THE HOUSING QUESTION.
Someone estimated the other day that England is short just now of five hundred thousand houses. This is a miscalculation. She is really short of five hundred thousand and one, the odd one being the house that we are looking for and cannot find.
We have discovered many houses in our tour of London, but none that gives complete satisfaction. Either the locality or the shape or the price is all wrong; or, as more often happens, the fixtures. By the fixtures I mean, of course, the people who are already in the place and refuse to come out of it; London is full of houses with the wrong people in them.
"I wonder," says Celia, standing outside some particularly desirable residence, "if we dare go in and ask them if they wouldn't like to move."
"We can't live there unless they do," I agreed. "It would be so crowded."
"After all, I suppose they took it from somebody else some time or other. I don't see why we shouldn't take it from them."
"As soon as they put a 'TO LET' board outside we will."
Celia hangs about hopefully for some days after this, waiting for a man to come along with a "TO LET" board over his shoulder. As soon as he plants it in the front garden she means to rush forward, strike out the "TO," and present herself to the occupier with her cheque-book in her hand. It is thus, she assures me, that the best houses are snapped up; but it is weary waiting, and I cannot take my turn on guard, for I must stay at home and earn the money which the landlord (sordid fellow) will want.
Sometimes we search the advertisement columns in the papers in the hope of finding something that may do.
"Here's one," I announced one morning; "'For American millionaires and others. Fifteen bathrooms—' Oh, no, that's too big."
"Isn't there anything for English hundredaires?" said Celia.
"Here's one that says 'reasonable offer taken.'"
"Yes, but I don't suppose we reason the same way as he does."
"Well, here's one for four thousand pounds. That's not so bad. I mean as a price, not as a house."
"Have you got four thousand pounds?"
"No; I was hoping you had."
"Couldn't you mortgage something—up to the hilt?"
"We'll have a look," I said.
We spent the rest of that day looking for something to mortgage, but found nothing with a hilt at all high up.
"Anyhow," I said, "it was a rotten house."
"Wouldn't it be simpler," said Celia, "to put in an advertisement ourselves, describing exactly the sort of house we want? That's the way I always get servants."
"A house is so much more difficult to describe than a cook."
"Oh, but I'm sure you could do it. You describe things so well."
Feeling highly flattered, I retired to the library and composed.
For the first hour or so I tried to do it in the staccato language of house-agents. They say all they want to say in five lines; I tried to say all we wanted to say in ten. The result was hopeless. We both agreed that we should hate to live in that sort of house. Celia indeed seemed to feel that if I couldn't write better than that we couldn't afford to live in a house at all.
"You don't seem to realise," I said, "that in the ordinary way people pay me for writing. This time, so far from receiving any money, I have actually got to hand it out in order to get into print at all. You can hardly expect me to give my best to an editor of that kind."
"I thought that the artist in you would insist on putting your best into everything that you wrote, quite apart from the money."
Of course after that the artist in me had to pull himself together. An hour later it had delivered itself as follows:—
"WANTED, an unusual house. When I say unusual I mean that it mustn't look like anybody's old house. Actually it should contain three living-rooms and five bedrooms. One of the bedrooms may be a dressing-room, if it is quite understood that a dressing-room does not mean a cupboard in which the last tenant's housemaid kept her brushes. The other four bedrooms must be a decent size and should get plenty of sun. The exigencies of the solar system may make it impossible for the sun to be always there, but it should be around when wanted. With regard to the living-rooms, it is essential that they should not be square but squiggly. The drawing-room should be particularly squiggly; the dining-room should have at least an air of squiggliness; and the third room, in which I propose to work, may be the least squiggly of the three, but it must be inspiring, otherwise the landlord may not obtain his rent. The kitchen arrangements do not interest me greatly, but they will interest the cook, and for this reason should be as delightful as possible; after which warning anybody with a really bad basement on his hands will see the wisdom of retiring from the queue and letting the next man move up one. The bathroom should have plenty of space, not only for the porcelain bath which it will be expected to contain, but also (as is sometimes forgotten) for the bather after he or she has stepped out of the bath. The fireplaces should not be, as they generally are, utterly beastly. Owners of utterly beastly fireplaces may also move out of the queue, but they should take their places up at the end again in case they are wanted; for, if things were satisfactory otherwise, their claims might be considered, since even the beastliest fireplace can be dug out at the owner's expense and replaced with something tolerable.
"A little garden would be liked. At any rate there must be a view of trees, whether one's own or somebody else's.
"As regards position, the house must be in London. I mean really in London. I mean really in central London. The outlying portions of Kensington, such as Ealing, Hanwell and Uxbridge, are no good. Cricklewood, Highgate, New Barnet and similar places near Portman Square are useless. It must be in London—in the middle of London.
"Now we come to rather an important matter. Rent. It is up to you to say how much you want; but let me give you one word of warning. Don't be absurd. You aren't dealing now with one of those profiteers who remained (with honour) in his own country. And you can have our flat in exchange, if you like—well, it isn't ours really, it's the landlord's, but we will introduce you to him without commission. Anyway, don't be afraid of saying what you want; if it is absurd (and I expect it will be) we will tell you so. And if you must have a lump sum instead of an annual one, well, perhaps we could manage to borrow it (from you or somebody); but smaller annual lumps would be preferred."
When I had written it out I handed it to Celia.
"There you are," I said, "and, speaking as an artist, I don't see how I can make it a word shorter."
She read it carefully through.
"It does sound a jolly house," she said wistfully. "Would it cost a lot as an advertisement?"
"About the first year's rent. And even then nobody would take it seriously."
"Oh, well, perhaps I'd better go and see another agent." She fingered the advertisement regretfully. "It seems a pity to waste this," she added with a smile.
But the artist in me was already quite resolved that it should not be wasted.
A.A.M.
Lady. "POOR DEAR! AND SO THEY REJECTED IT? IT'S A SHAME—THEY OUGHT TO SET YOU SIMPLER SUBJECTS."