This was what I confidently expected. Such, however, was not to
be. I woke to a consciousness that the place was flooded with
indubitable and undoubted sunshine. To be sure, it was not the
sharp, hard sunshine we have in America, which scours and bleaches
all it touches, until the whole world has the look of having just
been clear-starched and hot-ironed. It was a softened, smoke-edged,
pastel-shaded sunshine; nevertheless it was plainly recognizable
as the genuine article.
Nor was your London shadow the sharply outlined companion in black
who accompanies you when the weather is fine in America. Your
shadow in London was rather a dim and wavery gentleman who caught
up with you as you turned out of the shaded by-street; who went
with you a distance and then shyly vanished, but was good company
while he stayed, being restful, as your well-bred Englishman nearly
always is, and not overly aggressive.
There was no fog that first morning, or the next morning, or any
morning of the twenty-odd we spent in England. Often the weather
was cloudy, and occasionally it was rainy; and then London would
be drenched in that wonderful gray color which makes it, scenically
speaking, one of the most fascinating spots on earth; but it was
never downright foggy and never downright cold. English friends
used to speak to me about it. They apologized for good weather
at that season of the year, just as natives of a Florida winter
resort will apologize for bad.
"You know, old dear," they would say, "this is most unusual - most
stroidinary, in fact. It ought to be raw and nasty and foggy at
this time of the year, and here the cursed weather is perfectly
fine - blast it!" You could tell they were grieved about it, and
disappointed too. Anything that is not regular upsets Englishmen
frightfully. Maybe that is why they enforce their laws so rigidly
and obey them so beautifully.
Anyway I woke to find the fog absent, and I rose and prepared to
take my customary cold bath. I am much given to taking a cold
bath in the morning and speaking of it afterward. People who take
a cold bath every day always like to brag about it, whether they
take it or not.
The bathroom adjoined the bedroom, but did not directly connect
with it, being reached by means of a small semi-private hallway.
It was a fine, noble bathroom, white tiled and spotless; and one
side of it was occupied by the longest, narrowest bathtub I ever
saw. Apparently English bathtubs are constructed on the principle
that every Englishman who bathes is nine feet long and about
eighteen inches wide, whereas the approximate contrary is frequently
the case. Draped over a chair was the biggest, widest, softest
bathtowel ever made. Shem, Ham and Japhet could have dried
themselves on that bathtowel, and there would still have been
enough dry territory left for some of the animals - not the large,
woolly animals like the Siberian yak, but the small, slick, porous
animals such as the armadillo and the Mexican hairless dog.
So I wedged myself into the tub and had a snug-fitting but most
luxurious bath; and when I got back to my room the maid had arrived
with the shaving water. There was a knock at the door, and when
I opened it there stood a maid with a lukewarm pint of water in a
long-waisted, thin-lipped pewter pitcher. There was plenty of hot
water to be had in the bathroom, with faucets and sinks all handy
and convenient, and a person might shave himself there in absolute
comfort; but long before the days of pipes and taps an Englishman
got his shaving water in a pewter ewer, and he still gets it so.
It is one of the things guaranteed him under Magna Charta and he
demands it as a right; but I, being but a benighted foreigner,
left mine in the pitcher, and that evening the maid checked me up.
"You didn't use the shaving water I brought you to-day, sir!" she
said. "It was still in the jug when I came in to tidy up, sir."
Her tone was grieved; so, after that, to spare her feelings, I
used to pour it down the sink. But if I were doing the trip over
again I would drink it for breakfast instead of the coffee the
waiter brought me - the shaving water being warmish and containing,
so far as I could tell, no deleterious substances. And if the
bathroom were occupied at the time I would shave myself with the
coffee. I judge it might work up into a thick and durable lather.
It is certainly not adapted for drinking purposes.
The English, as a race, excel at making tea and at drinking it
after it is made; but among them coffee is still a mysterious and
murky compound full of strange by-products. By first weakening
it and wearing it down with warm milk one may imbibe it; but it
is not to be reckoned among the pleasures of life. It is a solemn
and a painful duty.
On the second morning I was splashing in my tub, gratifying that
amphibious instinct which has come down to us from the dim
evolutionary time when we were paleozoic polliwogs, when I made
the discovery that there were no towels in the bathroom. I glanced
about keenly, seeking for help and guidance in such an emergency.
Set in the wall directly above the rim of the tub was a brass
plate containing two pushbuttons. One button, the uppermost one,
was labeled Waiter - the other was labeled Maid.
