For an end-door pin, then he cracked a seal.
’Twas a double-deck stock loaded with sheep;
The john got in and went to sleep;
The “con” highballed, and she whistled out,
They were off—down the Gila Monster Route.
Следующая баллада Гарри Кемпа, «поэта трампов», описывает ситуацию, знакомую тем, кто знает Хобогемию. Многие люди в классе трампов, чтобы избежать холода и голода, поддались подобному искушению.
Исповедь трампа
We huddled in the mission
Fer it was cold outside
And listened to the preacher
Tell of the Crucified;
Without a sleety drizzle
Cut deep each ragged form,
An’ so we stood the talkin’
Fer shelter from the storm.
They sang of Gods and Angels
An’ Heaven’s eternal joy
An’ things I stopped believin’
When I was still a boy;
They spoke of good an’ evil
An’ offered savin’ grace
An’ some showed love for mankind
Ashinin’ in their face.
An’ some their graft was workin’
The same as me and you;
But some was urgin’ on us
What they believed was true.
We sang an’ dozed an’ listened,
But only feared, us men
The time when, service over,
We’d have to mooch again.
An’ walk the icy pavements,
An’ breast the snow storm gray,
Till the saloons was opened,
An’ there was hints of day.
So, when they called out, “Sinners,
Won’t you come?” I came....
But in my face was pallor
An’ in my heart was shame....
An’ so fergive me, Jesus,
Fer mockin’ of thy name.
Fer I was cold an’ hungry;
They gave me food and bed
After I kneeled there with them,
An’ many prayers was said.
An’ so fergive me, Jesus,
I didn’t mean no harm....
Fer outside it was zero
An’ inside it was warm.
Yes, I was cold an’ hungry
An’ Oh, Thou Crucified,
Thou Friend of all the Lowly,
Fergive the lie I lied.[58]
ЖАЖДА СТРАНСТВИЙ
Многие люди видели прелесть в жизни в дороге; Уолт Уитмен и Вачел Линдсей — или были — поэтами трампов. Для людей, которые не могут вынести безопасности и тирании условностей, это беззаботное существование имеет неотразимую привлекательность. Следующее ритмичное стихотворение Х. Х. Ниббса вибрирует зовом дороги.
Ничего не остается, кроме как идти
I’m the wandering son with the nervous feet,
That never were meant for a steady beat;
I’ve had many a job for a little while,
I’ve been on the bum and I’ve lived in style;
And there was the road, stretchin’ mile after mile,
And nothing to do but go.
So, beat it, Bo, while your feet are mates;
Take a look at the whole United States;
There’s the little fire and the pipe at night;
And up again when the morning’s bright;
With nothin’ but road and sky in sight,
And nothin’ to do but go.
So, beat it, Bo, while the goin’s good,
While the birds in the trees are sawin’ wood;
If today ain’t the finest for you and me,
Then there’s tomorrow that’s going to be,
And the day after that, that’s comin’, see,
And nothin’ to do but go.
Then beat it, Bo, while you’re young and strong;
See all you can, for it won’t last long;
You can tarry for only a little spell,
On the long, gray road to Fare-Ye-Well,
That leads to Heaven or maybe Hell,
And nothin’ to do but go.[59]
«Прочь из города» Гарри Кемпа — это яркая картина весенней тоски, которую чувствует хобо, желая уехать в деревню после зимы, проведенной в городских трущобах. Не все трампы, которые чувствуют с приходом весны порыв к движению, соблазняются покинуть «изможденный, серый город» в поисках «деревенского веселья», но значительное число любят траву, тень и сезон в «джунглях». Это тот же зов, который делает школьников прогульщиками, а степенных бизнесменов — рыбаками.
High perched upon a box-car, I speed, I speed today;
I leave the gaunt, gray city some good, green miles away,
A terrible dream in granite, a riot of streets and brick
A frantic nightmare of people until the soul turns sick—
Such is the high, gray city with the live green waters ’round
Oozing up from the Ocean, slipping in from the Sound.
I’d put up in the Bowery for nights in a ten-cent bed
Where the dinky “L” trains thunder and rattle overhead;
I’d traipsed the barren pavements with pain of frost in my feet;
I’d sidled to hotel kitchens and asked for something to eat.
But when the snow went dripping, and the young spring came as one
Who weeps because of the winter, laughs because of the sun
I thought of a limpid brooklet that bickers through weeds all day,
And I made a streak for the ferry, and rode across in a dray,
And dodged into the Erie where they bunt the box cars round.
I peeled my eye for detectives, and boarded an outward bound.
For you know when a man’s been cabined in walls for part of a year,
He longs for a place to stretch in, he hankers for country cheer.[60]
СТИХИ ПРОТЕСТА
Несмотря на свои преходящие прелести, жизнь трампа тяжела. Хорошо быть свободным, но хорошо иметь дом. Хобо любит свободу, но не удовлетворен тем, чтобы быть Измаилом. Его речи и его поэзия наполнены протестами против социального порядка, который отказывается найти для него место; против системы, которая делает его изгоем.
Следующее стихотворение под названием «Посудомойщик» было написано Джимом Сеймуром, «поэтом хобо». Вторая часть, опущенная здесь, является пророчеством о свержении «системы».
Alone in the kitchen, in grease laden steam,
I pause for a moment—a moment to dream:
For even a dishwasher thinks of a day,
Wherein there’ll be leisure for rest and for play.
And now that I pause, o’er the transom there floats,
A strain of the Traumerei’s soul stirring notes.
Engulfed in a blending of sorrow and glee,
I wonder that music can reach even me.
But now I am thinking; my brain has been stirred.
The voice of a master, the lowly has heard.
The heart breaking sobs of the sad violin,
Arouse the thoughts of the sweet might have been.
Had men been born equal, the use of their brain,
Would shield them from poverty: free them from pain,
Nor would I have sunk into the black social mire,
Because of poor judgment in choosing a sire.
But now I am only a slave of the mill,
That plies and remodels me just as it will;
That makes me a dullard in brain burning heat;
That looks at rich viands not daring to eat;
That works with his red, blistered hands ever stuck,
Down deep in the foul indescribable muck;
Where dishes are plunged seventeen at a time;
And washed in a tubful of sickening slime.
But on with your clatter; no more must I shirk.
The world is to me but a nightmare of work.
For me not the music, the laughter and song;
For no toiler is welcome amid the gay throng.
For me not the smiles of the ladies who dine;
Nor the sweet, clinging kisses, begotten of wine.
For me but the venting of low, sweated groans,
That twelve hours a night have instilled in my bones.
Артуро Джованнитти завоевал репутацию поэта благодаря стихотворению в белых стихах, описывающему монотонность тюремной жизни. «Ходок» был написан в тюрьме, как и «Бам» — стихотворение, по которому Джованнитти наиболее известен среди хобо. Будучи уоббли и радикалом, он наполняет свои произведения духом протеста. «Бам», первые три строфы которого приведены ниже, представляет собой красноречивую тираду против религии:
The dust of a thousand roads, the grease
And grime of slums, were on his face;
The fangs of hunger and disease
Upon his throat had left their trace;
The smell of death was in his breath,
But in his eye no resting place.
Along the gutters, shapeless, fagged,
With drooping head and bleeding feet,
Throughout the Christmas night he dragged,
His care, his woe, and his defeat;
Till, gasping hard, with face downward
He fell upon the trafficked street.
The midnight revelry aloud
Cried out its glut of wine and lust
The happy, clean, indifferent crowd
Passed him in anger and disgust:
For—fit or rum—he was a bum,
And if he died ’twas nothing lost.[61]
В следующем стихотворении неизвестного автора «Бам на подножке и бам в мягком вагоне» излагается суть противостояния труда и капитала на языке и с акцентами хобо:
The bum on the rods is hunted down
As the enemy of mankind,
The other is driven around to his club
Is feted, wined, and dined.
And they who curse the bum on the rods
As the essence of all that is bad,
Will greet the other with a winning smile,
And extend the hand so glad.
The bum on the rods is a social flea
Who gets an occasional bite,
The bum on the plush is a social leech,
Blood-sucking day and night.
The bum on the rod is a load so light
That his weight we scarcely feel,
But it takes the labor of dozens of men
To furnish the other a meal.
As long as you sanction the bum on the plush
The other will always be there,
But rid yourself of the bum on the plush
And the other will disappear.
Then make an intelligent, organized kick,
Get rid of the weights that crush.
Don’t worry about the bum on the rods,
Get rid of the bum on the plush.
Следующие строки взяты из подборки, написанной Генри А. Уайтом, ветераном дорог, который много лет был связан с изданием Hobo News. Оно называется «Хобо знает». В нем можно уловить непривычную ноту смирения — смирения старика, который надеялся, боролся и учился.
He knows the whirr of the rolling wheels,
And their click on the time-worn joints;
His ear is attuned to the snap and snarl
Of the train, at the rickety points.
He knows the camp by the side of the road,
And the “java” and “mulligan” too;
The siding long, and the water tank
Are as home to me and you.
He knows the fright of hunger and thirst,
And of cold and of rain as well;
Of raggedy clothes and out-worn shoes,
An awful tale he can tell.
He knows what it means to slave all day,
And at night eat the vilest of fare;
What a tale he can tell of loathsome bunks,
Cramped quarters, and noisome air.
He knows what the end of it all will be
When he crosses the line at the goal;
A rough, pine box, and a pauper’s grave
And he has paid his toll.
НАБЛЮДЕНИЯ И РАЗМЫШЛЕНИЯ ХОБО О ЖИЗНИ
Поэты, которые лучше всего писали о трампах, — это те, кто записывал свои размышления о собственной жизни и жизни трампов. Роберт У. Сервис в стихотворении «Люди, которые не вписываются» видит огромную группу странников, которые перемещаются с места на место, повинуясь властной тяге к бродяжничеству.
There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain crest,
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are
And they want the strange and new.
They say, “Could I find my proper groove
What a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day with a hope that’s dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.[62]
В классе трампов есть люди, которые вечно гоняются за радугой, постоянно ожидая, что когда-нибудь и где-нибудь они «сорвут куш». Билл Куирк, многолетний автор Hobo News, выражает это чувство в стихотворении «Однажды; как-нибудь я сделаю ставку». Это стихотворение было написано за несколько месяцев до того, как Билл погиб под колесами автомобиля в Калифорнии. Приводим отрывок из него:
For years I’ve drilled the rough pathway,
And weathered many a wintry blast,
I’ll make another stake some day
For luck must turn my way at last.
I’m far too old for working, too
They say my work is almost through;
My ore assesses never a flake
But still I hope to make a stake.
В Hobo News за август 1921 года Чарльз Торнберн записывает свои размышления, глядя на пустые, избитые лица людей со «стема»:
With ever restless tread, they come and go,
Or lean intent against the grimy wall,
These men whom fate has battered to and fro,
In the grim game of life, from which they all
Have found so much of that which is unkind,
Still hoping on, that fortune yet may mend,
With sullen stare, and features hard and lined,
They wander off to nowhere, and the end.
Their thoughts we may not fathom, in their eyes
One seems to sense a vision, as though fate
Had let one little glimpse of fairer skies
Brighten their souls before she closed the gate.
Yet have they hopes and dreams which bring them peace,
Adding to life’s flat liquor just the blend
Called courage, that their efforts may not cease
To seek the gold, hid at the rainbow’s end.
«Странник» принадлежит перу Чарльза Эшли. Говорят, что оно было написано в тюрьме. Это оправдание, пусть и не полное, принципа хобо — жить сегодняшним днем, наслаждаться радостями жизни, если их удается добыть, и избегать ее проблем.
Is there no voice to speak for these, our kin;
The strange, wild sorrows for the wanderer’s soul;
The shining comradeship we sometimes win
When on our wilful way to visioned goals?
We are the ones to whom the forests speak,
For whom the little by-streets run awry;
Ships are our mistresses, and vaulted peaks
Draw us unconquered to the tyrant sky.
And what if we in sordid corners sink,
Or perish in the crash of lawless fight;
Our souls have had the wine of life to drink,
We’ve had our blazing day. Let come the night.
Хобо характеризуют район, где расположены агентства по найму, как «рынок рабов». Луи Мелис, видная фигура в Хобогемии, выступавший с речами на ящике из-под мыла, написал стихотворение под названием «Рынок рабов», из которого взяты следующие строки:
Рынок рабов
This is the city of lost dreams and defeated hopes;
Always you are the mecca of the Jobless,
The seekers after life and the sweet illusions of happiness.
Within your walls there are the consuming
Fires of pain, sorrow and eternal regrets.
Roses never bloom here; silken petals
Cannot be defiled.
Streets in ragged attire, sang-froid in their violence;
Years come and go; still your hideousness goes on
And mute outcasts garnish
Your every rendezvous.
Blind pigs, reeking with a nauseous smell everywhere;
The so-called “flops,” the lousy beds
Where slaves of mill and mine and rail and shop
Curl up and drop away unconscious,
In fair pretense of sleep.
Employment sharks entrapping men,
Human vultures in benign disguise,
Auctioning labor at a pittance per day.
And it’s always “What will you give?”
“What will you take?”
The pocketing of fat commissions;
Old men, young men, tramps, bums, hobos,
Laborers seeking jobs or charity
Each visioning happiness from afar.
They swarm the city streets, these slaves,
For all must live and strive,
And always the elusive job sign
Greets their contemplative glance.
A job—food, clothing, shelter;
Wage slaves selling their power;
Oh, you Slave Market, I know you!
From timbered lands, North, East, South and West
From distant golden grain belts,
From endless miles of rail,
These workers float to the city.
Timber beasts, harvesters, gandy dancers—
Adventurers all. From every clime and zone,
Each comes with hope of work or
Else to blow his pile.
БОЕВЫЕ ПЕСНИ ХОБО
Существует много типов песен трампов, но наиболее примечательны песни протеста. Уоббли (I.W.W.) сделали многое для стимулирования написания песен, в основном песен о борьбе между массами и классами.
Большинство песен хобо — это пародии на определенные популярные мелодии или гимны. Можно легко определить, когда были написаны некоторые песни, если знать, когда были популярны мелодии, на которые они положены. Мелодии, наиболее часто используемые авторами песен трампов, — это те, которые настолько хорошо известны, что песню может спеть любая группа транзитных рабочих. Когда песни являются пародиями на гимны, в них обычно звучит нота иронии. Следующая песня называется «Военная песня урожая» хобо. Она была написана Пэтом Бреннаном и поется на мотив «Типперери».
We are coming home, John Farmer; We are coming back to stay.
For nigh on fifty years or more, we’ve gathered up your hay.
We have slept out in your hayfields; we have heard your morning shout;
We’ve heard you wondering where in hell’s them pesky go-abouts?
Chorus
It’s a long way, now understand me; it’s a long way to town;
It’s a long way across the prairies, and to hell with Farmer Brown.
Here goes for better wages, and the hours must come down,
For we’re out for a winter’s stake this summer, and we want no scabs around.
You’ve paid the going wages, that’s what kept us on the bum,
You say you’ve done your duty, you chin-whiskered son-of-a-gun.
We have sent your kids to college, but still you rave and shout
And call us tramps and hobos, and pesky go-abouts.
But now the long wintry breezes are a-shaking our poor frames,
And the long drawn days of hunger try to drive us bos insane,
It is driving us to action; we are organized today;
Us pesky tramps and hobos are coming back to stay.
Джо Хилл, чье настоящее имя было Джозеф Хилстром, занимает почетное место среди уоббли как автор песен. До своей смерти он был одним из самых восторженных организаторов I.W.W. Его казнь в Юте в 1915 году не уменьшила его популярности среди «уоббли». Большинство его песен — пародии. «Трамп» — это пародия на старую мелодию: «Трамп, трамп, трамп; мальчики маршируют».
If you will shut your trap,
I will tell you ’bout a chap,
That was broke and up aginst it too for fair;
He was not the kind to shirk,
He was looking hard for work,
But he heard the same old story everywhere.
Chorus
Tramp, tramp, tramp, keep on a-tramping,
Nothing doing here for you;
If I catch you ’round again;
You will wear the ball and chain,
Keep on tramping, that’s the best thing you can do.
He walked up and down the street,
’Till the shoes fell off his feet;
In a house he spied a lady cooking stew,
And he said, “How do you do,
May I chop some wood for you?”
What the lady told him made him feel so blue.
’Cross the street a sign he read,
“Work for Jesus,” so it said,
And he said, “Here is my chance, I’ll surely try,”
And he kneeled upon the floor,
Till his knees got rather sore,
But at eating time he heard the preacher say:
Down the street he met a cop,
And the copper made him stop,
And he asked him, “When did you blow into town?”
“Come with me to the judge.”
But the judge he said, “Oh fudge!
Bums that have no money needn’t come around.”
«Проповедник и раб», также написанная Джо Хиллом и исполняемая на мотив «Sweet Bye and Bye», особенно популярна среди недовольных из-за своей атаки на религию:
Long haired preachers come out every night,
Try to tell you what’s wrong and what’s right;