English fiction -- 19th century; London (England) -- Fiction; Poor -- Fiction; Poverty -- Fiction
threatened to—I walked about the streets all the night that followed,
never coming home. I went to work next day, but at dinner-time I got
frightened and ran home just to speak a word. Little Mike, the eldest,
was playing on the stairs, and he said his mother was asleep. I went
into the room, and saw Jenny lying on the bed dressed. There was
something queer in the way her arms were stretched out. When I got near
I saw she was dead. She’d taken poison.
‘And it was I had killed her, just as much as if I’d put the poison to
her lips. All because I thought myself such a wise fellow, because I’d
resolved to live more prudently than other men of my kind did. I wanted
to save money for the future—out of five-and-twenty shillings a week.
Many and many a day I starved myself to try and make up for expenses of
the home. Sidney, you remember that man we once went to hear lecture,
the man that talked of nothing but the thriftlessness of the poor, and
how it was their own fault they suffered? I was very near telling you
my story when we came away that night. Why, look; I myself was just the
kind of poor man that would have suited that lecturer. And what came of
it? If I’d let my poor Jenny go her own way from the first, we should
have had hard times now and then, but there’d have been our love to
help us, and we should have been happy enough. They talk about
thriftiness, and it just means that poor people are expected to
practise a self-denial that the rich can’t even imagine, much less
carry out. You know now why this kind of talk always angers me.’
Michael brooded for a few moments, his eyes straying sadly over the
landscape before him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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