Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 162 Six years old is the golden age for working!
The stench of Paris mainly comes from the periodic fishy smell of the Seine River, and the putrid stench of human and animal excrement and garbage piled up on some streets; it is a rather primitive odor.

London's stench, on the other hand, is a result of the "gifts" of the Industrial Revolution over the past century:
Tens of thousands of chimneys, like the fiery craters of hell, spew out sulfur-rich coal smoke day and night, which is pungent and choking.

The Thames is like a giant open sewer, where sewage, industrial wastewater, and rotting organic matter mix and evaporate, penetrating everywhere.

In addition, the countless horse droppings and urine left behind every day are compacted and fermented on the streets by footsteps and wheels, and the smell is almost tangible.

All these flavors are trapped and concentrated by the fog and dampness common in London, making them not only nauseating but also extremely aggressive.

Lionel couldn't help but mutter a curse under his breath: "My God... Paris is like a perfume shop on the Champs-Élysées compared to here!"

Then I quickly took out a handkerchief to cover my mouth and nose, but the smell still stubbornly seeped in.

Besides the taste, the environment outside the station was equally unpleasant.

The streets were muddy, with black mud mixed with horse manure and garbage.

Newspaper boys, shoeshine boys, and homeless children swarmed around passengers who had just exited the station like flies, hawking or begging in shrill voices.

The air was filled with shouts in various accents, the creaking of horse-drawn carriages, and the whistles of policemen, creating a chaotic and noisy atmosphere.

Lionel gripped his handbag and wallet tightly in his pocket warily.

Sure enough, just as he stopped to try and figure out which way to go, he felt a light bump from behind.

He instinctively touched the inside pocket of his coat, and his expression changed slightly—the buttons on the pocket had been undone at some point!
He turned around abruptly and saw a ragged, thin, and agile figure quickly disappearing into the crowd.

Lionel growled, disregarding etiquette, and grabbed the arm of the boy who was trying to slip away.

It was a boy who looked no more than ten years old. His face was so dirty that his features were obscured, but his eyes darted around, full of cunning and showing no fear.

The boy struggled and cried out, "Sir! Let me go! I didn't do anything!"

Lionel quickly reached into his inner pocket. Luckily, his wallet was still there; it had probably been discovered before he could even steal it after it had just been unbuttoned.

He breathed a sigh of relief, but his anger hadn't subsided, and he glared fiercely at the boy.

The boy immediately put on a pitiful expression: "Sir, please have mercy, I'm so hungry..."

Lionel didn't call the police in the end; he simply let go of her hand.

The boy disappeared into the crowd as quickly as a startled rabbit.

Lionel shook his head, re-buttoned the inner pocket, looked around more warily, and strode towards the queue of taxis to head to the pre-selected inn.

He did some research beforehand and booked a hotel called Bedford in the Bloomsbury area by telegram.

This area is close to the British Museum, relatively quiet, and home to many scholars and intellectuals, so it should be more comfortable than the area near the train station.

Lionel walked to the nearest car and told the driver the address.

The driver, a burly man with a ruddy complexion, chewed on a cigarette and mumbled a reply: "Yes, sir. Get in."

Lionel squeezed into the narrow but fairly clean carriage; the carriage immediately started moving and merged into the bustling traffic of London streets.

London's streets are more congested and traffic is more chaotic than Paris's.

Various horse-drawn carriages and pedestrians mingled together, and the streets were lined with densely packed buildings blackened by coal smoke, creating a depressing and somber atmosphere.

At first, Lionel tried to memorize the route, but quickly got lost in the complex streets.

He felt that the carriage seemed to have gone in circles in some places, but being new to the area, he wasn't sure.

After a while, the carriage finally stopped in front of a rather old-looking four-story brick building.

A faded sign hung above the door, which indeed read "Bedford".

The driver opened the small hatch on the roof of the carriage and quoted a price: "15 shillings, sir."

Lionel's heart skipped a beat. He had checked beforehand and the journey from Charing Cross to Bloomsbury should cost around 7 shillings (about 9 francs).

The driver immediately doubled the price; it was blatant robbery!
“Fifteen shillings?” Lionel repeated, trying to sound calm but with a hint of skepticism. “That seems a bit excessive for this distance.” The driver’s face immediately darkened, and his tone hardened. “That’s the price, sir. The roads are congested; time is money!”

Lionel knew that arguing would be pointless, especially on the other side's turf.

He took a deep breath, suppressed his displeasure, counted out 15 shillings from his wallet, and handed them over.

The coachman took the money, mumbled a vague "Thank you, sir," and drove the carriage away.

Lionel stood by the roadside, looked at the hotel sign, sighed, and thought that this must be the last lesson London would teach him.

Of course not!
The Bedford Hotel exudes an old and dull atmosphere, both inside and out.

The receptionist was a middle-aged manager with a serious expression, dressed in a black suit.

After Lionel gave his name, the manager glanced at the register: "Ah, yes, Mr. Sorel."

We have received your telegram. A single room with a fireplace costs 10 shillings (approximately 12 francs) per night, meals not included.

Lionel paid for the first night's room and was led up the stairs by a porter.

The room was on the fourth floor, the top floor. It was small and simply furnished: a bunk bed, a wardrobe, a washstand, a desk, and a chair.

The walls were covered with dark patterned wallpaper, some areas of which were damp and bubbly, and there was a faint musty smell.

Lionel: "..." This is not even as good as the small hotel he booked for Chekhov that cost 5 francs a night.

The porter put down the suitcase and looked at Lionel expectantly.

Lionel gritted his teeth and pulled out a six-pence coin to hand to him—a bad habit that the French never had.

The bellhop took the money, looking disappointed, but still thanked him and quietly left.

While the service industry in Paris may seem somewhat insincere, it is at least superficially warm and attentive; London's service industry doesn't even qualify as perfunctory.

He collapsed wearily onto the bed, the mattress creaking.

Looking at the dim gaslight on the ceiling, Lionel felt that the city was like a huge, indifferent beast that reeked of industrial stench.

There may be more opportunities and more wealth here than in Paris, but it's also far too cold and ruthless.

He thought to himself, "This must be the last lesson London will ever teach me."
—Of course not!

The next morning, Lionel was awakened from his sleep by rustling sounds from the rooftop.

He stormed downstairs to the front desk and demanded to know what had happened.

The receptionist apologized repeatedly, saying they were cleaning the hotel chimneys, and the last one was the fireplace in Lionel's room; it would be done soon.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Lionel witnessed a scene he would never forget:
A little boy who looked no more than four or five years old, covered in black coal dust, was lowered from the rooftop to the ground by a rope.

The man who met him downstairs seemed dissatisfied with the boy's job and slapped him across the face.

The little boy was used to it; he didn't cry or say anything, but instead smiled, revealing his white teeth.

Lionel shuddered.

The front desk manager on duty smiled and said, "Tom is already 6 years old, which is the prime age for this job!"

Lionel turned his head in disbelief: "Golden age? How long can he live?"

The front desk manager shrugged: "Who knows... maybe he'll live to adulthood? If he doesn't get stuck in the chimney and can't get out..."

Lionel remained silent, then touched himself and realized he had come downstairs in his pajamas, with nothing in his pocket except his keys.

Now, he's starting to regret coming to London...

(End of this chapter)