THE DIARY OF A NOBODY
PART 1
INTRODUCTION BY MR. POOTER
Why should
I not publish my diary? I have often seen reminiscences of people I have never even
heard of, and I fail to see—because I do not happen to be a ‘Somebody’—why
my diary should not be interesting. My only regret is that I did
not commence it when I was a youth.
Charles Pooter.
The Laurels,
Brickfield Terrace,
Holloway.
Brickfield Terrace,
Holloway.
CHAPTER I
We settle
down in our new home, and I resolve to keep a diary. Tradesmen trouble us
a bit, so does the scraper. The Curate calls and pays me a great compliment.
My dear
wife Carrie and I have just been a week in our new house, “The Laurels,”
Brickfield Terrace, Holloway—a nice six-roomed residence, not counting
basement, with a front breakfast-parlour. We have a little front garden;
and there is a flight of ten steps up to the front door, which, by-the-by, we
keep locked with the chain up. Cummings, Gowing, and our other intimate
friends always come to the little side entrance, which saves the servant the
trouble of going up to the front door, thereby taking her from her work.
We have a nice little back garden which runs down to the railway. We were
rather afraid of the noise of the trains at first, but the landlord said we
should not notice them after a bit, and took £2 off the rent. He was
certainly right; and beyond the cracking of the garden wall at the bottom, we
have suffered no inconvenience.
After my
work in the City, I like to be at home. What’s the good of a home, if you
are never in it? “Home, Sweet Home,” that’s my motto. I am always in
of an evening. Our old friend Gowing may drop in without ceremony; so may
Cummings, who lives opposite. My dear wife Caroline and I are pleased to
see them, if they like to drop in on us. But Carrie and I can manage to
pass our evenings together without friends. There is always something to
be done: a tin-tack here, a Venetian blind to put straight, a fan to nail up,
or part of a carpet to nail down—all of which I can do with my pipe in my
mouth; while Carrie is not above putting a button on a shirt, mending a
pillow-case, or practising the “Sylvia Gavotte” on our new cottage piano (on
the three years’ system), manufactured by W. Bilkson (in small letters), from
Collard and Collard (in very large letters). It is also a great comfort
to us to know that our boy Willie is getting on so well in the Bank at
Oldham. We should like to see more of him. Now for my diary:—
April
3.—Tradesmen called for custom, and I promised Farmerson, the ironmonger, to
give him a turn if I wanted any nails or tools. By-the-by, that reminds
me there is no key to our bedroom door, and the bells must be seen to.
The parlour bell is broken, and the front door rings up in the servant’s
bedroom, which is ridiculous. Dear friend Gowing dropped in, but wouldn’t
stay, saying there was an infernal smell of paint.
April
4. Tradesmen still calling; Carrie being out, I arranged to deal with
Horwin, who seemed a civil butcher with a nice clean shop. Ordered a
shoulder of mutton for to-morrow, to give him a trial. Carrie arranged
with Borset, the butterman, and ordered a pound of fresh butter, and a pound
and a half of salt ditto for kitchen, and a shilling’s worth of eggs. In
the evening, Cummings unexpectedly dropped in to show me a meerschaum pipe he
had won in a raffle in the City, and told me to handle it carefully, as it
would spoil the colouring if the hand was moist. He said he wouldn’t
stay, as he didn’t care much for the smell of the paint, and fell over the
scraper as he went out. Must get the scraper removed, or else I shall get
into a scrape. I don’t often make jokes.
April
5.—Two shoulders of mutton arrived, Carrie having arranged with another butcher
without consulting me. Gowing called, and fell over scraper coming
in. Must get that scraper removed.
April
6.—Eggs for breakfast simply shocking; sent them back to Borset with my
compliments, and he needn’t call any more for orders. Couldn’t find
umbrella, and though it was pouring with rain, had to go without it.
Sarah said Mr. Gowing must have took it by mistake last night, as there was a
stick in the ‘all that didn’t belong to nobody. In the evening, hearing
someone talking in a loud voice to the servant in the downstairs hall, I went
out to see who it was, and was surprised to find it was Borset, the butterman,
who was both drunk and offensive. Borset, on seeing me, said he would be
hanged if he would ever serve City clerks any more—the game wasn’t worth the
candle. I restrained my feelings, and quietly remarked that I thought it
was possible for a city clerk to be a gentleman. He replied
he was very glad to hear it, and wanted to know whether I had ever come across
one, for he hadn’t. He left the house, slamming the door after
him, which nearly broke the fanlight; and I heard him fall over the scraper,
which made me feel glad I hadn’t removed it. When he had gone, I thought
of a splendid answer I ought to have given him. However, I will keep it
for another occasion.
April
7.—Being Saturday, I looked forward to being home early, and putting a few
things straight; but two of our principals at the office were absent through
illness, and I did not get home till seven. Found Borset waiting.
He had been three times during the day to apologise for his conduct last
night. He said he was unable to take his Bank Holiday last Monday, and
took it last night instead. He begged me to accept his apology, and a
pound of fresh butter. He seems, after all, a decent sort of fellow; so I
gave him an order for some fresh eggs, with a request that on this occasion
they should be fresh. I am afraid we shall have to get some new
stair-carpets after all; our old ones are not quite wide enough to meet the
paint on either side. Carrie suggests that we might ourselves broaden the
paint. I will see if we can match the colour (dark chocolate) on Monday.
April 8,
Sunday.—After Church, the Curate came back with us. I sent Carrie in to
open front door, which we do not use except on special occasions. She
could not get it open, and after all my display, I had to take the Curate
(whose name, by-the-by, I did not catch,) round the side entrance. He
caught his foot in the scraper, and tore the bottom of his trousers. Most
annoying, as Carrie could not well offer to repair them on a Sunday.
After dinner, went to sleep. Took a walk round the garden, and discovered
a beautiful spot for sowing mustard-and-cress and radishes. Went to
Church again in the evening: walked back with the Curate. Carrie noticed
he had got on the same pair of trousers, only repaired. He wants me to take
round the plate, which I think a great compliment.
CHAPTER II
Tradesmen
and the scraper still troublesome. Gowing rather tiresome with his
complaints of the paint. I make one of the best jokes of my life.
Delights of Gardening. Mr. Stillbrook, Gowing, Cummings, and I have a
little misunderstanding. Sarah makes me look a fool before Cummings.
April
9.—Commenced the morning badly. The butcher, whom we decided not
to arrange with, called and blackguarded me in the most uncalled-for
manner. He began by abusing me, and saying he did not want my
custom. I simply said: “Then what are you making all this fuss about it
for?” And he shouted out at the top of his voice, so that all the
neighbours could hear: “Pah! go along. Ugh! I could buy up ‘things’
like you by the dozen!”
I shut
the door, and was giving Carrie to understand that this disgraceful scene was
entirely her fault, when there was a violent kicking at the door, enough to
break the panels. It was the blackguard butcher again, who said he had
cut his foot over the scraper, and would immediately bring an action against
me. Called at Farmerson’s, the ironmonger, on my way to town, and gave
him the job of moving the scraper and repairing the bells, thinking it scarcely
worth while to trouble the landlord with such a trifling matter.
Arrived
home tired and worried. Mr. Putley, a painter and decorator, who had sent
in a card, said he could not match the colour on the stairs, as it contained
Indian carmine. He said he spent half-a-day calling at warehouses to see
if he could get it. He suggested he should entirely repaint the
stairs. It would cost very little more; if he tried to match it, he could
only make a bad job of it. It would be more satisfactory to him and to us
to have the work done properly. I consented, but felt I had been talked
over. Planted some mustard-and-cress and radishes, and went to bed at
nine.
April
10.—Farmerson came round to attend to the scraper himself. He seems a
very civil fellow. He says he does not usually conduct such small jobs
personally, but for me he would do so. I thanked him, and went to
town. It is disgraceful how late some of the young clerks are at
arriving. I told three of them that if Mr. Perkupp, the principal, heard
of it, they might be discharged.
Pitt, a
monkey of seventeen, who has only been with us six weeks, told me “to keep my
hair on!” I informed him I had had the honour of being in the firm twenty
years, to which he insolently replied that I “looked it.” I gave him an
indignant look, and said: “I demand from you some respect, sir.” He
replied: “All right, go on demanding.” I would not argue with him any
further. You cannot argue with people like that. In the evening
Gowing called, and repeated his complaint about the smell of paint. Gowing
is sometimes very tedious with his remarks, and not always cautious; and Carrie
once very properly reminded him that she was present.
April
11.—Mustard-and-cress and radishes not come up yet. To-day was a day of
annoyances. I missed the quarter-to-nine ’bus to the City, through having
words with the grocer’s boy, who for the second time had the impertinence to
bring his basket to the hall-door, and had left the marks of his dirty boots on
the fresh-cleaned door-steps. He said he had knocked at the side door
with his knuckles for a quarter of an hour. I knew Sarah, our servant,
could not hear this, as she was upstairs doing the bedrooms, so asked the boy
why he did not ring the bell? He replied that he did pull the bell, but
the handle came off in his hand.
I was
half-an-hour late at the office, a thing that has never happened to me
before. There has recently been much irregularity in the attendance of
the clerks, and Mr. Perkupp, our principal, unfortunately choose this very
morning to pounce down upon us early. Someone had given the tip to the
others. The result was that I was the only one late of the lot.
Buckling, one of the senior clerks, was a brick, and I was saved by his
intervention. As I passed by Pitt’s desk, I heard him remark to his
neighbour: “How disgracefully late some of the head clerks arrive!” This
was, of course, meant for me. I treated the observation with silence,
simply giving him a look, which unfortunately had the effect of making both of
the clerks laugh. Thought afterwards it would have been more dignified if
I had pretended not to have heard him at all. Cummings called in the
evening, and we played dominoes.
April
12.—Mustard-and-cress and radishes not come up yet. Left Farmerson
repairing the scraper, but when I came home found three men working. I
asked the meaning of it, and Farmerson said that in making a fresh hole he had
penetrated the gas-pipe. He said it was a most ridiculous place to put
the gas-pipe, and the man who did it evidently knew nothing about his
business. I felt his excuse was no consolation for the expense I shall be
put to.
In the
evening, after tea, Gowing dropped in, and we had a smoke together in the
breakfast-parlour. Carrie joined us later, but did not stay long, saying
the smoke was too much for her. It was also rather too much for me, for
Gowing had given me what he called a green cigar, one that his friend Shoemach
had just brought over from America. The cigar didn’t look green, but I
fancy I must have done so; for when I had smoked a little more than half I was
obliged to retire on the pretext of telling Sarah to bring in the glasses.
I took a
walk round the garden three or four times, feeling the need of fresh air.
On returning Gowing noticed I was not smoking: offered me another cigar, which
I politely declined. Gowing began his usual sniffing, so, anticipating
him, I said: “You’re not going to complain of the smell of paint again?”
He said: “No, not this time; but I’ll tell you what, I distinctly smell dry
rot.” I don’t often make jokes, but I replied: “You’re talking a lot of dry
rot yourself.” I could not help roaring at this, and Carrie said her
sides quite ached with laughter. I never was so immensely tickled by
anything I have ever said before. I actually woke up twice during the
night, and laughed till the bed shook.
April
13.—An extraordinary coincidence: Carrie had called in a woman to make some
chintz covers for our drawing-room chairs and sofa to prevent the sun fading
the green rep of the furniture. I saw the woman, and recognised her as a
woman who used to work years ago for my old aunt at Clapham. It only
shows how small the world is.
April
14.—Spent the whole of the afternoon in the garden, having this morning picked
up at a bookstall for fivepence a capital little book, in good condition, on Gardening.
I procured and sowed some half-hardy annuals in what I fancy will be a warm,
sunny border. I thought of a joke, and called out Carrie. Carrie
came out rather testy, I thought. I said: “I have just discovered we have
got a lodging-house.” She replied: “How do you mean?” I said: “Look
at the boarders.” Carrie said: “Is that all you wanted me
for?” I said: “Any other time you would have laughed at my little
pleasantry.” Carrie said: “Certainly—at any other time, but not
when I am busy in the house.” The stairs looked very nice. Gowing
called, and said the stairs looked all right, but it made the banisters
look all wrong, and suggested a coat of paint on them also, which Carrie
quite agreed with. I walked round to Putley, and fortunately he was out,
so I had a good excuse to let the banisters slide. By-the-by, that is
rather funny.
April 15,
Sunday.—At three o’clock Cummings and Gowing called for a good long walk over
Hampstead and Finchley, and brought with them a friend named Stillbrook.
We walked and chatted together, except Stillbrook, who was always a few yards
behind us staring at the ground and cutting at the grass with his stick.
As it was
getting on for five, we four held a consultation, and Gowing suggested that we
should make for “The Cow and Hedge” and get some tea. Stillbrook said: “A
brandy-and-soda was good enough for him.” I reminded them that all
public-houses were closed till six o’clock. Stillbrook said, “That’s all
right—bona-fide travellers.”
We
arrived; and as I was trying to pass, the man in charge of the gate said:
“Where from?” I replied: “Holloway.” He immediately put up his arm,
and declined to let me pass. I turned back for a moment, when I saw
Stillbrook, closely followed by Cummings and Gowing, make for the
entrance. I watched them, and thought I would have a good laugh at their
expense, I heard the porter say: “Where from?” When, to my surprise, in
fact disgust, Stillbrook replied: “Blackheath,” and the three were immediately
admitted.
Gowing
called to me across the gate, and said: “We shan’t be a minute.” I waited
for them the best part of an hour. When they appeared they were all in
most excellent spirits, and the only one who made an effort to apologise was
Mr. Stillbrook, who said to me: “It was very rough on you to be kept waiting,
but we had another spin for S. and B.’s.” I walked home in silence; I
couldn’t speak to them. I felt very dull all the evening, but deemed it
advisable not to say anything to Carrie about the matter.
April
16.—After business, set to work in the garden. When it got dark I wrote
to Cummings and Gowing (who neither called, for a wonder; perhaps they were
ashamed of themselves) about yesterday’s adventure at “The Cow and
Hedge.” Afterwards made up my mind not to write yet.
April
17.—Thought I would write a kind little note to Gowing and Cummings about last
Sunday, and warning them against Mr. Stillbrook. Afterwards, thinking the
matter over, tore up the letters and determined not to write at all, but
to speak quietly to them. Dumfounded at receiving a sharp letter
from Cummings, saying that both he and Gowing had been waiting for an
explanation of my (mind you, my) extraordinary conduct coming home on
Sunday. At last I wrote: “I thought I was the aggrieved party; but as I
freely forgive you, you—feeling yourself aggrieved—should bestow forgiveness on
me.” I have copied this verbatim in the diary, because I think it
is one of the most perfect and thoughtful sentences I have ever written.
I posted the letter, but in my own heart I felt I was actually apologising for
having been insulted.
April
18.—Am in for a cold. Spent the whole day at the office sneezing.
In the evening, the cold being intolerable, sent Sarah out for a bottle of
Kinahan. Fell asleep in the arm-chair, and woke with the shivers.
Was startled by a loud knock at the front door. Carrie awfully
flurried. Sarah still out, so went up, opened the door, and found it was
only Cummings. Remembered the grocer’s boy had again broken the
side-bell. Cummings squeezed my hand, and said: “I’ve just seen
Gowing. All right. Say no more about it.” There is no doubt
they are both under the impression I have apologised.
While
playing dominoes with Cummings in the parlour, he said: “By-the-by, do you want
any wine or spirits? My cousin Merton has just set up in the trade, and
has a splendid whisky, four years in bottle, at thirty-eight shillings.
It is worth your while laying down a few dozen of it.” I told him my cellars,
which were very small, were full up. To my horror, at that very moment,
Sarah entered the room, and putting a bottle of whisky, wrapped in a dirty
piece of newspaper, on the table in front of us, said: “Please, sir, the grocer
says he ain’t got no more Kinahan, but you’ll find this very good at
two-and-six, with twopence returned on the bottle; and, please, did you want
any more sherry? as he has some at one-and-three, as dry as a nut!”
CHAPTER III
A
conversation with Mr. Merton on Society. Mr. and Mrs. James, of Sutton,
come up. A miserable evening at the Tank Theatre. Experiments with
enamel paint. I make another good joke; but Gowing and Cummings are
unnecessarily offended. I paint the bath red, with unexpected result.
April
19.—Cummings called, bringing with him his friend Merton, who is in the wine
trade. Gowing also called. Mr. Merton made himself at home at once,
and Carrie and I were both struck with him immediately, and thoroughly approved
of his sentiments.
He leaned
back in his chair and said: “You must take me as I am;” and I replied: “Yes—and
you must take us as we are. We’re homely people, we are not swells.”
He
answered: “No, I can see that,” and Gowing roared with laughter; but Merton in
a most gentlemanly manner said to Gowing: “I don’t think you quite understand
me. I intended to convey that our charming host and hostess were superior
to the follies of fashion, and preferred leading a simple and wholesome life to
gadding about to twopenny-halfpenny tea-drinking afternoons, and living above
their incomes.”
I was
immensely pleased with these sensible remarks of Merton’s, and concluded that
subject by saying: “No, candidly, Mr. Merton, we don’t go into Society, because
we do not care for it; and what with the expense of cabs here and cabs there,
and white gloves and white ties, etc., it doesn’t seem worth the money.”
Merton
said in reference to friends: “My motto is ‘Few and True;’ and, by the
way, I also apply that to wine, ‘Little and Good.’” Gowing said: “Yes,
and sometimes ‘cheap and tasty,’ eh, old man?” Merton, still continuing,
said he should treat me as a friend, and put me down for a dozen of his
“Lockanbar” whisky, and as I was an old friend of Gowing, I should have it for
36s., which was considerably under what he paid for it.
He booked
his own order, and further said that at any time I wanted any passes for the
theatre I was to let him know, as his name stood good for any theatre in
London.
April
20.—Carrie reminded me that as her old school friend, Annie Fullers (now Mrs.
James), and her husband had come up from Sutton for a few days, it would look
kind to take them to the theatre, and would I drop a line to Mr. Merton asking
him for passes for four, either for the Italian Opera, Haymarket, Savoy, or
Lyceum. I wrote Merton to that effect.
April
21.—Got a reply from Merton, saying he was very busy, and just at present
couldn’t manage passes for the Italian Opera, Haymarket, Savoy, or Lyceum, but
the best thing going on in London was the Brown Bushes, at the Tank
Theatre, Islington, and enclosed seats for four; also bill for whisky.
April
23.—Mr. and Mrs. James (Miss Fullers that was) came to meat tea, and we left
directly after for the Tank Theatre. We got a ’bus that took us to King’s
Cross, and then changed into one that took us to the “Angel.” Mr. James
each time insisted on paying for all, saying that I had paid for the tickets
and that was quite enough.
We
arrived at theatre, where, curiously enough, all our ’bus-load except an old
woman with a basket seemed to be going in. I walked ahead and presented
the tickets. The man looked at them, and called out: “Mr. Willowly! do
you know anything about these?” holding up my tickets. The gentleman
called to, came up and examined my tickets, and said: “Who gave you
these?” I said, rather indignantly: “Mr. Merton, of course.” He
said: “Merton? Who’s he?” I answered, rather sharply: “You ought to
know, his name’s good at any theatre in London.” He replied: “Oh! is
it? Well, it ain’t no good here. These tickets, which are not
dated, were issued under Mr. Swinstead’s management, which has since changed
hands.” While I was having some very unpleasant words with the man,
James, who had gone upstairs with the ladies, called out: “Come on!” I
went up after them, and a very civil attendant said: “This way, please, box
H.” I said to James: “Why, how on earth did you manage it?” and to my
horror he replied: “Why, paid for it of course.”
This was
humiliating enough, and I could scarcely follow the play, but I was doomed to
still further humiliation. I was leaning out of the box, when my tie—a
little black bow which fastened on to the stud by means of a new patent—fell
into the pit below. A clumsy man not noticing it, had his foot on it for
ever so long before he discovered it. He then picked it up and eventually
flung it under the next seat in disgust. What with the box incident and
the tie, I felt quite miserable. Mr. James, of Sutton, was very
good. He said: “Don’t worry—no one will notice it with your beard.
That is the only advantage of growing one that I can see.” There was no
occasion for that remark, for Carrie is very proud of my beard.
To hide
the absence of the tie I had to keep my chin down the rest of the evening,
which caused a pain at the back of my neck.
April
24.—Could scarcely sleep a wink through thinking of having brought up Mr. and
Mrs. James from the country to go to the theatre last night, and his having
paid for a private box because our order was not honoured, and such a poor play
too. I wrote a very satirical letter to Merton, the wine merchant, who
gave us the pass, and said, “Considering we had to pay for our seats, we did
our best to appreciate the performance.” I thought this line rather
cutting, and I asked Carrie how many p’s there were in appreciate, and she
said, “One.” After I sent off the letter I looked at the dictionary and
found there were two. Awfully vexed at this.
Decided
not to worry myself any more about the James’s; for, as Carrie wisely said,
“We’ll make it all right with them by asking them up from Sutton one evening
next week to play at Bézique.”
April
25.—In consequence of Brickwell telling me his wife was working wonders with
the new Pinkford’s enamel paint, I determined to try it. I bought two
tins of red on my way home. I hastened through tea, went into the garden
and painted some flower-pots. I called out Carrie, who said: “You’ve
always got some newfangled craze;” but she was obliged to admit that the
flower-pots looked remarkably well. Went upstairs into the servant’s
bedroom and painted her washstand, towel-horse, and chest of drawers. To
my mind it was an extraordinary improvement, but as an example of the ignorance
of the lower classes in the matter of taste, our servant, Sarah, on seeing
them, evinced no sign of pleasure, but merely said “she thought they looked
very well as they was before.”
April
26.—Got some more red enamel paint (red, to my mind, being the best colour),
and painted the coal-scuttle, and the backs of our Shakspeare, the
binding of which had almost worn out.
April
27.—Painted the bath red, and was delighted with the result. Sorry to say
Carrie was not, in fact we had a few words about it. She said I ought to
have consulted her, and she had never heard of such a thing as a bath being painted
red. I replied: “It’s merely a matter of taste.”
Fortunately,
further argument on the subject was stopped by a voice saying, “May I come
in?” It was only Cummings, who said, “Your maid opened the door, and
asked me to excuse her showing me in, as she was wringing out some
socks.” I was delighted to see him, and suggested we should have a game
of whist with a dummy, and by way of merriment said: “You can be the
dummy.” Cummings (I thought rather ill-naturedly) replied: “Funny as
usual.” He said he couldn’t stop, he only called to leave me the Bicycle
News, as he had done with it.
Another
ring at the bell; it was Gowing, who said he “must apologise for coming so
often, and that one of these days we must come round to him.” I
said: “A very extraordinary thing has struck me.” “Something funny, as
usual,” said Cummings. “Yes,” I replied; “I think even you will say so
this time. It’s concerning you both; for doesn’t it seem odd that
Gowing’s always coming and Cummings’ always going?” Carrie, who had
evidently quite forgotten about the bath, went into fits of laughter, and as
for myself, I fairly doubled up in my chair, till it cracked beneath me.
I think this was one of the best jokes I have ever made.
Then
imagine my astonishment on perceiving both Cummings and Gowing perfectly
silent, and without a smile on their faces. After rather an unpleasant
pause, Cummings, who had opened a cigar-case, closed it up again and said:
“Yes—I think, after that, I shall be going, and I am sorry I fail to see
the fun of your jokes.” Gowing said he didn’t mind a joke when it wasn’t
rude, but a pun on a name, to his thinking, was certainly a little wanting in
good taste. Cummings followed it up by saying, if it had been said by
anyone else but myself, he shouldn’t have entered the house again. This
rather unpleasantly terminated what might have been a cheerful evening.
However, it was as well they went, for the charwoman had finished up the
remains of the cold pork.
April
28.—At the office, the new and very young clerk Pitt, who was very impudent to
me a week or so ago, was late again. I told him it would be my duty to
inform Mr. Perkupp, the principal. To my surprise, Pitt apologised most
humbly and in a most gentlemanly fashion. I was unfeignedly pleased to notice
this improvement in his manner towards me, and told him I would look over his
unpunctuality. Passing down the room an hour later. I received a
smart smack in the face from a rolled-up ball of hard foolscap. I turned
round sharply, but all the clerks were apparently riveted to their work.
I am not a rich man, but I would give half-a-sovereign to know whether that was
thrown by accident or design. Went home early and bought some more enamel
paint—black this time—and spent the evening touching up the fender,
picture-frames, and an old pair of boots, making them look as good as
new. Also painted Gowing’s walking-stick, which he left behind, and made
it look like ebony.
April 29,
Sunday.—Woke up with a fearful headache and strong symptoms of a cold. Carrie,
with a perversity which is just like her, said it was “painter’s colic,” and
was the result of my having spent the last few days with my nose over a
paint-pot. I told her firmly that I knew a great deal better what was the
matter with me than she did. I had got a chill, and decided to have a
bath as hot as I could bear it. Bath ready—could scarcely bear it so
hot. I persevered, and got in; very hot, but very acceptable. I lay
still for some time.
On moving
my hand above the surface of the water, I experienced the greatest fright I
ever received in the whole course of my life; for imagine my horror on
discovering my hand, as I thought, full of blood. My first thought was
that I had ruptured an artery, and was bleeding to death, and should be discovered,
later on, looking like a second Marat, as I remember seeing him in Madame
Tussaud’s. My second thought was to ring the bell, but remembered there
was no bell to ring. My third was, that there was nothing but the enamel
paint, which had dissolved with boiling water. I stepped out of the bath,
perfectly red all over, resembling the Red Indians I have seen depicted at an
East-End theatre. I determined not to say a word to Carrie, but to tell
Farmerson to come on Monday and paint the bath white.
