To give an idea of this room is difficult. It is the "new
hovel" in all its abominable reality. Wretchedness is
everywhere; a new wretchedness, which has no past, no
future, and which cannot take root anywhere. One divines
that the lodger moved in yesterday and will move out
tomorrow. That he arrived without saying whence he came,
and that he will put the key under the door when he goes
away.

The wall is "ornamented" with dark blue paper with
yellow flowers, the window is "ornamented" with a curtain
of red calico in which holes take the place of flowers.
There is in front of the window a rush-bottom chair with
the bottom worn out; near the chair a stove; on the stove a
stewpot; near the stewpot a flowerpot turned upside down
with a tallow candle stuck in the hole; near the flowerpot
a basketful of coal which evokes thoughts of suicide and
asphyxiation; above the basket a shelf encumbered with
nameless objects, distinguishable among which are a worn
broom and an old toy representing a green rider on a
crimson horse. The mantelpiece, mean and narrow, is of
blackish marble with a thousand little white blotches. It
is covered with broken glasses and unwashed cups. Into
one of these cups a pair of tin rimmed spectacles is plunging.
A nail lies on the floor. In the fireplace a dishcloth
is hanging on one of the fire-iron holders. No fire either
in the fireplace or in the stove. A heap of frightful
sweepings replaces the heaps of cinders. No looking glass on the
mantelpiece, but a picture of varnished canvas representing