These types are, of course, few and no social system could cater for them; nor need we waste sympathy upon them, for they possess the thing they desire most—freedom from material responsibilities and from that burden of possessions which so often blocks the way to the kingdom of the spirit.
There will always be wanderers to and fro on the face of the earth, and you may know them by their clear gaze which seems to look upon horizons far beyond our sight. They are largely indifferent to hunger, cold or exposure because—and this is the secret of their content—they can always turn the exigence of the moment to account. Their wants being but small, they have but to do a hand’s turn to find their outstretched palm holds money.
XIV
At St. Crispin’s
The refuge in Crispin’s Street was founded sixty years ago by one John Gilbert, D.D. It is supported entirely by voluntary contributions, and the work of administration and general management is performed by nuns of the Convent of Mercy. The refuge opens on the first of November and closes on the first of May. At five o’clock each night in these winter months the doors are opened, and the long waiting queue of homeless women let in.
Each applicant is asked her name and nothing else. The sole qualification necessary is her need; nor do the women come alone. The majority of them bring their children, small infants, little toddlers and young boys and girls. There is nothing formal or official in the great, big dining-room. Long trestle tables ran down each side, there is a fireplace at each end from which a cheery blaze leaps out infinitely heartening of a bleak night. One hundred and twelve women are admitted. Beyond that number accommodation cannot go.
There is a steady competition for the privilege of staying at the refuge, and for this reason its whereabouts is not generally discussed in the underworld. Those who know, not unnaturally want to keep the knowledge to themselves, for once you are in the refuge you may rely on fairly consecutive accommodation through the worst months of the year.
When the quota of women is complete the outer doors are shut. A bell rings and everyone troops down to the lavatories and bathrooms. Here is ample accommodation for washing and bathing, with a copper for the boiling of soiled clothes. Clean towels are provided and good soap, and the women revel in the opportunity of cleansing their bodies from the dirt and grime inseparable from their life. There is a foot-bath which runs the length of the wall, and pails, one for each woman, filled with hot water, for those who do not desire total immersion. They wash, not only themselves, but their children and their clothes, which dry speedily before a roaring fire. Some of these poor women have literally no underwear, being garbed only in those rags which form a kind of outer garment. These are provided with chemises and petticoats with a kindly sympathy as healing as the fresh linen.
Ablutions finished, the hundred and twelve, with their attendant children, troop up again to the dining-room, where they have a comfortable meal of cocoa and fresh rolls. Some of the women bring in with them a little butter or jam, which they are allowed to spread upon the bread.
“I always feel I should like to give dripping—butter’s quite impossible at the price,” said one of the Sisters, “but it’s not only the cost of the dripping, it would mean that we should have to provide somebody special to spread it. We haven’t a moment to spare as it is.” On Sunday morning, however, butter is served with the coffee and rolls which every inmate has for breakfast.
The evening meal over, the women sit and talk. Somebody plays the piano—it is an excellent instrument—or sings, or recites, and on occasion the company is moved to dance—middle-aged mothers with big families, elderly grandames and girls in their teens.
There is an atmosphere of cheerfulness, but those who wish can pour out their sorrows, or discuss their prospects with the Sister-in-Charge.
Each inmate is entitled to spend five nights in the refuge, going out during the day to look for work, or follow her own devices. The children, however, stay indoors and go to the school attached to the Convent. Before the expiry of the fifth day enquiries are made as to whether the woman can give any reference. The name of a former employer, however casual, is sufficient, and if this is forthcoming, the length of her stay is increased to another eight days. If, during that time, she is able to get ever so little work, she gets a further invitation for sixteen days, and then goes back to five and so on.
This system works out to the benefit of what we may describe as a small corporation of families, who otherwise would pass the winter in a state of utter wretchedness, if not exposure. There are, of course, a certain number of casual women who depart after their five nights; some of them do not even stay the whole length of that period. The Sisters are able to find employment for a fair percentage. The newspapers are available each morning and applications are received at the refuge for domestic servants and charwomen. Girls who desire to take up domestic service have a period of training in the convent, and every effort is made to keep in touch with as many refugees as possible.
The dormitory is a huge room with a series of bunks ranged side by side. One hundred and twelve bunks, each one lined with leather for the sake of cleanliness and covered with American cloth; a flock pillow, also covered; and a
