It contained seven corners, two of the walls sloped
to a point, and the window was just over the fireplace.
The only possible position for the bedstead was between
the door and the cupboard. To get anything out
of the cupboard we had to scramble over the bed, and
a large percentage of the various commodities thus
obtained was absorbed by the bedclothes. Indeed,
so many things were spilled and dropped upon the bed
that toward night-time it had become a sort of small
cooperative store. Coal was what it always had
most in stock. We used to keep our coal in the
bottom part of the cupboard, and when any was wanted
we had to climb over the bed, fill a shovelful, and
then crawl back. It was an exciting moment when
we reached the middle of the bed. We would hold
our breath, fix our eyes upon the shovel, and poise
ourselves for the last move. The next instant
we, and the coals, and the shovel, and the bed would
be all mixed up together.
I’ve heard of the people going into raptures
over beds of coal. We slept in one every night
and were not in the least stuck up about it.
But our attic, unique though it was, had by no means
exhausted the architect’s sense of humor.
The arrangement of the whole house was a marvel of
originality. All the doors opened outward, so
that if any one wanted to leave a room at the same
moment that you were coming downstairs it was unpleasant
for you. There was no ground-floor—its
ground-floor belonged to a house in the next court,
and the front door opened direct upon a flight of
stairs leading down to the cellar. Visitors on
entering the house would suddenly shoot past the person
who had answered the door to them and disappear down
these stairs. Those of a nervous temperament
used to imagine that it was a trap laid for them,
and would shout murder as they lay on their backs at
the bottom till somebody came and picked them up.
It is a long time ago now that I last saw the inside
of an attic. I have tried various floors since
but I have not found that they have made much difference
to me. Life tastes much the same, whether we
quaff it from a golden goblet or drink it out of a
stone mug. The hours come laden with the same
mixture of joy and sorrow, no matter where we wait
for them. A waistcoat of broadcloth or of fustian
is alike to an aching heart, and we laugh no merrier
on velvet cushions than we did on wooden chairs.
Often have I sighed in those low-ceilinged rooms,
yet disappointments have come neither less nor lighter
since I quitted them. Life works upon a compensating
balance, and the happiness we gain in one direction
we lose in another. As our means increase, so
do our desires; and we ever stand midway between the
two. When we reside in an attic we enjoy a supper
of fried fish and stout. When we occupy the
first floor it takes an elaborate dinner at the Continental
to give us the same amount of satisfaction.
