex urge, eventually looking up into his face to be kissed.

So there is much more treatment of the sex instinct in Maugham than in Morrison, although the cultural censorship of the time still meant he can’t possibly describe anything like actual love making. The couple go off into the night and then… Liza awakes luxuriously in bed, thinks of Jim and ‘the delicious sensation of love came over her’. The reader is left to draw their own conclusion.

Dialogue

A lot of the book is in dialogue form. Is this a good depiction of working class London speech from 1897?

Leaning against the wall of the opposite house was Tom; he came towards her.
”Ulloa!’ she said, as she saw him. ‘Wot are you doin’ ‘ere?’
‘I was waitin’ for you ter come aht, Liza,’ he answered.
She looked at him quickly.
‘I ain’t comin’ aht with yer ter-day, if thet’s wot yer mean,’ she said.
‘I never thought of arskin’ yer, Liza—after wot you said ter me last night.’
His voice was a little sad, and she felt so sorry for him.
‘But yer did want ter speak ter me, didn’t yer, Tom?’ she said, more gently.
‘You’ve got a day off ter-morrow, ain’t yer?’
‘Bank ‘Oliday. Yus! Why?’
‘Why, ’cause they’ve got a drag startin’ from the “Red Lion” that’s goin’ down ter Chingford for the day—an’ I’m goin’.’
‘Yus!’ she said.
He looked at her doubtfully. (Chapter 3)

Whether it is quite accurate or not, there’s certainly a lot of it, I’d estimate that more of the book is dialogue than descriptive prose.

This clearly prefigures Maugham’s success as a playwright in the years ahead, particularly the sombre final scene where Liza lies dying and the two old biddies drink together and swap inanities. It feels like it is on stage, a simple but very effective scene.

And the turns of phrase

Maugham uses one or two Cockney turns of phrase which seem to have disappeared without trace, but deserve to be remembered.

‘Two pints of bitter, please, miss,’ ordered Jim.
‘I say, ‘old ‘ard. I can’t drink more than ‘alf a pint,’ said Liza.
‘Cheese it,’ answered Jim. ‘You can do with all you can get, I know.’

Me an’ ‘Arry, we set together, ‘im with ‘is arm round my wiste and me oldin’ ‘is ‘and. It was jam, I can tell yer!’

‘Swop me bob, ‘e’s gone and lorst it!’

You ‘it ‘er back. Give ‘er one on the boko.’

‘When a man’s givin’ ‘is wife socks it’s best not ter interfere.’


Related links

Somerset Maugham’s books

1897 Liza of Lambeth
1915 Of Human Bondage
1919 The Moon and Sixpence

1921 The Trembling of a Leaf: Little Stories of the South Sea Islands (short story collection)
1921 The Circle (play)
1922 On a Chinese Screen (travel book)
1923 Our Betters (play)
1925 The Painted Veil (novel)
1926 The Casuarina Tree: Six Stories
1927 The Constant Wife (play)
1928 Ashenden: Or the British Agent (short story collection)
1929 The Sacred Flame (play)

1930 Cakes and Ale: or, the Skeleton in the Cupboard
1930 The Gentleman in the Parlour: A Record of a Journey From Rangoon to Haiphong
1931 Six Stories Written in the First Person Singular (short story collection)
1932 The Narrow Corner
1933 Ah King (short story collection)
1933 Sheppey (play)
1935 Don Fernando (travel book)
1936 Cosmopolitans (29 x two-page-long short stories)
1937 Theatre (romantic novel)
1938 The Summing Up (autobiography)
1939 Christmas Holiday (novel)

1940 The Mixture as Before (short story collection)
1941 Up at the Villa (crime novella)
1942 The Hour Before The Dawn (novel)
1944 The Razor’s Edge (novel)
1946 Then and Now (historical novel)
1947 Creatures of Circumstance (short story collection)
1948 Catalina (historical novel)
1949 A Writer’s Notebook

1963 Collected short stories volume one (30 stories: Rain, The Fall of Edward Barnard, Honolulu, The Luncheon, The Ant and the Grasshopper, Home, The Pool, Mackintosh, Appearance and Reality, The Three Fat Women of Antibes, The Facts of Life, Gigolo and Gigolette, The Happy Couple, The Voice of the Turtle, The Lion’s Skin, The Unconquered, The Escape, The Judgement Seat, Mr. Know-All, The Happy Man, The Romantic Young Lady, The Point of Honour, The Poet, The Mother, A Man from Glasgow, Before the Party, Louise, The Promise, A String of Beads, The Yellow Streak)
1963 Collected short stories volume two (24 stories: The Vessel of Wrath, The Force of Circumstance, Flotsam and Jetsam, The Alien Corn, The Creative Impulse, The Man with the Scar, Virtue, The Closed Shop, The Bum, The Dream, The Treasure, The Colonel’s Lady, Lord Mountdrago, The Social Sense, The Verger, In A Strange Land, The Taipan, The Consul, A Friend in Need, The Round Dozen, The Human Element, Jane, Footprints in the Jungle, The Door of Opportunity)
1963 Collected short stories volume three (17 stories: A Domiciliary Visit, Miss King, The Hairless Mexican, The Dark Woman, The Greek, A Trip to Paris, Giulia Lazzari, The Traitor, Gustav, His Excellency, Behind the Scenes, Mr Harrington’s Washing, A Chance Acquaintance, Love and Russian Literature, Sanatorium)
1963 Collected short stories volume four (30 stories: The Book-Bag, French Joe, German Harry, The Four Dutchmen, The Back Of Beyond, P. & O., Episode, The Kite, A Woman Of Fifty, Mayhew, The Lotus Eater, Salvatore, The Wash-Tub, A Man With A Conscience, An Official Position, Winter Cruise, Mabel, Masterson, Princess September, A Marriage Of Convenience, Mirage, The Letter, The Outstation, The Portrait Of A Gentleman, Raw Material, Straight Flush, The End Of The Flight, A Casual Affair, Red, Neil Macadam)

2009 The Secret Lives of Somerset Maugham by Selina Hastings

The Hole in The Wall by Arthur Morrison (1902)

Morrison’s oeuvre

Morrison is remembered for his bleak novel about a squalid East End slum, A Child of the Jago, and the related collection of short stories about slum life, Mean Streets, but he was nothing if not versatile. At the same time as he was producing his dark stories of slum life, he turned out no fewer than 25 short stories about a respectable middle-class detective, Martin Hewitt, and another series of stories, about a corrupt detective, Horace Dorrington.

The third in the loose trilogy of books about London low-life, To London Town (1899) was surprisingly upbeat, and he then wrote a collection of stories about a legendary folk magician of Essex, Cunning Murrell, published in 1900. Morrison also wrote several one-act plays, and a stream of articles about Japanese art about which he made himself an expert. An impressively diverse output.

The Hole in The Wall

Morrison published The Hole In The Wall in 1902, and it marks a return to a working class milieu of his first stories – but with the twist that it’s set very firmly amid the sight and sounds of London’s old docklands, amid sailors, dockers, lightermen and the river police.

The novel is formally interesting because it alternates between the first-person narrative of an eight-year-old boy, little Stephen Kemp, and chapters told by a third-person narrator about characters and events beyond Stevie’s ken.

It is a crime thriller. Almost all the characters are corrupt, greedy and guilty of at least one crime. It features two brutal murders, a drowning, a grotesque blinding scene and climaxes in one of the characters being burned to death. So it is frequently very dark and grim, way painting a much more lurid picture of lower class life than A Child of the Jago had done. And yet not only the presence, but the narrative voice of little Stevie, who doesn’t understand most of what he sees and cleaves to his grandfather as a figure of hope and trust, lend a curious wistful sweetness to the story.

I found the combination really powerful and read the book in one sitting, compared with Jago which I struggled to finish. Partly, I think, because Hole is like a modern thriller, made up of short chapters with melodramatic scenes, and conveys a really effective atmosphere of dread and tension – whereas Jago, or at least the OUP edition of Jago which I read, is so festooned with historical notes and references, that it often feels more like a documentary than a work of fiction.

Moods and settings

When little Stevie’s mother dies in childbirth, Stevie is taken in by his kindly if gruff grandfather, Old Nat, Cap’en Nat as he’s generally referred to, landlord of The Hole in the Wall pub on the river’s edge in Wapping, ‘the bilge of all London’, as he calls it.

Cap’en Nat is big and strong, inspires fear in all his customers, even the hardened crooks, but is sweet and gentle with young Stevie. He is an ideal grandad.

This is overwhelmingly a tale of the London docks. Little Stevie’s mum’s house was hard by the docks in Blackwall, and Stevie has grown up amid the sight and sounds of ships and sailors and cargos. He’s hardly ever seen his dad because he’s a sailor on a merchant vessel owned by the small Wapping trading firm of Marr and Viner, spending most of his life at sea. He is currently on a voyage to Barbados.

The world as seen through eight-year-old Stevie’s eyes is strange and wonderful and often very funny. Early on Morrison gives us a comic portrait of the dead mother’s sisters – Stevie’s aunts – at the wake, all smug sanctimoniousness, sharp elbows and hard-heartedness, and the way one of them bullies her feeble husband.

Later on we meet one of the regulars at the pub, Mr Cripps, an ironically depicted, high-minded ‘artist’ who pays for his drinks in kind by furnishing the small bar at The Hole In The Wall with scores of paintings of ships under sail. Cripps is notorious for the endless delays he’s made about getting round to paint a sign for the pub. ‘A picture of a hole in a wall, what could be more simple?’ asks Old Nat. ‘Well,’ the shabby alcoholic artist replies:

‘It may seem simple enough; that’s because you’re thinkin’ o’ subjick, instead o’ treatment. A common jobber, if you’ll excuse my sayin’ it, ‘ud look at it just in that light—a wall with a ‘ole in it, an’ ‘e’d give it you, an’ p’rhaps you’d be satisfied with it. But I soar ‘igher, sir, ‘igher. What I shall give you’ll be a ‘ole in the wall to charm the heye and delight the intelleck, sir. A dramatic ‘ole in the wall, sir, a hepic ‘ole in the wall; a ‘ole in the wall as will elevate the mind and stimilate the noblest instinks of the be’older. Cap’en Kemp, I don’t ‘esitate to say that my ‘ole in the wall, when you get it, will be—ah! it’ll be the moral palladium of Wapping!’

This deserves to be said out loud and acted with plenty of ham. It’s funny, and Cripps is a regular character, providing a comic chorus to all the events of the novel, just as Stevie is a wide-eyed innocent witness to them all.

Contrasted with the friendly, humorous atmosphere of the pub, is the outside world and the slum-dwellers, whores, thieves and muggers who infest the dark streets of Wapping, especially of one particular alley of ill fame which Morrison names the Blue Gate.

There are quite a few night-time scenes describing the really pitiful slums of the area – the drunken dancing and fights and robberies – and, early on, a grim description of the murder of Marr, partner in the shipping firm which owns the ship Stevie’s dad’s sailing on. Marr had absconded with the firm’s money, got drunk and is easily lured into a literal den of thieves. Here one of the thief’s harridan mistress realises with mounting horror that the gang are not just going to mug him, but to murder him.

Between the comic warmth of the pub and the grim and lurid descriptions of docklands at night, there is the daylight world of the docks, where grandad Nat takes Stevie and which is described through Stevie’s young eyes as an Arabian Nights scene of wonder and marvels. This is his first sight of Ratcliffe Highway.

I think there could never have been another street in this country at once so foul and so picturesque as Ratcliff Highway at the time I speak of… From end to end of the Highway and beyond, and through all its tributaries and purlieus everything and everybody was for, by, and of, the sailor ashore; every house and shop was devoted to his convenience and inconvenience; in the Highway it seemed to me that every other house was a tavern, and in several places two stood together. There were shops full of slops, sou’westers, pilot-coats, sea-boots, tin pannikins, and canvas kit-bags like giants’ bolsters; and rows of big knives and daggers. (Chapter 7)

He goes on to describe all the different nationalities of sailors that you see strolling up and down the Highway. On a different expedition grandfather takes him to the sugar dock where he sees piles of sugar bigger than any boy could imagine, and discovers plenty of it lying around crystallised in the street or warehouses and docks, which you can just snap off and suck for free.

The plot

The plot centres round an early version of a MacGuffin. According to Wikipedia:

In fiction, a MacGuffin is a plot device in the form of some goal, desired object, or another motivator that the protagonist pursues, often with little or no narrative explanation. The MacGuffin’s importance to the plot is not the object itself, but rather its effect on the characters and their motivations.

The dying stranger

In The Hole In The Wall, Cap’en Nat, Stevie and a few regulars are in the pub one evening when there’s a sudden bang and grunt against the parlour door. They open it and an unconscious body slumps onto the floor while another figure – which had been stooping over it – leaps up and runs off, with Cap’en Nat in hot pursuit.

It is an inky night so Cap’en Nat can’t see the identity of the figure he pursues down the quayside steps and who jumps into the captain’s own dinghy, casts off and within seconds is lost amid the maze of barges, coalers and lighters moored to the river bank.

Stevie had also given little-boy chase but almost immediately trodden on something soft which he assumed was grandad’s tobacco pouch – the Cap’en had been filling his pipe when the bang on the door happens. So Stevie scoops it up and follows the fleeing figures.

The fugitive gets away, the characters all crowd round the man on the floor who has been stabbed in the chest, puncturing the lung, and he quickly drowns in his own blood. One of the many macabre images which imprints itself on the young boy’s memory.

The fortune in notes

More importantly, when Stevie shows his grandad what he picked up, it turns out to be a notebook containing a huge amount of cash – £800 in white banknotes! This is the MacGuffin or target or goal or treasure, which triggers the complicated action of the second half of the novel.

In scenes which are shocking or upsetting or lurid or conspiratorial, the reader then slowly learns that:

  • The brig Stevie’s dad (and Cap’en Nat’s son) was aboard as first mate, the Juno has gone down and he was drowned. But not before they receive a letter from him claiming that the owners want it to sink in order to claim the insurance and that the corrupt captain has tried to run it aground several times, with only Stevie’s dad preventing him. Now (he writes, in his last letter) he is worried that they’ll murder or drug him in his sleep, and do it so he goes down with the ship. Which is what then appeared to happen, according to newspaper reports…
  • The Juno was owned by the firm of Viney and Marr. They were teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Their plan was to sink the Juno and quickly claim the insurance money in order to pay off their creditors. But due to the delays caused by Stevie’s dad, and the rumours that spread about the ship (at each port it docked some of the crew jumped ship with stories about its owners’ plans) the insurance money might now be difficult to claim. So the partners had liquidated all their assets and gathered the cash into the pocket book – the one Stevie found.
  • But no sooner had they done this than Marr did a runner, betraying his partner Viney and taking all the money. But he didn’t get far. He’d begun drinking in pubs along the Highway and we meet him, very drunk, in a squalid furniture-less thieves den, accompanied by the prostitute known as Musky Mag, serenaded by the sinister blind fiddler, Blind George, and loomed over by the book’s bully-boy murderer, Dan Ogle. Mag picks Marr’s pocket but Dan indicates he wants more than that. Later, three sailors are seen staggering down to the docks, singing and weaving. In fact only two of them are actually walking, supporting the middle figure who appears comatose. It is Marr. They have killed him. (In later scenes, we see Mag alone in the room where the murder took place as night falls and, with Poe-like or Dickensian luridness, she watches the shadows recreate the shape of the black thing which lay there i.e. Marr’s body).
  • Having murdered Marr for the pocket book full of notes, Ogle gives the pocket book to an associate to hide somewhere safe but, following him, sees him make for Grandfather Nat’s. Now we have already seen enough through Stevie’s eyes to begin to realise that Cap’en Nat is in fact a ‘fence’, a handler of stolen goods. He is careful about it – dodgy-looking blokes come to the snug bar, show him silvery objects which Stevie only partly sees, and he sends them out again. But tips a wink to a pale quiet man who sits in the corner of the pub all day, who then goes out to negotiate with the bringers of stolen goods. The reader realises that what’s going on is that Nat assesses the loot, then the pale man actually pays for it. Thus, if ever caught or questioned by the police, Cap’en Nat can honestly say that he never pays for stolen goods.
  • We learn more about Cap’en Nat’s illicit activities when, in one tense midnight scene, Stevie hears noises and creeps down the stairs from his bedroom in the attic, squeaks open the door into the lumber room – and discovers Cap’en Nat receiving smuggled tobacco, handed up to him through a secret opening in the floorboards of the bit of the pub which overhangs the river, by the lighterman Bill Stagg (chapter 14).
  • Back to Ogle following his associate. Ogle realises that his associate was clearly making for Cap’en Nat’s in order to get rid of the hot money (the bank notes had numbers which would be recorded and noticed if handed in to a proper bank). Infuriated, Ogle catches up with him right at the door of the pub, stabs him and is in the middle of getting the pocket book out of his pockets when the door opens and Cap’en Nat gives chase.

All of that is the background to the scene we witnessed, of everyone quietly drinking when there’s a thump at the pub door, the figures slumps into the bar and Cap’en Nat gives chase of the person we now know was Ogle.

So, number one, Marr and Viney are responsible for the death of Cap’en Nat’s son and Stevie’s father. Stevie notices a change come over his granddad, a new bitterness and determination.

  • However, it turns out that the crooked ship-owner Viney has something over the Cap’en. Years ago, when Nat was still a sailor, a man was lost overboard on a ship on which he was first mate. The Cap’en insists the drowned sailor was drunk, but Viney says he can bring witnesses to prove that the Cap’en murdered him, by throwing him overboard. The fact that he can be blackmailed and silenced by the man who more or less killed his own son hardens the Cap’en’s heart, but it is very effective that we see this process mostly through the eyes of little Stevie who notices a change come over his revered granddad.
  • There’s an added complication in the form of the gaunt harridan of a cleaning lady who the Cap’en employs, Mrs Grimes. Always sneaking around the place, she spies the pocket book being opened and assessed and, in a broadly comic scene, later steals it and tries to smuggle it out of the house in the rubbish scuttle. Unfortunately for her, the drunk artist Mr Cripps is hanging round (as usual) and offers to help the little lady – in order to suck up to the Cap’en – but when he grabs one end of the scuttle and Mrs Grimes refuses to let go of the other, the scuttle tips over and spills out the loot, hidden under the rubbish. Nat sacks her on the spot, with typical graciousness refusing to report her to the police, and giving her a week’s pay. Mrs Grime is a convincing portrait of an embittered harridan and this kindness only drives her to even greater heights of vindictiveness. From now to the end of the book she bends all her energies to ruining the Cap’en anyway she can think of.

A congeries of conspiracies

So the scene is set for the final third of the book to boil down into a very complicated series of manoeuvres between five crooked characters who are all conspiring to regain the pocket book and its £800 and/or ruin the Cap’en – namely Dan Ogle the murderer, his girlfriend Mag, Viney seeking to get his money back, Blind George who knows what is going on and sees the opportunity to squeeze a percentage of the loot for himself, and vindictive Mrs Grimes.

After murdering the unnamed associate on Cap’en Nat’s door, Ogle flees Wapping and is hiding out in the lime works out on the remote marshes towards the River Lea, owned by the brother of Ogle’s brother-in-law. This brother makes his first appearance as a stranger wandering around Wapping, his clothes stained with white lime, and so he is henceforth referred to as ‘the limy man’. The remote setting is a pretext for Morrison to give vivid descriptions of what was then waste land on the edge of London – with one particularly good description of the sun setting over the smog of London in the west.

Out to these remote wastes comes Ogle’s mistress, Mag, with beer and sustenance, though Ogle treats her with all the casual brutality which Bill Sykes shows towards Nancy in Oliver Twist.

Then out to this remote location comes Viney the crooked shipowner, who has learned through the grapevine that Ogle somehow has gotten hold of his money. The pair of crooks have a long interview in which they consider every variation of theft, burglary and mugging of the Cap’en to get the money back, before Ogle settles on a simple plan. Viney will knock on the pub door late one night, after closing time, and when the Cap’en opens, Ogle will step up behind the Cap’en and crack him on the head. Then it will be easy to clean out the pub, not only of the £800 but all the other goods hidden there.

The blinding of Ogle

So far so wicked and corrupt. But there is a big twist in the story. Blind George, the wheedling, whining, calculating blind musician and crook, tipped off as to Ogle’s location, rather improbably taps his way all the way out across the waste marshes and finds Ogle in some half-derelict sheds at the bottom of his brother-in-law’s limeworks. Here he has a lengthy interview with Ogle wherein he, George, tries to bargain for a share of the loot.

Ogle rudely and brutally denies him any involvement and their argument quickly gets out of hand, with Ogle pushing George and George retaliating with his stick which cracks Ogle hard on the wrist and makes him see red. Ogle knocks George to the ground, kicking and punching him till his face is red and bloody. All the while George is yelling out, ‘Attack a blind man, would ye? Wouldn’t be so easy if you was blind, too, then, would it? If we woz both blind I’d give yer a licking’ and so on.

What I hadn’t anticipated is that, after a scene or two back at the pub in order to vary the scene and pace, the narrative returns us to follow a shadowy figure tapping its way across the wasteland the next evening, carrying a sort of sock full of something. Progressing down the muddy banks of the River Lea. Soaking the sock. Then everso quietly going to the door of the ramshackle shed where Ogle is sleeping. Silently lifting the latch. Tiptoeing inside…

And then there is a truly blood-curdling scene – because the figure is Blind George and he is carrying lime which he was soaked in the water in order to turn it into the highly acidic quicklime and, before Ogle can waken, he has thrust two handfuls of quicklime into Ogle’s eyes and holds them there despite the man’s kicking and punching and fighting, holds them there long enough to sear the flesh of his face and to blind Ogle.

Then he lets go and sneaks away from the screaming figure. ‘Now we’re equal, Dan Ogle,’ he mocks. ‘Now you know what it’s like to fight in the dark,’ and he slips away as the limy man comes running from his nearby cottage.

Ogle is taken to the Accident Hospital. Cut to Viney arriving at the hospital after he’s heard the news, to discover Mag in floods of tears. Nonetheless, despite his permanent injury, Viney discovers that Ogle is more determined than ever to get ‘his’ money.

Fiery climax

And so – partly seen through Stevie’s eyes, partly through the third-person narrator – the story builds to its climax. Viney and Ogle go through with their plan. Viney takes Ogle to the alley beside The Hole In The Wall and positions him by a post just a step or two from the back door. Then knocks. The Cap’en answers.

Viney is nervous. The Cap’en has all sorts of reasons to hate him, it is late at night in a dark alley. But to Viney’s astonishment, when he demands the money, instead of arguing a bit, something in Cap’en Nat snaps. Up till now, for the entire time that they’ve had the pocket book, Grandfather Nat has sworn to Stevie that the money is theirs, finders-keepers, there’s no other claimant and that they will use it to pay Stevie through a good public school, kitted out in all the right togs, and make a ‘gentleman’ of him.

But news of the death of his son, and the his last letter which revealed that the shipwreck was all a wicked scheme by Viney and Marr, made the Cap’en, at first, flare up with anger and then… and then… realise he is sick of crime and a life of crime.

Now, to Viney’s amazement he turns, goes up to Stevie’s room and, to Stevie’s dismay, gets the pocket book out from its hiding place and insists that he ‘has to do right’; he has to give it back to its rightful owner.

Back in the alley he hands the pocket book over to Viney but then – seizes him and insists that they’re going to the police with the whole story. The Cap’en will admit he held onto the pocket book and money which wasn’t his, he’ll even come clean about the drowning incident on the boat all those years ago – but he’ll also tell them all about how Viney and Marr conspired to sink the Juno for the insurance money. It’s time for him to come completely clean and make a new start.

Viney whines, complains, argues and then wriggles himself free and sets off down the alleyways towards the Highway, with the Cap’en in hot pursuit. Stevie has watched all this from his bedroom window, pulls on some clothes and also goes haring off after his granddad.

‘Police, police, stop thief’ the Cap’en yells as he runs. When Viney sees a couple of constables approaching over the bridge of the lock which separates the spit of land the Hole In The Wall sits on from the mainland, Viney instead heads for the actual lock gates, which are narrower, much more precarious, and only secured with a low chain (as anyone who’s crossed an English lock knows).

In his panic and in the dark Viney misses the sharp angle where the two lock gates meet, trips over the low chain which always lines locks gates, and plunges into the bubbling water at the foot of the gates, instantly disappearing in the strong undertow.

The Cap’en and Stevie arrive along with the police who’d been crossing the bridge and a crowd of neighbours woken by the hue and cry. But they are still staring down into the bubbles and swirl of water, when others raise a cry. The Hole In The Wall is on fire!

Remember that Ogle had been left by a post deep in the darkness of the alleyway, waiting to strike the Cap’en and equally surprised when Nat simply handed over the money? Well, once everyone ran off, he saw his opportunity and had blundered into the pub in search of goods and money. But, in doing so, he had knocked over the paraffin lantern and the dry old house had gone up like a torch.

Now a huge crowd gathers round the flame-ridden building and watch horrified as a human figure appears shrieking in agony at a window, a human torch. It is Ogle. First blinded, then burned to death. When the fire brigade arrives its sole concern is to protect the neighbouring buildings. The Hole In The Wall is a lost cause. As Stevie laconically records:

And that was the end of the Hole in the Wall: the end of its landlord’s doubts and embarrassments and dangers, and the beginning of another chapter in his history – his history and mine.

A swift half page coda ties up the loose ends. Viney’s body was never found. Ogle’s body was found, burned to a crisp. Humorous Mr Cripps tried to claim insurance for the loss of his priceless works of art. Mrs Grimes continued her vendetta against the Cap’en and was eventually locked up for assaulting a police officer in her frustration. The Hole In The Wall was rebuilt in brick and renamed. The Cap’en, or Captain Nat Kemp to give him his proper name, turns to honest work, enlarging the nearby wharf which he owned and setting up a company of lighters or flat-bottomed barges.

And little Stevie? In a plain sentence which, after so much storm and stress, moved me to tears:

As for me, I went to school at last.

Characters

This feels the most Dickensian of Morrison’s novels. In the Jago life is too brutal for people to be afforded much description. They just fight and steal and sometimes seem a bit interchangeable, in activity and appearance.

What is Dickensian is the way the brutality of this novel is leavened by the innocence and charm of eight-year-old Stevie, which allows Morrison to approach his characters with a bit more genuine humour than in the Jago.

Also the point of the Jago is that its inhabitants are trapped in it, stuck in a very limited space with only occasional outings to Shoreditch High Street or a little further afield as relief, creating a horrible sense of claustrophobia.

By contrast, the characters of the Hole range widely, and the presence of the mighty Thames, the bustling Ratcliffe Highway, the other pubs and alleys, and the wide wasteland towards the River Lea, all this variety of scene somehow allows for more variety and colour among the characters. Grim they may mostly be, but they are more variegated and vivid and lively than the Jagos.

There was one quiet little man in their midst, who, when not eating cake or drinking wine, was sucking the bone handle of a woman’s umbrella, which he carried with him everywhere, indoors and out. He was in the custody of the largest and grimmest of ladies, whom the others called Aunt Martha.

On the victim’s opposite side sat a large-framed bony fellow, with a thin, unhealthy face that seemed to belong to some other body, and dress that proclaimed him long-shore ruffian. The woman called him Dan, and nods and winks passed between the two, over the drooping head between them. Next to Dan was an ugly rascal with a broken nose; singular in that place, as bearing in his dress none of the marks of waterside habits, crimpery and the Highway, but seeming rather the commonplace town rat of Shoreditch or Whitechapel. And, last, a blind fiddler sat in a corner, fiddling a flourish from time to time, roaring with foul jest, and roiling his single white eye upward.

The man’s right eye was closed, but the left was horribly wide and white and rolling, and it quite unpleasantly reminded me of a large china marble that lay at that moment at the bottom of my breeches pocket, under some uniform buttons, a key you could whistle on, a brass knob from a fender, and a tangle of string. So much indeed was I possessed with this uncomfortable resemblance in later weeks, when I had seen Blind George often, and knew more of him, that at last I had no choice but to fling the marble into the river; though indeed it was something of a rarity in marbles

It was anything but a clean face on the head, and it was overshadowed by a very greasy wideawake hat. Grubbiness and unhealthy redness contended for mastery in the features, of which the nose was the most surprising, wide and bulbous and knobbed all over; so that ever afterward, in any attempt to look Mr. Cripps in the face, I found myself wholly disregarding his eyes, and fixing a fascinated gaze on his nose; and I could never recall his face to memory as I recalled another, but always as a Nose, garnished with a fringe of inferior features.

She was scarce an attractive woman, I thought, being rusty and bony, slack-faced and very red-nosed. She swept the carpet and dusted the shelves with an air of angry contempt for everything she touched… ‘Ho!’ interjected Mrs. Grimes, who could fill a misplaced aspirate with subtle offence… It was not long ere I learned that Mrs. Grimes was one of those persons who grumble and clamour and bully at everything and everybody on principle, finding that, with a concession here and another there, it pays very well on the whole; and so nag along very comfortably through life. As for herself, as I had seen, Mrs. Grimes did not lack the cunning to carry away any fit of virtuous indignation that seemed like to push her employer out of his patience.

There was a knock at the back door, which opened, and disclosed one of the purlmen, who had left his boat in sight at the stairs, and wanted a quart of gin in the large tin can he brought with him. He was a short, red-faced, tough-looking fellow, and he needed the gin, as I soon learned, to mix with his hot beer to make the purl. (Bill Stagg)

I was not prepossessed by Mr. Viney. His face – a face no doubt originally pale and pasty, but too long sun-burned to revert to anything but yellow in these later years of shore-life – his yellow face was ever stretched in an uneasy grin, a grin that might mean either propitiation or malice, and remained the same for both. He had the watery eyes and the goatee beard that were not uncommon among seamen, and in total I thought he much resembled one of those same hang-dog fellows that stood at corners and leaned on posts in the neighbourhood, making a mysterious living out of sailors; one of them, that is to say, in a superior suit of clothes that seemed too good for him. I suppose he may have been an inch taller than Grandfather Nat; but in the contrast between them he seemed very small and mean.

Dickens’ influence broods over the whole story. The Hole In The Wall pub reminds me of the The Six Jolly Fellowship Porters pub in Our Mutual Friend. The scenes out on the marshes towards the River Lea remind me of the opening and the ending of Great Expectations. The bully boy Dan Ogle reminds me of Bill Sykes from Oliver Twist and the pathetic devotion of Musky Mag reminds me of the equally ill-rewarded loyalty of Nancy.

The way so much adult brutality is seen and only partially understood by an innocent boy reminds me of Oliver Twist, and also David Copperfield, and Pip. Little Stevie is a very effective creation. We know that little Arthur Morrison grew up near the docks in Poplar on the Isle of Dogs where his dad was an engine-fitter. A lot of Stevie’s impressions and feelings have the force of real experiences and memories.

And the way the narrative is split between Stevie’s innocent point of view and the unadulterated view of the omniscient narrator, reminds me of the similar split between the first-person Esther Summerson chapters and the third-person narrator chapters of Bleak House.

This is a gripping novel – not, maybe, a work of art like Henry James or Joseph Conrad, but with far more psychological penetration and artfulness than Morrison’s detective stories. If you read A Child of the Jago you should read this too.

Sea songs

This is one of the songs performed on the fiddle by Blind George.


Related links

Reviews of other fiction of the 1880s and 1890s

Joseph Conrad

E.W. Hornung

Rudyard Kipling

Henry Rider Haggard

Sherlock Holmes

Anthony Hope

Arthur Morrison

Robert Louis Stevenson

Bram Stoker

H.G. Wells

Oscar Wilde

The Dorrington Deed-Box by Arthur Morrison (1897)

‘I may as well tell you that I’m a bit of a scoundrel myself, by way of profession. I don’t boast about it, but it’s well to be frank in making arrangements of this sort…’ (Horace Dorrington describing himself)

According to Wikipedia,

In contrast to Morrison’s earlier character Martin Hewitt, who one critic described as a ‘low-key, realistic, lower-class answer to Sherlock Holmes’, Dorrington was ‘a respected but deeply corrupt private detective,’ ‘a cheerfully unrepentant sociopath who is willing to stoop to theft, blackmail, fraud or cold-blooded murder to make a dishonest penny.’

Sounds like an interesting guy. Morrison wrote half a dozen short stories about his amoral detective and collected them into a volume titled The Dorrington Deed-Box. It contains:

  1. The Narrative of Mr. James Rigby
  2. The Case of Janissary
  3. The Case of the ‘Mirror of Portugal’
  4. The Affair of the ‘Avalanche Bicycle and Tyre Co., Limited’
  5. The Case of Mr. Loftus Deacon
  6. Old Cater’s Money

The stories

1. The Narrative of Mr. James Rigby

Gripping first-person memoir of James Rigby, born and raised in Australia who came on a visit to Europe with his mum and dad when he was young. They visited Italy where his dad hired a local guide who, once they were all up in the mountains, turned on him with a knife, planning to rob him. Rigby senior happened to have a gun on him which he pulled out and shot the brigand dead.

But over the next few days, as he deals with consuls and local police, several attempts are made on his life by the dead man’s relatives. Turns out the guide was a member of the infamous ‘Camorra’, who will stop at nothing to avenge him.

So Rigby’s family move on to London, where they stay in a posh, supposedly secure hotel. But they still have the feeling they’re being watched and one morning discover a little circle of paper with a logo of crossed knives attached to their door. Within days, Mr Rigby senior is stabbed to death in an alleyway. James and his mother return to Australia where he grows up, inheriting the land his father had shrewdly invested in. James wants to be an artist and, at length, realises he has to come back to Europe to study.

On the boat he gets chatting to a fantastically easy, charming, witty man, Horace Dorrington, who tells young James that he and his partner are private detectives who’ve had much experience with the Camorra and know how to handle them.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve no particular desire to have it known all over the ship, but I don’t mind telling you – you’d find it out probably before long if you settle in the old country – that we are what is called private inquiry agents – detectives – secret service men – whatever you like to call it.’

Dorrington persuades Rigby to skip docking at London and instead to travel directly from the ship’s first port of call, Plymouth, up to Scotland for the opening of the grouse season to be his guest. Rigby does this and is impressed by the man’s house and land and by Dorrington’s confident hosting of the young man. But one morning Dorrington is regrettably called back to London. He advises Rigby to go to London himself, but to take the opportunity to visit some old picturesque English towns along the way, that might inspire his art, such as Chester and Warwick.

Rigby does this but then, in each of the towns he visits, finds himself being followed. Shuffling footsteps follow him everywhere, in Chester, in Warwick, as he explores the old towns, no matter which way he turns, in sequences which begin to have some of the supernatural thrill of an Edgar Allen Poe story.

He is terrified when a dark face with a mop of black hair and ear-rings appears for a moment at his hotel window. Rigby’s conviction that he’s being followed crystallises when he finds a little paper circle with the crossed-knives logo of the Camorra pinned to his hotel door, packs his bags, and hastens to London.

Rigby turns and chases the source of the shuffling footsteps, but cannot find them

Rigby turns and chases the source of the shuffling footsteps, but cannot find them

Here Rigby goes to Dorrington’s office, meets his rather withered assistant Hicks, tells Dorrington he’s being followed, and submits to Dorrington’s plan. Dorrington will take him to a safe house in Hampstead where he can lie low. Meanwhile Dorrington will assume Rigby’s identity and try to draw the assassins out into the open. Rigby gives Dorrington the letters from his London lawyer, Mowbray, as well as the deeds to his extensive landholdings in Australia, for safekeeping, and Dorrington bids goodbye.

(Incidentally, Dorrington’s offices are given as being in Bedford Street, Covent Garden – which still exists. They cannot, therefore, be very far from the offices of Morrison’s ‘good’ detective, Martin Hewitt, who has chambers ‘in a street by the Strand’. Chalk and cheese, living and working cheek by jowl.)

Once settled in at the ‘safe house’, Rigby is presented with a fine lunch prepared by the landlady, one Mrs Crofting. Next thing he knows he’s waking, awfully groggy, in the pitch-darkness, wet, lying in six inches of water! When he tries to stand up hits his head on a metal roof. He is inside a water cistern with water gushing in from two inlets in the top. He has been drugged, placed here and is going to drown!!!

Panic-stricken, Rigby tries to block up the inlets, then starts hammering at the metal sides and yelling his head off. This scene again reminded me of the genuine claustrophobia and horror generated by the best of Edgar Allen Poe’s horror stories. To Rigby’s immense relief the roof of the cistern suddenly slides off to reveal a grubby London workman looking down at him in amazement. He’d been working in the attic of the neighbouring house, heard all the commotion and come to investigate.

After receiving reviving spirits and reassurance with the neighbours, Rigby goes straight to the police who confirm that ‘Mrs Crofting’ has flown the coop, and so have Dorrington and Hicks. The entire thing appears to have been an elaborate hoax devised by Dorrington, as soon as Rigby let slip, in the middle of his story to him on the boat, that he owned land and money in Australia, a lot of land and money, worth millions.

Dorrington immediately conceived the plan to murder Rigby for the money. He wired to his assistant to rent a property in Scotland for the grouse shooting (designed to stop Rigby going to London and contacting his lawyer), then invented the excuse of having to dash back to London. It was Dorrington’s assistant who dressed up in Italian costume and followed Rigby in the shadows of Chester and Warwick. All the time Dorrington cannily preventing Rigby from meeting his London lawyer, Mowbray because he, Dorrington, intended to pass himself off as Rigby to the lawyer, to present all the letters and deeds, cash everything in as if he were Rigby, and walk away a multi-millionaire.

Wow! What a ripping yarn!

But as the story draws to a close, with Dorrington and all his accomplices disappeared – the police break into Dorrington’s offices and find – paperwork relating to numerous other criminal cases.

The business of Dorrington and Hicks had really been that of private inquiry agents, and they had done much bonâ fide business; but many of their operations had been of a more than questionable sort. And among their papers were found complete sets, neatly arranged in dockets, each containing in skeleton a complete history of a case. Many of these cases were of a most interesting character, and I have been enabled to piece together, out of the material thus supplied, the narratives which will follow this.

And these provide the basis for the rest of the stories in the volume. Hence the title of ‘Dorrington’s Deed Box’. These are the stories taken from ‘Dorrington’s Deed Box’.

2. The Case of Janissary

So this is the first of the ‘reconstructed’ Dorrington cases.

The extremely paranoid racehorse owner, Mr Telfer, contacts Dorrington because he suspects someone is trying to nobble his prize racehorse, Janissary, ahead of a big race, The Redfern Stakes. It might be his nephew, Richard, with whom he had a massive falling out a few weeks before, and has been seen around the stables slipping grooms sums of cash – or a big bloke with a red beard, also seen loitering.

Dorrington lodges in the nearby town of Redfern, at the local pub, During a riotous evening of drinking he befriends nephew Richard and also the leading horsetrainer stacked against Telfer, a Mr Bob Naylor.

Having identified Naylor’s room, Dorrington uses his nefarious skills to break into the room and rifle through a locked box. Here he finds a fake beard and a box containing powders and a syringe. Aha. So Naylor is up to something.

Dorrington returns to the boisterous bar where he befriends Naylor over a few more beers and tells him, casually, that he’s seen the favourite, Janissary, being walked every day at two pm, by a rather dim stable boy.

Dorrington goes back to Telfer, explains that the red-haired man is Naylor and his decoy story of the 2 o’clock walking. Now it just so happens that Telfer owns a horse which looks remarkably like Janissary but is a poor racer. So next day at 2 o’clock, Telfer and Dorrington hide in the stables with a view of the walking ground and watch a stable boy walking this inferior horse, well wrapped up in covers so as to be indistinguishable from the favourite.

Up comes the red-bearded man, chats a bit with the stable boy and goes to stroke the horse under the cover – which suddenly rears and whinnies. The red-bearded man backs off, apologises and walks on. So. Dorrington and Telfer both saw him inject something into the poor horse, which by the time it’s returned to its stall, is already shivering and weak.

The red-bearded man backs off after the horse he's surreptitiously injected rears up

The red-bearded man backs off after the horse he’s surreptitiously injected rears up

Overnight the betting against Janissary is big, which is why there are many appalled faces when Janissary finishes an easy first and Telfer cleans up on the betting. Telfer congratulates Dorrington, pays him his fee, and the latter returns to London.

The narrator explains that Naylor is pretty much cleaned out, but still owes the single biggest payout to Telfer’s nephew, Richard. We watch Naylor paying out his customers at his London club, then meeting Richard and telling him he’s temporarily out of cash, and to come round to his house in Gold Street, Chelsea that evening.

Outside the club Richard bumps into Dorrington, who he already knows as a fellow drinker from the Crown pub in Redbury, and who chaffs him about how heavy his pockets must be with winnings. ‘Not yet,’ replies Richard. ‘I’m meeting Bob Naylor tonight to collect them.’ ‘Really?’ thinks Dorrington. He vows to loiter around Naylor’s house and see what develops.

From the pub across the road, Dorrington sees a skinny lady setting up a step-ladder in the house’s top room. Suddenly the penny drops. Dorrington puts on some shoe-silencers, silently breaks into the house’s cellar, and sneaks up to that top room.

He hasn’t too long to wait before Richard arrives. He hears greetings and good fellowship on the ground floor, drinks and food and then the making of a cup of coffee (aha, the same kind of drugged coffee – the reader realises – as was used to drug Rigby in the opening story). Sure enough, we soon hear the bump of Richard falling off his chair and then the sound of two people manhandling an unconscious body upstairs.

They back into the top room to find … Dorrington waiting for them with a revolver! He explains that he understands their scam. They were going to drown Richard in the cistern then throw his body into the Thames. Except that now they aren’t. Now they are going to dump Richard anywhere, Dorrington doesn’t care where, because Naylor is going to pay up whatever he owes, because he is now going to retire from betting, and enter Dorrington’s employ as a full-time ‘disposer of bodies’.

Now we realise the significance of the newspaper cutting Rigby had quoted at the start of the story, an account of a dead man brought out of the Thames, with an empty pocket book and some bruising, suggesting manhandling.

Dorrington had read this, too, and, putting two and two together, had guessed the drowned man had been drowned by the Naylors using the cistern technique. He had caught them in the act preparing to do the same to another inconvenient creditor – Richard. And with that knowledge he blackmails them into becoming his assistants and disposers of bodies.

Having read the full ‘case’, Rigby is left to bleakly wonder how many others met a horrible watery death this way, before he was lucky enough to break out of the cistern (in the first story), sound the alarm, and break up the gang for good.

3. The Case of the ‘Mirror of Portugal’

The ‘Mirror of Portugal’ is, as so often in these 1890s detective stories, a jewel of unimaginable beauty, perfection and price. The narrator tells the traditional cock-and-bull story about its passage through the hands of the Portuguese royal family, into the English royal family, then onto the French royal family and then on into the hands of French revolutionaries of 1789, one of whom was the great-grandfather of the Léon Bouvier who keeps a little café in Soho, after his father was shot during the Franco-Prussian War.

Dorrington is approached by Léon’s cousin, Jacques Bouvier, who was working at a charcoal works in France until he came over to get a job with his cousin in his Soho café. Here he’s discovered Léon’s big secret. That he keeps a massive diamond in a small box under his armpit. Jacques thinks that, as a poor relation, he is entitled to a share of its value.

Dorrington dismisses Jacques, but then strolls round to the Soho café to poke around for himself. He arrives just after some kind of scuffle has taken place, and discovering someone running at top speed from the muddy alley where the café is located. Dorrington follows this runner who, a bit oddly from the reader’s point of view, runs all the way to Dorrington’s own offices in Covent Garden. Dorrington arrives soon after him to discover that it is none other than Léon – who has been mugged.

Léon now takes Dorrington back to the Soho alleyway, where Dorrington pokes around and easily finds shards of glass from a shattered bottle which, judging by the smell of the cork, once contained choloroform.

Someone must have crept up behind Léon, put a knee in his back and a chloroformed cloth over his face, waited till he passed out, cut the straps holding the box with the diamond in place under his armpit, then legged it. Léon is furiously certain that it is his jealous cousin, Jacques, but Dorrington is not so sure.

Because among the many complaints about his cousin that he made on his visit to Dorrington’s office, Jacques had mentioned that Léon had recently started frequenting Hatton Gardens and had been toying with the idea of buying and selling diamonds in a small way, trying to get to know the trade before cashing in his own monster diamond. He had got as far as renting some office or shop space off a certain Mr Ludwig Hamer. Aha.

Next morning Dorrington pays Mr Hamer a visit and, noticing the array of medicine bottles on the shelves of his office, calmly confronts Hamer with the accusation that it was he who mugged Bouvier the night before. Hamer denies it but Dorrington produces the bottle, identical to some on Hamer’s shelves, reveals that he saw the footprints of a woman’s narrow-heeled shoe, probably of Hamer’s wife, who kept watch while Hamer did the deed.

There’s a policeman outside. Dorrington sarcastically asks Hamer whether he should call the copper in and present him with all the evidence that Hamer is a crook? With bad grace Hamer admits it all, and says the jewel is at home with his wife who, he warns, has a furious temper.

Dorrington hails and cab and takes Hamer to the latter’s house in Pimlico. Here Dorrington confronts feisty little Mrs Hamer with the evidence. She is furious with her husband for not overcoming Dorrington. ‘But he had a gun’, Hamer whines. The redoubtable Mrs Hamer says the jewel is safe at another location, and sets off leading them across Vauxhall Bridge. Half way across the bridge she announces, ‘There’s your jewel, you crook, you thief’ and before Hamer or Dorrington can do anything, throws it into the Thames. Oh.

'There's your diamond, you dirty thief!'

‘There’s your diamond, you dirty thief!’ (Dorrington on the right)

4. The Affair of the ‘Avalanche Bicycle and Tyre Co., Limited’

Remember the dot com bubble of 2001? Well, I bet you didn’t know about the Bicycle Bubble of the 1890s.

Cycle companies were in the market everywhere. Immense fortunes were being made in a few days and sometimes little fortunes were being lost to build them up. Mining shares were dull for a season, and any company with the word ‘cycle’ or ‘tyre’ in its title was certain to attract capital, no matter what its prospects were like in the eyes of the expert. All the old private cycle companies suddenly were offered to the public, and their proprietors, already rich men, built themselves houses on the Riviera, bought yachts, ran racehorses, and left business for ever. Sometimes the shareholders got their money’s worth, sometimes more, sometimes less – sometimes they got nothing but total loss; but still the game went on. One could never open a newspaper without finding, displayed at large, the prospectus of yet another cycle company with capital expressed in six figures at least, often in seven. Solemn old dailies, into whose editorial heads no new thing ever found its way till years after it had been forgotten elsewhere, suddenly exhibited the scandalous phenomenon of ‘broken columns’ in their advertising sections, and the universal prospectuses stretched outrageously across half or even all the page – a thing to cause apoplexy in the bodily system of any self-respecting manager of the old school.

Everyone’s investing in bicycle companies. Dorrington goes along to the time trials featuring an exciting new competitive bike rider, Gillett, at a purpose-built velodrome.

Gillett is representing the ‘Indestructible Bicycle Company.’ Dorrington chats up a representative of the IBC who introduces him to the paunchy owner, Paul Mallows. They explain that Gillett will be competing against Lant, who is representing the new and much-talked-about ‘Avalanche Bicycle Company’. The ABC is about to launch on the stock market and is likely to be hugely subscribed in this time of bicycle bubbles.

The sun sets and the velodrome becomes dark as the cyclists do their last couple of laps. Suddenly there is a tremendous accident, as Gillett crashes into two other bikes, breaking his arm. Mallows is hopping mad, swears it’s sabotage, and offers a hundred pound reward on the spot to whoever can find the culprits..

Dorrington takes him up and goes over the crash site very carefully. In the dark someone had placed an old rusty chair smack bang in the middle of the track, it being so dark the approaching cyclists couldn’t see it till too late. Dorrington picks up evidence that it was Mallows who planted the chair.

To confirm his suspicions he catches a train that night to Birmingham, where the prospectus for the Avalanche Bicycle Company claims to have its factory. In fact, he discovers that the ‘factory’ is a disused warehouse in the corner of which are piled a bunch of knackered second-hand bikes, with a nearby oven used for making enamel badges with the ABC’s logo. The company’s business plan is to buy up old bikes, pin the labels to them, and turn over business just long enough for the board of the company to do a bunk with the money raised when the company floats on the stock market.

His suspicions confirmed, Dorrington telegraphs Mallows, pretending to be an employee and saying something important is happening at the Birmingham factory. Now, before he had left London, Dorrington had hired a snoop to watch Mallows’ house. Within minutes of getting the telegram, this spy reports that Mallows leaves his house and goes to a disguise and wig shop, emerging looking a lot different, before getting a train to Birmingham.

The disguised Mallows makes his way to the bike factory where Dorrington is waiting.

Dorrington confronts him and taunts and teases Mallows, saying he easily sees through his disguise, saying he knows it was him who planted the chair which caused the Gillett crash.

Why? In order to remove him from the Big Race and ensure that Lant wins. Lant winning will enormously boost the share launch of ABC on Monday. Mallow features in the prospectus for ABC under a false name. He and partners will pocket the cash raised by the stock market flotation, then abscond, leaving the company to crash and a couple of titled aristocrats, who put their names down as directors without bothering to learn the details, to take the flak.

But Dorrington is not going to turn him into the police for fraud. No, Dorrington wants a cut, not just any old cut either, but 50% of Mallows’s takings,

During this edgy confrontation Mallows has been manoeuvring Dorrington closer and closer to the oven where the bikes are melted down. Now, in a sudden desperate move, Mallows pushes Dorrington into the oven, bolting the door, and turning on the gas.

Most of these stories are fairly languid in pace with, at most, a chase through streets being the most exciting it gets. But this is a genuinely tense, cinematic moment, with Dorrington beginning to lose consciousness from the gas, beating futilely at the door. Luckily, he discovers a loose spar of metal inside the oven which he uses as a lever to prise open the door a fraction, repositions the spar to prise it open some more, and so on until it eventually bursts open and Dorrington staggers out half-gassed.

Now Dorrington goes for Mallows like a murderer and is dragging him by the collar across the floor with a view to locking him in the oven when – the escaping gas reaches a naked candle and there’s a Big Explosion. Mallows is half buried in bricks and has a broken leg. Dorrington is thrown clear and makes an escape before locals and the police turn up.

Dorrington dragging Mallows

Dorrington dragging Mallows

5. The Case of Mr. Loftus Deacon

Deacon is an elderly bachelor who collects Japanese objets d’art. (The descriptions of them have extra resonance because we know that Morrison was himself an expert on Japanese artefacts, which explains why the descriptions of Deacon’s works are long and informative.)

Deacon’s proudest object is a rare katana or longsword by the famous Japanese swordsmith, Masamuné. One day Deacon sets off for his club for lunch at a quarter to one, observed by the ever-vigilant hall porter. This same porter is surprised when, a few minutes later, Deacon reappears in a fluster at one o’clock. Turns out he’d forgotten something and lets himself into the flat. Moments later the porter hears ‘a shout followed in a breath by a loud cry of pain, and then silence.’

The door is locked from the inside so the porter has to call up to the housekeeper, who comes running with the spare keys, and they both find Deacon lying in a pool of blood with two fierce gashes to the head. He is dead. They search the room. It is locked, the windows closed from the inside etc.

Next morning Dorrington is hired to investigate the murder by Deacon’s only friend, Mr. Colson, ‘a thin, grizzled man of sixty or thereabout’. Colson takes Dorrington to survey the scene of the crime. It is only now that Colson realises that the famous Masamuné sword is missing.

There follows the usual fol-de-rol of distractions and false leads – for example, that the only window in Deacon’s apartment opened into a well, at the bottom of which a workman was doing some painting and repairs. Upon investigation, it turns out that this decorator had a criminal record and has now disappeared, just the kind of obvious lead the police like. But the reader, having read a few detective stories, suspects this is a red herring.

A much bigger red herring is the fact that for the past months Deacon has been besieged by a polite but determined Japanese man, Keigo Kanamaro. Kanamaro is the son of a Japanese warrior who had fallen on hard times and so was forced to sell the katana which Deacon prizes so much.

Colson gives a long, comprehensive explanation of the way that, for Japanese Samurai and other warriors, their weapons had a spiritual value. It was thought that when they were made by the swordsmith a guardian spirit entered the metal, and looked over its fate. There is no shame worse than being separated from your sword. A traditional Samurai would starve to death rather than barter it away. Nonetheless, that’s what Kanamaro’s father had been forced to do, and now his son – Kanamaro – is back to reclaim his father’s sword so that he can take it back to Japan and bury it with his father in his tomb, and his spirit can finally rest easy.

Deacon refuses but Kanamaro won’t give up, returning again and again, and slowly losing his impeccable Japanese manners.

It is only now that Colson notices – that the sword has gone!! So now Kanamaro is the obvious suspect, and when Colson goes to find him, all his suspicions are confirmed for Kanamaro has checked out of his London hotel in a hurry, and is returning to Japan.

When questioned, Kanamaro says that he has finally retrieved the sword but ‘at great cost’, shows no flicker of emotion upon hearing that Deacon is dead, and is generally cold and dismissive. It must be him! He must have recovered the kanata through violence.

But having read a dozen or so of these stories in quick succession, I recognised a number of the subtle contra-indications pointing towards the real culprit – most notably that Deacon’s body was found lying beneath an impressive statue of a Japanese god,

at the foot of a pedestal whereupon there squatted, with serenely fierce grin, the god Hachiman, gilt and painted, carrying in one of his four hands a snake, in another a mace, in a third a small human figure, and in the fourth a heavy, straight, guardless sword.

This is the kind of grotesque or Gothic detail which characterises the best Sherlock Holmes stories, and almost always turns out to be significant. And so it is here. And when, a lot later in the story, Colson tells Dorrington that the little god figure only arrived in the last few days my suspicions were aroused.

All these stories are divided into four or five logically discrete sections. In the final section of this one Dorrington reveals all: most of Deacon’s collection had been transhipped over the years at a huge warehouse full of all sorts of treasures down on the docks, owned by one Mr Copleston. Copleston employs all kinds of casual labour. One of the most notable employees is a short hunchback nicknamed Slackjaw. Dorrington speculates that the following is what took place.

The statue of the Japanese god arrived in Copleston’s warehouse and sat there for a week or more. During this time Slackjaw discovered that you can open it up and get inside. It was designed for a priest or someone to get inside back in Japan and breathe fire or make prophecies or whatnot from within.

But, having discovered that he could pop inside and lock it from the inside, Slackjaw did so one day, waited until everyone had left the warehouse, and then emerged to steal precious stuff then get a decent night’s kip in the warm.

This explains why Coplestone had told Colson that the men had begun to think the statue was cursed – because objects left near it overnight either disappeared or were found smashed in the morning. It was no ghost. This was just Slackjaw either nicking things, or being clumsy and knocking nearby objects over.

Anyway, when Slackjaw learned that the statue was to be shipped off to Deacon’s he reflected that it might be an opportunity for more plunder, so he stowed away inside and was carried into Deacon’s flat.

Here he waited a night, until Deacon left for work the next day, then crept out and was beginning to prise open a case holding precious gold objects, when Deacon unexpectedly returned. Panic-stricken Slackjaw bolted back to the statue but got there at the same moment as Deacon walked in the door. Slackjaw looked around him for a weapon and, unfortunately for both of them, his hand fell on the display of ornamental swords and he happened to grab the heaviest, sharpest one to whack Deacon with.

Hearing the porter rattling the door, Slackjaw quickly wiped the sword clean and climbed back into the statue. There he spent the rest of the day while the police crawled all over the place, but that night he finally climbed out of the statue, lightly opened the door and snuck away.

Slackjaw

Slackjaw

Corroborating evidence is the fact that Dorrington found knife marks on the case of gold, as of someone who had only just started trying to open it when they were disturbed.

Most compelling of all, though, is the fact that Dorrington found a little bottle inside the statue, obviously there to refresh Slackjaw, which he forgot to take with him and on which was written the name of the publican of the pub where it was bought.

Going down to the docks Dorrington ascertains that the pub is the nearest one to Coplestone’s warehouse. So Dorrington had returned there with the police and spotted Slackjaw. The moment the hunchback saw Dorrington and the cops he had turned pale, put down his glass and nipped out the back of the pub.

There was then a brief chase: Slackjaw dropped onto a barge then went jumping from one barge to the next, but suddenly slipped and fell between two. The slow movement of the barges always creates perilous suction. By the time the police got there, the hunchback had disappeared under the murky Thames water and Dorrington had left them dragging the river for his body. Case solved.

6. Old Cater’s Money

Rigby (or Morrison) ends the volume by telling a story from Dorrington’s early career.

Old Jerry Cater lived in the crooked and decaying old house over his wharf by Bermondsey Wall, where his father had lived before him. It was a grim and strange old house, with long-shut loft-doors in upper floors, and hinged flaps in sundry rooms that, when lifted, gave startling glimpses of muddy water washing among rotten piles below.

Old Cater has been a miserly usurer all his life. He had bamboozled his long-suffering secretary Sinclair, by lending him £40 at 200% compound interest to get married with, thus throwing him into a life-long debt he could never repay. Now, broken-spirited Sinclair and his gaunt wife are Cater’s debt slaves. The shabby derelict household where they live also includes ‘Samuel Greer, a squinting man of grease and rags, within ten years of the age of old Jerry Cater himself’.

Old Cater is dying. He takes to his death-bed while Greer fusses about him, rummaging through cupboards for anything to steal. All this has the vibe of Morrison’s stories of Mean Streets and the Jago, i.e. describing people who have almost nothing, who live hand to mouth from day to day, for whom the discovery of one penny is a highlight of the day. This story is the most colourful, lively and interesting of the set.

Greer’s face, with its greasy features and its irresponsible squint, was as expressive as a brick.

Old Cater finally passes away, attended by a local poor doctor. Now just before he passed, Greer had been rummaging in the cupboard and found a jar containing the old man’s will. He spies a money opportunity and goes to see Cater’s nephew, Paul Cater in Pimlico. the two take a cab back to Bermondsey during which Greer slimily reveals that he has the old miser’s will – but will only part with it for £20. Cater has a tenner in his wallet. That’ll do, says Greer, and hands over the will, which Paul Cater sees, gives him ownership of all the old man’s belongings.

However, Cater had another nephew, a certain Jarvis Flint, and Greer had also found a codicil to the main will which is in Jarvis’s favour. So Greer now goes and parlays with Flint, demanding £50 for knowledge of the codicil’s whereabouts. Flint throws him out and – here we finally get to Dorrington – has the young Dorrington, who’s working for him as a general dogsbody, follow Greer and try to ascertain the codicil’s whereabouts.

Many of Morrison’s detective stories hinge on sheer luck and this might be the most egregious example of this trait. Dorrington follows Greer around the streets until the latter decides to pop into a barber’s for a penny shave. One of the other customers is a drunk docker. There’s much ribaldry among the customers as this docker finishes his shave, grabs his hat and staggers out into the street. It’s only when Greer has himself finished being shaved and gets up to leave, that he realises that the drunken docker has taken his hat – the hat in which he has hidden the precious codicil.

Greer runs out of the barber’s crying ‘Stop thief’, pursued by the barber who he hasn’t paid yet, and all the other customers for the fun of it.

Now Dorrington had been watching from across the street and saw which way the drunk docker went. While Greer and the mob run off in one direction, Dorrington runs to catch up with the docker. As he catches up with him, he sees the docker getting into a fight: leaning over a wharf his hat fell off and when a helpful sailor brought it up to him, the drunk docker protests that it’s not his hat (which is, of course, true) and accuses the helpful sailor of having stolen his hat. And they fall to fighting.

And while they’re doing so, Dorrington picks up Greer’s hat, which has rolled to one side and saunters off. And as he suspected, it contains the codicil to Old Cater’s will.

The drunk docker and the sailr fight while Dorrington (with moustache) takes the hat

The drunk docker and the sailor fight while Dorrington (with moustache) takes the hat

Greer keeps returning to the barber’s but never sees the hat again. Reluctant to give up, he returns to Jarvis Flint to offer the next best thing, his sworn testimony as to the content of the codicil (which handed over all Old Cater’s property to Flint, valued at ten thousand pounds).

Meanwhile, Dorrington has a copy of the codicil made and legally witnessed. Then he calls on Paul Cater. He coolly demands £1,000 to hand it over. Cater is outraged. Dorrington points out that he will still make £9,000 on the deal and threatens to take a cab to Jarvis Flint to give him the codicil. Cater caves in, takes Dorrington to his bank in Pimlico, takes out £1,000 in gold and notes, and gives it to him in return for the codicil. Jarvis then takes a cab back to Old Cater’s house and promptly burns the codicil. He doesn’t know Dorrington has made a copy of it.

Now, Dorrington had intended to take the copy of the codicil over to Flint’s house and extract another thousand pounds from Jarvis in return for handing it over. But Dorrington leaves it for a day or two – which turns out to be a bad mistake.

For on the day of Old Cater’s funeral, Flint and his sleazy lawyer, Lugg, along with Greer as witness, all go to see Paul Cater and confront him with the fact that Greer – though he doesn’t have a physical copy of the codicil – will testify to its content i.e. that the entire estate goes to Flint.

So the scene is that Cater, Greer, Lugg and Flint are at old Cater’s place, making threats and counter-threats, when the lawyer Lugg reaches over to get the Bible which Old Cater had kept around him in his last days, with a view to then and there getting Greer to testify under oath to the contents of the codicil. But –

As he opens it, Lugg discovers writing scribbled onto its opening pages, and realises that on his very last day, Old Cater changed his will again. And left everything to… neither Jarvis nor Paul, but to Sinclair, the poor broken bondsman who has served him faithfully all this time.

The two nephews are thunderstruck and immediately start trying to bribe the lawyer. But Lugg sees that Greer has witnessed everything and would likely resort to blackmail him in the future, plus he sees the prospect of an extremely grateful new client (Sinclair) and so he promptly adopts a high tone of Pecksniffian morality, and insists that he must ‘perform his duty’ and report this new, final version of the will to authorities.

With the result that when Dorrington calls on Flint to carry out part two of his plan (to blackmail Flint) he, Dorrington, finds himself met with insults and abuse. When the new situation is explained to him, he doesn’t care. He’s already made £1,000 and it is with this money – the narrator tells us – that Dorrington is then able to set up, live and dress as a gentleman, and to begin his life as a detective and crook.

Indeed, when he hears about tCater’s final will scribbled in the Bible, Dorrington bursts out laughing.

The story ends with a comic flourish as a disgruntled Samuel Greer goes to the nearest pub for a wet, and bumps into the drunk docker who took Greer’s hat by mistake. Greer, failing to find the docker, had returned to the barber’s and taken the hat which the docker left behind. Now, finding Greer wearing his long-lost hat, the docker beats Greer up.

It is a very entertaining and comic story – but only if you accept that every single character in it is motivated by shameless greed, and is prepared to lie, cheat and betray everyone, in order to make money.


Thoughts

Being an anti-hero makes Dorrington much more appealing to modern tastes than Morrison’s squeaky clean ‘good’ detective, Martin Hewitt.

And whereas the Hewitt stories seemed to copy the basic Sherlock Holmes formula with slavish conformity, the fact that Dorrington doesn’t mind resorting to breaking and entering, theft and blackmail, and is prepared to do more or less anything when he sees private advantage, makes the stories much more unpredictable.

Sometimes he carries out his client’s wishes perfectly straight, but sometimes he spies an opening for skulduggery and goes over to the dark side – and sometimes he does both – as in the bicycle story where he both gains his reward from Mallows by good detective work, but then goes on to confront Mallows at the ABC factory, and nearly kills him.

And sometimes he does neither, as in the case of the Japanese sword, where he behaves like a perfectly straight and respectable detective.

But there is always the dark and Gothic threat that Dorrington might at any moment pull out his revolver and blackmail someone. And that makes the yarns from Dorrington’s Deed-Box immeasurably more entertaining than the Hewitt stories.

Information is power

Many of the stories bring out the fact that it’s not only always been important to have as much information as possible about your enemies (hence the long tradition of spies) – but also to gather information about people in general – who are neither friends nor enemies. Especially compromising information. You never know when it will come in useful. This is core to Dorrington’s modus operandi. Knowledge is power.

It was an important thing in Dorrington’s rascally trade to get hold of as much of other people’s private business as possible, and to know exactly in what cupboard to find every man’s skeleton. For there was no knowing but it might be turned into money sooner or later.

Knowledge of people’s foibles and secrets was as important then as it is now. The difference is that, in our time, several billion people have been happy to turn over their most intimate secrets to social media, email, phone and internet companies free and gratis, for them to use and exploit any way they see fit. Strange days.


Related links

Reviews of other fiction of the 1880s and 1890s

Joseph Conrad

Rudyard Kipling

Henry Rider Haggard

Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Morrison

Robert Louis Stevenson

Bram Stoker

H.G. Wells

Oscar Wilde

Martin Hewitt, Investigator by Arthur Morrison (1894)

Arthur Morrison wrote some 24 stories featuring his charming, affable and calmly logical detective, Martin Hewitt, and his sometime assistant and confidant, the journalist Brett (I don’t think we ever learn his first name). Morrison collected the stories into four book-length volumes. This is the first volume, containing the first seven stories.

They solve at a flash the question I raised in my review of Tales of Mean Streets, which was whether Morrison’s use of elaborate facetiousness, garnished with Biblical locutions and ironically high-falutin’ turns of phrase, was unique to him or part of the wider style of the time.

Because it is completely absent from these detective stories, which are written in a much plainer, simpler, to-the-point style. So the answer appears to be that Morrison used his heavily jocose voice to deal only with his tales from the underworld. The over-elaborate phraseology was part of a strategy of irony – ranging from sarcasm to satire – which controlled and shaped his anger and disgust at his subject matter.

Here is an example of Morrison in underworld mode in an excerpt from his most notorious short story, Lizerunt. I’ve italicised the phrases which I’m talking about, which are facetious in their unnecessary grandiosity.

When Billy Chope married Lizerunt there was a small rejoicing. There was no wedding-party; because it was considered that what there might be to drink would be better in the family. Lizerunt’s father was not, and her mother felt no interest in the affair; not having seen her daughter for a year, and happening, at the time, to have a month’s engagement in respect of a drunk and disorderly. So that there were but three of them; and Billy Chope got exceedingly tipsy early in the day; and in the evening his bride bawled a continual chorus, while his mother, influenced by the unwonted quartern of gin the occasion sanctioned, wept dismally over her boy, who was much too far gone to resent it.

It’s the juxtaposition of would-be posh phraseology such as ‘a month’s engagement’ or ‘the occasion sanctioned’, with the chaotic reality of the drunken, shouting underclass, which creates the effect.

Whereas in the Martin Hewitt stories of decent chaps solving crimes among, on the whole, more decent chaps, the prose is… well, pretty clean and decent, thus:

Those who retain any memory of the great law cases of fifteen or twenty years back will remember, at least, the title of that extraordinary will case, ‘Bartley v. Bartley and others,’ which occupied the Probate Court for some weeks on end, and caused an amount of public interest rarely accorded to any but the cases considered in the other division of the same court. The case itself was noted for the large quantity of remarkable and unusual evidence presented by the plaintiff’s side – evidence that took the other party completely by surprise, and overthrew their case like a house of cards.

Clear and considered, isn’t it? More than that, it is suave and confident. It is upper-class English, the confidently long, well-balanced and well-arranged periods of the urbane professional class. The case ‘was noted for’, generated an interest ‘rarely accorded to…’ – this is the tone of a doctor or lawyer or scholar.

The narrator’s address to ‘those who retain any memory… etc’ evokes his imagined audience, a community of leisured professional men, readers of quality newspapers, followers of public affairs, and mature enough to have been following these affairs for fifteen or twenty years.

These are the opening two sentences of the very first Martin Hewitt story and they conjure up the entire moneyed, professional class within which the fictional detective operates, and for whom the stories are written. If ‘officialese’ is used to counterpoint and mock the grim affairs of the slum-dwellers in Mean Streets and A Child of the Jago, here it is used to stroke the rich, and accentuate their finer feelings and pukka decency.

For the clients and locations are (in general) posh, notably Sir James Norris (baronet) whose country house is the setting for The Lenton Croft Robberies, Sir Valentine Quinton, owner of ‘an old country establishment’, Radcot Hall, and a wealthy wife whose jewels are stolen in The Quinton Jewel Affair, Lord Stanways is the wronged owner of The Stanway Cameo, and so on.

And another quality they share with the Holmes stories is that the subject matter – the jewels or things stolen – are often the best in the world – the world-famous x, the renowned y, the famous affair of the z. They are eminent, which a) makes them shine out against the vast majority of police detective work which is, after all, usually among the poor and wretched – and b) has the flattering effect of making the reader feel eminent, too. As if we are all used to hob-nobbing with lords and ladies and top jewellers and art collectors and so on.

The stories offer the pleasure of flattering both the reader’s intelligence (if we can spot the culprit before Hewitt, and certainly before the slow and obtuse Brett) and social standing.

Martin Hewitt and Brett (Hewitt is clean shaven, on the left) illustrated by Sidney Paget

Martin Hewitt and Brett (Hewitt is clean shaven, on the left) illustrated by Sidney Paget

This volume contains:

  • The Lenton Croft Robberies (published March 1894 in The Strand magazine)
  • The Loss of Sammy Crockett (April 1894, The Strand)
  • The Case of Mr Foggatt (May 1894, The Strand)
  • The Case of the Dixon Torpedo (June 1894, The Strand)
  • The Quinton Jewel Affair (July 1894, The Strand)
  • The Stanway Cameo Mystery (July 1894, The Strand)
  • The Affair of the Tortoise (September 1894, The Strand)

The stories

1. The Lenton Croft Robberies

Lenton Croft is the country seat (near Twyford) of Sir James Norris. Meeting Hewitt at the train station, Sir James outlines the case: three times in the last year, female guests have had valuable jewellery stolen from them. Each time the windows to the room in question were only slightly opened or closed altogether, or people were in a nearby room. Each time a spent match was found just where the jewellery went missing.

Martin is shown around the house in great detail, receives a precise account of each theft, asks questions about all the staff. He stops at the stables to chat to a servant with a dog, rather to Sir James’s impatience, then asks to see the rooms of the servants.

And solves the case. Sir James’s faithful secretary, Vernon Lloyd, keeps a pet parrot. He has trained it to keep quiet by keeping a spent match gripped in its mouth but, once introduced into a room – either through an only slightly-open window or, as on one occasion, hidden in the room when both windows and doors are closed – to find the nearest shiny thing, drop the match, nab the shiny, and wait for his master.

they confront Lloyd and he confesses.

2. The Loss of Sammy Crockett

The key to an important case is held by one ‘Gaffer’ Kentish, owner of the Hare and Hounds pub in the northern town of Padfield, where he is a trainer of athletes who run in the local competitive races. Hewitt travels there and puts up in the pub to get to know Kentish and try to get the facts he needs from him.

The task is made simpler when Kentish’s star runner, Sammy Crockett, goes missing, just before a championship race in which Kentish has bet lots of money. Some mystery is created by the discovery of scraps of paper near the place Crockett was last seen, and the fact that the trail left by his spiked running shoes stops dead yards from a fence, as if the man had flown up into the air – but Hewitt sees beyond these distractions to the heart of the matter, which is that Crockett has been kidnapped by a bookmaker rival of Kentish’s, named Danby, who also happens to be a property developer and has locked Crockett up in one of a little parade of shops he’s building in a new estate.

Hewitt and Kentish’s tough son break into the shop, punch the local tough guarding Crockett, take him back to Kentish’s pub where he is fed, rested, massaged and – proceeds to win the ‘Padfield Annual 135 Yards Handicap’. With the result that Kentish willingly gives Hewitt the information he needed to solve the other, more important case with which the story began.

3. The Case of Mr Foggatt

Brent explains Hewitt’s theory of ‘accumulative probabilities’ i.e. facts which are in themselves trivial can, if rare enough, gain importance as they increase in number. One odd circumstance means nothing: life is full of oddities. Two odd circumstances, combined, begin to suggest things. Three odd things begin to narrow down the range of possibilities, and so on. Thus the accumulation of evidence points you to the solution.

‘Trivialities, pointing in the same direction, became important considerations.’

‘A fat, middle-aged man, named Foggatt’ who has rooms in the same building off the Strand where Hewitt has his offices and Brett his apartment, is found shot dead. Hewitt and Brett had dined at the latter’s club and were enjoying a cigar in his rooms when – bang! They run upstairs and pry open the locked door with a poker. The body is there, by a gun with one shot fired, all the windows closed.

Seven or so weeks after the inquest, Hewitt invites Brett to dinner at Luzatti’s, off Coventry Street. He insists they sit at a particular table, in chairs opposite

a rather fine-looking fellow, with a dark, though very clear skin, but had a hard, angry look of eye, a prominence of cheek-bone, and a squareness of jaw that gave him a rather uninviting aspect.

Hewitt starts talking about bicycle racing and the young fellow can’t help being interested then joining in. When the young man calls for coffee, to Brett’s amazement, Hewitt reaches out and pinches the half-eaten apple off his plate. The man notices but says nothing and, moments later, makes his excuses and leaves.

Hewitt asks the amazed Brett if he can recall the contents of the dead man’s apartment when they broke in? Did he, for example, notice the half-eaten apple on the table? At the time Hewitt took a plaster cast of the teeth marks in the apple. Now he goes home and does the same to this apple. They are identical.

A few days later Hewitt receives a long letter from the young man who signs himself Sidney Mason, explaining that Foggatt ruined his family. A financial genius, he used Mason’s weak father as a front man for all his deals, until they went sour, at which point Mason’s father was sent to prison which he endured for three years, before killing himself. Thereafter Mason was brought up by his mother who struggled with poverty and shame and social stigma, but he never knew the name of the man who had ruined his family.

His father’s old colleagues and good luck helped him to a clerkship in a legal firm, where he more than once bumped into Foggatt without a clue who he was, each time the fat man betraying inexplicable signs of nerves. Finally Mason bumped into Foggatt in that very house, on an errand to someone else, but Foggatt was sweating and turned white. He invited young Mason to his rooms that evening and there, after offers of brandy and cigars, Foggatt offered him £500 to emigrate and start again, say, in South Africa and then began apologising about his father.

At which point the scales dropped from Mason’s eyes and he realised Foggatt was the wretch who blighted his family. So he grabbed the revolver off the mantelpiece and shot the man dead. Hearing steps on the stairs he locked the door on the inside, made for the window, stepped out onto the ledge and closed it, then reached out to a metal gutter just about within reach, pulled himself up and onto the roof and made his escape.

At his first inspection of the room Hewitt had instantly realised the only way of escape was by reaching over to the gutter and pulling yourself up – therefore he was looking for a tall, and very fit man. Several times he had seen Mason around in legal offices and that night at the restaurant, seeing him at a table, had taken a gamble, based on intuition, at engaging him in conversation.

This summary shows you how a Hewitt story follows the detective template – violent crime, apparently unsolveable because of lack of evidence, the canny detective sees evidence and links where nobody else does (the apple), revelation of the culprit’s motivation in a long and sentimental backstory.

But… It still has a big hole, namely the accident that Mason happened to work in the Law trade so that Hewitt saw him around legal offices – and the whopping coincidence that Mason happened to be in the restaurant the night Hewitt and Brett dine there.

4. The Case of the Dixon Torpedo

Morrison starts many of the stories with exactly the kind of general thoughts and reflections upon the nature of crime and detection with which the Holmes stories often begin. Here, there are a couple of paragraphs about the importance of accident and coincidence before we get on with the plot.

One fine day at 1.30, Hewitt has a visitor in his office.

A gaunt, worn-looking man of fifty or so, well, although rather carelessly, dressed, and carrying in his strong, though drawn, face and dullish eyes the look that characterizes the life-long strenuous brain-worker.

It is the inventor and engineer F. Graham Dixon comes to visit Hewitt on a matter of national importance. Dixon has designed a new, much more effective torpedo. Detailed plans of it were stolen from his office this morning. They were there in the drawer of his desk at 10am this morning. His office is locked. He has two assistants, Worsfold and Ritter, who he trusts. Only the postman came to deliver some letters. It is the usual fol-de-rol of highly detailed circumstances which make the theft, on the face of it, impossible and which are in fact designed to highlight the uncanny brilliance of the detective.

I suppose nobody ever did so much devastation in a photographic studio in ten minutes as I managed.

While they’re puzzling over it a ‘Mr Hunter’ arrives asking to meet with Dixon. It is the second time he’s called today, to discuss new technical innovations. His assistant puts the man off, who stalks off in a huff. Suddenly Hewitt is galvanised. To cut a long story short, he had seen ‘Hunter’ place his walking stick in the walking stick and umbrella stand, an odd thing for a casual visitor to do. Hewitt has Dixon get his men out of the way, and retrieves the stick. It turns out to be a hollow tube with a crew top. Inside are the missing plans.

Hewitt tells Dixon to call the more junior of his two assistants in. When faced with a direct accusation of guilt, the man breaks and confesses. Hewitt tells him to write a note to his confederate, ‘Mr Hunter’, telling him to meet him here at the offices, which will be empty, at 6pm.

This is a blind: Hewitt just wants the address, which is a shabby street in Westminster. He goes there, finds from the concierge that Mr Hunter is more generally known as ‘Mirsky’, goes up to his room, inveigles the man into the hall, then jumps into his room, slams and locks the door. Now he investigates at leisure and discovers a dark room set up in a corner and negatives drying of the famous torpedo plans. He exposes all the plates and gathers up all the negatives.

But he discovers something more which is photos of Russian bank notes. Mr Mirsky has been forging Russian roubles and Hewitt links this with recent police reports of forged roubles flooding Russia, allegedly from London. Here is the source.  Through a window Mirsky sees Hewitt rummaging through his things and holding the fake rouble prints, a look of terror on his face. He scarpers.

Hewitt returns to Dixon’s office, hands over the negatives, and says it’s up to Dixon what he wants to do with the wretched assistant.

The plan had been simple. After bribing the assistant, Ritter, to take part, Mirsky had observed his walking stick and had a facsimile made with a hollow tube. Ritter had come to work with the fake stick. He had taken the first opportunity to screw the plans up tight and slip them into the fake stick and place it in the stand. Hunter had arrived, placed his stick in the stand, made a fuss about an appointment, then retrieved the hollow stick containing the plans, gone back to his rooms and made the photographs. Then replaced the plans in the hollow stick, returned to Dixon’s offices, made another fuss and switched the sticks again, leaving the hollow one, for Ritter to find a moment to extract the plans from, replace where they should be, all good. They thought the plans would be absent for just a few hours and no-one would notice.

Dixon foiled the plan by asking to see the plans first thing.

Hewitt’s detective work really boils down to noticing Mr ‘Hunter’ put his stick in the stand. The rest follows from that.

The addition of the fact that Hunter-Mirsky was mass producing faked roubles doesn’t really contribute to the solution of the torpedo blueprints. It happens side by side but doesn’t affect the case or its solution. It appears to be clever but (I may be being rather dim about this) I don’t think makes any material contribution to the case.

I’m probably drawing too big a conclusion on the basis of slender evidence, but it seems that it’s a characteristic Hewitt moment in that it gives the appearance of complexity and cleverness, without the substance.

5. The Quinton Jewel Affair

As usual a few preliminary remarks, this time to the effect that Hewitt keeps surprisingly up to date with the ever-changing slang of the criminal underworld, and especially Romany language of gypsies.

Sir Valentine Quinton lives in Radcot Hall with his wealthy wife, who owns a collection of rare jewellery including the famous ruby sent to this country to be sold by the King of Burma, set in gold and bought by Lady Quinton. One fine evening it is all stolen by a true professional.

A week later Hewitt and Brett are just stepping into his offices near the Strand, when they are accosted by an irate Irishman. He’s just been pointed towards Hewitt by a passing copper. The Irishman proceeds to let loose a long, complex tale in a transcription of Irish dialect.

‘Well, I got along to me room, sick an’ sorry enough, an’ doubtsome whether I might get in wid no key. But there was the key in the open door, an’, by this an’ that, all the shtuff in the room – chair, table, bed, an’ all – was shtandin’ on their heads twisty-ways, an’ the bedclothes an’ every thin’ else; such a disgraceful stramash av conglomerated thruck as ye niver dhreamt av. The chist av drawers was lyin’ on uts face, wid all the dhrawers out an’ emptied on the flure. ‘Twas as though an arrmy had been lootin’, sor!’

Whereas I was fairly confident that Morrison caught the accent of working class Londoners in his slum stories, I’ve no idea how much his transcription of Irish peasant speech is accurate or not, but it certainly dominates the first half of the tale.

The gist of the story is that he was on the train from the West, where he’d just arrived from rural Ireland. When the train didn’t stop at a particular station the stranger sitting opposite him said, ‘Drat’, he’d wanted to get out at that stop, and asked Leamy to take the heavy sealed bag he gave him to a certain address in London while he, the speaker, got the first train back to the missed stop.

Leamy dutifully takes the bag to the requested address and hands it over to a fellow named Mr Hollams, was paid for his troubles, then set off to find some lodgings in the big, bad city. And what’s happened since is that he’s been accosted and assaulted every day since – mugged in the street, drugged in a pub, pushed under an underground train (which he survived unscathed) only to find the doctor who attends him going through his pockets and, finally, having his apartment comprehensively turned over.

Now, this reader confidently deduces that the man who gave Leamy the bag was the thief who stole Lady Quinton’s jewellery. And the man Leamy gave the bag to, was the head of the gang. And the fact that he’s been mugged and searched every day since suggests something was missing – the famous ruby! And if it was not in the bag then the original thief must have kept it.

Hewitt and Brett stroll round to the address of this Mr Hollams only to come upon a fight. A figure with a half-torn coat is struggling up the steps from the area, with two others hanging on to him, one brandishing a revolver. As soon as they’re in the street the two antagonists desist and Mr Torn-Coat makes off.

Hewitt recognises him as Sim Wilks, a well-known burglar. They follow him along Buckingham Palace Road where Hewitt amazes Brett by suddenly adopting the posture and speech of a successful rowdy. He claps Sim on the back, insists he knows him, drags him into a pub for a few beers and insists on lending him a few quid since he’s just carried off a good job and is rolling in swag.

It is this scene which justifies Brett’s opening paragraph about Hewitt’s familiarity with thieves’ slang, because he liberally uses it in buttering up a very suspicious Wilks and the text has copious footnotes telling us that ‘cady’ means hat, ‘touch’ means robbery and ‘cannon’ means drunk. During this swaggering drunken piece of acting, Hewitt tips Wilks the nod that the gang at 8 Gold Street (where we’ve just observed Wilks being manhandled by his boss, Hollam) is about to be raided by the coppers. Is that so? says Wilks musingly. Then pleads another engagement and leaves.

The general idea is that Hewitt has planted the notion that Hollam is about to be arrested, so that it’ll be safe to go and get the ruby from the hiding place where he put it after the robbery. There then follows a sort of tense sequence where Hewitt and Brett follow Wilks to Euston, catch the same train as him, get off at the same station, follow him along winding country lanes at a distance and then catch him red-handed in a church graveyard, removing the ruby from its hiding place behind the brick of a table tomb.

Wilks is arrested for theft, Hollam for receiving stolen goods, Lady Quinton has her jewellery restored, and Michael Leamy gets a respectable job as a doorman ‘guarding the door of a well-known London restaurant’.

Reviewing the logical content of the story you see that the crime was virtually solved as soon as Leamy was pointed towards Hewitt and told his story, particularly once he’d named Hollam as the fence. The solution entirely depended, then, on the Irishman happening to have come across Hewitt’s name and deciding to contact him.

The flim-flam about Hewitt’s competence with criminal slang bears some relation to his ability to speak to Wilks in his own argot, but our heroes could quite simply have followed Wilks to the ruby’s hiding place with much the same result. It feels more as if the idea of dialects – Leamy’s Irish and Wilk’s criminal – colours the story, rather than drives or explains it.

6. The Stanway Cameo Mystery

The ‘famous’ Stanway cameo is discovered by one of the fleet of travelling agents who scour Italy for precious relics, and sold on to the eminent art dealer, Mr. Claridge of St. James Street. He sells it to the Marquis of Stanway for five thousand pounds, the Marquis intending to donate such a rare piece to the British Museum. The piece is kept at Claridge’s for cleaning.

One morning Claridge goes into his office to find it gone. The trapdoor to the roof has been forced and the door into his inner room also forced open by a jemmy or crowbar. A few rooftops away the luxury bag which contained it is discovered by the police. Claridge immediately reimburses Lord Stanway the £5,000 he paid for the piece.

Puzzled, Lord Stanway strolls round to Hewitt’s chambers and hires him to solve the crime. Hewitt goes through the motions, studies the layout of Claridge’s offices, interviews his staff, gets Claridge to describe his precise movements the evening before the crime, and so on. A great deal is made of a Mr Woollett, a jealous rival collector, who has rooms whose windows overlook Claridge’s offices. This seems too obviously a red herring, even to a non-detective story reader, like myself.

Long story short, Hewitt has almost immediately realised that Claridge destroyed the cameo himself and faked the burglary. Every detail of the way the trap door and office door were forced rings fake. Crucially there are spots of rain on a dusty old hat on a peg beneath the trapdoor. It had spitted a bit when Claridge was in the office at the end of the day, but was otherwise a fine clear night. Ergo, whoever ‘forced’ the trapdoor did it during the early evening when Claridge was still there. Ergo Claridge did it himself.

Confronted point blank by Hewitt Claridge breaks down and confesses. His motive was that, upon cleaning the cameo, he realised it was one of the best fakes ever made. But if this fact ever got out his reputation as a dealer would be ruined, the value of all his existing stock plummet, he would lose all his clients. He’d spent a long afternoon pondering all the possible consequences (which he explains in detail to Hewitt and the reader) before opting to fake a burglary and dispose of the cameo.

This option, although expensive, got him off the hook and preserved his reputation. Hewitt sits back, points out the flaws in his procedure and lets things stand. No crime has been committed. Nobody is out of pocket except Claridge himself. He’ll let the police do their best and if they find nothing further – so be it.

7. The Affair of the Tortoise

Two characters live in a row of new buildings near the National Gallery. One, a Mr Rameau, is a big, loud, colourful black man, often drunk and argumentative. He drinks, shouts, parties, slides down the bannisters and intimidates the other inhabitants. The other is a small Frenchman Victor Goujon, once a skilled watchmaker who hurt his hand and has fallen on bad times. Rameau intimidates and taunts Goujon. Goujon has a pet tortoise. Rameau plays with it and one day throws it against a wall so hard he cracks the shell. Goujon goes mad with anger and vows to kill the big man.

Goujon gets a job back in France, packs his bags and leaves. Later the same day Rameau is found dead by the maid, with a hatchet wound in his head and a piece of paper on his chest on which is scrawled puni par un vengeur de la tortue – ‘Punished by an avenger of the tortoise.’

The maid goes to fetch the landlord but when they return – the body has gone!!!!

Everyone assumes the culprit was angry little Goujon but Hewitt sets about dismantling this hypothesis, not least by comparing the ragged scrawl the death note is written in with an example of Goujon’s small precise handwriting which has been found by the police. Also, Goujon is too slight to have carried a big dead man anywhere.

Long story short, they’ve all misunderstood the note. La Tortue is the French name of an island off the north coast of Haiti. Rameau is a member of the brutal, corrupt family which ruled Haiti under the psychotic President Domingue. Domingue’s political opponents took shelter on La Tortue where Domingue’s forces tracked them down and all but exterminated them. Then there was a revolution in which Domingue was overthrown. Our victim, César Rameau, was brother to Domingue’s nephew and Chief Minister, Septimus Rameau.

After the coup, he fled to England where he took rooms in a modest house but carried on the brutish behaviour of a member of a corrupt ruling family. One day he was attacked by one of his enemies who, from the message, had survived the La Tortue massacre and devoted his life to tracking him down.

Where did the body go? Hewitt laughs as he presents Inspector Netting with the murderer and remover of the body of César Rameau – César Rameau himself! Yes, he was never killed but stunned!! He awoke after the maid had gone to fetch the landlord, and made his escape down one of the dumb waiters which served the tall narrow house, hid out in a nearby empty house, then, wrapped in a dark coat, got a cabman to drive him to a safe house.

Hewitt had gone out and chatted to the cabmen waiting outside the house, discovered one who had given a ride the night before to a big man wrapped in a dark coat and nursing his arm, and followed the route to discover Rameau terrified and in hiding.

The police never find the attacker. Rameau is now keen to get out of England. Little Goujon who the police had arrested on his way to the coast sues for wrongful arrest. All is settled.

N.B. Racism This story is a gold mine for researchers investigating the myths and stereotypes surrounding black people in 1890s England, and it would be easy to get worked up by Morrison’s ‘racism’ and use of ‘racist stereotypes’, such as that this black man is loud, aggressive and likes wearing colourful clothing. To be precise:

He got uproariously drunk, and screamed and howled in unknown tongues. He fell asleep on the staircase, and ladies were afraid to pass. He bawled rough chaff down the stairs and along the corridors at butcher-boys and messengers, and played on errand-boys brutal practical jokes that ended in police-court summonses. He once had a way of sliding down the balusters, shouting: ‘Ho! ho! ho! yah!’ as he went, but as he was a big, heavy man, and the balusters had been built for different treatment, he had very soon and very firmly been requested to stop it. He had plenty of money, and spent it freely; but it was generally felt that there was too much of the light-hearted savage about him to fit him to live among quiet people.

Well, there’s a whole world of outrage to be mined from the story, if that’s what you like, and anybody who objects to use of the n-word will have a nervous breakdown and might throw away the book in disgust, especially when the inspector and Hewitt agree that black people have abnormally thick skulls – which explains why Rameau survived a blow to the head with an axe!

But what struck me was that, despite the negative characterisation of Rameau, both the police, inspector Netting, Hewitt and the narrator, Brett, all take it for granted that the case is worth investigating. That Rameau’s life was worth the life of any other person in the UK. In fact, his life is worth more than the lives of the poverty-stricken babies and children of the Jago who Morrison was writing about at the same time. They die like rats and no-one laments them. Rameau is given more importance than them.

And then, as the case unfolds, your initial outrage is tempered as you realise that it isn’t a generic description of black men – it is a description of a very particular type, namely the spoilt, violent, untouchable member of the ruling family of a black dictatorship, used to throwing his weight around and intimidating everyone around him, with no consequences. He is the forebear of Papa Doc and Baby Doc Duvalier who exerted a reign of terror over Haiti enforced by the terrifying Tontons Macoutes from 1957 to 1986.

It isn’t a generic racist stereotype. It is a specific portrait of a particular kind of person.

It’s fascinating to learn that Haiti had enough of a reputation for violence and corruption as far back as 1894 to be thought a suitable location for the backstory to a popular detective story. This is Hewitt explaining Haiti to Inspector Netting (and the reader):

‘The biggest island of the lot on this map, barring Cuba, is Hayti. You know as well as I do that the western part of that island is peopled by the black republic of Hayti, and that the country is in a degenerate state of almost unexampled savagery, with a ridiculous show of civilization. There are revolutions all the time; the South American republics are peaceful and prosperous compared to Hayti. The state of the country is simply awful – read Sir Spenser St. John’s book on it. President after president of the vilest sort forces his way to power and commits the most horrible and bloodthirsty excesses, murdering his opponents by the hundred and seizing their property for himself and his satellites, who are usually as bad, if not worse, than the president himself. Whole families – men, women, and children – are murdered at the instance of these ruffians, and, as a consequence, the most deadly feuds spring up, and the presidents and their followers are always themselves in danger of reprisals from others.

Compare the continuity of the country’s terrible political culture through to nearly a century later.

Thousands of Haitians were killed or tortured, and hundreds of thousands fled the country during [Baby Doc’s] presidency. He maintained a notoriously lavish lifestyle (including a state-sponsored US$ 3 million wedding in 1980) while poverty among his people remained the most widespread of any country in the Western Hemisphere. (Wikipedia article about Jean-Claude Duvalier)


Thoughts about Martin Hewitt

Well, the obvious result of reading these seven stories is to make you appreciate the style and panache of the Sherlock Holmes stories. Morrison has come up with plausible enough crimes and obfuscates and confuses them enough to give his detective (and the reader) pleasurable mazes of puzzles and red herrings to work through in trying to solve the crimes.

From Conan Doyle Morrison has copied:

  • the idea of the dim sidekick and amanuensis
  • the idea that each story begins with a preliminary explanation of this or that other aspect of Hewitt’s character and technique
  • the idea that the ordinary detectives from Scotland Yard (named in the stories as Inspector Netting and Inspector Plummer) are decent chaps who just lack Hewitt’s brilliant insight (‘Well, Mr. Hewitt,’ Nettings said, ‘this case has certainly been a shocking beating for me. I must have been as blind as a bat when I started on it.’)
  • the rhetorical tricks which Conan Doyle’s uses to boost his fictional character, repeating phrases like ‘this case was the most famous of the eminent detectives many successes’ or, in the case of the Stanway Cameo, that it was always held against the great detective that no culprit was ever found (although we, the readers, know the real reason for this)
  • the notion that there is a vast casebook of stories which Brett could be telling, and that he selects this or that case an example of this or that quality in Hewitt’s character or working practice

In other words, he copies Sherlock Holmes to death.

But all this copying tends to highlight the way that the Holmes stories are, in a sense, only the backdrop against which is set the world-straddling character of the detective himself –  lean and aquiline, unexpectedly violent when he needs to be, otherwise playing his out-of-tune violin while a little high on cocaine and complaining that crime these days is so boring, there’s nothing to challenge his great intellect – in every way Holmes is a complex and compelling character.

Compared to this colourful creation, Martin Hewitt (even the name is bland and boring) is made of cardboard, and the narrator of the stories, Brett, is little more than a cipher.


Related links

Reviews of other fiction of the 1890s

Joseph Conrad

Rudyard Kipling

Henry Rider Haggard

Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Morrison

Robert Louis Stevenson

Bram Stoker

H.G. Wells

Oscar Wilde

A Child of the Jago by Arthur Morrison (1896)

H.G. Wells

H.G. Wells’s novella, A Story of The Days To Come, is set in the futuristic London of 2100, and feature a hero and heroine who start out life as comfortably middle class. But bad luck – and a scheming rival – results in our hero losing his job, the girl losing her inheritance, forcing the couple to move into a smaller flat, sell their belongings and, eventually, pushing them down into the underclass of the city of the future, which is governed by the iron hand of the Labour Company.

In their new degradation they are forced to wear the blue serge uniform of the Labour Corps, given free housing and food but in return have to do degrading manual labour down in the bowels of the city. Wells describes their fall thus:

In spite of their inclination towards the ancient fashion of living, neither Elizabeth nor Denton had been sufficiently original to escape the suggestion of their surroundings. In matters of common behaviour they had followed the ways of their class, and so when they fell at last to be Labour Serfs it seemed to them almost as though they were falling among offensive inferior animals; they felt as a nineteenth-century duke and duchess might have felt who were forced to take rooms in the Jago. (Chapter 4 – Underneath)

‘Take rooms in the Jago?’ What is this Jago which Wells refers to?

The Jago

‘The Jago’ was a fictional name which the social realist novelist Arthur Morrison had given to a grid of slum streets which were the focus of his best-selling novel of East End slum life, A Child of the Jago. This searing account of poverty and brutality was published in 1896, just three years before Wells’s story, so Well’s reference was still very topical.

This is how Morrison describes his blighted slum.

From where, off Shoreditch High Street, a narrow passage, set across with posts, gave menacing entrance on one end of Old Jago Street, to where the other end lost itself in the black beyond Jago Row; from where Jago Row began south at Meakin Street, to where it ended north at Honey Lane – there the Jago, for one hundred years the blackest pit in London, lay and festered; and half-way along Old Jago Street a narrow archway gave upon Jago Court, the blackest hole in all that pit.

 The novel includes this hand-made sketch of the district.

Morrison’s Old Jago was in fact a lightly fictionalised version of the real-life network of slums around Old Nichol Street, east of Shoreditch High Street, which Morrison had been introduced to by a vicar working in the area, the Reverend Osborne Jay of Holy Trinity Church.

Jay suggested to Morrison, who had already written short stories about life in the East End slums, that it would be the perfect setting for a longer work of fiction-cum-reportage.

Even as the book was being published and reviewed, the Old Nichol Rookery, as it was known, was being demolished and replaced by a tidy Victorian housing estate – buildings which look a lot like army barracks, much like the Peabody estates scattered all over London. The process is referred to in chapter 29. Eventually, the old street pattern was demolished, leaving only Old Nichol Street remaining. This is what it looks like nowadays.

In 2018, when I went to have a look, the tall forbidding Victorian barracks were still there, but the streets around them have become highly gentrified – there was a very expensive designed trainer shop, several cafes and an art gallery. Difficult to imagine that back in 1896 it was one of the ‘darkest holes’ in the East End .

Photo of Boundary Street, London, taken in 1890, part of the Old Nichol slum.

Boundary Street, London, part of the Old Nichol slum, in 1890

Arthur Morrison

Morrison had a fascinating career. Born in Poplar in 1863, the son of an engine-fitter in the docks, his parents were responsible enough to send him to school, where he learned to read and write and which led on to him getting a job, aged 17, as an office boy at the London School Board.

He worked his way up to third-class clerk at the so-called People’s Palace, an educational establishment set up to serve the East End slums, and which eventually became part of the modern Queen Mary, University of London.

By his early 20s Morrison was trying his hand at writing sketches of life in East London and by the late 1880s he was placing these sketches in local magazines. He worked these up into short stories about the area, and was able to sell these to prestigious literary magazines including the National Observer, whose influential editor, W. E. Henley, encouraged and supported him. The best ones were brought together in the collection Tales of Mean Streets, published in 1894.

At the same time Morrison cashed in on the success of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories and invented a detective of his own, Martin Hewitt, who uses his uncanny deductive abilities to solve crimes, all witnessed and recorded by his faithful and rather bumbling amanuensis, the journalist Brett. You can read the stories online.

Morrison wrote an impressive 25 Hewitt stories, but also tried his hand with a different type of criminal investigator, Horace Dorrington, a deeply corrupt detective about whom he wrote seven stories. Morrison was by now writing for a living and turned out whatever seemed likely to sell.

In the middle of all this activity, encouraged and supplied with anecdotes and information by the Reverend Jay, Morrison wrote his first full-length novel, A Child of the Jago, which became an immediate best-seller, caused a storm of protest, and prompted Morrison to reply to the many attacks made on him in the press and via letters.

In 1899 he published To London Town, which he claimed concluded a loose trilogy of books about London begun by Mean Streets and Jago. In 1900 he published Cunning Murrell, a novel describing the exploits of a mid-Victorian magician and healer and in 1902 another story of the East End, The Hole in the Wall.

But the most fascinating thing about Morrison is the way he escaped his background. As soon as he had money, he began collecting Japanese woodcuts and became an expert on Japanese art, writing a number of monographs and books on the subject. (It is striking that the preface to A Child of the Jago, which he wrote to defend it from critical attacks, almost immediately goes off-subject to invoke the evolution of ‘realism’ in Japanese art – a subject few of even his best-educated readers can have been familiar with).

As his writing took off, Morrison moved out of the slums to rural Chingford, then to Epping Forest, then completely out of London to Chalfont St Peter, retired from journalism and wrote only occasional short stories. When he died, in 1945, he bequeathed his important collection of Japanese paintings, woodcuts, and ceremonial tea porcelain to the British Museum.

Poverty writing of the 1890s

In the 1880s and ’90s there was an explosion of interest in life in the slums of British cities. Articles and books were also written about Glasgow and Birmingham but, as by far the largest city in Britain, and the capital of the Largest Empire The World Had Ever Seen, most of this writing concentrated on the appalling conditions of life in parts of East London.

George Gissing wrote a stream of novels about the hard life in the slums, Conan Doyle made Sherlock Holmes venture out East for tales of shocking brutality. The Jack the Ripper murders of 1888 and 1889 solidified the area’s reputation among respectable Londoners as a sewer of vice, drunkenness, prostitution, and horrifying violence.

A trickle of books about the area in the 1880s turned into a flood by concerned observers, politicians, social commentators, bishops and radicals, all keen to propose their own solutions to the poverty, squalor, vice and violence.

  • In Darkest England and the Way Out by William Booth (1890)
  • Life in Darkest London by A.O. Jay (1891)
  • Life and Labour of the People of London in Nine Volumes (1892-7)
  • The Social Problem and its Possible Solution (1893)
  • Neighbours of Ours: Slum Stories of London by Henry W Nevinson (1895)
  • A Child of the Jago by Arthur Morrison (1896)
  • A Story of Shoreditch by A.O. Jay (1896)
  • Liza of Lambeth by William Somerset Maugham (1897)
  • East London by Walter Besant (1899)
  • To London Town by Arthur Morrison (1899)

A Child of the Jago

It’s a relatively short novel, just 153 pages in the Oxford World Classic edition I have. In fact the lengthy introduction, chronology, bibliography, several prefaces, the extensive notes, a handy selection of contemporary reviews of the novel plus a glossary of lowlife vocabulary, all assembled by editor Peter Miles, themselves make up 89 pages, over half as much again as the text.

So what is A Child of the Jago about? Well, in the middle of this forest of annotations and historical explanations lies the story of young Dicky Perrott, living in an unheated, unwatered slum bedroom with his violent dad, Josh, and a mum, Hannah, so demoralised she can barely nurse the ten-month-old baby, Looey.

The doors have long ago been removed from the doorways. Many of the doorframes have been chopped up and used as firewood. There’s one cold tap in the backyard for the whole house, but it rarely works and periodically the tap itself is stolen. There’s no basin, soap or towel in the house. Everyone stinks.

The rotting slums are never quiet, because somewhere someone is always fighting or taunting, crying or wailing. The Jago as a whole is dominated by civil war between the Rann and Leary families and their respective auxiliaries. Low level fighting never ceases, and sometimes builds up to impressive crescendos.

Fighting began early, fast and furious. The Ranns got together soon, and hunted the Learys up and down, and attacked them in their houses: the Learys’ chances only coming when straggling Ranns were cut off from the main body. The weapons in use, as was customary, rose in effectiveness by a swiftly ascending scale. The Learys, assailed with sticks, replied with sticks torn from old packing-cases, with protruding nails. The two sides bethought them of coshes simultaneously, and such as had no coshes – very few – had pokers and iron railings. Ginger Stagg, at bay in his passage, laid open Pud Palmer’s cheek with a chisel; and, knives thus happily legitimised with the least possible preliminary form, everybody was free to lay hold of whatever came handy.

Bob the Bender was reported to have a smashed nose, and Sam Cash had his head bandaged at the hospital. At the Bag of Nails in Edge Lane, Snob Spicer was knocked out of knowledge with a quart pot, and Cocko Harnwell’s missis had a piece bitten off of one ear.

It is a world of relentless violence. Trying to escape across a yard, Dicky’s mum is cornered by the notorious Sally Green, who knocks her and the baby she’s holding, to the floor, pins her down and starts biting and ripping her neck. Sally’s enemy, Norah Walsh sees this happening and runs at Sally with a bottle. She smashes the bottom off against a kerb, pulls Sally off Dicky’s mum, and stabs Sally again and again with the shards of broken glass, in the face. Yes. It is really brutal.

In between all this mayhem, Dicky nips along to the opening of a philanthropical institute, the satirically named East End Elevation Mission and Pansophical Institute. While worthy middle-class folk congratulate themselves on their philanthropy, Dicky pinches the bishop’s pocket watch and runs home to give it to his dad. But instead of being please, his dad beats him with his belt till he bleeds in several places on his back and legs.

Morrison is satirical about the well-intentioned middle-class’s efforts to help the slum dwellers, channelling Dickens.

The good Bishop, amid clapping of hands and fluttering of handkerchiefs, piped cherubically of everything. He rejoiced to see that day, whereon the helping hand of the West was so unmistakably made apparent in the East. He rejoiced also to find himself in the midst of so admirably typical an assemblage – so representative, if he might say so, of that great East End of London, thirsting and crying out for – for Elevation: for that – ah – Elevation which the more fortunately circumstanced denizens of – of other places, had so munificently – laid on. The people of the East End had been sadly misrepresented – in popular periodicals and in – in other ways. The East End, he was convinced, was not so black as it was painted. (Applause.)

Morrison’s attitude towards the slum dwellers is harder to gauge. His basic approach is to tell it like it is, to simply record the fights, casual violence, poverty and filthiness, all dipped in a layer of biting irony. One reasonably attractive woman makes a profession of luring sailors back to her rooms, where her husband hits them on the head with a foot long iron bar with a knob at the end, then they rob the victim of all valuables and throw him out in the street, where the lesser vultures pick over the leavings, removing shoes and belts.

The cosh was a foot length of iron rod, with a knob at one end, and a hook (or a ring) at the other. The craftsman, carrying it in his coat sleeve, waited about dark staircase corners till his wife (married or not) brought in a well drunken stranger: when, with a sudden blow behind the head, the stranger was happily coshed, and whatever was found on him as he lay insensible was the profit on the transaction. In the hands of capable practitioners this industry yielded a comfortable subsistence for no great exertion.

Morrison deploys an ironic or sardonic tone throughout. The victim is ‘happily’ coshed, the event is referred to as a ‘transaction’, the muggers are ‘capable practitioners’. For the most part this knowing irony works well. I suppose it reflects the position of the author who had one leg in the area and its violent underclass, and the other on the ladder up into gainful employment and ‘respectability’. Irony helps him to manage the detachment of both him, and the presumed middle-class reader, from the appalling scenes he describes.

But it is an often angry irony, a kind of exasperated humour which resents both the violent chavs he’s describing, and the ignorance of the middle-class audience he’s writing for. He is as dismissive of middle-class do-gooders as he is of his violent proles.

Here he is sarcastically describing the reason the half-respectable Roper family are disliked i.e. for not behaving like the rest of the Jago.

The Ropers were disliked as strangers: because they furnished their own room, and in an obnoxiously complete style; because Roper did not drink, nor brawl, nor beat his wife, nor do anything all day but look for work; because all these things were a matter of scandalous arrogance, impudently subversive of Jago custom and precedent. Mrs Perrott was bad enough, but such people as these!

This facetiousness extends to the technique I pointed out in my review of Tales of Mean Streets, which is for Morrison to describe the outrageous behaviour and values of the Jagos – their amorality, thieving, violent, ignorant and careless behaviour – as if it was quite natural and universally accepted. It’s a technique which combines anger, bitterness and humour in a compelling way. For example, after Josh Perrott is arrested, Dicky gets home to find his mum distraught.

Hannah Perrott sat in her room, inert and lamenting. Dicky could not rouse her, and at last he went off by himself to reconnoitre about Commercial Street Police Station, and pick up what information he might; while a gossip or two came and took Mrs Perrott for consolation to Mother Gapp’s. Little Em, unwashed, tangled and weeping, could well take care of herself and the room, being more than two years old.

So the two-year-old is left completely by itself – and this is what I mean by Morrison ventriloquising the values of the Jago – everyone in the story considering that being more than two-years-old means she is well able to take care of herself ‘and the room’. Later, in an even more throwaway moment, when Hannah and Dicky go to visit Josh in gaol, they leave two-year-old Little Em ‘sprawling in the Jago gutters.’ As a middle-class reader I am duly horrified. And that is Morrison’s intention.

Archaic phraseology

A slightly irritating thing about the style is the use of archaic turns of phrase, medievalisms, Biblical terms. This is found in the prose of William Morris, who I’ve just reread, and who has the excuse that he was consciously trying to revive medieval crafts and mentality.

It’s much weirder to find it in the prose of the father of science fiction, H.G. Wells. Wells and Morrison both combine a permanent low-level facetiousness with odd medievalisms lifted from Sir Walter Scott or the Bible.

I wonder if describing the brutal modern world in turns of phrase lifted from medieval romance is intended to be satirical? Or is he mocking the heavy-handed prose of Times editorials and church sermons? Or was it just was the prose style of the day?

Dicky saw a new world of dazzling delights. Cake – limitless cake, coffee, and the like whenever he might feel moved thereunto.

A man pulled Norah off. On him she turned, and he was fain to run…

Without, the fight rallied once more.

He was near as eminent a fighter among the men as his sister among the women…

But he was ever indulgent…

Dicky, with his hands in his broken pockets, and thought in his small face, whereon still stood the muddy streaks of yesterday’s tears.

He had ventured into the Jago because the police were in possession, Dicky thought; and wondered in what plight he would leave, had he come at another time.

The hunchback weak, but infuriate, buffeting, biting and whimpering; Dicky infuriate too…

But Dicky and his bulge he saw ere they were well over the threshold.

Leaning back in his seat, swinging his feet, and looking about at the walls with the grocers’ almanacks hanging thereto.

Old Fisher came down from the top-floor back, wherein he dwelt with his son Bob, Bob’s wife and two sisters, and five children.

Scarce were they vanished above, however, when the little hunchback heard his father and mother on the lower stairs.

But a well-dressed stranger was so new a thing in the Jago, this one had dropped among them so suddenly, and he had withal so bold a confidence, that the Jagos stood irresolute.

‘Scarce’, ‘near’ – why don’t they have -ly on the end and so function as normal adjectives? Is dropping the ‘-ly’ meant to give them a more resonant Biblical flavour, and thereby somehow ennoble the style? Maybe it’s a tone or register we just don’t ‘get’ any more. Whatever the motive, I think it mars his style.

That said, I did notice that the incidence of these ironic archaisms did lessen as the book progresses, Maybe Morrison got fed up of them himself.

By contrast, Morrison’s handling of dialogue feels to me much more confident and accurate. It’s often much more enjoyable, more authentic, to read the novel’s dialogue than the prose narrative.

‘I don’t s’pose father’s ‘avin’ a sleep outside, eh?’
The woman sat up with some show of energy. ‘Wot?’ she said sharply. ‘Sleep out in the street like them low Ranns an’ Learys? I should ‘ope not. It’s bad enough livin’ ‘ere at all, an’ me being used to different things once, an’ all. You ain’t seen ‘im outside, ‘ave ye?’
‘No, I ain’t seen ‘im: I jist looked in the court.’ Then, after a pause: ‘I ‘ope ‘e’s done a click,’ the boy said.
His mother winced. ‘I dunno wot you mean, Dicky,’ she said, but falteringly. ‘You—you’re gittin’ that low an’ an’—’
‘Wy, copped somethink, o’ course. Nicked somethink. You know.’

Many writers have tried to depict working class or dialect speech. Off-hand I think Morrison is the most successful at it I’ve ever read.

The plot

Basically it breaks down into three parts.

Part one 

In the first half Dicky is nine-years-old and two types of thing happen. 1. We witness the casual violence, complete amorality, the thieving, mugging, pickpocketing, deceit and small-mindedness which characterise the Jagos, including his own mother and father. 2. Buried amid all the violent incidents, we witness certain strands of the plot which will go on to become important.

Chief among these strands is the way the inhabitants of the persecute the Roper family because they are a tiny bit more respectable than the surrounding crooks. Their son is the same age as Dicky, a hunchback, and sees Dicky sneaking into their rooms to steal a clock.

Later, Dicky feels guilty and slips a music box he’s nicked from a shop on Shoreditch High Street into the Roper family belongings which are all piled on a cart as they pack up and move out of the slum. But when it is discovered it is interpreted as being a trick, obviously stolen and planted there so the police can be tipped off and get the Ropers into trouble. The Ropers don’t move very far away, and the hunchback boy and Dicky grow up to be enemies, engaged in a permanent violent feud. Whenever he sees the hunchback, Dicky attacks him. But the cripple always gets his own back with the simple trick of telling bigger, harder boys that Dicky is boasting he could best them in a fight. With the result that Dicky is continually being attacked by surprise and apparently at random by bigger boys who thrash him.

Although everything is seen through Dicky’s eyes, the disruptive figure who sets bits of plot rolling is the new vicar, a savvy tough exponent of Muscular Christianity – the Reverend Henry Sturt – who sets up a church in a disused barn and takes no nonsense from the Jagos. The Jagos will happily beat up individual policemen, who will only venture into Jago Court, at the centre of the slum, in large numbers. But Father Sturt, as the Jagos come to call him, from the start won’t be intimidated, stands up to even the toughest hard men, and wins a grudging sort of respect. He is ‘the one man who could swim in a howling sea of human wreckage’ (Chapter 26)

(This Father Sturt figure is based on the Reverend Osborne Jay who had approached Morrison and given him a tour of the Jago, and then supplied him with eye-witness descriptions of specific characters and incidents. Since Jay had already set some of these incidents down in his own book, Life in Darkest London, published in 1891, this led to Morrison being accused of plagiarism, a criticism which stung him into writing a preface to the book, which he expanded into a detailed essay discussing ‘realism’ in contemporary literature. From our perspective, it means we can be confident that many of the characters and events described in A Child of the Jago actually took place.)

The plot, in the sense of a linked series of events, is fairly slight. Dicky grows up witnessing a whole series of, mostly violent incidents: in part one by far the most impressive is the prolonged fist fight between his father and Billy Leary, triggered by the attack on Dicky’s mum by a (female) member of the Leary clan.

Part two

In the second part we leap four years and Dicky is now 13 and expected to earn his keep by thieving. In part one we had seen how he was inveigled into nicking things and giving them to a slimy cunning Jewish fence, Mr Aaron Weech. Now, in part two, Father Sturt gets Dicky a job in a shop. The hunchback slopes past, then doubles back several times to check what he’s seeing is correct. Dicky affects to ignore him.

But Weech, upset at the loss of goods Dicky gives him and also nervous that if Dicky turns honest, he might peach on him, manages to get Dicky sacked. Completely innocent, aggrieved, mortified, Dicky goes home in tears where his Dad belts him as punishment for losing the income. At which, giving up on the straight life, Dicky returns to thieving and pick-pocketing with renewed energy.

The biggest scene in part two is when the Jagos invite their rivals from the nearby rookery Love Lane round to Mother Gapp’s pub, the Feathers, for a truce and reconciliation party. Unfortunately Mother Gapp’s pub wasn’t built to be packed to the rafters with shouting stomping toughs and, in an amazing moment, the entire floor gives way and a crowd of Jagos and Dove-Laners all fall five or six feet into the basement, landing amid breaking barrels, broken pint pots and shattered rafters. Immediately thinking the whole thing is a trap, the Dove-Laners turn on the Jagos and there is an almighty scrap.

Amid the fighting Dicky sees the Roper hunchback silhouetted and pushes him into the hole. He hits a barrel, then falls between two barrels and lies still. Is he dead? Dicky legs it.

Dicky’s dad, Josh, has a bit of heroic bad luck. He breaks into an up-market house and has already pocketed a handsome watch when a fat old lummox labours up the stairs and Josh punches him, sending him reeling back down the stairs. Unfortunately for Josh, this fat man is a member of the High Mob, the bejewelled, swanking crooks who have made such a success of a life of crime that they have risen out of the slums and dwell in handsome abodes, though they still sometimes return to the Jago, to flaunt their wealth and especially to view an organised fight, like the fist fight between Josh and Billy Leary which drew an enormous crowd and elaborate betting.

The High Mobsman puts the word out to be alert for his watch, which has his initials on the back. Josh tries a few fences who turn it down with a shudder but the egregious Aaron Weech spies an opportunity to win favour with the Mobsman, tells Josh to return in the morning, at which point there are two constables tipped off to arrest him.

Without Josh to support them, Hannah, Dicky and Little Em sink into real poverty and starve. Hannah has another baby, delivering it herself in their hovel. Kiddo Cook has taken to dropping round spare morsels form his job in the market. One day he pushes the door open to witness the sight of Hannah having just given birth. He hurries to fetch Father Sturt who fetches the surgeon.

Having cleaned Hannah and the baby up, they walk away and the surgeon gives vent to his despair.

Father Sturt met the surgeon as he came away in the later evening, and asked if all were well. The surgeon shrugged his shoulders. ‘People would call it so,’ he said. ‘The boy’s alive, and so is the mother. But you and I may say the truth. You know the Jago far better than I. Is there a child in all this place that wouldn’t be better dead – still better unborn? But does a day pass without bringing you just such a parishioner? Here lies the Jago, a nest of rats, breeding, breeding, as only rats can; and we say it is well. On high moral grounds we uphold the right of rats to multiply their thousands. Sometimes we catch a rat. And we keep it a little while, nourish it carefully, and put it back into the nest to propagate its kind.’

Father Sturt walked a little way in silence. Then he said: – ‘You are right, of course. But who’ll listen, if you shout it from the housetops? I might try to proclaim it myself, if I had time and energy to waste. But I have none – I must work, and so must you. The burden grows day by day, as you say. The thing’s hopeless, perhaps, but that is not for me to discuss. I have my duty.’

The surgeon was a young man, but Shoreditch had helped him over most of his enthusiasms. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘quite right. People are so very genteel, aren’t they?’ He laughed, as at a droll remembrance. ‘But, hang it all, men like ourselves needn’t talk as though the world was built of hardbake. It’s a mighty relief to speak truth with a man who knows – a man not rotted through with sentiment. Think how few men we trust with the power to give a fellow creature a year in gaol, and how carefully we pick them! Even damnation is out of fashion, I believe, among theologians. But any noxious wretch may damn human souls to the Jago, one after another, year in year out, and we respect his right: his sacred right.’ (Chapter 29)

If anyone is allowed to have children, then the problem of children brought into the world by drunk, addicted or irresponsible adults is eternal. This appears to be Morrison’s own view because it is repeated in several of the letters which Miles includes in the OUP edition. The infection can never be completely cured. Morrison followed his patron, the Reverend Jay, in thinking that only moving the population lock, stock and barrel to penal colonies in completely different environments might break the cycle of illiteracy, drunkenness, violence and crime. Almost nothing could be done if you just left them to breed in London.

Part three

Another four years pass. The County Council starts to demolish the Jago and replace the tenements with tall, yellow-brick barracks-like apartments. Dicky is a hardened crook, coming up to seventeen. Josh is released from prison. He drinks his way across London to a surly reunion with his long-suffering wife and his unseen child who howls and wails at the sight of him, to the amusement of all the Jagos crammed into the pub.

Bill Rann persuades Josh to take part in a job – ‘cut and dried as a topper’ – to rob Aaron Weech. This is a red rag to a bull since Josh has spent four years in prison mulling over how Weech turned him in and also how he never lifted a finger to help his starving wife and children.

Things go wrong from the start, with the window proving hard to open, and the downstairs rooms proving empty of loot. Climbing the stairs Josh becomes thick-minded with hate, ceasing to make any effort at furtive creeping, clumping, awaking Weech who comes to his door with a lamp in his hand.

In a grim, late-Victorian scene, Josh grips Weech by the neck and slashes at his face, roaring out his list of accusations and blame, until he hacks at Weech’s throat, then lets the bloody lump fall at his feet. But the commotion has drawn the police and when Josh, foolishly looks out the window, by lantern-light several coppers recognise him.

Rann had long since scarpered. Now Josh takes to the rooftops and flees the baying crowd in a scene which is identical to Bill Sykes’s rooftop flight in Oliver Twist, written 60 years earlier. He makes it to a strong iron downpipe, shimmies down it plans to make it to the maze of slums in Honey Lane but hasn’t reckoned on the way the north-east of the slum has been cleared to make room for the new council housing. In the dark he falls into a hole dug for foundations, twisting his ankle, unable to move.

In the next chapter, Morrison again borrows from Dickens in portraying Josh Perrott’s feverish frame of mind, seeing the entire rigmarole of his trial for murder from the perspective of a mind overwhelmed by feverish, fast-moving, inconsequential worries and perceptions, morbidly obsessed with the smell of the old fence’s squalid den, the pervasive smell of rotting pickles, and

when he turned to face the judge again he had forgotten the time, and crowded trivialities were racing through the narrow gates of his brain once more.

We see the lengthy, wordy, repetitive rigmarole of the trial through Josh’s fevered mind, then the guilty verdict, Hannah fainting. Then a few days later he is hustled out of his cell, meekly thanks his gaolers, through the exercise yard and into the execution shed, up the steps to the gallows and then…

Father Sturt tries to give Hannah some charring work, but she’s useless at it. Dicky swears vengeance on the world. He half thinks of suicide but that’s soft talk. He’s got his mum and the kids to look after. He’s walking back to the Jago, with a plan for a job tonight, with Tommy Rann, a builder’s yard in Kingsland, when he runs into a fight. A mob of Jago youth is roused and storming towards Dove Lane. A fight, a fight will clear his head, anything to take his mind off his dad and… So Dicky joins in, storms Dove Lane with the others, throws himself into the centre of the melee, laying about him with a big stick when he feels a sharp punch under the arm and stumbles forward.

There’s blood, the boys nearest cry out that he’s been stabbed. It was his old enemy, the hunchback. The fight breaks up and everyone flees, apart from a few lads who lay Dicky on his back while the blood gurgles into his lungs. The lads come with a loose wooden door, lay him on it and take him to the surgeon. Father Sturt arrives and takes Dicky’s hand. They ask him who did it and to the end Dicky keeps up Jago morality, refusing to snitch.


Life before sex and drugs and rock’n’roll

I’ve been watching the American TV series, The Wire, set in Baltimore and following a team of detectives as they bug and gather evidence on a powerful drug-dealing operation. Series three follows the rivalry and warfare between two leading drug gangs, complicated by the involvement of a wild card drug thief and assassin, Omar.

The point is that a modern depiction of really rough slums (as of 2003, when the TV series is set) features:

Drugs The underworld is dominated by a network of drug dealers – small-timers on the street, distributing for higher-up gang leaders, some of whom have made enough money to begin investing in property and even entering the city’s corrupt politics.

Gun crime Rival gang members freely shoot each other dead, either individually or in mass firefights.

Sex And their lifestyle overlaps with prostitution. The series doesn’t hold back on scenes of dealers getting blow jobs up dark alleyways or shagging hookers doggy-fashion in cars or enjoying the services of high class escorts.

Music All this is set against a semi-permanent backdrop of hard core rap music, music which seems to both describe the violent amoral world of its origins, and encourage and propagate its values.

Looking back at A Child of the Jago requires a big effort to block all this – the contemporary world of music, drugs and violent crime – out of your imagination. In 1896 there were no mass-produced drugs. Some of the characters – including Dicky’s dad – drink heavily but there are no alcoholics, as such, no people completely incapacitated by booze. They all need to stay sharp in order to thieve.

There were no cars, so people were much more limited, psychologically, to their home turf, in this case the grid of Jago streets which provide all kinds of back exits and short cuts which characters can use to escape from the police (on the rare occasions they show up) or, more probably, from other characters after their blood.

There are no guns so, although there is a continual threat of violence, all of which is serious – being bottled in the face, hit on the head with a cosh, whacked on the arm with bits of metal fence or, occasionally, stabbed – in the end the actual homicide rate is relatively low.

There is no music. The baleful events of The Wire play out to a backdrop of music appropriate to the characters, mostly hard-core rap, the indiscriminate consumption of which somehow confirms the shallow amorality of the characters sub-human lifestyle.

But there was no recorded music in Victorian times and so music in the book is rare. Occasionally you might come across a drunk singing on a street corner. More often there’ll be a sing-song in the pub, especially if it has an old joanna which someone can play. Then there are the stern, four-square hymns which emanate from churches or are sung by the Sally Army. But otherwise, the only sounds are of horses and carts and people.

Lastly, there appears to be no sex. The Victorians must have had sex otherwise we wouldn’t be here, but you wouldn’t think so from most of their art or fiction. Right at the start it’s explained that wives are sent out onto the busier streets to lure unwary men back into the Jago, so waiting husbands can cosh and mug them. But if there is any actual sex or prostitution in A Child of the Jago I couldn’t detect it.

Peter Miles, the editor of the Oxford University Press edition which I read, includes a dozen or more contemporary reviews of the novel in  his notes. By far the most interesting is a piece by Robert Blatchford, socialist and editor, who points out this glaring absence of sex from the story.

According to Blatchford, both critics and defenders of A Child of the Jago waste their breath debating its realism, since it omits:

  • the actual swearwords all working men use but are forbidden in print
  • the prevalence of illness
  • the ubiquity of prostitution whereby most of the Jago children are prostitutes before they reach their teens

The social impact of disease and prostitution (and the combination of both in venereal disease) are not discussed because they are not allowed to be discussed under the cultural self-censorship and the actual legal censorship, of the times. Therefore, according to Blatchford, Morrison’s depiction may revel in violence and crime – but massively fails to give a full and accurate picture of life in the slums.

This censorship helps to explain the feeling that, upon reading a book like this, you enter a world of different concerns and issues from our present day.

In the absence of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll, what would have concerned a late-Victorian middle-class reader of the book? Well:

  1. The non-stop violence.
  2. The squalor and uncleanliness – this would have been linked to middle-class anxiety about cholera and other contagious diseases spreading to middle-class areas from sinks of filth like the Jago.
  3. The continual low-level thieving – everybody pinches any valuable they see. Though mainly carried out within the slum itself, the crooks do sometimes venture further afield to nick things from shops or pick pockets.
  4. The lack of Christian faith. None of the slum-dwellers knows or cares anything about religion, except as a way of wangling free food and drink out of naive missionaries. In his copious notes, Peter Miles quotes the 1886 census of the East End which declared that 92% of the population did not attend a service of any religious denomination.
  5. The immorality of living in sin. Even if they consider themselves ‘married’, very few of the couples in the book have actually been through a church service. Thus, in the eyes of any theologian, every time they have sex they are committing a cardinal sin which will send their souls to hell. They really did need to be saved, and soon. Hence the expense of money and effort opening Missions and building new churches.
  6. The lack of education. There is a free Board School close to the slum but none of the parents let their children go there because a) it’s a waste of time, they should be home helping their mum or, as soon as they’re able, going out to earn money thieving; b) if they attended school, their names would be taken down, and so the authorities would be able to identify them and their parents. No, no, the Jago parents prefer to stay off the grid, any grid.

Although the underlying principles – extremely poor, uneducated people living in filthy conditions, amid ceaseless violence and crime – are similar, it’s the difference between slum life of 1896 and slum life today which strike the modern reader.

Colourful names

Morrison has a sure way with names. Compare and contrast with his vastly more famous contemporary, Rudyard Kipling (Morrison born 1863, Kipling born 1865) all of whose names, in his hundreds of short stories, are arch and contrived, for example the names of the three soldiers in the British army who feature in some seventeen stories – Learoyd, Mulvaney and Ortheris.

By contrast, Morrison’s characters’ names – like his depiction of late Victorian street speech – feel entirely authentic and colourful:

Mother Gapp, Cocko Harnwell, Kiddo Cook, Josh Perrott, Aaron Weech, Snuffy, Little Em, Jerry Gullen, Jerry Gullen’s canary (actually a knackered old cart horse), Bill Leary, old Beveridge, Pigeony Poll, Tommy Rann, Pip Walsh, Sally Green, Old Fisher, Mr Grinder, Snob Spicer, Bob the Bender, Pud Palmer, Ginger Stagg.


Related links

Reviews of other fiction of the 1890s

Joseph Conrad

Rudyard Kipling

Henry Rider Haggard

Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Morrison

Robert Louis Stevenson

Bram Stoker

H.G. Wells

Oscar Wilde

Tales of Mean Streets by Arthur Morrison (1894)

Morrison was born into the skilled working class – his father was an engine fitter – in Poplar on the Isle of Dogs.

His family was a couple of notches above the penniless, unemployed, illiterate class of violent thieves which he portrayed in his most famous book, A Child of The Jago. His parents were responsible enough to secure young Arthur an education, which he used to get a job as a clerk, aged 17. He began writing sketches of East End life, which were picked up by local and then national papers, the first one appearing in 1891.

He expanded the sketches into short stories which he sold to some of the quality magazines which proliferated in the 1880s and 1890s, such as The National ObserverMacmillan’s Magazine, and The Pall Mall Budget. The editor of the The National Observer, W.E. Henley, took Morrison under his wing and provided help and guidance. When Morrison gathered the best of these early stories into this collection, published in 1894, he dedicated the volume to Henley. The stories are:

  • Introduction: A Street
  • Lizerunt –
    1. Lizer’s Wooing
    2. Lizer’s First
    3. A Change of Circumstances
  • Without Visible Means
  • To Bow Bridge
  • That Brute Simmons
  • Behind the Shade
  • Three Rounds
  • In Business
  • The Red Cow Group
  • On the Stairs
  • Squire Napper
  • ‘A Poor Stick’
  • A Conversion
  • ‘All that Messuage’

Lizerunt

Elizabeth Hunt, facetiously referred to as Lizerunt, is 17 and works in a pickle factory. On Wanstead Flats at the Whitsun Fair, she is fought over by Billy Chope and Sam Cardew. For five minutes she feels like Helen of Troy.

17 is a bit late for girls to get wed in her circles, so she hurries up and marries Billy. Since her dad is dead and her mother is serving a month in prison for drunk and disorderly, it is a small wedding party – the groom drinks himself unconscious by noon and his mum gets trolleyed on gin. Billy’s only source of income had been extorting money from his mother, who makes a pittance mangling wet washing. Now he takes all Lizer’s wages, too.

Soon Billy beats Lizer. She gets pregnant. A zealous local vicar gives Billy half a crown on hearing about the baby, but Billy avoids him like the plague after the vicar tries to offer him a job. Not bloomin’ likely, mate. Billy demands more money from Lizer, even after she’s stopped working due to being heavily pregnant. One particular morning he demands money and, when she says she’s saving it for the baby, kicks her, and kicks her again.

He storms out, loiters around a protest by unemployed workers hoping to cadge some money, before going to get drunk at a pub, then returning to demand his dinner at 3pm. Instead he finds Lizer in bed, very weak, having given birth to a feeble baby which is bruised down one side from where Billy kicked her.

When she says dinner isn’t ready, Billy begins dragging her out of bed at which point the medical student who delivered the baby returns from washing his hands in the kitchen, sizes up the scene, drags Billy to the street door and kicks him out. Returning to the bedroom, the student finds… Lizer and Billy’s mum yelling abuse at him. But… but… he just protected Lizer! That means nothing to working class solidarity. The women hound him out of the flat, leaving Billy free to come back home later and take his violent revenge.

You can see very clearly why Morrison thinks there is no helping these people. They literally reject all attempts at help. All values are inverted so that anyone who dresses well, keeps clean, has rooms full of furniture, is considered uppity. Anyone who can read is suspect. Any man not on the scrounge is suspicious, probably a sneak. And all the women rally round their menfolk no matter how much they beat them up.

By age 21 Lizer has had her third child, lost the job at the pickle factory, ekes an uncertain income from charring, and gives all her money to Billy, who still gives her a regular beating. One day Billy comes across the money his mum had been saving for her funeral hidden away in the base of the mangle. He rants and raves and confiscates it. A few days later his mum dies of heart disease. Unable to face the body which, as per working class tradition, is kept in the coffin in the front room for days, Billy avoids the house till the coroner comes to fetch the corpse.

Billy tries to wangle some sympathy money from the coroner’s jury at the inquest, but they’re wise to people like him. The mangling work which local folk had given to the old lady now dries up, redistributed to other older women, thus reducing Billy’s income. So one rainy night he bullies and kicks Lizer into going out on the street to become a prostitute.

This is the most harsh, unforgiving story in the set and the finale – a husband forcing his beaten wife to go on the game – ensured the book achieved notoriety among moralistic Victorian reviewers.

Without visible means

This story describes the tramp north of a handful of men who’ve been thrown out of work by the Great Strikes of 1888. In a vague, uneducated way, without maps or a sense of the distance, they set off for Newcastle. We’re introduced to the accordionist among them, who soon gets work entertaining in pubs, to Skulker Newman who talks about overthrowing the capitalist classes and then, one night, steals the toolbag of poor Joey Clayton, weak and victimised because he didn’t immediately join the strike.

Now Joey’s had his last belongings in the world nicked off him, he slowly gets weaker and weaker, worn down by the long days tramping, eventually coughing blood and well on the way to dying. His sole surviving companion on the march leaves him passed out in a pub with a chalked message on the table asking that he be taken to the workhouse.

To Bow Bridge

More an urban sketch than a story, this an account of the 11 o’clock journey of the tram from Stratford to Bow which is packed with drunks travelling from outer London, where pubs shut at 11, to the County of London (Bow), where pubs shut at 12, to get an extra hour of drinking.

The drunks on the tram jostle and fight, a tired prostitute tries to be friendly to a child travelling with a ‘respectable’ woman, who pulls the child closer, a fat woman sits athwart a number of other passengers, a man throws up in the tram doorway, a loud fight upstairs comes tumbling down the steps as the tram arrives at Bow Bridge and all the drunks and drabs hurriedly exit.

That Brute Simmons

A genuinely funny story in which polite, well-employed carpenter and joiner Tommy Simmons is quietly married to Hannah, widow of a Mr Ford.

Hannah always gets her own way. She has Tommy washing the cutlery and cleaning the stairs every week, as well as bathing and putting to bed the children. Then Hannah has the bright idea of making Tommy’s clothes for him out of shreds and patches found in rag shops, with the result that he becomes a laughing stock at work. Long-suffering is Tommy Simmons.

One day there’s a knock at his door and a very shifty, dirty man introduces himself as her first husband, Bob Ford, presumed drowned in a shipping accident but in fact rescued by a German ship and spent years at sea. Now, he says, he’s returned to claim his marriage rights!

Tommy is gobsmacked. Bob observes the effect, then, in the manner of all good confidence men, says he is prepared to waive his claims for a mere £5. At this point the reader realises he is scamming Tommy. But the joke is on Bob because the crux of the story is that Bob’s return is the straw which cracks Tommy’s morale. Rather than offer to pay Ford to clear off, Tommy says that, No, he will go, he will do the decent thing and let Ford get back together with Hannah!

Ford now panics because this wasn’t his plan at all, so he drops his price to £3. But Tommy’s mind is made up and he says, ‘No, he’s going to do the decent thing and leave. Bob can have her.’ ‘How about £1?’ wheedles Bob. ‘And I’ll buy you a pint into the bargain.’

At that point there’s a knock on the door and it is the egregious Hannah. Tommy goes downstairs to open the door, greets Hannah and tells her there’s someone upstairs to see her. As she turns to go inside, Tommy legs it down the street, planning never to come back. Meanwhile, old Bob, having seen all this from the first floor, swiftly:

flung into the back room, threw open the window, dropped from the wash-house roof into the back-yard, scrambled desperately over the fence, and disappeared into the gloom.

This is described so vividly it made me laugh out loud.

But because no-one saw Bob arrive, or leave, or knew who he was or heard of his offer, all the neighbours – and indeed Hannah – ever understood about the affair was that Tommy Simmons thoughtlessly abandoned his wife. So he goes down in street legend as that brute!

Behind the Shade

A rather grim short couple of scenes in which Mrs and Miss Perkins try to keep up appearances after the death of the respectable Mr Perkins removes their only source of income. But then an ‘accident’ occurs to Mrs Perkins – i.e. she is savagely beaten up by a passing drunk – leaving her bed-bound. Miss Perkins wastes away, and one day their bodies are both found dead from starvation.

Three Rounds

A vivid description of young Neddy Milton, 18 and out of work, wandering the Bethnal Green Road having eaten nothing all day, until the evening brings his involvement in one of the prize fights organised in the back of the Prince Regent pub.

It’s a really vivid, visceral description of a hungry and rather puny young man getting badly beaten by his stronger opponent, Patsy Beard, but trying to respond under the encouragement of the one-eyed pug-sized ‘second’, who gives him pep talks and cold water between each of the three rounds.

It’s short and intense and makes the reader feel like they’ve just been through a three-round fight.

In Business

This is a story about snobbery.

Ted Munsey inherits £100 from his uncle. His wife’s family had always thought she married beneath her, since her dad was a dock timekeeper and Ted was only a moulder at Moffat’s. Mrs Munsey immediately decides they must set up a haberdasher’s shop, solely in order to move up into the shop-keeping class. So they hire a shop with rooms in Bromley, and fit it out with stock, and Ted finds himself told to leave Moffat’s, wear smart clothes, brylcreem his hair and become a ‘shopwalker’.

Inevitably it fails. It not only fails but both the Moffats are taken in by a smooth-talking salesman who persuades them to take a quantity of towels and aprons off him, at a very decent wholesale price, the whole to be repaid, with credit, in three months time. The shop attracts fewer customers than ever, and Mrs M takes out her frustration with relentless criticism of Ted, who her mother warned her against etc etc.

One day she wakes up to find he has tried to write a legal document, taking all legal responsibilities for the debt on himself, and has left. What becomes of him, her or the shop, we never find out.

The Red Cow Group

A satire on the low stupidity, ignorance and selfishness of a so-called ‘political’ grouping.

The blowsy, middle-aged inhabitants of the hidden-away Red Cow bar are happy to spend their evenings drinking their pints, until the frustrated young firebrand Sotcher is introduced into their midst, with his simple message that they are the salt of the earth and deserve more. Who wouldn’t believe such a message?

Slowly the Red Cow group came around. Plainly other people were better off than they; and certainly each man found it hard to believe that anybody else was more deserving than himself.

He then persuades them to blow something up, to strike a blow at the, er, you know, them toffs and the system and everythink.

The whole story is played for a series of laughs. Even once the pub drunks are persuaded that they’re ‘as good as any man’ and ‘why shouldn’t they live in big houses with fancy servants’ and that blowing something up will be ‘the first blow in overthrowing the system’ – they are still upset to learn that they won’t be getting paid to blow up the local gasworks. No, explains the young firebrand Sotcher.

They would get the glory, Sotcher assured them, and the consciousness of striking a mighty blow at this, and that, and the other… There was no committee, and no funds: there was nothing but glory, and victory, and triumph, and the social revolution, and things of that kind.

Sotcher gives a couple of the least stupid among them instructions on how to manufacture nitro-glycerine at home. The group begins to take up Sotcher’s rhetoric, especially his form of revolutionary bullying, namely that anyone who questions his orders or hesitates to carry them out is an enemy of the people and of the revolution who must be treated to ‘revolutionary justice’ i.e. whatever he says.

Which makes it all the funnier when the lads one evening turn up in the little pub with a canister of what they claim is pure nitro-glycerine and tell Sotcher that, in his absence, they’ve held a democratic vote and nominated him to be the man to plant the bomb at the gasworks.

Revealing himself to be a first-class coward, Sotcher squeals that he can’t do it, and pompously declares that he’s from the Education Branch not the Active Branch of the group – at which the other members begin muttering that he’s a backslider, probably a copper’s nark. Maybe they ought to ‘eliminate’ him there and then – and while a couple of strong men hold Sotcher in their grip, the others have an educated discussion about the best way to do it – the most garish being putting a stick in his neckerchief and twisting it till he’s garrotted.

During all this they keep plying Sotcher with beer till he’s insensible – then, in the dead of night, they carry him down to the gasworks, prop his unconscious body against the gasometer, tie the explosive canister to his body, light the fuse and scarper.

A small bang alerts the local constable who goes to the scene, finds Sotcher unconscious and reeking of booze, near a homemade firework. Next morning at the magistrates court, the young firebrand is charged with being drunk and incapable, and is fined five shillings.

Morrison implies that so-called ‘radical’ or ‘anarchist’ politics is a sordid and ridiculous shambles.

On the Stairs

Brief sketch of two old women meeting on the stairs in a dilapidated old house inhabited by eight poor families, and discussing the fact that the son of one of them, Bob, is at death’s door. The mother knows, ‘cos she heard a fateful knocking at the bedhead last night. They discuss funeral arrangements and expenses and Mrs Manders describes (for the umpteenth time) the grand sending-off she gave her husband.

They’re disturbed by the arrival of the doctor’s assistant. He goes in to see the sick young man, emerges and says he really needs medicine. Mrs Curtis says she can’t afford it. The assistant is pricked by his conscience and eventually gives her five shillings to buy some – blissfully ignorant that his superior, the doctor, gave the woman the self-same sum the day before.

He tips his hat and leaves. Now she can give her son a decent sending off, she winks at her wizened friend.

Moral: bourgeois charity is misplaced because it misunderstands the completely different value system of the slum dwellers who will do or say anything in order to screw money, now, out of any willing sap prepared to give it, regardless of long-term consequences.

Squire Napper

A very funny account of Bill Napper who inherits £300 from his brother (who had emigrated to Australia and has just passed away). Bill has a job and so is pretty respectable:

Bill Napper was a heavy man of something between thirty-five and forty. His moleskin trousers were strapped below the knees, and he wore his coat loose on his back, with the sleeves tied across his chest. The casual observer set him down a navvy, but Mrs. Napper punctiliously made it known that he was ‘in the paving’; which meant that he was a pavior.

Nonetheless, Bill has the stupid craftiness of the uneducated and is suspicious of every aspect of the lawyer’s office where he’s called, refuses to sign anything, thinking he’s very crafty and canny. The whole thing is done with a nice ironic, comedic touch.

In a nutshell, Bill drinks his way through the entire inheritance, and then beats his wife in his anger at its disappearance. Along the way there are several very comic scenes, such as the time he persuades his entire gang of pavement layers to chuck in work and spend the afternoon in the pub ‘on the wet’; or the way he hires a Victoria Park orator, the shifty Minns, to come to his house and deliver his speeches pulverising Capital and the Greedy Classes in the comfort of his front room.

‘A Poor Stick’

Mrs Jennings:

was what is called rather a fine woman: a woman of large scale and full development; whose slatternly habit left her coarse black hair to tumble in snake-locks about her face and shoulders half the day; who, clad in half-hooked clothes, bore herself notoriously and unabashed in her fulness.

She lords it over her husband, Robert, who has a regular job but is also expected to wash and dress for bed the filthy children. One day she runs off with the lodger, but poor pathetic Robert, though mocked at work, and gently chided by his brother-in-law, refuses to accept she’s gone and, every night, dresses smart and goes to the stretch of the High Street where they used to promenade up and down when they were courting. Genuinely pathetic.

A Conversion

The criminal career of Scuddy Lond, told with hilarious facetiousness describing his unbending commitment to a life of crime, except when he’s caught and brought up before the beak, when he breaks down into a sincere and tearful repentance. Again.

Scuddy went regularly into business as a lob-crawler: that is to say, he returned to his first love, the till: not narrowly to any individual till, but broad-mindedly to the till as a general institution, to be approached in unattended shops by stealthy grovelling on the belly. This he did until he perceived the greater security and comfort of waiting without while a small boy did the actual work within.

From this, and with this, he ventured on peter-claiming: laying hands nonchalantly on unconsidered parcels and bags at railway stations, until a day when, bearing a fat portmanteau, he ran against its owner by the door of a refreshment bar.

[Brought before the magistrate he claimed…] This time the responsibility lay with Drink. Strong Drink, he declared, with deep emotion, had been his ruin; he dated his downfall from the day when a false friend persuaded him to take a Social Glass; he would still have been an honest, upright, self-respecting young man but for the Cursed Drink. From that moment he would never touch it more. The case was met with three months with hard labour, and for all that Scuddy Lond had so clearly pointed out the culpability of Drink, he had to do the drag himself. But the mission-readers were comforted: for clearly there was hope for one whose eyes were so fully opened to the causes of his degradation.

Note the ‘mission-readers’ here i.e. the self-deluding high-minded members of Christian Missions to the East End who see in Scuddy’s long list of slick repentances the chance that he might, one day, actually mean it.

This turns out to be the point of the story which describes how, one hungry evening, as Scuddy is wandering the streets, smelling food, feeling sorry for himself, he listens to a woman on a street corner singing a sentimental song and then, for once, allows one of the barkers on the door of a Christian Mission to persuade him to go inside the hall.

Here he listens to moving testimony from a big navvy about his conversion to Jesus, and then a long sermon from the vicar who preaches the Love of God. At the end of the service Scuddy is presented to the vicar along with a few other converts of the evening. Born again! A new life!

None of which stops him, upon exiting the church and walking along a dank passage, from nicking the day’s takings of the lame woman selling hot pigs’ trotters, when she momentarily turns her back.

The moral doesn’t need to be made explicit but it is the same in all Morrison’s stories: the slum-dwellers are hard cases, can’t be saved, it is folly to think so.

‘All That Messuage’

A story in eleven sections which tells the decline and fall of Old Jack Randall after he spends all his savings to put down a deposit and take out a mortgage on Number Twenty-seven Mulberry Street, Old Ford. Very ignorant, neither his wife nor Old Jack have factored in the rates and other costs of such a project, and right at the start Morrison shows that they will fail, financially.

But it also has social costs. Word gets round that Old Jack is now a landlord with all the respect that engenders. So everyone thinks it must mean he’s rich. So his son comes round to borrow half a pound and when Old Jack refuses – because he genuinely has used up every penny of his saving on the deposit – his son goes away chagrined and his daughter-in-law starts bad-mouthing him. That’s the start of the family rejecting Old Jack.

In the same way a few blokes from the workshop where he works ask Jack to lend them a quid. When he embarrassedly refuses, they turn against him. A landlord has loads of money. Everyone knows that.

Things get worse when the old tenant quits and a new one, a bold pushing public orator named Joe Parsons, offers to rent the house. As the weeks pass it becomes clear that he is not going to pay. More, he is sub-letting the upper room. When Old Jack protests, Parsons calls him a blood-sucking leech and subjects him to one of his ‘radical’ tirades:

‘Y’ ain’t earnt it. It’s you blasted lan’lords as sucks the blood o’ the workers. You go an’ work for your money.’

When Old Jack points out that he, Parsons, is taking (illegal) rent, Parson ignores him, threatens to punch him and finally pushes him out the front door before slamming it in his face.

Meanwhile, Old Jack hasn’t been able to pay the mortgage to the credit company. He’s going deeper into debt. There’s a strike at another factory which extends to his workshop. Everyone downs tools except Old Jack, who can’t afford to, but is vilified as not only a scab but as a filthy rich landlord of a scab.

In the penultimate scene, Old Jack comes across Parsons orating to a crowd in the park, and is unwise enough to shout out ‘Pay me your rent’. Parsons uses the full force of his radical rhetoric to persuade the crowd that Jack is not only a heartless, rich landlord who wants to throw him – Parsons – and his wife out onto the street, but he is a blackleg and a scab too.

The surly crowd punch and hit Jack, knocking him to the ground. His wife, who had been shopping nearby, comes running and throws herself over his body, but the mob just start kicking her as well.

Old Jack was down. A dozen heavy boots were at work about his head and belly. In from the edge of the crowd a woman tore her way, shedding potatoes as she ran, and screaming; threw herself upon the man on the ground; and shared the kicks. Over the shoulders of the kickers whirled the buckle-end of a belt. ‘One for the old cow,’ said a voice.

Months later, alive but unable to work, the house repossessed by an unconcerned mortgage company, all their possessions pawned to pay for necessities, Old Jack and his wife enter a workhouse.


Tone

The tone is knowing and facetious, in several ways. Morrison describes the habits, mindset, values and behaviours of his slum-dwellers in often elaborate and Biblical language, in order to highlight the discrepancy between discourse and content, to create irony, to be funny.

Here he is ventriloquising the thoughts of Bill Napper after he’s inherited his fortune, putting the thoughts into the cod-Biblical phraseology of pompous Victorian prose.

One of the chief comforts of affluence is that you may have beer in by the barrel; for then Sundays and closing times vex not, and you have but to reach the length of your arm for another pot whenever moved thereunto.

Another Morrison tactic is to state unexpected and dire aspects of the life in the slums as if they were well-known facts and commonly accepted values. For example, that all good young ladies should be married by the age of 16 (Lizerunt) or that a man will live off the labour of his wife and regularly beat her up to keep her in line – these are facetiously treated as universal truths which who could possibly deny?

In the end there was a vehement row, and the missis was severely thumped. (Squire Napper)

From within came a noise of knocks and thuds and curses – sometimes a gurgle. Old Jack asked a small boy, whose position in the passage betokened residence, what was going forward. ‘It’s the man downstairs,’ said the boy, ‘a-givin’ of it to ‘is wife’. (‘All That Messuage‘)

It is the casual way that violence, especially against women, is accepted as a boring everyday occurrence, which makes it all the more shocking.

Violence permeates all aspects of life, and is in fact one of the few forms of entertainment the slum-dwellers have. Here is Squire Napper exuding the superiority of his new-found wealth:

In his own street, observing two small boys in the prelusory stages of a fight, he put up sixpence by way of stakes, and supervised the battle from the seat afforded by a convenient window-sill.

That is broad humour, where the permanent background violence which saturates life in the slums is treated as a joke.

Something more complicated is going on in this description of the small house built at the end of a slum terrace, whose tenants reckon themselves a cut above the neighbours. The comedy is at the expense of the ladies’ pretentions to respectability.

Although the house was smaller than the others, and was built upon a remnant, it was always a house of some consideration. In a street like this mere independence of pattern gives distinction. And a house inhabited by one sole family makes a figure among houses inhabited by two or more, even though it be the smallest of all. And here the seal of respectability was set by the shade of fruit – a sign accepted in those parts.

Now, when people keep a house to themselves, and keep it clean; when they neither stand at the doors nor gossip across back-fences; when, moreover, they have a well-dusted shade of fruit in the front window; and, especially, when they are two women who tell nobody their business: they are known at once for well-to-do, and are regarded with the admixture of spite and respect that is proper to the circumstances. They are also watched.

‘Proper to the circumstances’. Morrison lards the stories with the values of the slum-dwellers taken at face value and simultaneously revealing and funny. But it ain’t all fun and games. Contrast both these examples with a slice of much more savage humour.

Then Mrs. Perkins met with her accident. A dweller in Stidder’s Rents overtook her one night, and, having vigorously punched her in the face and the breast, kicked her and jumped on her for five minutes as she lay on the pavement. (In the dark, it afterwards appeared, he had mistaken her for his mother.)

That last phrase made me burst out laughing for its unexpectedness, but it is at the same time a harsh, horrible description, and is meant to be. Mrs Perkins is permanently bed-bound because of this savage attack. It is an example of the way Morrison often lulls you into a state of acquiescence in the humdrum lives of the poor – and then hits you with a sucker punch describing something really horrible – the bottling of a woman, the death of a baby.

(The use of paradox – if that’s the right word – the technique of saying the most outrageous things in the calmest, most natural way, began to remind me of Oscar Wilde. Not the tone, the tone is completely different. Just the structure. Saying the outrageous with cavalier indifference.)

Politics

None of the characters have any serious politics, and Morrison doesn’t waste time editorialising about the viciousness he describes. Maybe it was this lack of sermons, and the sometimes savage way that he accepts the brutality of life in the slums, which made his stories notorious and controversial.

The Press He is consistently dismissive of anyone or anything which is under the delusion that it can change these people. In a throwaway phrase he conveys the uselessness of the Press’s high-minded editorials, all piss and vinegar which change nothing.

After the inquest the street had an evening’s fame: for the papers printed coarse drawings of the house, and in leaderettes demanded the abolition of something. Then it became its wonted self.

‘The abolition of something’ – so irrelevant he can’t even be bothered to specify what. In Squire Napper Orator Minns and his shifty mate try to persuade Napper to invest money in a new newspaper which, it is clear to all concerned, is regarded as simply a money-making scam.

Radicals The Red Cow Group is supposedly about an ‘anarchist’ group and so ought to contain a tincture of political thought, but is used solely as the opportunity for satire.

Here [in the Red Cow pub] he [Sotcher] had an audience, an audience that did not lecture on its own account, a crude audience that might take him at his own valuation. So he gave it to that crude audience, hot and strong. They (and he) were the salt of the earth, bullied, plundered and abused. Down with everything that wasn’t down already. And so forth and so on.

‘And so forth and so on’ – Morrison dismisses the entire radical rhetoric as meaningless puff. The young firebrand Sotcher is shown to be full of highfalutin’ phrases which mean nothing. And then turns out to be a coward. All he stirs in the drinkers in the Red Cow is their long-standing sense of grievance and injustice that other people are somehow richer than them. ‘T’ain’t fair’. There’s no thought or policy behind their griping.

think the ‘anarchists’ make a bomb not with nitro-glycerine but with sand and castor oil as a joke on Sotcher, though it might be their own incompetence. Either way, the whole ‘anarchist’ movement is shown to be the piss and wind of idiot braggers.

Minns In the story Squire Napper Minns, the public orator who Bill Napper hires to sound off in the comfort of his own front room, is revealed to be not only a windy bullshitter, like Sotcher, but a liar and a thief. With an associate he one night tries to break into Bill’s house. Having opened the casement window, he is just peering his head through the gap when Bill hits him hard with the heel of his boot and Minns tumbles back down into the yard. The real punchline to this is later, at one of his regular public orations to a crowd in the park, Minns claims that the cut and bruise on his head are evidence of police brutality:

the proof and sign of a police bludgeoning at Tower Hill – or Trafalgar Square.

Parsons The shifty-looking man who moves into Old Jack Randall’s house is a well-known orator and agitator and – turns out to be a crook who uses the language of radicalism – all landlords are blood-sucking leeches – purely to justify his own thieving and skiving.

Summary: all socialists and radicals are self-serving hypocrites who use the rhetoric of radicalism solely to express their own personal grievances, who turn out to be liars, bullies and thieves, and who, given half a chance, don’t hesitate to exploit people just as hard as the landlords or owners they execrate.

The fatuousness of political opinions

On Sundays and Saturday afternoons Bill would often take a turn down by the dock gates, or even in Victoria Park, or Mile End Waste, where there were speakers of all sorts. At the dock gates it was mostly Labor and Anarchy, but at the other places there was a fine variety; you could always be sure of a few minutes of Teetotalism, Evangelism, Atheism, Republicanism, Salvationism, Socialism, Anti-Vaccinationism, and Social Purity, with now and again some Mormonism or another curious exotic. Most of the speakers denounced something, and if the denunciations of one speaker were not sufficiently picturesque and lively, you passed on to the next. Indeed, you might always judge afar off where the best denouncing was going on by the size of the crowds, at least until the hat went round.

Bill had always vastly admired the denunciations of one speaker – a little man, shabbier, if anything, than most of the others, and surpassingly tempestuous of antic. He was an unattached orator, not confining himself to any particular creed, but denouncing whatever seemed advisable, considering the audience and circumstances. He was always denouncing something somewhere, and was ever in a crisis that demanded the circulation of a hat. Bill esteemed this speaker for his versatility as well as for the freshness of his abuse.

All these radical oppositional views are seen as interchangeable forms of entertainment, with no higher meaning. This view is taken to extremes when Bill Napper takes a fancy to orator Minns, and pays him a shilling a time to come to his home, stand in the living room and denounce, well, whatever he has handy. When he ran out of steam denouncing one subject, Bill sets him off denouncing another. Like a record player.

Political or social issues are reduced to the level of music hall songs: people make requests for their favourites. All gas and gaiters. Nothing ever changes.

Individual charity such as that of the medical assistant in On the Stairs, is deluded and wasted. He gives the poor old lady five shillings for medicine for her son. 1. Her son dies anyway. 2. She spends it on a smart funeral. 3. His boss, the doctor, had already given her five shillings which disappeared in drink. The only tangible result of his impulse to charity will be that the assistant will now be a prey to every beggar, conman and bleeding heart in the neighbourhood.

He was not a wealthy young man – wealthy young men do not devil for East End doctors – but he was conscious of a certain haul of sixpences at nap the night before; and, being inexperienced, he did not foresee the career of persecution whereon he was entering at his own expense and of his own motion.

Names

The colourful names of Morrison’s proles or near-proles remind me of the lively monikers of Damon Runyon’s characters. They include: Billy Chope, Bella Dawson, Sam Cardew, Joey Clayton, Skulky Newman, Tommy Simmons, Bob Ford, Neddy Milton, Tab Rosser, Beard Patsy, Tab Rosser, Hocko Jones, Tiggy Magson, Ted Munsey, Jerry Shand, Gunno Polson, Snorkey, Bill Napper, and Scuddy Lond.


Related links

Other fiction of the 1890s

Joseph Conrad

Rudyard Kipling

Henry Rider Haggard

Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Morrison

Robert Louis Stevenson

Bram Stoker

H.G. Wells

Oscar Wilde

The Island of Doctor Moreau by H.G. Wells (1896)

‘These creatures you have seen are animals carven and wrought into new shapes. To that, to the study of the plasticity of living forms, my life has been devoted.’ (Dr Moreau, chapter 14)

The main text is a ‘lost narrative’, in this case a written account of the adventures of Edward Prendick, which is found among his papers after his death by his nephew, Charles Edward Prendick, and is now being given to the public ‘for the first time’.

This is a time-honoured old literary convention but it always makes me perk up, as it promises a certain kind of text, an old-fashioned adventure narrative, much as Conan Doyle’s story The Horror of the Heights transcribes the ‘blood-stained notebook’ belonging to a Mr. Joyce-Armstrong, or the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is told through letters and diaries, the kind of textual fragments which also throng the Sherlock Holmes stories.

Shipwrecked

The story is simple enough in outline. Prendick describes how the schooner he’s a passenger on in the South Seas (The Lady Vain) hits a wreck and sinks. He scrambles into a dinghy with two others. After days without food or water, the two sailors he’s with attack each other and fall overboard. It is in this state, alone, half delirious and drifting in an open boat, that he is picked up by another schooner, the Ipecacuanha, and nursed back to health by a passenger on this boat, Montgomery, a former medical student.

The captain of the second boat is a disreputable drunk (John Davis) who argues incessantly with Montgomery and his strange, malformed manservant, not least about Montgomery’s cargo of wild animals – a pack of savage hounds, a caged puma and loads of rabbits.

When they reach their destination, a remote island, the drunken captain unloads Montgomery’s animals into a waiting launch steered by an aloof man who is obviously Montgomery’s boss – but then drunkenly insists that Prendick leave the ship, too. Montgomery refuses to take him, and so the drunk captain gets his men to manhandle Prendick into the boat’s dinghy which he sets adrift. Seeing all this, Montgomery and his boss reluctantly turn around their launch and come back for him.

The captain of the launch now introduces himself as Doctor Moreau. He is a big strong, grey-haired man who makes it quite plain to Prendick that he is an unintended and unwelcome guest, but that they couldn’t leave him to drift and die. Now he accompanies them in the boat which docks at a primitive quayside, where the animals are unloaded by yet more men who are strange and almost animal-like in appearance.

The island

And thus Prendick arrives on the island of Dr Moreau, and slowly realises that the good doctor is practicing vivisection – ‘performing operations on live animals for the purpose of experimentation or scientific research’ – before going on to make the horrific discovery – that he is operating on men, too.

I picked myself up and stood trembling, my mind a chaos of the most horrible misgivings. Could it be possible, I thought, that such a thing as the vivisection of men was carried on here? The question shot like lightning across a tumultuous sky; and suddenly the clouded horror of my mind condensed into a vivid realisation of my own danger. (Chapter 10)

Thus there is a secret at the heart of the island, which involves physical danger, and is potentially horrific – and Wells’s task as storyteller is to share Prendick’s slow unravelling of the secret, and to punctuate the narrative with scenes of jeopardy and horror.

Terror

For example, the day after he’s taken in and given a spare room in the ‘compound’, Prendick finds himself deeply disturbed by the sound of the screams of the puma. Moreau is clearly operating on it, with no anaesthetic, all day long. So Prendick goes for a wander around the island which, of course, is a bad idea, because, once he is in the forest, he becomes alert to strange sounds and snufflings, and realises that any number of horrible, misshapen half-men, are loping around it. In one shocking scene he glimpses one of these half-men go down on all fours to slurp water from a stream – just like an animal!

I read this scene late at night and, as I followed Prendick’s realisation that he is lost at night in a tropical jungle filled with half-human beasts – the hair literally stood up on the back of my neck. I read on in genuine fear as Prendick blunders through the darkness, realising he is being followed by something he can’t see, but whose inhuman gruntings and snufflings he can hear getting closer and closer.

A twig snapped behind me, and there was a rustle. I turned, and stood facing the dark trees. I could see nothing – or else I could see too much. Every dark form in the dimness had its ominous quality, its peculiar suggestion of alert watchfulness. So I stood for perhaps a minute, and then, with an eye to the trees still, turned westward to cross the headland; and as I moved, one among the lurking shadows moved to follow me.

My heart beat quickly. Presently the broad sweep of a bay to the westward became visible, and I halted again. The noiseless shadow halted a dozen yards from me. A little point of light shone on the further bend of the curve, and the grey sweep of the sandy beach lay faint under the starlight. Perhaps two miles away was that little point of light. To get to the beach I should have to go through the trees where the shadows lurked, and down a bushy slope.

I could see the Thing rather more distinctly now. It was no animal, for it stood erect. At that I opened my mouth to speak, and found a hoarse phlegm choked my voice. I tried again, and shouted, ‘Who is there?’ There was no answer. I advanced a step. The Thing did not move, only gathered itself together…

It was some time before I could summon resolution to go down through the trees and bushes upon the flank of the headland to the beach. At last I did it at a run; and as I emerged from the thicket upon the sand, I heard some other body come crashing after me. At that I completely lost my head with fear, and began running along the sand. Forthwith there came the swift patter of soft feet in pursuit. I gave a wild cry, and redoubled my pace. Some dim, black things about three or four times the size of rabbits went running or hopping up from the beach towards the bushes as I passed.

So long as I live, I shall remember the terror of that chase. I ran near the water’s edge, and heard every now and then the splash of the feet that gained upon me. Far away, hopelessly far, was the yellow light. All the night about us was black and still. Splash, splash, came the pursuing feet, nearer and nearer. I felt my breath going, for I was quite out of training; it whooped as I drew it, and I felt a pain like a knife at my side… (Chapter 9)

Exciting, eh? Note the (generally) short sentences. Aspects of Wells’s prose occasionally betray his Victorian background (‘forthwith’ and other such ornate phraseology) but for the most part you can see how the need to convey heightened sensations and terror force the prose into shorter, pithy sentences, like outbursts of panting.

Chapter titles

Even the titles of each chapter are designed – with their insistent use of ‘the’ to start each one – to convey a sense of primitive and elemental experience.

The Man Who Was Going Nowhere
The Strange Face
The Evil-Looking Boatmen
The Locked Door
The Crying Of The Puma
The Thing In The Forest
The Crying Of The Man
The Hunting Of The Man
The Sayers Of The Law

The wrecking outsider

There must be a generic name for the kind of story in which a stranger, an outsider, blunders into a fairly stable situation or society, misunderstands and disrupts it, and sets off a train of events which lead to its destruction. Happens in loads of science fiction and adventure stories.

This is a classic example. In chapter 10 of this 22-chapter text, Prendick, overcome with panic that Moreau and Montgomery might be about to experiment on him, breaks free of the compound, running away from Montgomery, and finds himself being befriended by the strange – the really strange – motley of vivisected half-humans and hybrids which Moreau has let run loose on the island.

Prendick discovers that there are far more of these mutants, these ‘beast men’, than he’d imagined, maybe hundreds (Moreau later tells him there are some 67, plus a fleet of 60 or so smaller half-animals). And is inducted into their strange religion, led by a deranged Beast-Man prophet, and reinforced by rhythmic chanting and swaying:

Not to go on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men?
Not to suck up Drink; that is the Law. Are we not Men?
Not to eat Fish or Flesh; that is the Law. Are we not Men?
Not to claw the Bark of Trees; that is the Law. Are we not Men?
Not to chase other Men; that is the Law. Are we not Men?

Moreau and Montgomery track him down to the village of the beast-men, in order to rescue him but Prendick, in his ignorance and panic – still convinced that they mean to operate on him – yells out to the Beast Men that Moreau and Montgomery are just men like them, that they can be easily overcome and defeated, that they are not gods.

In other words – he plants the seeds of The Revolt of the Beast-Men.

Moreau’s justification

Moreau and Montgomery finally persuade Prendick they mean him no harm by handing over their revolvers to him and saying he can keep them. Reluctantly, he agrees to go back to the compound with them. It is here that Moreau makes his Big Statement, justifying  his work to Predick, mixing together contemporary knowledge about vivisection and evolution, into a horrifically amoral quest to mould and create new species.

‘I wanted – it was the one thing I wanted – to find out the extreme limit of plasticity in a living shape.’

He explains that none of the things Prendick saw in the village of the Beast-Men was human. All of them were animals who Moreau had extensively experimented on to give new craniums, larger brains and, above all, larynxes with which to utter sounds. His amorality, his unflinching heartless willingness to inflict unspeakable pain are meant to horrify us.

And Wells sense the mythic necessity for the story of describing Moreau’s anger and frustration at continually failing to create a man from a beast. No matter how subtle his knife and his anatomical knowledge, something is always lacking. The creatures always relapse, the bestial part reawakens.

Neither Moreau nor Wells names it, but Wells is gesturing towards the idea of a soul, as somehow separating man from the beasts, and therefore incapable of any surgical intervention.

This notion that the beast in the vivisected animals rises especially at nightfall, when they dare to do things they would never do during the day, reminded me of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, a full-length novel devoted to describing creatures which can only live at night, which was published the year after Moreau, in 1897.

(Interestingly, Wells had already published the factual core of Moreau’s speech as a scientific article about the limits and possibilities of vivisection in the Saturday Review in January, 1895. An example of the close linkage between current scientific debate, and Wells’s scientific ‘fantasies’.)

Blood is spilt

The catastrophe is slow but remorseless in building up. A rabbit-like creature is discovered which has been killed and eaten. Now, eating meat and tasting blood are against ‘the Law’ which Moreau has been at such pains to instil into his monstrous creations.

He, Montgomery and Prendick go armed with revolvers, whip and a big hunting horn to the Valley of the Beast Men, where Moreau blows the horn and assembles the mutants. The Beast-Men listen while Moreau repeats the law about not tasting flesh, and then repeat it like surly retards. But as Moreau pushes his questioning about who has broken the Law and tasted blood, the Leopard-Man betrays his guilt by suddenly bounding at Moreau, pushing him over and fleeing.

This gives rise to a mass hunt, with the howling yowling beast-people chasing alongside the three men, until they corner the Leopard-Man in a thicket. Here Prendick is overcome by the horrible futility and pointlessness of all of it. If Moreau had some noble purpose in mind, was curing some disease, the pain he inflicts might be acceptable. Instead he creates one botched hybrid after another, releasing them onto the island to live lives of pain and fear, plagued by human thoughts, but without human traditions or feelings to contain them.

Prendick shoots the Leopard-Man to put it out of its misery, but this is just the latest in a long line of his mistakes, which are giving the Beast-Men ideas that the men are no the strong gods they have been whipped into believing.

Many had noticed that when Prendick had sought refuge in their camp, he was bleeding, he was hungry, he was weak. Then, when Moreau and Montgomery had him at bay in the sea, he deliberately shouted to the Beast Men that the white men were just men after all, vulnerable and exposed.

All these seeds which the outsider Prendick has sown now finally bear fruit in a Revolt of the Beast-Men.

The crisis

The actual spark is struck when the puma which Moreau has been operating on for six weeks suddenly breaks free. By now it is half-monster enough to be able to tear its fetters out of the wall, fling Prendick aside (breaking his left arm) and rush for the jungle.

Moreau pursues with a revolver. Montgomery and Prendick follow with Montgomery’s loyal servant, M’ling tagging along. They hear shots and crash through the jungle to find the puma shot dead – and Moreau’s dead body next to it!

Devastated, Montgomery lets slip the words, ‘He’s dead’, but the Beast-Men – who have quickly gathered round – ominously begin to repeat this. Prendick, seeing the danger, steps forward and says in his loudest voice that Moreau is not dead, he has merely cast off this body and gone to heaven to watch over them.

Still, the Beast Men fall to muttering among themselves. Only mindless repetition of the Law, combined with terror of ‘the House of Pain’ (Moreau’s laboratory) have kept them in line. With Moreau dead – what next?

Montgomery, Prendick, M’ling and some of the Beasts carry Moreau’s body back to the compound. The beasts leave. The white men burn Moreau’s corpse, and then lock themselves in.

The next thing is that Montgomery gets drunk and tells Prendick the story of his life. Because of some obscure scandal at medical school he was forced to pack in his career and leave London. He drifted around the South Seas. He was taken in by Moreau and has been living on the island for ten years. His only friend is the mutant M’ling.

Montgomery now gets really drunk, pushes Prendick out of the way and staggers across the beach to find M’ling to persuade him to join him in a drink. Prendick watches figures of some Beast-Men emerge from the forest around the stumbling man, apparently joining in with him, and they all go off together, Montgomery singing.

Prendick realises he has to escape the island. He goes back into the compound to search for things he can pack into the launch, planning to set sail the next day. But then he hears shouting. Looking out the windows he sees that someone has built a fire on the beach and the drinking has turned to violence.

Then he hears shots. He runs towards the fire only to discover that a hairy-grey Beast-Man has mortally wounded Montgomery. M’ling has been savaged and killed. Three of the beasts are dead. Montgomery just has time to say ‘Sorry’, before he dies. And, as the sun rises, Prendick looks round the beach and realises that Montgomery and M’ling, in their nihilistic drunkenness, had chopped up the dinghies and set them on fire. The stupid fool must have drunkenly thought that, if he couldn’t go back to ‘civilisation’, then no-one could.

Still dazed by this realisation, Prendick hears bangs and flares. Looking round, he sees the compound alight, flames climbing higher into the dawn sky. All his plans to flee are crushed.

Among the Beast-Men

There follows what is, in a way, the most enthralling part of the story. Prendick decides to take his courage in his hands and marches to the village of the remaining Beast People. With some of their more rebellious members hot dead, the remnant are, initially, cowed by Prendick. But it soon becomes clear that he is hungry, tired and thirsty. By slow degrees, over the course of days and weeks, he loses his rank as Ruling White Man and, step by step, declines until he is little better than one of them.

So in solitude I came round by the ravine of the Beast People, and hiding among the weeds and reeds that separated this crevice from the sea I watched such of them as appeared, trying to judge from their gestures and appearance how the death of Moreau and Montgomery and the destruction of the House of Pain had affected them. I know now the folly of my cowardice. Had I kept my courage up to the level of the dawn, had I not allowed it to ebb away in solitary thought, I might have grasped the vacant sceptre of Moreau and ruled over the Beast People. As it was I lost the opportunity, and sank to the position of a mere leader among my fellows. (Chapter 20)

Prendick is forced to spend the next ten months among the beasts and during this period, something awful and awe-inspiring happens. Slowly, one by one, he watches as they degrade and decay, reverting to their bestial origins. One by one they forget how to speak, forget how to walk upright, forget about fire, and revert to all the behaviour banned by Moreau’s ‘Laws’ – such as going on all fours and slurping water from streams.

None of them threaten him, but Prendick nonetheless lives in mounting terror.

He keeps a lookout on the horizon. A couple of times he sees what he thinks are sails and lights fires to attract their attention but nobody comes. He makes a series of half-cocked attempts to build a raft, but he is no engineer or handiman.

Finally, one day Prendick sees a dinghy drifting slowly towards the reef. When he swims out to inspect it he finds two well-rotten corpses in it. He tips them out and moors it, fills the empty kegs with fresh water, collects sacksful of fruit – and then pushes off, drifting with the waves, eating and drinking sparingly – in such an abandoned state of mind that he doesn’t really care whether he’s rescued or not. Just to be away from the Island of Beasts is enough.


Degeneration theory

To quote Wikipedia:

Towards the close of the 19th century, in the fin-de-siècle period, something of an obsession with decline, descent and degeneration invaded the European creative imagination, partly fuelled by widespread misconceptions of Darwinian evolutionary theory.

Only a few years before Moreau, in 1892, the German physician and social critic Max Nordau had written a book – Degeneration – arguing the case that Western civilisation was in irreversible. It struck a nerve and become a surprise bestseller.

This cultural trend sprang to mind, particularly as I read the penultimate chapter of The Island of Dr Moreau – the description of Prendick’s ten months among the Beast-Men which is, in effect, an extended fantasia describing the decline and degeneration of Moreau’s half-men back into a state of complete bestiality.

It is horrible to read Prendick’s vivid descriptions of their slow loss of all mental powers and reversion to crude animal behaviour. It is Nordau’s notion of degeneration given fictional flesh.

But the point is really rammed home when Prendick finds himself eventually rescued by a passing ship, and then returned, eventually, back to England, and back to London.

Here he experiences a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder for, as he walks the streets, he cannot see the passersby as people, but only as beasts-in-waiting, each on the verge of that horrible degeneration, such as he saw on the island.

When I lived in London the horror was well-nigh insupportable. I could not get away from men: their voices came through windows; locked doors were flimsy safeguards. I would go out into the streets to fight with my delusion, and prowling women would mew after me; furtive, craving men glance jealously at me; weary, pale workers go coughing by me with tired eyes and eager paces, like wounded deer dripping blood; old people, bent and dull, pass murmuring to themselves; and, all unheeding, a ragged tail of gibing children. Then I would turn aside into some chapel – and even there, such was my disturbance, it seemed that the preacher gibbered ‘Big Thinks’, even as the Ape-man had done; or into some library, and there the intent faces over the books seemed but patient creatures waiting for prey. Particularly nauseous were the blank, expressionless faces of people in trains and omnibuses; they seemed no more my fellow-creatures than dead bodies would be, so that I did not dare to travel unless I was assured of being alone. And even it seemed that I too was not a reasonable creature, but only an animal tormented with some strange disorder in its brain which sent it to wander alone… (Chapter 22)

Politics

Wells was left-wing from the start, joining the Fabian Society in 1903 and going on to write numerous works promoting socialism.

As early as The Time Machine he gave his fable of the future a political slant by speculating that the two races of sylph-like Eloi and underground ape-like Morlocks might be the remote descendants of the increasingly differentiated classes of his day – a terrifying but logical extrapolation of England 1895, when the nation’s cities seemed to be ever-more starkly divided between a luxury-enjoying bourgeoisie and a degraded, half-bestial proletariat.

The same issue winks out at us from Dr Moreau, though not so centrally as in Time Machine. The first time he discovers the Beast Village, a crevice in volcanic rock into which the pitiful results of Moreau’s vivisection experiments have excavated sordid little alcoves, Predick finds himself comparing the skulking creatures who turn from his gaze, to inhabitants of the worst slums of London.

I say I became habituated to the Beast People, that a thousand things which had seemed unnatural and repulsive speedily became natural and ordinary to me. I suppose everything in existence takes its colour from the average hue of our surroundings. Montgomery and Moreau were too peculiar and individual to keep my general impressions of humanity well defined. I would see one of the clumsy bovine-creatures who worked the launch treading heavily through the undergrowth, and find myself asking, trying hard to recall, how he differed from some really human yokel trudging home from his mechanical labours; or I would meet the Fox-bear woman’s vulpine, shifty face, strangely human in its speculative cunning, and even imagine I had met it before in some city byway.

Yet every now and then the beast would flash out upon me beyond doubt or denial. An ugly-looking man, a hunch-backed human savage to all appearance, squatting in the aperture of one of the dens, would stretch his arms and yawn, showing with startling suddenness scissor-edged incisors and sabre-like canines, keen and brilliant as knives. Or in some narrow pathway, glancing with a transitory daring into the eyes of some lithe, white-swathed female figure, I would suddenly see (with a spasmodic revulsion) that she had slit-like pupils… (Chapter 15)

Predominantly The Island of Dr Moreau is a horror story. But it also invokes the great political issue of the day. By the 1890s the appalling state of the working classes was on everyone’s lips, in the form of ‘the labour problem’, ‘the employment problem’ or ‘the population problem’, which dominated the newspapers a bit like Brexit does today.

Either side of The Island of Dr Moreau were published countless novels, newspaper articles and factual studies exposing the poverty and squalor at the heart of Britain’s large cities and especially London. The Sherlock Holmes novels revel in it. An entire new genre of lowlife novels, by authors like George Gissing and Arthur Morrison, described it with bitter anger.

Underlying the political issues, though, is the deeper anxiety about individual and cultural degeneration. What if the wealthy, educated élite will, in time, be swamped by the wretched poor? What if we are all just animals lifted beyond out natural sphere and the entire race will, eventually, revert to bestial incomprehension and violence?

The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) is all about the moral degeneration of the privileged central character, a narrative which takes the hero to squalid opium dens in the East End and unmentionable depravities. The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886) is a really obvious expression of the theme, with the cultivated Dr Jeckyll reverting to the ape-like brute, Hyde. Charles Marlow, narrator of The Heart of Darkness, points out that London, too, was once one of the dark places of the world. And, by implication, it could become so, again.

The final chapter of the Island of Dr Moreau, describing Prendick alone among the decaying Beast-Men, really taps into this anxiety with a biting sense of horror and premonition.

Futility

When you’re a teenager, it’s a common temptation to feel that everything is pointless, futile and stupid. Much science fiction gives that feeling point and definition. If you adopt the Wellsian, materialist perspective, then human beings are just one among millions of life forms currently inhabiting the planet, themselves descended from countless billions of ancestor species, and our planet is itself one among unknown billions filling an infinitely large universe which is an inconceivable 15 billion years old.

The incorporation of these vast and thrilling perspectives into his stories gives Wells ample opportunity to have his narrators or protagonists reflect, at some point, on the pitiful triviality of their own – and by extension – all human lives.

Thus, at the height of the chase of the Leopard-Man, Prendick – watching Montgomery and Moreau lead their pack of mutants across the rocks towards the poor victim – is suddenly overwhelmed by the horrible arbitrary futility of it all.

The Beast People manifested a quite human curiosity about the dead body, and followed it in a thick knot, sniffing and growling at it as the Bull-men dragged it down the beach. I went to the headland and watched the bull-men, black against the evening sky as they carried the weighted dead body out to sea; and like a wave across my mind came the realisation of the unspeakable aimlessness of things upon the island. Upon the beach among the rocks beneath me were the Ape-man, the Hyena-swine, and several other of the Beast People, standing about Montgomery and Moreau. They were all still intensely excited, and all overflowing with noisy expressions of their loyalty to the Law; yet I felt an absolute assurance in my own mind that the Hyena-swine was implicated in the rabbit-killing. A strange persuasion came upon me, that, save for the grossness of the line, the grotesqueness of the forms, I had here before me the whole balance of human life in miniature, the whole interplay of instinct, reason, and fate in its simplest form. The Leopard-man had happened to go under: that was all the difference. Poor brute!

Poor brutes! I began to see the viler aspect of Moreau’s cruelty. I had not thought before of the pain and trouble that came to these poor victims after they had passed from Moreau’s hands. I had shivered only at the days of actual torment in the enclosure. But now that seemed to me the lesser part. Before, they had been beasts, their instincts fitly adapted to their surroundings, and happy as living things may be. Now they stumbled in the shackles of humanity, lived in a fear that never died, fretted by a law they could not understand; their mock-human existence, begun in an agony, was one long internal struggle, one long dread of Moreau – and for what? It was the wantonness of it that stirred me.

Had Moreau had any intelligible object, I could have sympathised at least a little with him. I am not so squeamish about pain as that. I could have forgiven him a little even, had his motive been only hate. But he was so irresponsible, so utterly careless! His curiosity, his mad, aimless investigations, drove him on; and the Things were thrown out to live a year or so, to struggle and blunder and suffer, and at last to die painfully. They were wretched in themselves; the old animal hate moved them to trouble one another; the Law held them back from a brief hot struggle and a decisive end to their natural animosities.

In those days my fear of the Beast People went the way of my personal fear for Moreau. I fell indeed into a morbid state, deep and enduring, and alien to fear, which has left permanent scars upon my mind. I must confess that I lost faith in the sanity of the world when I saw it suffering the painful disorder of this island. A blind Fate, a vast pitiless mechanism, seemed to cut and shape the fabric of existence and I, Moreau (by his passion for research), Montgomery (by his passion for drink), the Beast People with their instincts and mental restrictions, were torn and crushed, ruthlessly, inevitably, amid the infinite complexity of its incessant wheels.

‘I lost faith in the sanity of the world when I saw it suffering the painful disorder of this island…’

To a certain kind of mind, or to the mind in a certain mood, these ideas are really powerful, and Wells’ nihilism takes its place in a long line which stretches from Gulliver, revolted by humans at the very end of  his travels, through to the oppressive misanthropy of Wells’s contemporary, Joseph Conrad.

The way the tale ends with Prendick incapacitated by revulsion on the streets of London, really rams home the horror of what he has witnessed, and imprints his haunted vision of a universal human degeneration into bestial animality.


Related links

Other H.G. Wells reviews

1895 The Time Machine – the unnamed inventor and time traveller tells his dinner party guests the story of his adventure among the Eloi and the Morlocks in the year 802,701
1896 The Island of Doctor Moreau – Edward Prendick is stranded on a remote island where he discovers the ‘owner’, Dr Gustave Moreau, is experimentally creating human-animal hybrids
1897 The Invisible Man – an embittered young scientist, Griffin, makes himself invisible, starting with comic capers in a Sussex village, and ending with demented murders
1898 The War of the Worlds – the Martians invade earth
1899 When The Sleeper Wakes/The Sleeper Wakes – Graham awakes in the year 2100 to find himself at the centre of a revolution to overthrow the repressive society of the future
1899 A Story of the Days To Come – set in the same London of the future described in The Sleeper Wakes, Denton and Elizabeth fall in love but descend into poverty, and experience life as serfs in the Underground city run by the sinister Labour Corps

1901 The First Men in the Moon – Mr Bedford and Mr Cavor use the invention of ‘Cavorite’ to fly to the moon and discover the underground civilisation of the Selenites
1904 The Food of the Gods and How It Came to Earth – two scientists invent a compound which makes plants, animals and humans grow to giant size, leading to a giants’ rebellion against the ‘little people’
1906 In the Days of the Comet – a passing comet trails gasses through earth’s atmosphere which bring about ‘the Great Change’, inaugurating an era of wisdom and fairness, as told by narrator Willie Leadford
1908 The War in the Air – Bert Smallways, a bicycle-repairman from Bun Hill in Kent, manages by accident to be an eye-witness to the outbreak of the war in the air which brings Western civilisation to an end

1914 The World Set Free – A history of the future in which the devastation of an atomic war leads to the creation of a World Government, told via a number of characters who are central to the change

Other science fiction reviews

1888 Looking Backward 2000-1887 by Edward Bellamy – Julian West wakes up in the year 2000 to discover a peaceful revolution has ushered in a society of state planning, equality and contentment
1890 News from Nowhere by William Morris – waking from a long sleep, William Guest is shown round a London transformed into villages of contented craftsmen

1905 With the Night Mail by Rudyard Kipling – it is 2000 and the narrator accompanies a GPO airship across the Atlantic
1909 The Machine Stops by E.M. Foster – people of the future live in underground cells regulated by ‘the Machine’ until one of them rebels

1912 The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – Professor Challenger leads an expedition to a plateau in the Amazon rainforest where prehistoric animals still exist
1912 As Easy as ABC by Rudyard Kipling – set in 2065 in a world characterised by isolation and privacy, forces from the ABC are sent to suppress an outbreak of ‘crowdism’
1913 The Horror of the Heights by Arthur Conan Doyle – airman Captain Joyce-Armstrong flies higher than anyone before him and discovers the upper atmosphere is inhabited by vast jellyfish-like monsters
1918 The Land That Time Forgot by Edgar Rice Burroughs – a trilogy of pulp novellas in which all-American heroes battle ape-men and dinosaurs on a lost island in the Antarctic

1921 We by Evgeny Zamyatin – like everyone else in the dystopian future of OneState, D-503 lives life according to the Table of Hours until I-330 wakens him to the truth
1927 The Maracot Deep by Arthur Conan Doyle – a scientist, engineer and a hero are trying out a new bathysphere when the wire snaps and they hurtle to the bottom of the sea, there to discover…

1932 Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

1949 Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell – after a nuclear war, inhabitants of ruined London are divided into the sheep-like ‘proles’ and members of the Party who are kept under unremitting surveillance

1971 Mutant 59: The Plastic Eater by Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis – a genetically engineered bacterium starts eating the world’s plastic

1980 Russian Hide and Seek by Kingsley Amis – in an England of the future which has been invaded and conquered by the Russians, a hopeless attempt to overthrow the occupiers is easily crushed

%d bloggers like this: