The night before, timid and reluctant to descend the two flights of pitch dark stairs with a heavy water-pitcher in my hand, I had brought up no water! It is interesting to wonder how scrupulous we would all be if our baths were carried up and down two flights of stairs pitcher by pitcher. A little water nearly frozen was at hand for my toilet. By six I was dressed and my bed made; by 6:15 in the kitchen, dense with smoke from the frying breakfast. Through the haze the figures of my friends declared themselves. Codfish balls, bread and butter and coffee formed the repast.
Maurice is the first to finish, standing a moment to light his pipe, his hat acock; then he is gone. The sisters wash at the sink, Mika combing her mass of frowzy dark hair, talking meanwhile. The sisters' toilet, summary and limited, is frankly displayed.
At my right the bride consumes five enormous fish balls, as well as much bread. Her husband, a young, handsome, gentle creature, eats sparingly. His hand is strapped up at the wrist.
"What's wrong?"
"Strained tendons. Doctor says they'd be all
right if I could just hold up a little. They don't get no chance to rest."
"But why not 'hold up' awhile?" He regards me sympathetically as one who says to an equal, a fellow: "You know why!—for the same reason that you yourself will work sick or well."
"On fait ce que l'on peut!"
("One does one's best!")
When the young couple had left the room our landlady said: