But perhaps there is nothing in London so exasperating as the Lodging-house keeper. This is a creature not unknown to other regions, but reserved for its most perfect and exquisite finish for the Metropolis of the World (as the English like to call London).
This being starves you, freezes you, cheats you, waits upon you, steals from you, lies to you, flatters you, and backbites you; reads your private papers, has keys for all your boxes and drawers, and a complete inventory of all your effects. She chooses from your handkerchiefs, smoothes her hair with your brushes, scents it with your perfumes, "makes herself beautiful" at your toilet. She examines your boots, and finds a pair which you "will never miss," for her James. She brushes your trowsers, and takes care of any loose change. She waits at your table, counts the oranges, and thinks she will try one.
When you ask for that pie, she has given it to the dog—"I thought you were done with it, Sir." She cracks a window pane, and charges it to you in the bill. She eats your bread, drinks your beer, tastes your wine; and charges you a shilling for a pinch of salt. She demands pay for coals you have not burned, and for gas you have not used. She gives you sheets that are worn out, and makes you pay the price of new when you stick your toes through them. She demands the wash for coverings which you have not soiled, and for tidys that were never tidy. She has a lot of cracked cheap glasses and crockery, which she makes you pay "for cracking, Sir"—as she has already made others many times before. In truth, these are invaluable to her—"she get new ones, not she"! (as she says to her drudge of all work).
You pay for clean table-linen and towels weekly (and weakly)—but if you ask for a fresh table-cloth, "I have a friend to dine"—you get it, and a charge for it extra. If you intimate that you could not have had "so much butter"—you are reminded that you are speaking to a lady, who has been accustomed to have gentlemen in her rooms!
You sleep on "hobbles," and are blotched in a curious manner. You hint to the servant that you have seen something as well as felt; but "nothing of that sort was ever in my house." At last, when you find it quite impossible to satisfy the ever-increasing rapacity, you "think you will leave." You are very forcibly reminded that you are bound to "a month's notice, Sir." And, happy to get off any way, this you waive and pay for. Nor do you flinch when, on exhibiting the final account, "my lady" has recorded a list of casualties, very startling:—
You glance at the foot, pay it. You think all is done. But "my lady" expects a "slight gratuity, Sir; not for myself, of course, but for Nancy!" I should add that this harpy is a devotee, and is as punctual at prayers as at prey!
One, however, soon finds a change of place is no change of fate. The pickings and stealings may take a little different form, but the result is the same. The only thing is, to get for your money cleanliness and comfort; estimate the whole cost, and consider the plunder a part of it—for you will not escape. The Lodging House is only typical. All are preyed upon and prey upon. It is the rule of barbaric life, and Caste makes it inevitable. The low think it no robbery to get a share of the plunder enjoyed by the rich. There is, in the general state of things, a rough instinct of justice in it—only innocent people also suffer.
If you live in one of the huge buildings called Hotels, you are no better off. Here, every mouthful is counted; you cannot breathe (so to say) without paying for it. If a waiter look at you, he will expect a gratuity [ti-tin].
After you have paid everything which an experienced and greedy ingenuity can think of, as you are about to leave, the servants will obsequiously open and stand at doors, hold and brush your hat (already brushed bare), catch up some trifle, and generally get in your way, to force gratuities out of your good-nature. If you, at length, reach the vehicle called for you, before you can open the door of it, up will start, as from the ground, a miserable creature, who intercepts your motion, adroitly opening the door for you, and then, when you are seated, stands staring directly into your face, with his hand still on the door-handle, awaiting a gratuity. You have buttoned up your coat, your gloves are on, it is cold; but you cannot refuse the demand.