I saw railway officials of various grades hurrying to and fro, and all intent on some business or other. Loud shouts for hansoms and fourwheelers began to echo through the glazed walls of the great station even before the train had stopped. Porters swarmed at the windows of carriages still in motion, jumped on to the steps, opened the doors, commenced taking out hand-bags, wraps, umbrellas, and similar small articles, reiterated eager exclamations of "Cab, sir? Cab, mum? Any luggage? Where from?" etc., and vied with one another in pressing their services upon all passengers from whom a tip was likely to be expected. Under this head the occupants of third-class carriages were evidently not included, and not one of the offers of assistance that were being lavished so freely in other directions fell to my share, as I emerged from my compartment with the bag that contained all my goods in my hand. It was a neglect, however, which I certainly did not wish altered under the circumstances, as the less notice I attracted, the better was my chance of evading any enquiries that might subsequently be made about me.
It was too late that night to set about hunting for a lodging, but as hotels are usually to be found in close proximity to railway stations, I had no fear of having to go far for a bed. I was not mistaken in this confidence. No sooner had I got into the street than I saw just before me an immense building with the words RAILWAY HOTEL flaring in large coloured letters upon a gas transparency over the door; and underneath this inscription was another, in smaller sized letters, stating that within this magnificent hotel travellers of all classes were supplied with every comfort and luxury at extremely moderate prices.
Turning my steps thither, I entered through the open doors into a large, softly-carpeted, handsomely-furnished hall, where a porter in a gorgeous livery and sundry waiters were lounging about and talking. To one of these I addressed myself, requesting to be shown a room for the night, and adding that I wished it to be as inexpensive a one as possible. My request was referred to the presiding genius in the hall, who was an elegantly attired young lady, with the most nonchalant expression of countenance that it was ever my fortune to behold. She was deeply engaged in a book; but on being spoken to she put it down, glanced at a list of rooms, rang a bell, uttered oracularly the single word "18," then resumed her volume, and at once became as deeply absorbed in it again as though her studies had never been interrupted at all.
Meanwhile, one of her satellites conducted me up innumerable stairs to the chamber assigned to me—lowness of price and of situation being in the usual inverse proportions. At last we arrived at No. 18, which proved to be a room small enough to have done duty as a convent cell, and scantily furnished with a table, a chair, a cracked and fly-spotted little looking-glass, a washing-stand, a tiny chest of drawers, and a short narrow bedstead, whereon was an abominably hard and fusty-smelling mattress.
The charge for one night's occupation of this palatial apartment was 5s., and for that sum one would have supposed that a little civility from the hotel servants might well have been thrown into the bargain, without there being any danger of the visitor's receiving an unfair amount of return for the money spent. Such, however, was by no means the opinion of the waiters and chambermaids, who were at no pains to hide the supreme scorn with which they were inspired by the spectacle of a traveller attempting to combine hotel-life with economy. To their minds the two things evidently were, and ought to be, absolutely incompatible; and I am inclined to think that they deemed it one of the objects for which they had been put into the world, to make that incompatibility as plainly apparent as possible.
Fortunately for me, I was as little affected by their contempt as I was by the indifferent quality of the accommodation provided. Neither the nasty smell of my couch nor its hardness, nor yet the sense of being an object of scorn to a pack of waiters and chambermaids, had power to interfere with my repose; for I slept soundly all night, and awoke in the morning as much refreshed as though I had tenanted the most luxurious room imaginable. Observing a tariff of hotel prices hanging up over the washing-stand, I proceeded to read it as soon as I was dressed. From this document I learnt that a single cup of tea or coffee was to be had for 6d. (would that include milk and sugar? I wondered), and that the cost of a breakfast, consisting of tea or coffee and bread and butter, was 1s. 6d. Not bad that, thought I, for a place which professes to supply every comfort and luxury at extremely moderate prices! I should rather like to know what is the landlord's idea of immoderate ones.
Paying for food at this rate was not exactly consistent with the rigid economy which my circumstances imposed upon me, so I sallied forth to procure breakfast elsewhere. This was not difficult to accomplish, as there was a tidy little restaurant only two doors off, where, for the sum of 6d., I was supplied with coffee, a good-sized roll, and a pat of butter—all of excellent quality. The small round table on which the food was served was destitute of a cloth, but quite clean; and I ate my meal with as hearty a relish, and enjoyed it every bit as much, as though it had cost 150 per cent more, and been consumed in the sumptuous coffee-room of the hotel.
The proprietor of the restaurant was an Italian. I was, just then, his sole customer, and, as he did not seem particularly busy, I spoke to him in his own language when I went to the counter to pay for my breakfast, and asked him if he happened to know of any one who gave lessons in hairdressing. The chance of a conversation in his native tongue appeared to please him; for he became so communicative that I think it would have needed but little encouragement on my part to draw from him, there and then, the whole history of his life. With some difficulty, however, I managed to check his confidences, and to keep him to the point on which I required information.
Did he know any one to teach hairdressing? He must consider a moment. Yes, to be sure! there was his friend, Monsieur Candot, a French parruchiére, who could do hair, make frisettes, plaits, puffs, curls, wigs, everything. He was not certain that Monsieur Candot gave lessons; but thought it highly probable.
Had Monsieur Candot much practice? I asked; because otherwise he would not suit me, as I wished only to learn of a really high-class and fashionable hairdresser. Then, seeing the Italian's face clouding over at the idea of my venturing to doubt the superior talent of a man whom he recommended and called his friend, I hastened to smooth down his ruffled feelings by adding that I felt sure he would excuse my asking the question, because—as he well knew—there were wigs and wigs, and the mere fact of making them did not necessarily imply that they were made well; that, in short, if it were permissible to take liberties with Giusti's epigram about bookmaking, one might say—