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Автор Билл Брайсон
ALSO BY BILL BRYSON
DOUBLEDAY
Copyright © 2010 by Bill Bryson
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. , New York.
DOUBLEDAY and the DD colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in Great Britain by Doubleday, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, a Random House Group Company, London.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bryson, Bill.
At home : a short history of private life / Bill Bryson.
p. cm.
1. Dwellings—Psychological aspects. 2. Dwellings—Environmental aspects. 3. Rooms—Psychological aspects. 4. Rooms—Environmental aspects. I. Title.
GT165. 5. B79 2010
643′. 1—dc22
2010004008
eISBN: 978-0-385-53359-1
v3. 1_r1
• CONTENTS •
INTRODUCTION
Chapter I THE YEAR
Chapter II THE SETTING
Chapter III THE HALL
Chapter IV THE KITCHEN
Chapter V THE SCULLERY AND LARDER
Chapter VI THE FUSE BOX
Chapter VII THE DRAWING ROOM
Chapter VIII THE DINING ROOM
Chapter IX THE CELLAR
Chapter X THE PASSAGE
Chapter XI THE STUDY
Chapter XII THE GARDEN
Chapter XIII THE PLUM ROOM
Chapter XIV THE STAIRS
Chapter XV THE BEDROOM
Chapter XVI THE BATHROOM
Chapter XVII THE DRESSING ROOM
Chapter XVIII THE NURSERY
Chapter XIX THE ATTIC
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
BIBLIOGRAPHY
ILLUSTRATION CREDITS
INTRODUCTION
Some time after my wife and I moved into a former Church of England rectory in a village of tranquil anonymity in Norfolk, in the easternmost part of England, I had occasion to go up into the attic to look for the source of a slow but mysterious drip. As there are no stairs to the attic in our house, the process involved a tall stepladder and much unseemly wriggling through a ceiling hatch, which was why I had not been up there before (or have returned with any enthusiasm since).
When I did finally flop into the dusty gloom and clambered to my feet, I was surprised to find a secret door, not visible from anywhere outside the house, in an external wall. The door opened easily and led out onto a tiny rooftop space, not much larger than a tabletop, between the front and back gables of the house. Victorian houses are often a collection of architectural bewilderments, but this one was starkly unfathomable: why an architect had troubled to put in a door to a space so lacking in evident need or purpose was beyond explanation, but it did have the magical and unexpected effect of providing the most wonderful view.
It is always quietly thrilling to find yourself looking at a world you know well but have never seen from such an angle before. I was perhaps fifty feet above the ground, which in mid-Norfolk more or less guarantees a panorama. Immediately in front of me was the ancient flint church to which our house was once an adjunct. Beyond, down a slight incline and slightly separate from church and rectory, was the village to which both belonged. In the distance in the other direction was Wymondham Abbey, a heap of medieval splendor commanding the southern skyline. In a field in the middle distance a tractor rumbled and drew straight lines in the soil. All else in every direction was quiet, agreeable, timeless English countryside.
