The Diary of a Nobody by George and Weedon Grossmith

CHAPTER I

We settle down in our new home, and I resolve to keep a diary. Tradesmen
trouble us a bit, so does the scraper. The Curate calls and pays me a
great compliment.

My dear wife Carrie and I have just been a week in our new house, “The
Laurels,” Brickfield Terrace, Holloway—a nice six-roomed residence, not
counting basement, with a front breakfast-parlour. We have a little
front garden; and there is a flight of ten steps up to the front door,
which, by-the-by, we keep locked with the chain up. Cummings, Gowing,
and our other intimate friends always come to the little side entrance,
which saves the servant the trouble of going up to the front door,
thereby taking her from her work. We have a nice little back garden
which runs down to the railway. We were rather afraid of the noise of
the trains at first, but the landlord said we should not notice them
after a bit, and took £2 off the rent. He was certainly right; and
beyond the cracking of the garden wall at the bottom, we have suffered no
inconvenience.

After my work in the City, I like to be at home. What’s the good of a
home, if you are never in it? “Home, Sweet Home,” that’s my motto. I am
always in of an evening. Our old friend Gowing may drop in without
ceremony; so may Cummings, who lives opposite. My dear wife Caroline and
I are pleased to see them, if they like to drop in on us. But Carrie and
I can manage to pass our evenings together without friends. There is
always something to be done: a tin-tack here, a Venetian blind to put
straight, a fan to nail up, or part of a carpet to nail down—all of which
I can do with my pipe in my mouth; while Carrie is not above putting a
button on a shirt, mending a pillow-case, or practising the “Sylvia
Gavotte” on our new cottage piano (on the three years’ system),
manufactured by W. Bilkson (in small letters), from Collard and Collard
(in very large letters). It is also a great comfort to us to know that
our boy Willie is getting on so well in the Bank at Oldham. We should
like to see more of him. Now for my diary:—

* * * * *

APRIL 3.—Tradesmen called for custom, and I promised Farmerson, the
ironmonger, to give him a turn if I wanted any nails or tools.
By-the-by, that reminds me there is no key to our bedroom door, and the
bells must be seen to. The parlour bell is broken, and the front door
rings up in the servant’s bedroom, which is ridiculous. Dear friend
Gowing dropped in, but wouldn’t stay, saying there was an infernal smell
of paint.

APRIL 4. Tradesmen still calling; Carrie being out, I arranged to deal
with Horwin, who seemed a civil butcher with a nice clean shop. Ordered
a shoulder of mutton for to-morrow, to give him a trial. Carrie arranged
with Borset, the butterman, and ordered a pound of fresh butter, and a
pound and a half of salt ditto for kitchen, and a shilling’s worth of
eggs. In the evening, Cummings unexpectedly dropped in to show me a
meerschaum pipe he had won in a raffle in the City, and told me to handle
it carefully, as it would spoil the colouring if the hand was moist. He
said he wouldn’t stay, as he didn’t care much for the smell of the paint,
and fell over the scraper as he went out. Must get the scraper removed,
or else I shall get into a _scrape_. I don’t often make jokes.

APRIL 5.—Two shoulders of mutton arrived, Carrie having arranged with
another butcher without consulting me. Gowing called, and fell over
scraper coming in. _Must_ get that scraper removed.

APRIL 6.—Eggs for breakfast simply shocking; sent them back to Borset
with my compliments, and he needn’t call any more for orders. Couldn’t
find umbrella, and though it was pouring with rain, had to go without it.
Sarah said Mr. Gowing must have took it by mistake last night, as there
was a stick in the ‘all that didn’t belong to nobody. In the evening,
hearing someone talking in a loud voice to the servant in the downstairs
hall, I went out to see who it was, and was surprised to find it was
Borset, the butterman, who was both drunk and offensive. Borset, on
seeing me, said he would be hanged if he would ever serve City clerks any
more—the game wasn’t worth the candle. I restrained my feelings, and
quietly remarked that I thought it was _possible_ for a city clerk to be
a _gentleman_. He replied he was very glad to hear it, and wanted to
know whether I had ever come across one, for _he_ hadn’t. He left the
house, slamming the door after him, which nearly broke the fanlight; and
I heard him fall over the scraper, which made me feel glad I hadn’t
removed it. When he had gone, I thought of a splendid answer I ought to
have given him. However, I will keep it for another occasion.

APRIL 7.—Being Saturday, I looked forward to being home early, and
putting a few things straight; but two of our principals at the office
were absent through illness, and I did not get home till seven. Found
Borset waiting. He had been three times during the day to apologise for
his conduct last night. He said he was unable to take his Bank Holiday
last Monday, and took it last night instead. He begged me to accept his
apology, and a pound of fresh butter. He seems, after all, a decent sort
of fellow; so I gave him an order for some fresh eggs, with a request
that on this occasion they _should_ be fresh. I am afraid we shall have
to get some new stair-carpets after all; our old ones are not quite wide
enough to meet the paint on either side. Carrie suggests that we might
ourselves broaden the paint. I will see if we can match the colour (dark
chocolate) on Monday.

APRIL 8, Sunday.—After Church, the Curate came back with us. I sent
Carrie in to open front door, which we do not use except on special
occasions. She could not get it open, and after all my display, I had to
take the Curate (whose name, by-the-by, I did not catch,) round the side
entrance. He caught his foot in the scraper, and tore the bottom of his
trousers. Most annoying, as Carrie could not well offer to repair them
on a Sunday. After dinner, went to sleep. Took a walk round the garden,
and discovered a beautiful spot for sowing mustard-and-cress and
radishes. Went to Church again in the evening: walked back with the
Curate. Carrie noticed he had got on the same pair of trousers, only
repaired. He wants me to take round the plate, which I think a great
compliment.

CHAPTER II

Tradesmen and the scraper still troublesome. Gowing rather tiresome with
his complaints of the paint. I make one of the best jokes of my life.
Delights of Gardening. Mr. Stillbrook, Gowing, Cummings, and I have a
little misunderstanding. Sarah makes me look a fool before Cummings.

APRIL 9.—Commenced the morning badly. The butcher, whom we decided _not_
to arrange with, called and blackguarded me in the most uncalled-for
manner. He began by abusing me, and saying he did not want my custom. I
simply said: “Then what are you making all this fuss about it for?” And
he shouted out at the top of his voice, so that all the neighbours could
hear: “Pah! go along. Ugh! I could buy up ‘things’ like you by the
dozen!”

I shut the door, and was giving Carrie to understand that this
disgraceful scene was entirely her fault, when there was a violent
kicking at the door, enough to break the panels. It was the blackguard
butcher again, who said he had cut his foot over the scraper, and would
immediately bring an action against me. Called at Farmerson’s, the
ironmonger, on my way to town, and gave him the job of moving the scraper
and repairing the bells, thinking it scarcely worth while to trouble the
landlord with such a trifling matter.

Arrived home tired and worried. Mr. Putley, a painter and decorator, who
had sent in a card, said he could not match the colour on the stairs, as
it contained Indian carmine. He said he spent half-a-day calling at
warehouses to see if he could get it. He suggested he should entirely
repaint the stairs. It would cost very little more; if he tried to match
it, he could only make a bad job of it. It would be more satisfactory to
him and to us to have the work done properly. I consented, but felt I
had been talked over. Planted some mustard-and-cress and radishes, and
went to bed at nine.

APRIL 10.—Farmerson came round to attend to the scraper himself. He
seems a very civil fellow. He says he does not usually conduct such
small jobs personally, but for me he would do so. I thanked him, and
went to town. It is disgraceful how late some of the young clerks are at
arriving. I told three of them that if Mr. Perkupp, the principal, heard
of it, they might be discharged.

Pitt, a monkey of seventeen, who has only been with us six weeks, told me
“to keep my hair on!” I informed him I had had the honour of being in
the firm twenty years, to which he insolently replied that I “looked it.”
I gave him an indignant look, and said: “I demand from you some respect,
sir.” He replied: “All right, go on demanding.” I would not argue with
him any further. You cannot argue with people like that. In the evening
Gowing called, and repeated his complaint about the smell of paint.
Gowing is sometimes very tedious with his remarks, and not always
cautious; and Carrie once very properly reminded him that she was
present.

APRIL 11.—Mustard-and-cress and radishes not come up yet. To-day was a
day of annoyances. I missed the quarter-to-nine ’bus to the City,
through having words with the grocer’s boy, who for the second time had
the impertinence to bring his basket to the hall-door, and had left the
marks of his dirty boots on the fresh-cleaned door-steps. He said he had
knocked at the side door with his knuckles for a quarter of an hour. I
knew Sarah, our servant, could not hear this, as she was upstairs doing
the bedrooms, so asked the boy why he did not ring the bell? He replied
that he did pull the bell, but the handle came off in his hand.

I was half-an-hour late at the office, a thing that has never happened to
me before. There has recently been much irregularity in the attendance
of the clerks, and Mr. Perkupp, our principal, unfortunately choose this
very morning to pounce down upon us early. Someone had given the tip to
the others. The result was that I was the only one late of the lot.
Buckling, one of the senior clerks, was a brick, and I was saved by his
intervention. As I passed by Pitt’s desk, I heard him remark to his
neighbour: “How disgracefully late some of the head clerks arrive!” This
was, of course, meant for me. I treated the observation with silence,
simply giving him a look, which unfortunately had the effect of making
both of the clerks laugh. Thought afterwards it would have been more
dignified if I had pretended not to have heard him at all. Cummings
called in the evening, and we played dominoes.

APRIL 12.—Mustard-and-cress and radishes not come up yet. Left Farmerson
repairing the scraper, but when I came home found three men working. I
asked the meaning of it, and Farmerson said that in making a fresh hole
he had penetrated the gas-pipe. He said it was a most ridiculous place
to put the gas-pipe, and the man who did it evidently knew nothing about
his business. I felt his excuse was no consolation for the expense I
shall be put to.

In the evening, after tea, Gowing dropped in, and we had a smoke together
in the breakfast-parlour. Carrie joined us later, but did not stay long,
saying the smoke was too much for her. It was also rather too much for
me, for Gowing had given me what he called a green cigar, one that his
friend Shoemach had just brought over from America. The cigar didn’t
look green, but I fancy I must have done so; for when I had smoked a
little more than half I was obliged to retire on the pretext of telling
Sarah to bring in the glasses.

I took a walk round the garden three or four times, feeling the need of
fresh air. On returning Gowing noticed I was not smoking: offered me
another cigar, which I politely declined. Gowing began his usual
sniffing, so, anticipating him, I said: “You’re not going to complain of
the smell of paint again?” He said: “No, not this time; but I’ll tell
you what, I distinctly smell dry rot.” I don’t often make jokes, but I
replied: “You’re talking a lot of _dry rot_ yourself.” I could not help
roaring at this, and Carrie said her sides quite ached with laughter. I
never was so immensely tickled by anything I have ever said before. I
actually woke up twice during the night, and laughed till the bed shook.

APRIL 13.—An extraordinary coincidence: Carrie had called in a woman to
make some chintz covers for our drawing-room chairs and sofa to prevent
the sun fading the green rep of the furniture. I saw the woman, and
recognised her as a woman who used to work years ago for my old aunt at
Clapham. It only shows how small the world is.

APRIL 14.—Spent the whole of the afternoon in the garden, having this
morning picked up at a bookstall for fivepence a capital little book, in
good condition, on _Gardening_. I procured and sowed some half-hardy
annuals in what I fancy will be a warm, sunny border. I thought of a
joke, and called out Carrie. Carrie came out rather testy, I thought. I
said: “I have just discovered we have got a lodging-house.” She replied:
“How do you mean?” I said: “Look at the _boarders_.” Carrie said: “Is
that all you wanted me for?” I said: “Any other time you would have
laughed at my little pleasantry.” Carrie said: “Certainly—_at any other
time_, but not when I am busy in the house.” The stairs looked very
nice. Gowing called, and said the stairs looked _all right_, but it made
the banisters look _all wrong_, and suggested a coat of paint on them
also, which Carrie quite agreed with. I walked round to Putley, and
fortunately he was out, so I had a good excuse to let the banisters
slide. By-the-by, that is rather funny.

APRIL 15, Sunday.—At three o’clock Cummings and Gowing called for a good
long walk over Hampstead and Finchley, and brought with them a friend
named Stillbrook. We walked and chatted together, except Stillbrook, who
was always a few yards behind us staring at the ground and cutting at the
grass with his stick.

As it was getting on for five, we four held a consultation, and Gowing
suggested that we should make for “The Cow and Hedge” and get some tea.
Stillbrook said: “A brandy-and-soda was good enough for him.” I reminded
them that all public-houses were closed till six o’clock. Stillbrook
said, “That’s all right—_bona-fide_ travellers.”

We arrived; and as I was trying to pass, the man in charge of the gate
said: “Where from?” I replied: “Holloway.” He immediately put up his
arm, and declined to let me pass. I turned back for a moment, when I saw
Stillbrook, closely followed by Cummings and Gowing, make for the
entrance. I watched them, and thought I would have a good laugh at their
expense, I heard the porter say: “Where from?” When, to my surprise, in
fact disgust, Stillbrook replied: “Blackheath,” and the three were
immediately admitted.

Gowing called to me across the gate, and said: “We shan’t be a minute.”
I waited for them the best part of an hour. When they appeared they were
all in most excellent spirits, and the only one who made an effort to
apologise was Mr. Stillbrook, who said to me: “It was very rough on you
to be kept waiting, but we had another spin for S. and B.’s.” I walked
home in silence; I couldn’t speak to them. I felt very dull all the
evening, but deemed it advisable _not_ to say anything to Carrie about
the matter.

APRIL 16.—After business, set to work in the garden. When it got dark I
wrote to Cummings and Gowing (who neither called, for a wonder; perhaps
they were ashamed of themselves) about yesterday’s adventure at “The Cow
and Hedge.” Afterwards made up my mind not to write _yet_.

APRIL 17.—Thought I would write a kind little note to Gowing and Cummings
about last Sunday, and warning them against Mr. Stillbrook. Afterwards,
thinking the matter over, tore up the letters and determined not to
_write_ at all, but to _speak_ quietly to them. Dumfounded at receiving
a sharp letter from Cummings, saying that both he and Gowing had been
waiting for an explanation of _my_ (mind you, MY) extraordinary conduct
coming home on Sunday. At last I wrote: “I thought I was the aggrieved
party; but as I freely forgive you, you—feeling yourself aggrieved—should
bestow forgiveness on me.” I have copied this _verbatim_ in the diary,
because I think it is one of the most perfect and thoughtful sentences I
have ever written. I posted the letter, but in my own heart I felt I was
actually apologising for having been insulted.

APRIL 18.—Am in for a cold. Spent the whole day at the office sneezing.
In the evening, the cold being intolerable, sent Sarah out for a bottle
of Kinahan. Fell asleep in the arm-chair, and woke with the shivers.
Was startled by a loud knock at the front door. Carrie awfully flurried.
Sarah still out, so went up, opened the door, and found it was only
Cummings. Remembered the grocer’s boy had again broken the side-bell.
Cummings squeezed my hand, and said: “I’ve just seen Gowing. All right.
Say no more about it.” There is no doubt they are both under the
impression I have apologised.

While playing dominoes with Cummings in the parlour, he said: “By-the-by,
do you want any wine or spirits? My cousin Merton has just set up in the
trade, and has a splendid whisky, four years in bottle, at thirty-eight
shillings. It is worth your while laying down a few dozen of it.” I
told him my cellars, which were very small, were full up. To my horror,
at that very moment, Sarah entered the room, and putting a bottle of
whisky, wrapped in a dirty piece of newspaper, on the table in front of
us, said: “Please, sir, the grocer says he ain’t got no more Kinahan, but
you’ll find this very good at two-and-six, with twopence returned on the
bottle; and, please, did you want any more sherry? as he has some at
one-and-three, as dry as a nut!”

CHAPTER III

A conversation with Mr. Merton on Society. Mr. and Mrs. James, of
Sutton, come up. A miserable evening at the Tank Theatre. Experiments
with enamel paint. I make another good joke; but Gowing and Cummings are
unnecessarily offended. I paint the bath red, with unexpected result.

APRIL 19.—Cummings called, bringing with him his friend Merton, who is in
the wine trade. Gowing also called. Mr. Merton made himself at home at
once, and Carrie and I were both struck with him immediately, and
thoroughly approved of his sentiments.

He leaned back in his chair and said: “You must take me as I am;” and I
replied: “Yes—and you must take us as we are. We’re homely people, we
are not swells.”

He answered: “No, I can see that,” and Gowing roared with laughter; but
Merton in a most gentlemanly manner said to Gowing: “I don’t think you
quite understand me. I intended to convey that our charming host and
hostess were superior to the follies of fashion, and preferred leading a
simple and wholesome life to gadding about to twopenny-halfpenny
tea-drinking afternoons, and living above their incomes.”

I was immensely pleased with these sensible remarks of Merton’s, and
concluded that subject by saying: “No, candidly, Mr. Merton, we don’t go
into Society, because we do not care for it; and what with the expense of
cabs here and cabs there, and white gloves and white ties, etc., it
doesn’t seem worth the money.”

Merton said in reference to _friends_: “My motto is ‘Few and True;’ and,
by the way, I also apply that to wine, ‘Little and Good.’” Gowing said:
“Yes, and sometimes ‘cheap and tasty,’ eh, old man?” Merton, still
continuing, said he should treat me as a friend, and put me down for a
dozen of his “Lockanbar” whisky, and as I was an old friend of Gowing, I
should have it for 36s., which was considerably under what he paid for
it.

He booked his own order, and further said that at any time I wanted any
passes for the theatre I was to let him know, as his name stood good for
any theatre in London.

APRIL 20.—Carrie reminded me that as her old school friend, Annie Fullers
(now Mrs. James), and her husband had come up from Sutton for a few days,
it would look kind to take them to the theatre, and would I drop a line
to Mr. Merton asking him for passes for four, either for the Italian
Opera, Haymarket, Savoy, or Lyceum. I wrote Merton to that effect.

APRIL 21.—Got a reply from Merton, saying he was very busy, and just at
present couldn’t manage passes for the Italian Opera, Haymarket, Savoy,
or Lyceum, but the best thing going on in London was the _Brown Bushes_,
at the Tank Theatre, Islington, and enclosed seats for four; also bill
for whisky.

APRIL 23.—Mr. and Mrs. James (Miss Fullers that was) came to meat tea,
and we left directly after for the Tank Theatre. We got a ’bus that took
us to King’s Cross, and then changed into one that took us to the
“Angel.” Mr. James each time insisted on paying for all, saying that I
had paid for the tickets and that was quite enough.

We arrived at theatre, where, curiously enough, all our ’bus-load except
an old woman with a basket seemed to be going in. I walked ahead and
presented the tickets. The man looked at them, and called out: “Mr.
Willowly! do you know anything about these?” holding up my tickets. The
gentleman called to, came up and examined my tickets, and said: “Who gave
you these?” I said, rather indignantly: “Mr. Merton, of course.” He
said: “Merton? Who’s he?” I answered, rather sharply: “You ought to
know, his name’s good at any theatre in London.” He replied: “Oh! is it?
Well, it ain’t no good here. These tickets, which are not dated, were
issued under Mr. Swinstead’s management, which has since changed hands.”
While I was having some very unpleasant words with the man, James, who
had gone upstairs with the ladies, called out: “Come on!” I went up
after them, and a very civil attendant said: “This way, please, box H.”
I said to James: “Why, how on earth did you manage it?” and to my horror
he replied: “Why, paid for it of course.”

This was humiliating enough, and I could scarcely follow the play, but I
was doomed to still further humiliation. I was leaning out of the box,
when my tie—a little black bow which fastened on to the stud by means of
a new patent—fell into the pit below. A clumsy man not noticing it, had
his foot on it for ever so long before he discovered it. He then picked
it up and eventually flung it under the next seat in disgust. What with
the box incident and the tie, I felt quite miserable. Mr. James, of
Sutton, was very good. He said: “Don’t worry—no one will notice it with
your beard. That is the only advantage of growing one that I can see.”
There was no occasion for that remark, for Carrie is very proud of my
beard.

To hide the absence of the tie I had to keep my chin down the rest of the
evening, which caused a pain at the back of my neck.

APRIL 24.—Could scarcely sleep a wink through thinking of having brought
up Mr. and Mrs. James from the country to go to the theatre last night,
and his having paid for a private box because our order was not honoured,
and such a poor play too. I wrote a very satirical letter to Merton, the
wine merchant, who gave us the pass, and said, “Considering we had to pay
for our seats, we did our best to appreciate the performance.” I thought
this line rather cutting, and I asked Carrie how many p’s there were in
appreciate, and she said, “One.” After I sent off the letter I looked at
the dictionary and found there were two. Awfully vexed at this.

Decided not to worry myself any more about the James’s; for, as Carrie
wisely said, “We’ll make it all right with them by asking them up from
Sutton one evening next week to play at Bézique.”

APRIL 25.—In consequence of Brickwell telling me his wife was working
wonders with the new Pinkford’s enamel paint, I determined to try it. I
bought two tins of red on my way home. I hastened through tea, went into
the garden and painted some flower-pots. I called out Carrie, who said:
“You’ve always got some newfangled craze;” but she was obliged to admit
that the flower-pots looked remarkably well. Went upstairs into the
servant’s bedroom and painted her washstand, towel-horse, and chest of
drawers. To my mind it was an extraordinary improvement, but as an
example of the ignorance of the lower classes in the matter of taste, our
servant, Sarah, on seeing them, evinced no sign of pleasure, but merely
said “she thought they looked very well as they was before.”

APRIL 26.—Got some more red enamel paint (red, to my mind, being the best
colour), and painted the coal-scuttle, and the backs of our _Shakspeare_,
the binding of which had almost worn out.

APRIL 27.—Painted the bath red, and was delighted with the result. Sorry
to say Carrie was not, in fact we had a few words about it. She said I
ought to have consulted her, and she had never heard of such a thing as a
bath being painted red. I replied: “It’s merely a matter of taste.”

Fortunately, further argument on the subject was stopped by a voice
saying, “May I come in?” It was only Cummings, who said, “Your maid
opened the door, and asked me to excuse her showing me in, as she was
wringing out some socks.” I was delighted to see him, and suggested we
should have a game of whist with a dummy, and by way of merriment said:
“You can be the dummy.” Cummings (I thought rather ill-naturedly)
replied: “Funny as usual.” He said he couldn’t stop, he only called to
leave me the _Bicycle News_, as he had done with it.

Another ring at the bell; it was Gowing, who said he “must apologise for
coming so often, and that one of these days we must come round to _him_.”
I said: “A very extraordinary thing has struck me.” “Something funny, as
usual,” said Cummings. “Yes,” I replied; “I think even you will say so
this time. It’s concerning you both; for doesn’t it seem odd that
Gowing’s always coming and Cummings’ always going?” Carrie, who had
evidently quite forgotten about the bath, went into fits of laughter, and
as for myself, I fairly doubled up in my chair, till it cracked beneath
me. I think this was one of the best jokes I have ever made.

Then imagine my astonishment on perceiving both Cummings and Gowing
perfectly silent, and without a smile on their faces. After rather an
unpleasant pause, Cummings, who had opened a cigar-case, closed it up
again and said: “Yes—I think, after that, I _shall_ be going, and I am
sorry I fail to see the fun of your jokes.” Gowing said he didn’t mind a
joke when it wasn’t rude, but a pun on a name, to his thinking, was
certainly a little wanting in good taste. Cummings followed it up by
saying, if it had been said by anyone else but myself, he shouldn’t have
entered the house again. This rather unpleasantly terminated what might
have been a cheerful evening. However, it was as well they went, for the
charwoman had finished up the remains of the cold pork.

APRIL 28.—At the office, the new and very young clerk Pitt, who was very
impudent to me a week or so ago, was late again. I told him it would be
my duty to inform Mr. Perkupp, the principal. To my surprise, Pitt
apologised most humbly and in a most gentlemanly fashion. I was
unfeignedly pleased to notice this improvement in his manner towards me,
and told him I would look over his unpunctuality. Passing down the room
an hour later. I received a smart smack in the face from a rolled-up
ball of hard foolscap. I turned round sharply, but all the clerks were
apparently riveted to their work. I am not a rich man, but I would give
half-a-sovereign to know whether that was thrown by accident or design.
Went home early and bought some more enamel paint—black this time—and
spent the evening touching up the fender, picture-frames, and an old pair
of boots, making them look as good as new. Also painted Gowing’s
walking-stick, which he left behind, and made it look like ebony.

APRIL 29, Sunday.—Woke up with a fearful headache and strong symptoms of
a cold. Carrie, with a perversity which is just like her, said it was
“painter’s colic,” and was the result of my having spent the last few
days with my nose over a paint-pot. I told her firmly that I knew a
great deal better what was the matter with me than she did. I had got a
chill, and decided to have a bath as hot as I could bear it. Bath
ready—could scarcely bear it so hot. I persevered, and got in; very hot,
but very acceptable. I lay still for some time.

On moving my hand above the surface of the water, I experienced the
greatest fright I ever received in the whole course of my life; for
imagine my horror on discovering my hand, as I thought, full of blood.
My first thought was that I had ruptured an artery, and was bleeding to
death, and should be discovered, later on, looking like a second Marat,
as I remember seeing him in Madame Tussaud’s. My second thought was to
ring the bell, but remembered there was no bell to ring. My third was,
that there was nothing but the enamel paint, which had dissolved with
boiling water. I stepped out of the bath, perfectly red all over,
resembling the Red Indians I have seen depicted at an East-End theatre.
I determined not to say a word to Carrie, but to tell Farmerson to come
on Monday and paint the bath white.