Tales of Mean Streets | Page 4

quiet
woman, who speaks little with her neighbors, having other things to do:
a woman of pronounced character, to whom it would be
unadvisable--even dangerous--to offer coals or blankets. Hers was the
strongest contempt for the helpless woman who sung: a contempt
whose added bitterness might be traced to its source. For when the
singing woman was marketing, from which door of the pawnshop had
she twice met the widow coming forth?
This is not a dirty street, taken as a whole. The widow's house is one of
the cleanest, and the widow's children match the house. The one house
cleaner than the widow's is ruled by a despotic Scotch woman, who
drives every hawker off her whitened step, and rubs her door handle if
a hand have rested on it. The Scotch woman has made several attempts
to accommodate 'young men lodgers,' but they have ended in shrill
rows.
There is no house without children in this street, and the number of
them grows ever and ever greater. Nine tenths of the doctor's visits are
on this account alone, and his appearances are the chief matter of such
conversation as the women make across the fences. One after another
the little strangers come, to live through lives as flat and colorless as
the day's life in this street. Existence dawns, and the doctor-watchman's
door-knock resounds along the row of rectangular holes. Then a
muffled cry announces that a small new being has come to trudge and
sweat its way in the appointed groove. Later, the trotting of little feet
and the school; the mid-day play hour, when love peeps even into this
street; after that more trotting of little feet--strange little feet, new little
feet--and the scrubbing, and the squalling, and the barren flowerpot; the
end of the sooty day's work; the last home-coming; nightfall; sleep.
When love's light falls into some corner of the street, it falls at an early
hour of this mean life, and is itself but a dusky ray. It falls early,
because it is the sole bright thing which the street sees, and is watched
for and counted on. Lads and lasses, awkwardly arm-in-arm, go pacing
up and down this street, before the natural interest in marbles and doll's
houses would have left them in a brighter place. They are 'keeping

company;' the manner of which proceeding is indigenous--is a custom
native to the place. The young people first 'walk out' in pairs. There is
no exchange of promises, no troth-plight, no engagement, no love-talk.
They patrol the streets side by side, usually in silence, sometimes with
fatuous chatter. There are no dances, no tennis, no water-parties, no
picnics to bring them together: so they must walk out, or be
unacquainted. If two of them grow dissatisfied with each other's
company, nothing is easier than to separate and walk out with
somebody else. When by these means each has found a fit mate (or
thinks so), a ring is bought, and the odd association becomes a regular
engagement; but this is not until the walking out has endured for many
months. The two stages of courtship are spoken of indiscriminately as
'keeping company,' but a very careful distinction is drawn between
them by the parties concerned. Nevertheless, in the walking out period
it would be almost as great a breach of faith for either to walk out with
more than one, as it would be if the full engagement had been made.
And love-making in this street is a dreary thing, when one thinks of
love-making in other places. It begins--and it ends--too soon.
Nobody from this street goes to the theatre. That would mean a long
journey, and it would cost money which might buy bread and beer and
boots. For those, too, who wear black Sunday suits it would be sinful.
Nobody reads poetry or romance. The very words are foreign. A
Sunday paper in some few houses provides such reading as this street is
disposed to achieve. Now and again a penny novel has been found
among the private treasures of a growing daughter, and has been
wrathfully confiscated. For the air of this street is unfavorable to the
ideal.
Round the corner there are a baker's, a chandler's and a beer-shop. They
are not included in the view from any of the rectangular holes; but they
are well known to every denizen; and the chandler goes to church on
Sunday and pays for his seat. At the opposite end, turnings lead to
streets less rigidly respectable: some where 'Mangling done here' stares
from windows, and where doors are left carelessly open; others where
squalid women sit on doorsteps, and girls go to factories in white
aprons. Many such turnings, of as many grades of decency, are set

between this and the nearest