“I have a very nice room on the first floor,” she informs me, “and one behind on the third.”
I agree to see them, explaining that I am seeking them for a young friend of mine. We squeeze past the hat and umbrella stand: there is just room, but one must keep close to the wall. The first floor is rather an imposing6 apartment, with a marble-topped sideboard measuring quite three feet by two, the doors of which will remain closed if you introduce a wad of paper between them. A green table-cloth, matching the curtains, covers the loo-table. The lamp is perfectly8 safe so long as it stands in the exact centre of the table, but should not be shifted. A paper fire-stove ornament9 in some mysterious way bestows10 upon the room an air of chastity. Above the mantelpiece is a fly-blown mirror, between the once gilt11 frame and glass of which can be inserted invitation cards; indeed, one or two so remain, proving that the tenants12 even of “bed-sitting-rooms” are not excluded from social delights. The wall opposite is adorned14 by an oleograph of the kind Cheap Jacks15 sell by auction16 on Saturday nights in the Pimlico Road, and warrant as “hand-made.” Generally speaking, it is a Swiss landscape. There appears to be more “body” in a Swiss landscape than in scenes from less favoured localities. A dilapidated mill, a foaming17 torrent18, a mountain, a maiden19 and a cow can at the least be relied upon. An easy chair (I disclaim20 all responsibility for the adjective), stuffed with many coils of steel wire, each possessing a “business end” in admirable working order, and covered with horsehair, highly glazed21, awaits the uninitiated. There is one way of sitting upon it, and only one: by using the extreme edge, and planting your feet firmly on the floor. If you attempt to lean back in it you inevitably23 slide out of it. When so treated it seems to say to you: “Excuse me, you are very heavy, and you would really be much more comfortable upon the floor. Thank you so much.” The bed is behind the door, and the washstand behind the bed. If you sit facing the window you can forget the bed. On the other hand, if more than one friend come to call on you, you are glad of it. As a matter of fact, experienced visitors prefer it—make straight for it, refusing with firmness to exchange it for the easy chair.
“And this room is?”
“Eight shillings a week, sir—with attendance, of course.”
“Any extras?”
“The lamp, sir, is eighteenpence a week; and the kitchen fire, if the gentleman wishes to dine at home, two shillings.”
“And fire?”
“It's rather a small scuttle.”
The landlady25 bridles26 a little. “The usual size, I think, sir.” One presumes there is a special size in coal-scuttles made exclusively for lodging27-house keepers.
I agree that while I am about it I may as well see the other room, the third floor back. The landlady opens the door for me, but remains28 herself on the landing. She is a stout29 lady, and does not wish to dwarf30 the apartment by comparison. The arrangement here does not allow of your ignoring the bed. It is the life and soul of the room, and it declines to efface31 itself. Its only possible rival is the washstand, straw-coloured; with staring white basin and jug32, together with other appurtenances. It glares defiantly33 from its corner. “I know I'm small,” it seems to say; “but I'm very useful; and I won't be ignored.” The remaining furniture consists of a couple of chairs—there is no hypocrisy34 about them: they are not easy and they do not pretend to be easy; a small chest of light-painted drawers before the window, with white china handles, upon which is a tiny looking-glass; and, occupying the entire remaining space, after allowing three square feet for the tenant13, when he arrives, an attenuated35 four-legged table apparently36 home-made. The only ornament in the room is, suspended above the fireplace, a funeral card, framed in beer corks37. As the corpse38 introduced by the ancient Egyptians into their banquets, it is hung there perhaps to remind the occupant of the apartment that the luxuries and allurements39 of life have their end; or maybe it consoles him in despondent40 moments with the reflection that after all he might be worse off.
The rent of this room is three-and-sixpence a week, also including attendance; lamp, as for the first floor, eighteen-pence; but kitchen fire a shilling.
“But why should kitchen fire for the first floor be two shillings, and for this only one?”
“Well, as a rule, sir, the first floor wants more cooking done.”
You are quite right, my dear lady, I was forgetting. The gentleman in the third floor back! cooking for him is not a great tax upon the kitchen fire. His breakfast, it is what, madam, we call plain, I think. His lunch he takes out. You may see him, walking round the quiet square, up and down the narrow street that, leading to nowhere in particular, is between twelve and two somewhat deserted41. He carries a paper bag, into which at intervals42, when he is sure nobody is looking, his mouth disappears. From studying the neighbourhood one can guess what it contains. Saveloys hereabouts are plentiful43 and only twopence each. There are pie shops, where meat pies are twopence and fruit pies a penny. The lady behind the counter, using deftly44 a broad, flat knife, lifts the little dainty with one twist clean from its tiny dish: it is marvellous, having regard to the thinness of the pastry45, that she never breaks one. Roley-poley pudding, sweet and wonderfully satisfying, more especially when cold, is but a penny a slice. Peas pudding, though this is an awkward thing to eat out of a bag, is comforting upon cold days. Then with his tea he takes two eggs or a haddock, the fourpenny size; maybe on rare occasions, a chop or steak; and you fry it for him, madam, though every time he urges on you how much he would prefer it grilled46, for fried in your one frying-pan its flavour becomes somewhat confused. But maybe this is the better for him, for, shutting his eyes and trusting only to smell and flavour, he can imagine himself enjoying variety. He can begin with herrings, pass on to liver and bacon, opening his eyes again for a moment perceive that he has now arrived at the joint47, and closing them again, wind up with distinct suggestion of toasted cheese, thus avoiding monotony. For dinner he goes out again. Maybe he is not hungry, late meals are a mistake; or, maybe, putting his hand into his pocket and making calculations beneath a lamp-post, appetite may come to him. Then there are places cheerful with the sound of frizzling fat, where fried plaice brown and odorous may be had for three halfpence, and a handful of sliced potatoes for a penny; where for fourpence succulent stewed48 eels49 may be discussed; vinegar ad lib.; or for sevenpence—but these are red-letter evenings—half a sheep's head may be indulged in, which is a supper fit for any king, who happened to be hungry.
I explain that I will discuss the matter with my young friend when he arrives. The landlady says, “Certainly, sir:” she is used to what she calls the “wandering Christian;” and easing my conscience by slipping a shilling into the “slavey's” astonished, lukewarm hand, I pass out again into the long, dreary50 street, now echoing maybe to the sad cry of “Muffins!”
Or sometimes of an evening, the lamp lighted, the remnants of the meat tea cleared away, the flickering51 firelight cosifying the dingy52 rooms, I go a-visiting. There is no need for me to ring the bell, to mount the stairs. Through the thin transparent53 walls I can see you plainly, old friends of mine, fashions a little changed, that is all. We wore bell-shaped trousers; eight-and-six to measure, seven-and-six if from stock; fastened our neckties in dashing style with a horseshoe pin. I think in the matter of waistcoats we had the advantage of you; ours were gayer, braver. Our cuffs54 and collars were of paper: sixpence-halfpenny the dozen, three-halfpence the pair. On Sunday they were white and glistening55; on Monday less aggressively obvious; on Tuesday morning decidedly dappled. But on Tuesday evening, when with natty56 cane57, or umbrella neatly58 rolled in patent leather case, we took our promenade59 down Oxford60 Street—fashionable hour nine to ten p.m.—we could shoot our arms and cock our chins with the best. Your india-rubber linen61 has its advantages. Storm does not wither62 it; it braves better the heat and turmoil63 of the day. The passing of a sponge! and your “Dicky” is itself again. We had to use bread-crumbs, and so sacrifice the glaze22. Yet I cannot help thinking that for the first few hours, at all events, our paper was more dazzling.
For the rest I see no change in you, old friends. I wave you greeting from the misty64 street. God rest you, gallant65 gentlemen, lonely and friendless and despised; making the best of joyless lives; keeping yourselves genteel on twelve, fifteen, or eighteen (ah, but you are plutocrats!) shillings a week; saving something even of that, maybe, to help the old mother in the country, so proud of her “gentleman” son who has book learning and who is “something in the City.” May nothing you dismay. Bullied66, and badgered, and baited from nine to six though you may be, from then till bedtime you are rorty young dogs. The half-guinea topper, “as worn by the Prince of Wales” (ah, how many a meal has it not cost!), warmed before the fire, brushed and polished and coaxed67, shines resplendent. The second pair of trousers are drawn68 from beneath the bed; in the gaslight, with well-marked crease69 from top to toe, they will pass for new. A pleasant evening to you! May your cheap necktie make all the impression your soul can desire! May your penny cigar be mistaken for Havana! May the barmaid charm your simple heart by addressing you as “Baby!” May some sweet shop-girl throw a kindly70 glance at you, inviting71 you to walk with her! May she snigger at your humour; may other dogs cast envious72 looks at you, and may no harm come of it!
You dreamers of dreams, you who while your companions play and sleep will toil73 upward in the night! You have read Mr. Smiles' “Self-Help,” Longfellow's “Psalm of Life,” and so strengthened attack with confidence “French Without a Master,” “Bookkeeping in Six Lessons.” With a sigh to yourselves you turn aside from the alluring74 streets, from the bright, bewitching eyes, into the stuffy75 air of Birkbeck Institutions, Polytechnic76 Schools. May success compensate77 you for your youth devoid78 of pleasure! May the partner's chair you seen in visions be yours before the end! May you live one day in Clapham in a twelve-roomed house!
And, after all, we have our moments, have we not? The Saturday night at the play. The hours of waiting, they are short. We converse79 with kindred souls of the British Drama, its past and future: we have our views. We dream of Florence This, Kate That; in a little while we shall see her. Ah, could she but know how we loved her! Her photo is on our mantelpiece, transforming the dismal80 little room into a shrine81. The poem we have so often commenced! when it is finished we will post it to her. At least she will acknowledge its receipt; we can kiss the paper her hand has rested on. The great doors groan82, then quiver. Ah, the wild thrill of that moment! Now push for all you are worth: charge, wriggle83, squirm! It is an epitome84 of life. We are through—collarless, panting, pummelled from top to toe: but what of that? Upward, still upward; then downward with leaps at risk of our neck, from bench to bench through the gloom. We have gained the front row! Would we exchange sensations with the stallite, strolling languidly to his seat? The extravagant85 dinner once a week! We banquet a la Francais, in Soho, for one-and-six, including wine. Does Tortoni ever give his customers a repast they enjoy more? I trow not.
My first lodging was an attic86 in a square the other side of Blackfriars Bridge. The rent of the room, if I remember rightly, was three shillings a week with cooking, half-a-crown without. I purchased a methylated spirit stove with kettle and frying-pan, and took it without.
Old Hasluck would have helped me willingly, and there were others to whom I might have appealed, but a boy's pride held me back. I would make my way alone, win my place in the world by myself. To Hal, knowing he would sympathise with me, I confided87 the truth.
“Had your mother lived,” he told me, “I should have had something to say on the subject. Of course, I knew what had happened, but as it is—well, you need not be afraid, I shall not offer you help; indeed, I should refuse it were you to ask. Put your Carlyle in your pocket: he is not all voices, but he is the best maker88 of men I know. The great thing to learn of life is not to be afraid of it.”
“Look me up now and then,” he added, “and we'll talk about the stars, the future of Socialism, and the Woman Question—anything you like except about yourself and your twopenny-half-penny affairs.”
From another it would have sounded brutal89, but I understood him. And so we shook hands and parted for longer than either of us at the time expected. The Franco-German War broke out a few weeks later on, and Hal, the love of adventure always strong within him, volunteered his services, which were accepted. It was some years before we met again.
On the door-post of a house in Farringdon Street, not far from the Circus, stood in those days a small brass90 plate, announcing that the “Ludgate News Rooms” occupied the third and fourth floors, and that the admission to the same was one penny. We were a seedy company that every morning crowded into these rooms: clerks, shopmen, superior artisans, travellers, warehousemen—all of us out of work. Most of us were young, but with us was mingled91 a sprinkling of elder men, and these latter were always the saddest and most silent of this little whispering army of the down-at-heel. Roughly speaking, we were divided into two groups: the newcomers, cheery, confident. These would flit from newspaper to newspaper with buzz of pleasant anticipation92, select their advertisement as one choosing some dainty out of a rich and varied93 menu card, and replying to it as one conferring favour.
“Dear Sir,—in reply to your advertisement in to-day's Standard, I shall be pleased to accept the post vacant in your office. I am of good appearance and address. I am an excellent—” It was really marvellous the quality and number of our attainments94. French! we wrote and spoke95 it fluently, a la Ahn. German! of this we possessed96 a slighter knowledge, it was true, but sufficient for mere97 purposes of commerce. Bookkeeping! arithmetic! geometry! we played with them. The love of work! it was a passion with us. Our moral character! it would have adorned a Free Kirk Elder. “I could call on you to-morrow or Friday between eleven and one, or on Saturday any time up till two. Salary required, two guineas a week. An early answer will oblige. Yours truly.”
The old stagers did not buzz. Hour after hour they sat writing, steadily98, methodically, with day by day less hope and heavier fears:
“Sir,—Your advt. in to-day's D. T. I am—” of such and such an age. List of qualifications less lengthy99, set forth100 with more modesty101; object desired being air of verisimilitude.—“If you decide to engage me I will endeavour to give you every satisfaction. Any time you like to appoint I will call on you. I should not ask a high salary to start with. Yours obediently.”
Dozens of the first letter, hundreds of the second, I wrote with painful care, pen carefully chosen, the one-inch margin102 down the left hand side of the paper first portioned off with dots. To three or four I received a curt7 reply, instructing me to call. But the shyness that had stood so in my way during the earlier half of my school days had now, I know not why, returned upon me, hampering103 me at every turn. A shy child grown-up folks at all events can understand and forgive; but a shy young man is not unnaturally104 regarded as a fool. I gave the impression of being awkward, stupid, sulky. The more I strove against my temperament105 the worse I became. My attempts to be at my ease, to assert myself, resulted—I could see it myself—only in rudeness.
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1
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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5
scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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disclaim
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| v.放弃权利，拒绝承认 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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bridles
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| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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allurements
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| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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43
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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45
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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46
grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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47
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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48
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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49
eels
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| abbr. 电子发射器定位系统（=electronic emitter location system） | |
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50
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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51
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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52
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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53
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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54
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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56
natty
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| adj.整洁的，漂亮的 | |
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57
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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58
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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59
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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60
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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61
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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62
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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63
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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64
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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65
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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66
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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68
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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69
crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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70
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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71
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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72
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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73
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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74
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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75
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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76
polytechnic
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| adj.各种工艺的，综合技术的；n.工艺(专科)学校；理工(专科)学校 | |
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77
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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78
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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79
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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80
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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81
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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82
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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83
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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84
epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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85
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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86
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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87
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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88
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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89
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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90
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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91
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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92
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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93
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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94
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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95
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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96
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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97
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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98
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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99
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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100
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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101
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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102
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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103
hampering
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的现在分词 ) | |
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104
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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105
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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