“Following my own judgment I should have pawned that umbrella, purchased one more suited to my state in life, and ‘blued’ the difference. But I was fearful of offending my one respectable acquaintance, and for weeks struggled on, hampered by this plutocratic appendage. The humble haddock was denied to me. Tied to this imposing umbrella, how could I haggle with fishmongers for haddocks. At first sight of me—or, rather, of my umbrella—they flew to icy cellars, brought up for my inspection soles at eighteenpence a pound, recommended me prime parts of salmon, which my landlady would have fried in a pan reeking with the mixed remains of pork chops, rashers of bacon and cheese. It was closed to me, the humble coffee shop, where for threepence I could have strengthened my soul with half a pint of cocoa and four “doorsteps”—satisfactory slices of bread smeared with a yellow grease that before the days of County Council inspectors they called butter. You know of them, Mrs. Wilkins? At sight of such nowadays I should turn up my jaded nose. But those were the days of my youth, Mrs. Wilkins. The scent of a thousand hopes was in my nostrils: so they smelt good to me. The fourpenny beefsteak pie, satisfying to the verge of repletion; the succulent saveloy, were not for the owner of the ivory-handled umbrella. On Mondays and Tuesdays, perhaps, I could enjoy life at the rate of five hundred a year—clean serviette a penny extra, and twopence to the waiter, whose income must have been at least four times my own. But from Wednesday to Saturday I had to wander in the wilderness of back streets and silent squares dinnerless, where there were not even to be found locusts and wild honey.
“It was, as I have said, a rainy season, and an umbrella of some sort was a necessity. Fortunately—or I might not be sitting here, Mrs. Wilkins, talking to you now—my one respectable acquaintance was called away to foreign lands, and that umbrella I promptly put ‘up the spout.’ You understand me?”
Mrs. Wilkins admitted she did, but was of opinion that twenty-five per cent., to say nothing of the halfpenny for the ticket every time, was a wicked imposition.
“It did not trouble me, Mrs. Wilkins,” I replied, “in this particular instance. It was my determination never to see that umbrella again. The young man behind the counter seemed suspicious, and asked where I got it from. I told him that a friend had given it to me.”
“‘Did he know that he had given it to you?” demanded the young man.
“Upon which I gave him a piece of my mind concerning the character of those who think evil of others, and he gave me five and six, and said he should know me again; and I purchased an umbrella suited to my rank and station, and as fine a haddock as I have ever tasted with the balance, which was sevenpence, for I was feeling hungry.
“The haddock is an excellent fish, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, “and if, as you observe, we listened to all that was said we’d be hungrier at forty, with a balance to our credit at the bank, than ever we were at twenty, with ‘no effects’ beyond a sound digestion.”
A Martyr to Health.
“There was a gent in Middle Temple Lane,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “as I used to do for. It’s my belief as ’e killed ’imself worrying twenty-four hours a day over what ’e called ’is ’ygiene. Leastways ’e’s dead and buried now, which must be a comfort to ’imself, feeling as at last ’e’s out of danger. All ’is time ’e spent taking care of ’imself—didn’t seem to ’ave a leisure moment in which to live. For ’alf an hour every morning ’e’d lie on ’is back on the floor, which is a draughty place, I always ’old, at the best of times, with nothing on but ’is pyjamas, waving ’is arms and legs about, and twisting ’imself into shapes unnatural to a Christian. Then ’e found out that everything ’e’d been doing on ’is back was just all wrong, so ’e turned over and did tricks on ’is stomach—begging your pardon for using the word—that you’d ’ave thought more fit and proper to a worm than to a man. Then all that was discovered to be a mistake. There don’t seem nothing certain in these matters. That’s the awkward part of it, so it seems to me. ’E got ’imself a machine, by means of which ’e’d ’ang ’imself up to the wall, and behave for all the world like a beetle with a pin stuck through ’im, poor thing. It used to give me the shudders to catch sight of ’im through the ’alf-open door. For that was part of the game: you ’ad to ’ave a current of air through the room, the result of which was that for six months out of the year ’e’d be coughing and blowing ’is nose from morning to night. It was the new treatment, so ’e’d explain to me. You got yourself accustomed to draughts so that they didn’t ’urt you, and if you died in the process that only proved that you never ought to ’ave been born.
“Then there came in this new Japanese business, and ’e’d ’ire a little smiling ’eathen to chuck ’im about ’is room for ’alf an hour every morning after breakfast. It got on my nerves after a while ’earing ’im being bumped on the floor every minute, or flung with ’is ’ead into the fire-place. But ’e always said it was doing ’im good. ’E’d argue that it freshened up ’is liver. It was ’is liver that ’e seemed to live for—didn’t appear to ’ave any other interest in life. It was the same with ’is food. One year it would be nothing but meat, and next door to raw at that. One of them medical papers ’ad suddenly discovered that we were intended to be a sort of wild beast. The wonder to me is that ’e didn’t go out ’unting chickens with a club, and bring ’em ’ome and eat ’em on the mat without any further fuss. For drink it would be boiling water that burnt my fingers merely ’andling the glass. Then some other crank came out with the information that every other crank was wrong—which, taken by itself, sounds natural enough—that meat was fatal to the ’uman system. Upon that ’e becomes all at once a raging, tearing vegetarian, and trouble enough I ’ad learning twenty different ways of cooking beans, which didn’t make, so far as I could ever see, the slightest difference—beans they were, and beans they tasted like, whether you called them ragoût à la maison, or cutlets à la Pompadour. But it seemed to please ’im.