SOME few years later, while travelling with my family in Switzerland, we happened to be staying at Baveno on Lago Maggiore at the same time, and in the same hotel, as the Crown Prince and Princess of Germany. Their Imperial Highnesses occupied a suite of apartments on the first floor.
Our rooms were immediately above them. As my wife was known to the Princess, occasional greetings passed from balcony to balcony.
One evening while watching two lads rowing from the shore in the direction of Isola Bella, I was aroused from my contemplation of a gathering storm by angry vociferations beneath me. These were addressed to the youths in the boat.
The anxious father had noted the coming tempest; and, with hands to his mouth, was shouting orders to the young gentlemen to return. Loud and angry as cracked the thunder, the imperial voice o'ertopped it. Commands succeeded admonitions, and as the only effect on the rowers was obvious recalcitrancy, oaths succeeded both: all in those throat-clearing tones to which the German language so consonantly lends itself. In a few minutes the boat was immersed in the down-pour which concealed it.
The elder of the two oarsmen was no other than the future firebrand peacemaker, Miching Mallecho, our fierce little Tartarin de Berlin. One wondered how he, who would not be ruled, would come in turn to rule? That question is a burning one; and may yet set the world in flames to solve it.
A comic little incident happened here to my own children.
There was but one bathing-machine. This, the two - a schoolboy and his sister - used in the early morning. Being rather late one day, they found it engaged; and growing impatient the boy banged at the door of the machine, with a shout in schoolboy's vernacular: 'Come, hurry up; we want to dip.' Much to the surprise of the guilty pair, an answer, also in the best of English, came from the inside: 'Go away, you naughty boy.' The occupant was the Imperial Princess.
Needless to say the children bolted with a mingled sense of mischief and alarm.
About this time I joined a society for the relief of distress, of which Bromley Davenport was the nominal leader.
The 'managing director,' so to speak, was Dr. Gilbert, father of Mr. W. S. Gilbert. To him I went for instructions. I told him I wanted to see the worst. He accordingly sent me to Bethnal Green. For two winters and part of a third I visited this district twice a week regularly. What I saw in the course of those two years was matter for a thoughtful - ay, or a thoughtless - man to think of for the rest of his days.
My system was to call first upon the clergyman of the parish, and obtain from him a guide to the severest cases of destitution. The guide would be a Scripture reader, and, as far as I remember, always a woman. I do not know whether the labours of these good creatures were gratuitous - they themselves were certainly poor, yet singularly earnest and sympathetic. The society supplied tickets for coal, blankets, and food. Needless to say, had these supplies been a thousand-fold as great, they would have done as little permanent good as those at my command.
In Bethnal Green the principal industry is, or was, silk-weaving by hand looms. Nearly all the houses were ancient and dilapidated. A weaver and his family would occupy part of a flat, consisting of two rooms perhaps, one of which would contain his loom. The room might be about seven feet high, nearly dark, lighted only by a lattice window, half of the panes of which would be replaced by dirty rags or old newspaper. As the loom was placed against the window the light was practically excluded. The foulness of the air and filth which this entailed may be too easily imagined. A couple of cases, taken almost at random, will sample scores as bad.
It is one of the darkest days of December. The Thames is nearly frozen at Waterloo Bridge. On the second floor of an old house in - Lane, in an unusually spacious room (or does it only look spacious because there is nothing in it save four human beings?) are a father, a mother, and a grown-up son and daughter. They scowl at the visitor as the Scripture reader opens the door. What is the meaning of the intrusion?
Is he too come with a Bible instead of bread? The four are seated side by side on the floor, leaning against the wall, waiting for - death. Bedsteads, chairs, table, and looms have been burnt this week or more for fuel. The grate is empty now, and lets the freezing draught blow down the chimney. The temporary relief is accepted, but not with thanks. These four stubbornly prefer death to the work-house.
One other case. It is the same hard winter. The scene: a small garret in the roof, a low slanting little skylight, now covered six inches deep in snow. No fireplace here, no ventilation, so put your scented cambric to your nose, my noble Dives. The only furniture a scanty armful of - what shall we call it? It was straw once. A starving woman and a baby are lying on it, notwithstanding. The baby surely will not be there to-morrow. It has a very bad cold - and the mucus, and the - pah! The woman in a few rags - just a few - is gnawing a raw carrot. The picture is complete. There's nothing more to paint. The rest - the whole indeed, that is the consciousness of it - was, and remains, with the Unseen.
You will say, 'Such things cannot be'; you will say, 'There are relieving officers, whose duty, etc., etc.' May be. I am only telling you what I myself have seen. There is more goes on in big cities than even relieving officers can cope with. And who shall grapple with the causes? That's the point.
