The Life of the Fly 



as it was, what could I expect? As an ac- 

 coucheur of brains, a moulder of intellects, I 

 had no claim even to bread and cheese. 



Here is my former habitation, occupied 

 since by droning monks. In the embrasure of 

 that window, sheltered from profane hands, 

 between the closed outer shutters and the 

 panes, I used to keep my chemicals, bought for 

 a few sous cheated out of the weekly budget 

 in the early days of our housekeeping. The 

 bowl of a pipe was my crucible, a sweet-jar 

 my retort, mustard-pots my receptacles for 

 oxides and sulphides. My experiments, 

 harmless or dangerous, were made on a corner 

 of the fire beside the simmering broth. 



How I should love to see that room again 

 where I pored over differentials and integrals, 

 where I calmed my poor burning head by gaz- 

 ing at Mont Ventoux, whose summit held in 

 store for my coming expedition^ those denizens 

 of arctic climes, the saxifrage and the poppy! 

 And to see my familiar friend, the blackboard 

 which I hired at five francs a year from a 

 crusty joiner, that board whose value I paid 

 many times over, though I could never buy it 

 outright, for want of the necessary cash ! The 



'Cf. Insect Life: chap, xiii. — Translator's Note. 

 84 



