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our instinct is to call out and warn his opponent。
〃You silly fool；〃 one feels one wants to say； 〃why； it is the hero of
the novel！ You take a friend's advice while you are still alive； and
get out of it anywayanyhow。 Apologizehire a horse and cart； do
something。 You're not going to fight a duel； you're going to commit
suicide。〃
If the hero is a modern young man； and has not got a father； or has
only something not worth calling a father； then he comes across a
libraryanybody's library does for him。 He passes Sir Walter Scott
and the 〃Arabian Nights；〃 and makes a bee…line for Plato； it seems to
be an instinct with him。 By help of a dictionary he worries it out
in the original Greek。 This gives him a passion for Greek。
When he has romped through the Greek classics he plays about among
the Latins。 He spends most of his spare time in that library； and
forgets to go to tea。
＇Because he always 〃gets there；〃 without any trouble。＇
That is the sort of boy he is。 How I used to hate him！ If he has a
proper sort of father； then he goes to college。 He does no work：
there is no need for him to work： everything seems to come to him。
That was another grievance of mine against him。 I always had to work
a good deal； and very little came of it。 He fools around doing
things that other men would be sent down for； but in his case the
professors love him for it all the more。 He is the sort of man who
can't do wrong。 A fortnight before the examination he ties a wet
towel round his head。 That is all we hear about it。 It seems to be
the towel that does it。 Maybe； if the towel is not quite up to its
work； he will help things on by drinking gallons of strong tea。 The
tea and the towel combined are irresistible： the result is always
the senior wranglership。
I used to believe in that wet towel and that strong tea。 Lord！ the
things I used to believe when I was young。 They would make an
Encyclopaedia of Useless Knowledge。 I wonder if the author of the
popular novel has ever tried working with a wet towel round his or
her head： I have。 It is difficult enough to move a yard； balancing
a dry towel。 A heathen Turk may have it in his blood to do so： the
ordinary Christian has not got the trick of it。 To carry about a wet
towel twisted round one's head needs a trained acrobat。 Every few
minutes the wretched thing works loose。 In darkness and in misery；
you struggle to get your head out of a clammy towel that clings to
you almost with passion。 Brain power is wasted in inventing names
for that towelnames expressive of your feelings with regard to it。
Further time is taken up before the glass； fixing the thing afresh。
You return to your books in the wrong temper； the water trickles down
your nose； runs in rivulets down your back。 Until you have finally
flung the towel out of the window and rubbed yourself dry； work is
impossible。 The strong tea always gave me indigestion； and made me
sleepy。 Until I had got over the effects of the tea； attempts at
study were useless。
＇Because he's so damned clever。＇
But the thing that still irritates me most against the hero of the
popular novel is the ease with which he learns a modern foreign
language。 Were he a German waiter； a Swiss barber； or a Polish
photographer； I would not envy him； these people do not have to learn
a language。 My idea is that they boil down a dictionary； and take
two table…spoonsful each night before going to bed。 By the time the
bottle is finished they have the language well into their system。
But he is not。 He is just an ordinary Anglo…Saxon； and I don't
believe in him。 I walk about for years with dictionaries in my
pocket。 Weird…looking ladies and gentlemen gesticulate and rave at
me for months。 I hide myself in lonely places； repeating idioms to
myself out loud； in the hope that by this means they will come
readily to me if ever I want them； which I never do。 And； after all
this； I don't seem to know very much。 This irritating ass； who has
never left his native suburb； suddenly makes up his mind to travel on
the Continent。 I find him in the next chapter engaged in complicated
psychological argument with French or German savants。 It appears
the author had forgotten to mention it beforethat one summer a
French； or German； or Italian refugee； as the case may happen to be；
came to live in the hero's street： thus it is that the hero is able
to talk fluently in the native language of that unhappy refugee。
I remember a melodrama visiting a country town where I was staying。
The heroine and child were sleeping peacefully in the customary
attic。 For some reason not quite clear to me； the villain had set
fire to the house。 He had been complaining through the three
preceding acts of the heroine's coldness； maybe it was with some idea
of warming her。 Escape by way of the staircase was impossible。 Each
time the poor girl opened the door a flame came in and nearly burned
her hair off。 It seemed to have been waiting for her。
〃Thank God！〃 said the lady； hastily wrapping the child in a sheet；
〃that I was brought up a wire walker。〃
Without a moment's hesitation she opened the attic window and took
the nearest telegraph wire to the opposite side of the street。
In the same way； apparently； the hero of the popular novel； finding
himself stranded in a foreign land； suddenly recollects that once
upon a time he met a refugee； and at once begins to talk。 I have met
refugees myself。 The only thing they have ever taught me is not to
leave my brandy flask about。
＇And； finally； because I don't believe he's true。＇
I don't believe in these heroes and heroines that cannot keep quiet
in a foreign language they have taught themselves in an old…world
library。 My fixed idea is that they muddle along like the rest of
us； surprised that so few people understand them； begging everyone
they meet not to talk so quickly。 These brilliant conversations with
foreign philosophers！ These passionate interviews with foreign
countesses！ They fancy they have had them。
I crossed once with an English lady from Boulogne to Folkestone。 At
Folkestone a little French girlanxious about her trainasked us a
simple question。 My companion replied to it with an ease that
astonished herself。 The little French girl vanished； my companion
sighed。
〃It's so odd；〃 said my companion； 〃but I seem to know quite a lot of
French the moment I get back to England。〃
CHAPTER XIII
＇How to be Healthy and Unhappy。＇
〃They do say；〃 remarked Mrs。 Wilkins； as she took the cover off the
dish and gave a finishing polish to my plate with the cleanest corner
of her apron； 〃that 'addicks； leastways in May； ain't； strictly
speaking； the safest of food。 But then； if you listen to all they
say； it seems to me； we'd have to give up victuals altogether。〃
〃The haddock； Mrs。 Wilkins；〃 I replied； 〃is a savoury and nourishing
dish； the 'poor man's steak' I believe it is commonly called。 When I
was younger； Mrs。 Wilkins； they were cheaper。 For twopence one could
secure a small specimen； for fourpence one of generous proportions。
In the halcyon days of youth； when one's lexicon contained not the
word failure （it has crept into later editions； Mrs。 Wilkins； the
word it was found was occasionally needful）； the haddock was of much
comfort and support to me； a very present help in time of trouble。
In those days a kind friend； without intending it； nearly brought
about my death by slow starvation。 I had left my umbrella in an
omnibus； and the season was rainy。 The kind rich friend gave me a
new umbrella； it was a rich man's umbrella； we made an ill…assorted
pair。 Its handle was of ivory； imposing in appearance； ornamented
with a golden snake。
＇The unsympathetic Umbrella。＇
〃Following my own judgment I should have pawned that umbrella；
purchased one more suited to my state in life； and 'blued' the
difference。 But I was fearful of offending my one respectable
acquaintance； and for weeks struggled on； hampered by this
plutocratic appendage。 The humble haddock was denied to me。 Tied to
this imposing umbrella； how could I haggle with fishmongers for
haddocks。 At first sight of meor； rather； of my umbrellathey
flew to icy cellars； brought up for my inspection soles at
eighteenpence a pound； recommended me prime parts of salmon； which my
landlady would have fried in a pan reeking with the mixed remains of
pork chops； rashers of bacon and cheese。 It was closed to me； the
humble coffee shop； where for threepence I could have strengthened my
soul with half a pint of cocoa and four 〃doorsteps〃satisfactory
slices of bread smeared with a yellow grease that before the days of
County Council inspectors they called butter。 You know of them； Mrs。
Wilkins？ At sight of such nowadays I should turn up my jaded nose。
But those were the days of my youth； Mrs。 Wilkins。 The scent of a
thousand hopes was in my nostrils： so they smelt good to me。 The
fourpenny beefsteak pie； satisfying to the verge of repletion； the
succulent saveloy； were not for the own