---
title: "Down and Out in Paris and London"
author: "George Orwell"
languages: [en]
shelf: "Literature"
section: 5 of 38
url: https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-down-and-out-fp20180314/5/
cite: "George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London, section 5. Scriptura (scriptura.si), https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-down-and-out-fp20180314/5/"
---

# Down and Out in Paris and London

*George Orwell*

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> Title: Down and Out in Paris and London
Date of first publication: 1933
Author: George Orwell (1903-1950)
Date first posted: Mar. 14, 2018
Date last updated: Mar. 14, 2018
Faded Page eBook #20180314

> This eBook was produced by: Delphine Lettau, Howard Ross
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

> GEORGE ORWELL

> _Down and Out_
    _in Paris and London_

> O scathful harm, condicion of poverte!
       CHAUCER

> PENGUIN BOOKS

> First published by Victor Gollancz 1933

> Copyright 1933 by Eric Blair

> [The end of _Down and Out in Paris and London_ by George Orwell]

## 5. Chapter V

Source: https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-down-and-out-fp20180314/5/ · cite a paragraph as https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-down-and-out-fp20180314/5/#p-N

[¶0] A short time before, Boris had given me an address in the Rue du Marché
des Blancs Manteaux. All he had said in his letter was that 'things were
not marching too badly', and I assumed that he was back at the Hôtel
Scribe, touching his hundred francs a day. I was full of hope, and
wondered why I had been fool enough not to go to Boris before. I saw
myself in a cosy restaurant, with jolly cooks singing love-songs as they
broke eggs into the pan, and five solid meals a day. I even squandered
two francs fifty on a packet of Gauloises Bleu, in anticipation of my
wages.

[¶1] In the morning I walked down to the Rue du Marché des Blancs Manteaux;
with a shock, I found it a slummy back street as bad as my own. Boris's
hotel was the dirtiest hotel in the street. From its dark doorway there
came out a vile sour odour, a mixture of slops and synthetic soup—it
was Bouillon Zip, twenty-five centimes a packet. A misgiving came over
me. People who drink Bouillon Zip are starving, or near it. Could Boris
possibly be earning a hundred francs a day? A surly _patron_, sitting in
the office, said to me, Yes, the Russian was at home—in the attic. I
went up six flights of narrow, winding stairs, the Bouillon Zip growing
stronger as one got higher. Boris did not answer when I knocked at his
door, so I opened it and went in.

[¶2] The room was an attic ten feet square, lighted only by a skylight, its
sole furniture a narrow iron bedstead, a chair, and a washhandstand with
one game leg. A long S-shaped chain of bugs marched slowly across the
wall above the bed. Boris was lying asleep, naked, his large belly
making a mound under the grimy sheet. His chest was spotted with insect
bites. As I came in he woke up, rubbed his eyes, and groaned deeply.

[¶3] 'Name of Jesus Christ!' he exclaimed, 'oh, name of Jesus Christ, my
back! Curse it, I believe my back is broken!'

[¶4] 'What's the matter?' I exclaimed.

[¶5] 'My back is broken, that is all. I have spent the night on the floor.
Oh, name of Jesus Christ! If you knew what my back feels like!'

[¶6] 'My dear Boris, are you ill?'

[¶7] 'Not ill, only starving—yes, starving to death if this goes on much
longer. Besides sleeping on the floor, I have lived on two francs a day
for weeks past. It is fearful. You have come at a bad moment, _mon
ami_.'

[¶8] It did not seem much use to ask whether Boris still had his job at the
Hôtel Scribe. I hurried downstairs and bought a loaf of bread. Boris
threw himself on the bread and ate half of it, after which he felt
better, sat up in bed, and told me what was the matter with him. He had
failed to get a job after leaving the hospital, because he was still
very lame, and he had spent all his money and pawned everything, and
finally starved for several days. He had slept a week on the quay under
the Pont d'Austerlitz, among some empty wine barrels. For the past
fortnight he had been living in this room, together with a Jew, a
mechanic. It appeared (there was some complicated explanation) that the
Jew owed Boris three hundred francs, and was repaying this by letting
him sleep on the floor and allowing him two francs a day for food. Two
francs would buy a bowl of coffee and three rolls. The Jew went to work
at seven in the mornings, and after that Boris would leave his
sleeping-place (it was beneath the skylight, which let in the rain) and
get into the bed. He could not sleep much even there, owing to the bugs,
but it rested his back after the floor.

[¶9] It was a great disappointment, when I had come to Boris for help, to
find him even worse off than myself. I explained that I had only about
sixty francs left and must get a job immediately. By this time, however,
Boris had eaten the rest of the bread and was feeling cheerful and
talkative. He said carelessly:

[¶10] 'Good heavens, what are you worrying about? Sixty francs—why, it's a
fortune! Please hand me that shoe, _mon ami_. I'm going to smash some of
those bugs if they come within reach.'

[¶11] 'But do you think there's any chance of getting a job?'

[¶12] 'Chance? It's a certainty. In fact, I have got something already. There
is a new Russian restaurant which is to open in a few days in the Rue du
Commerce. It is _une chose entendue_ that I am to be _maître d'hôtel_. I
can easily get you a job in the kitchen. Five hundred francs a month and
your food—tips, too, if you are lucky.'

[¶13] 'But in the meantime? I've got to pay my rent before long.'

[¶14] 'Oh, we shall find something. I have got a few cards up my sleeve. There
are people who owe me money, for instance—Paris is full of them. One of
them is bound to pay up before long. Then, think of all the women who
have been my mistress! A woman never forgets, you know—I have only to
ask and they will help me. Besides, the Jew tells me he is going to
steal some magnetos from the garage where he works, and he will pay us
five francs a day to clean them before he sells them. That alone would
keep us. Never worry, _mon ami_. Nothing is easier to get than money.'

[¶15] 'Well, let's go out now and look for a job.'

[¶16] 'Presently, _mon ami_. We shan't starve, don't you fear. This is only
the fortune of war—I've been in a worse hole scores of times. It's only
a question of persisting. Remember Foch's maxim: "_Attaquez! Attaquez!
Attaquez!_"'

[¶17] It was midday before Boris decided to get up. All the clothes he now had
left were one suit, with one shirt, collar and tie, a pair of shoes
almost worn out, and a pair of socks all holes. He had also an overcoat
which was to be pawned in the last extremity. He had a suitcase, a
wretched twenty-franc cardboard thing, but very important, because the
_patron_ of the hotel believed that it was full of clothes—without
that, he would probably have turned Boris out of doors. What it actually
contained were the medals and photographs, various odds and ends, and
huge bundles of love-letters. In spite of all this Boris managed to keep
a fairly smart appearance. He shaved without soap and with a razor-blade
two months old, tied his tie so that the holes did not show, and
carefully stuffed the soles of his shoes with newspaper. Finally, when
he was dressed, he produced an ink-bottle and inked the skin of his
ankles where it showed through his socks. You would never have thought,
when it was finished, that he had recently been sleeping under the Seine
bridges.

[¶18] We went to a small café off the Rue de Rivoli, a well-known rendezvous
of hotel managers and employees. At the back was a dark, cave-like room
where all kinds of hotel workers were sitting—smart young waiters,
others not so smart and clearly hungry, fat pink cooks, greasy
dishwashers, battered old scrubbing-women. Everyone had an untouched
glass of black coffee in front of him. The place was, in effect, an
employment bureau, and the money spent on drinks was the _patron_'s
commission. Sometimes a stout, important-looking man, obviously a
restaurateur, would come in and speak to the barman, and the barman
would call to one of the people at the back of the café. But he never
called to Boris or me, and we left after two hours, as the etiquette was
that you could only stay two hours for one drink. We learned afterwards,
when it was too late, that the dodge was to bribe the barman; if you
could afford twenty francs he would generally get you a job.

[¶19] We went to the Hôtel Scribe and waited an hour on the pavement, hoping
that the manager would come out, but he never did. Then we dragged
ourselves down to the Rue du Commerce, only to find that the new
restaurant, which was being redecorated, was shut up and the _patron_
away. It was now night. We had walked fourteen kilometres over pavement,
and we were so tired that we had to waste one franc fifty on going home
by Metro. Walking was agony to Boris with his game leg, and his optimism
wore thinner and thinner as the day went on. When we got out of the
Metro at the Place d'Italie he was in despair. He began to say that it
was no use looking for work—there was nothing for it but to try crime.

[¶20] 'Sooner rob than starve, _mon ami_. I have often planned it. A fat, rich
American—some dark corner down Montparnasse way—a cobblestone in a
stocking—bang! And then go through his pockets and bolt. It is
feasible, do you not think? I would not flinch—I have been a soldier,
remember.'

[¶21] He decided against the plan in the end, because we were both foreigners
and easily recognized.

[¶22] When we had got back to my room we spent another one franc fifty on
bread and chocolate. Boris devoured his share, and at once cheered up
like magic; food seemed to act on his system as rapidly as a cocktail.
He took out a pencil and began making a list of the people who would
probably give us jobs. There were dozens of them, he said.

[¶23] 'Tomorrow we shall find something, _mon ami_, I know it in my bones. The
luck always changes. Besides, we both have brains—a man with brains
can't starve.

[¶24] 'What things a man can do with brains! Brains will make money out of
anything. I had a friend once, a Pole, a real man of genius; and what do
you think he used to do? He would buy a gold ring and pawn it for
fifteen francs. Then—you know how carelessly the clerks fill up the
tickets—where the clerk had written "_en or_" he would add "_et
diamants_" and he would change "fifteen francs" to "fifteen thousand".
Neat, eh? Then, you see, he could borrow a thousand francs on the
security of the ticket. That is what I mean by brains . . .'

[¶25] For the rest of the evening Boris was in a hopeful mood, talking of the
times we should have together when we were waiters together at Nice or
Biarritz, with smart rooms and enough money to set up mistresses. He was
too tired to walk the three kilometres back to his hotel, and slept the
night on the floor of my room, with his coat rolled round his shoes for
a pillow.