“The furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, was as pleasantly irregular. Ada’s sleeping-room was all flowers—in chintz and paper, in velvet, in needlework, in the brocade of two stiff courtly chairs which stood, each attended by a little page of a stool for greater state, on either side of the fire-place. Our sitting-room was green and had framed and glazed upon the walls numbers of surprising and surprised birds, staring out of pictures at a real trout in a case, as brown and shining as if it had been served with gravy; at the death of Captain Cook; and at the whole process of preparing tea in China, as depicted by Chinese artists.… All the movables, from the wardrobes to the chairs and tables, hangings, glasses, even to the pincushions and scent-bottles on the dressing-tables, displayed the same quaint variety. They agreed in nothing but their perfect neatness, their display of the whitest linen, and their storing-up, wheresoever the existence of a drawer, small or large, rendered it possible, of quantities of rose-leaves and sweet lavender.” (Dickens 63)

… And so I step into Bleak House. The earthy wood door frame lulls me into a damp passageway, flickering dimly of wax and of clinking glass and dinnerware. A right turn pushes me into the dining room, where the family has just taken leave, fleetingly passing through these same doorways and staircases (or so the sign at Dennis Severs’ house tells me from the velvet chair it is propped up upon). It is a game of imagination.

Upon the white laced dining room table stand an army of chinaware and wine glasses. I can almost see the meek marks of mouths upon the edge of the glass, in the crisp light of a crackling fire. I circle the room, and examine the lush portraits and foreign birds lining the walls. I stare back at them in such surprise as they do at me. The empty velvet chairs look jealous in their own wooden frames in comparison, empty of the passengers so possessed in the boxes on the walls.
So I move on; I flip a page and continue on in my tour of this quaint Victorian life, hoping to discover the family that lives within. In the next room, I hear Esther and Jarndyce speaking quietly. A grandfather clock ticks and stares down upon them, much to the dismay of the porcelain doll on the plush chair in the corner, who seems she would really just like some rest. Some quiet. But the room—though delicate— is loud. The walls are lined with thick curtains, though the exposed areas are rich in their own right, being laden with portraits and trinkets of every kind and disposition. The floor boards creak and rumble beneath me.

Downstairs, it seems, something wants to be heard, but it can’t quite figure out how to be. I have reached the servants’ quarters. Black. Black. Everything is black. Through the coats of soot and ash, it is no wonder that no one can get a word out from down here! I see little Jo in the corner as he eyes the dirty bread upon a close side-table. In the next room I sense Krook, and scattered about him like fallen soldiers are his bottles and rags. Though I do not see him, I know he is here, hidden in these layers of tar and cinders.

Perhaps taking notice that my tender lungs aren’t used to such ill-treatment, Dickens feels for my hand and prods me through the threshold and back up the stairs.

It is a nice view, from way up here. Smells of rose-water and sweet lavender soften the air. Two rooms—the first more bragging than any I have seen—feel clean. Within the first is a collection of chairs, who being concerned with their presentation within the distinguished and brilliant circle, have followed proper rules of etiquette and symmetry as they frame the fireplace in deep conversation. I hear them scorning last season’s paisley, praising new developments within the Ministry of Provincial Florals. Lady Dedlock supervises the scene from atop her high mantle, where she might be safe from discrimination.

Bored with this discussion, I step outside and into the next room I am led into. It is a beautiful scene, all green in deceiving splendor. It is a man’s world in here, or so the musk tells me. I hear raucous laughter and whiskey pierces my nostrils. A chair knocked over; a cigar still smoking on the table. A portrait on the wall displays the dire scene and begs me to listen, as it tells me what has just taken place in his room before him. The fashionable intelligence sit in poker-face stillness to the left, Mr. Tulkinghorn among them; have they noticed that Sir Leicester has fallen to the floor on their right? The floor rumbles and cracks at my feet once more—even way up here!—and I listen for the whimpers of Lady Dedlock from far below me. Witness to it all is a shiny green pheasant perched on its wall as it leaps to escape, but it has already fallen prey to this jealous game.

And after all, it really is a game. I feel the chills as they seed my feet into these rough floors and I know it is time for me to leave. Uprooting these hard feet as I go, I can hear Dickens’ steps behind me as I run from the grave stairways. Back through sweet lavender and rose-water, clinking china, and flickering wax I pull open the door to find the crisp air outside as hits me like a train. And with some effort I pull this heavy door closed behind me, and Dickens’ pages along with it.

Work Cited:  Dickens, Charles, George Ford, and Sylvère Monod. Bleak House. New York: W. W. Norton, 1977. Print.

Walking London Assignment 2

I love Hyde Park and I believe it to be the most beautiful place I’ve been in London. Apart from being an important historical site, it is also a sprawling site of peaceful London leisure, in spite of the bustling cityscape around it:

It is a dreary day in London. Winding through the fog and diesel fumes of Piccadilly are a thousand unfamiliar faces. Why the busy men and fashionable women of London have decided against the Central or District lines, to walk and brave a few errant drops of rain, I know not. The sidewalks from Shaftesbury to Piccadilly feel much like the escalators of Holborn, anyway. They are the same conveyor belts ushering them on, only with more distractions. Advertisements vie for the attention of passersby from the safety of store windows, blaring, sale! SALE! and a few brochures are stuffed into reluctant hands— not that anyone knows what they’re for, as it’s hard to hear anything in the wind of buses and faces blowing by. And London is cold; London is busy.

But I wouldn’t know any of this. From my bench here, deep within the calm sprawl of Hyde Park, I am among the rare streaks of London sunshine that have gathered here to play. They skip along the ebbs of the Serpentine, where they find refuge like the rest of us from the buzz of traffic, dashing in and out from the crop of trees flanking Kensington Row. They must have followed someone in here, I think; perhaps trailed in through the park gates on the heels of a businessman, passing through Rotten Row for a few stolen moments of afternoon pleasure. Or perhaps the sunshine came to visit, just like the rest of us. I see that I am not the only first-time stranger to the park, after all. I look to a young couple, who have sprawled out in laughter beneath a tree in front of me. A woolen blanket shields their resting heads—it looks new—and is that a picnic basket? To my right, a few photographing tourists admire the young and hesitant buds of daffodils. The blossoms aren’t quite ripe, but they look to the clear sky and the branches that tickle it overhead, dreaming restlessly.

To my left, a young woman has taken delight in feeding the pigeons, which have gathered like an eager militia at her feet. Anyone else might think she is crazy to attract such attention, but they don’t know anything about this moment in the park, where the world slows down and we look at each other. How rare it is to find such a place or time in this massive city! She smiles as she tears the stale bread into pieces in her hands. A few of the birds have hiked now into her lap, attaching themselves fondly to the jagged holes in her blue jeans. It’s better way up there, without fear of passing cyclists and their wagging dogs. And the woman—she doesn’t seem to mind. The humming coos of the pigeons blend in with the laughter of two young girls passing through, hand in hand, blurring out the sounds of horns in the distance. Hours blur into a solitary moment, and everything is serene.

Four o’clock! Without warning Big Ben shears through the fog and into the park. No, no! the pigeons coo. Hasn’t the old clock heard? Time moves more slowly here within the greens. There’s still so much to see—the Wellington Arch, the Triumphal Screen— but the sun has wasted all its time skipping with the wind over the water of the Serpentine. No, no, it can’t be time to go— not yet. Yet the woman in the jeans is checking her watch and packing her things. The world picks up and the cyclists lurch forward. The Shard leers hungrily over the water, reminding us that a world outside the gates exists. And that it is moving forward. The wind gathers, and the stench of diesel from a world far off fills my senses. The woman’s pigeons swoop away over closing daffodils, off at once to nowhere and everywhere over King Henry’s hunting grounds.

And suddenly, it is a dreary day in Hyde Park. At last, the afternoon’s final shimmers of sunshine have shot down into the waters of the Rose Garden fountains, and fractured off into a thousand small shards. They’ve escaped again into the fog—these bright tiny pieces—but in the sweeping greens of the park I might never find them. And anyway, it is time to go.