The Second Thoughts of An Idle Fellow

J >> Jerome K. Jerome >> The Second Thoughts of An Idle Fellow

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

The night of the festival arrived, and with it the guests. They
sat, wrapped up in shawls and cloaks, outside the hall door--uncles,
cousins, aunts, little boys and big boys, little girls and big
girls, with, as the theatre posters say, villagers and retainers,
some forty of them in all, and waited.

But the fireworks did not go off. Why they did not go off I cannot
explain; nobody ever COULD explain. The laws of nature seemed to be
suspended for that night only. The rockets fell down and died where
they stood. No human agency seemed able to ignite the squibs. The
crackers gave one bang and collapsed. The Roman candles might have
been English rushlights. The Catherine wheels became mere revolving
glow-worms. The fiery serpents could not collect among them the
spirit of a tortoise. The set piece, a ship at sea, showed one mast
and the captain, and then went out. One or two items did their
duty, but this only served to render the foolishness of the whole
more striking. The little girls giggled, the little boys chaffed,
the aunts and cousins said it was beautiful, the uncles inquired if
it was all over, and talked about supper and trains, the "villagers
and retainers" dispersed laughing, the indulgent mother said "never
mind," and explained how well everything had gone off yesterday; the
clever little boy crept upstairs to his room, and blubbered his
heart out in the dark.

Hours later, when the crowd had forgotten him, he stole out again
into the garden. He sat down amid the ruins of his hope, and
wondered what could have caused the fiasco. Still puzzled, he drew
from his pocket a box of matches, and, lighting one, he held it to
the seared end of a rocket he had tried in vain to light four hours
ago. It smouldered for an instant, then shot with a swish into the
air and broke into a hundred points of fire. He tried another and
another with the same result. He made a fresh attempt to fire the
set piece. Point by point the whole picture--minus the captain and
one mast--came out of the night, and stood revealed in all the
majesty of flame. Its sparks fell upon the piled-up heap of
candles, wheels, and rockets that a little while before had
obstinately refused to burn, and that, one after another, had been
thrown aside as useless. Now with the night frost upon them, they
leaped to light in one grand volcanic eruption. And in front of the
gorgeous spectacle he stood with only one consolation--his mother's
hand in his.

The whole thing was a mystery to him at the time, but, as he learned
to know life better, he came to understand that it was only one
example of a solid but inexplicable fact, ruling all human
affairs--YOUR FIREWORKS WON'T GO OFF WHILE THE CROWD IS AROUND.

Our brilliant repartees do not occur to us till the door is closed
upon us and we are alone in the street, or, as the French would say,
are coming down the stairs. Our after-dinner oratory, that sounded
so telling as we delivered it before the looking-glass, falls
strangely flat amidst the clinking of the glasses. The passionate
torrent of words we meant to pour into her ear becomes a halting
rigmarole, at which--small blame to her--she only laughs.

I would, gentle Reader, you could hear the stories that I meant to
tell you. You judge me, of course, by the stories of mine that you
have read--by this sort of thing, perhaps; but that is not just to
me. The stories I have not told you, that I am going to tell you
one day, I would that you judge me by those.

They are so beautiful; you will say so; over them, you will laugh
and cry with me.

They come into my brain unbidden, they clamour to be written, yet
when I take my pen in hand they are gone. It is as though they were
shy of publicity, as though they would say to me--"You alone, you
shall read us, but you must not write us; we are too real, too true.
We are like the thoughts you cannot speak. Perhaps a little later,
when you know more of life, then you shall tell us."

Next to these in merit I would place, were I writing a critical
essay on myself, the stories I have begun to write and that remain
unfinished, why I cannot explain to myself. They are good stories,
most of them; better far than the stories I have accomplished.
Another time, perhaps, if you care to listen, I will tell you the
beginning of one or two and you shall judge. Strangely enough, for
I have always regarded myself as a practical, commonsensed man, so
many of these still-born children of my mind I find, on looking
through the cupboard where their thin bodies lie, are ghost stories.
I suppose the hope of ghosts is with us all. The world grows
somewhat interesting to us heirs of all the ages. Year by year,
Science with broom and duster tears down the moth-worn tapestry,
forces the doors of the locked chambers, lets light into the secret
stairways, cleans out the dungeons, explores the hidden passages--
finding everywhere only dust. This echoing old castle, the world,
so full of mystery in the days when we were children, is losing
somewhat its charm for us as we grow older. The king sleeps no
longer in the hollow of the hills. We have tunnelled through his
mountain chamber. We have shivered his beard with our pick. We
have driven the gods from Olympus. No wanderer through the moonlit
groves now fears or hopes the sweet, death-giving gleam of
Aphrodite's face. Thor's hammer echoes not among the peaks--'tis
but the thunder of the excursion train. We have swept the woods of
the fairies. We have filtered the sea of its nymphs. Even the
ghosts are leaving us, chased by the Psychical Research Society.

Perhaps of all, they are the least, however, to be regretted. They
were dull old fellows, clanking their rusty chains and groaning and
sighing. Let them go.

And yet how interesting they might be, if only they would. The old
gentleman in the coat of mail, who lived in King John's reign, who
was murdered, so they say, on the outskirts of the very wood I can
see from my window as I write--stabbed in the back, poor gentleman,
as he was riding home, his body flung into the moat that to this day
is called Tor's tomb. Dry enough it is now, and the primroses love
its steep banks; but a gloomy enough place in those days, no doubt,
with its twenty feet of stagnant water. Why does he haunt the
forest paths at night, as they tell me he does, frightening the
children out of their wits, blanching the faces and stilling the
laughter of the peasant lads and lasses, slouching home from the
village dance? Instead, why does he not come up here and talk to
me? He should have my easy-chair and welcome, would he only be
cheerful and companionable.

What brave tales could he not tell me. He fought in the first
Crusade, heard the clarion voice of Peter, met the great Godfrey
face to face, stood, hand on sword-hilt, at Runny-mede, perhaps.
Better than a whole library of historical novels would an evening's
chat be with such a ghost. What has he done with his eight hundred
years of death? where has he been? what has he seen? Maybe he has
visited Mars; has spoken to the strange spirits who can live in the
liquid fires of Jupiter. What has he learned of the great secret?
Has he found the truth? or is he, even as I, a wanderer still
seeking the unknown?

You, poor, pale, grey nun--they tell me that of midnights one may
see your white face peering from the ruined belfry window, hear the
clash of sword and shield among the cedar-trees beneath.

It was very sad, I quite understand, my dear lady. Your lovers both
were killed, and you retired to a convent. Believe me, I am
sincerely sorry for you, but why waste every night renewing the
whole painful experience? Would it not be better forgotten? Good
Heavens, madam, suppose we living folk were to spend our lives
wailing and wringing our hands because of the wrongs done to us when
we were children? It is all over now. Had he lived, and had you
married him, you might not have been happy. I do not wish to say
anything unkind, but marriages founded upon the sincerest mutual
love have sometimes turned out unfortunately, as you must surely
know.

Do take my advice. Talk the matter over with the young men
themselves. Persuade them to shake hands and be friends. Come in,
all of you, out of the cold, and let us have some reasonable talk.

Why seek you to trouble us, you poor pale ghosts? Are we not your
children? Be our wise friends. Tell me, how loved the young men in
your young days? how answered the maidens? Has the world changed
much, do you think? Had you not new women even then? girls who
hated the everlasting tapestry frame and spinning-wheel? Your
father's servants, were they so much worse off than the freemen who
live in our East-end slums and sew slippers for fourteen hours a day
at a wage of nine shillings a week? Do you think Society much
improved during the last thousand years? Is it worse? is it better?
or is it, on the whole, about the same, save that we call things by
other names? Tell me, what have YOU learned?

Yet might not familiarity breed contempt, even for ghosts.

One has had a tiring day's shooting. One is looking forward to
one's bed. As one opens the door, however, a ghostly laugh comes
from behind the bed-curtains, and one groans inwardly, knowing what
is in store for one: a two or three hours' talk with rowdy old Sir
Lanval--he of the lance. We know all his tales by heart, and he
will shout them. Suppose our aunt, from whom we have expectations,
and who sleeps in the next room, should wake and overhear! They
were fit and proper enough stories, no doubt, for the Round Table,
but we feel sure our aunt would not appreciate them:--that story
about Sir Agravain and the cooper's wife! and he always will tell
that story.

Or imagine the maid entering after dinner to say--

"Oh, if you please, sir, here is the veiled lady."

"What, again!" says your wife, looking up from her work.

"Yes, ma'am; shall I show her up into the bedroom?"

"You had better ask your master," is the reply. The tone is
suggestive of an unpleasant five minutes so soon as the girl shall
have withdrawn, but what are you to do?

"Yes, yes, show her up," you say, and the girl goes out, closing the
door.

Your wife gathers her work together, and rises.

"Where are you going?" you ask.

"To sleep with the children," is the frigid answer.

"It will look so rude," you urge. "We must be civil to the poor
thing; and you see it really is her room, as one might say. She has
always haunted it. "

"It is very curious," returns the wife of your bosom, still more
icily, "that she never haunts it except when you are down here.
Where she goes when you are in town I'm sure I don't know."

This is unjust. You cannot restrain your indignation.

"What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth," you reply; "I am only barely
polite to her."

"Some men have such curious notions of politeness," returns
Elizabeth. "But pray do not let us quarrel. I am only anxious not
to disturb you. Two are company, you know. I don't choose to be
the third, that's all." With which she goes out.

And the veiled lady is still waiting for you up-stairs. You wonder
how long she will stop, also what will happen after she is gone.

I fear there is no room for you, ghosts, in this our world. You
remember how they came to Hiawatha--the ghosts of the departed loved
ones. He had prayed to them that they would come back to him to
comfort him, so one day they crept into his wigwam, sat in silence
round his fireside, chilled the air for Hiawatha, froze the smiles
of Laughing Water.

There is no room for you, oh you poor pale ghosts, in this our
world. Do not trouble us. Let us forget. You, stout elderly
matron, your thin locks turning grey, your eyes grown weak, your
chin more ample, your voice harsh with much scolding and
complaining, needful, alas! to household management, I pray you
leave me. I loved you while you lived. How sweet, how beautiful
you were. I see you now in your white frock among the
apple-blossom. But you are dead, and your ghost disturbs my dreams.
I would it haunted me not.

You, dull old fellow, looking out at me from the glass at which I
shave, why do you haunt me? You are the ghost of a bright lad I
once knew well. He might have done much, had he lived. I always
had faith in him. Why do you haunt me? I would rather think of him
as I remember him. I never imagined he would make such a poor
ghost.

ON THE PREPARATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF LOVE PHILTRES

Occasionally a friend will ask me some such question as this, Do you
prefer dark women or fair? Another will say, Do you like tall women
or short? A third, Do you think light-hearted women, or serious,
the more agreeable company? I find myself in the position that,
once upon a time, overtook a certain charming young lady of taste
who was asked by an anxious parent, the years mounting, and the
family expenditure not decreasing, which of the numerous and
eligible young men, then paying court to her, she liked the best.
She replied, that was her difficulty. She could not make up her
mind which she liked the best. They were all so nice. She could
not possibly select one to the exclusion of all the others. What
she would have liked would have been to marry the lot, but that, she
presumed, was impracticable.

I feel I resemble that young lady, not so much, perhaps, in charm
and beauty as indecision of mind, when questions such as the above
are put to me. It is as if one were asked one's favourite food.
There are times when one fancies an egg with one's tea. On other
occasions one dreams of a kipper. Today one clamours for lobsters.
To-morrow one feels one never wishes to see a lobster again; one
determines to settle down, for a time, to a diet of bread and milk
and rice-pudding. Asked suddenly to say whether I preferred ices to
soup, or beefsteaks to caviare, I should be nonplussed.

I like tall women and short, dark women and fair, merry women and
grave.

Do not blame me, Ladies, the fault lies with you. Every
right-thinking man is an universal lover; how could it be otherwise?
You are so diverse, yet each so charming of your kind; and a man's
heart is large. You have no idea, fair Reader, how large a man's
heart is: that is his trouble--sometimes yours.

May I not admire the daring tulip, because I love also the modest
lily? May I not press a kiss upon the sweet violet, because the
scent of the queenly rose is precious to me?

"Certainly not," I hear the Rose reply. "If you can see anything in
her, you shall have nothing to do with me."

"If you care for that bold creature," says the Lily, trembling, "you
are not the man I took you for. Good-bye."

"Go to your baby-faced Violet," cries the Tulip, with a toss of her
haughty head. "You are just fitted for each other."

And when I return to the Lily, she tells me that she cannot trust
me. She has watched me with those others. She knows me for a
gad-about. Her gentle face is full of pain.

So I must live unloved merely because I love too much.

My wonder is that young men ever marry. The difficulty of selection
must be appalling. I walked the other evening in Hyde Park. The
band of the Life Guards played heart-lifting music, and the vast
crowd were basking in a sweet enjoyment such as rarely woos the
English toiler. I strolled among them, and my attention was chiefly
drawn towards the women. The great majority of them were, I
suppose, shop-girls, milliners, and others belonging to the lower
middle-class. They had put on their best frocks, their bonniest
hats, their newest gloves. They sat or walked in twos and threes,
chattering and preening, as happy as young sparrows on a clothes
line. And what a handsome crowd they made! I have seen German
crowds, I have seen French crowds, I have seen Italian crowds; but
nowhere do you find such a proportion of pretty women as among the
English middle-class. Three women out of every four were worth
looking at, every other woman was pretty, while every fourth, one
might say without exaggeration, was beautiful. As I passed to and
fro the idea occurred to me: suppose I were an unprejudiced young
bachelor, free from predilection, looking for a wife; and let me
suppose--it is only a fancy--that all these girls were ready and
willing to accept me. I have only to choose! I grew bewildered.
There were fair girls, to look at whom was fatal; dark girls that
set one's heart aflame; girls with red gold hair and grave grey
eyes, whom one would follow to the confines of the universe;
baby-faced girls that one longed to love and cherish; girls with
noble faces, whom a man might worship; laughing girls, with whom one
could dance through life gaily; serious girls, with whom life would
be sweet and good, domestic-looking girls--one felt such would make
delightful wives; they would cook, and sew, and make of home a
pleasant, peaceful place. Then wicked-looking girls came by, at the
stab of whose bold eyes all orthodox thoughts were put to a flight,
whose laughter turned the world into a mad carnival; girls one could
mould; girls from whom one could learn; sad girls one wanted to
comfort; merry girls who would cheer one; little girls, big girls,
queenly girls, fairy-like girls.

Suppose a young man had to select his wife in this fashion from some
twenty or thirty thousand; or that a girl were suddenly confronted
with eighteen thousand eligible young bachelors, and told to take
the one she wanted and be quick about it? Neither boy nor girl
would ever marry. Fate is kinder to us. She understands, and
assists us. In the hall of a Paris hotel I once overheard one lady
asking another to recommend her a milliner's shop.

"Go to the Maison Nouvelle," advised the questioned lady, with
enthusiasm. "They have the largest selection there of any place in
Paris."

"I know they have," replied the first lady, "that is just why I
don't mean to go there. It confuses me. If I see six bonnets I can
tell the one I want in five minutes. If I see six hundred I come
away without any bonnet at all. Don't you know a little shop?"

Fate takes the young man or the young woman aside.

"Come into this village, my dear," says Fate; "into this by-street
of this salubrious suburb, into this social circle, into this
church, into this chapel. Now, my dear boy, out of these seventeen
young ladies, which will you have?--out of these thirteen young men,
which would you like for your very own, my dear?"

"No, miss, I am sorry, but I am not able to show you our up-stairs
department to-day, the lift is not working. But I am sure we shall
be able to find something in this room to suit you. Just look
round, my dear, perhaps you will see something."

"No, sir, I cannot show you the stock in the next room, we never
take that out except for our very special customers. We keep our
most expensive goods in that room. (Draw that curtain, Miss
Circumstance, please. I have told you of that before.) Now, sir,
wouldn't you like this one? This colour is quite the rage this
season; we are getting rid of quite a lot of these."

"NO, sir! Well, of course, it would not do for every one's taste to
be the same. Perhaps something dark would suit you better. Bring
out those two brunettes, Miss Circumstance. Charming girls both of
them, don't you think so, sir? I should say the taller one for you,
sir. Just one moment, sir, allow me. Now, what do you think of
that, sir? might have been made to fit you, I'm sure. You prefer
the shorter one. Certainly, sir, no difference to us at all. Both
are the same price. There's nothing like having one's own fancy, I
always say. NO, sir, I cannot put her aside for you, we never do
that. Indeed, there's rather a run on brunettes just at present. I
had a gentleman in only this morning, looking at this particular
one, and he is going to call again to-night. Indeed, I am not at
all sure--Oh, of course, sir, if you like to settle on this one now,
that ends the matter. (Put those others away, Miss Circumstance,
please, and mark this one sold.) I feel sure you'll like her, sir,
when you get her home. Thank YOU, sir. Good-morning!"

"Now, miss, have YOU seen anything you fancy? YES, miss, this is
all we have at anything near your price. (Shut those other
cupboards, Miss Circumstance; never show more stock than you are
obliged to, it only confuses customers. How often am I to tell you
that?) YES, miss, you are quite right, there IS a slight blemish.
They all have some slight flaw. The makers say they can't help it--
it's in the material. It's not once in a season we get a perfect
specimen; and when we do ladies don't seem to care for it. Most of
our customers prefer a little faultiness. They say it gives
character. Now, look at this, miss. This sort of thing wears very
well, warm and quiet. You'd like one with more colour in it?
Certainly. Miss Circumstance, reach me down the art patterns. NO,
miss, we don't guarantee any of them over the year, so much depends
on how you use them. OH YES, miss, they'll stand a fair amount of
wear. People do tell you the quieter patterns last longer; but my
experience is that one is much the same as another. There's really
no telling any of them until you come to try them. We never
recommend one more than another. There's a lot of chance about
these goods, it's in the nature of them. What I always say to
ladies is--'Please yourself, it's you who have got to wear it; and
it's no good having an article you start by not liking.' YES, miss,
it IS pretty and it looks well against you: it does indeed. Thank
you, miss. Put that one aside, Miss Circumstance, please. See that
it doesn't get mixed up with the unsold stock. "

It is a useful philtre, the juice of that small western flower, that
Oberon drops upon our eyelids as we sleep. It solves all
difficulties in a trice. Why of course Helena is the fairer.
Compare her with Hermia! Compare the raven with the dove! How
could we ever have doubted for a moment? Bottom is an angel, Bottom
is as wise as he is handsome. Oh, Oberon, we thank you for that
drug. Matilda Jane is a goddess; Matilda Jane is a queen; no woman
ever born of Eve was like Matilda Jane. The little pimple on her
nose--her little, sweet, tip-tilted nose--how beautiful it is. Her
bright eyes flash with temper now and then; how piquant is a temper
in a woman. William is a dear old stupid, how lovable stupid men
can be--especially when wise enough to love us. William does not
shine in conversation; how we hate a magpie of a man. William's
chin is what is called receding, just the sort of chin a beard looks
well on. Bless you, Oberon darling, for that drug; rub it on our
eyelids once again. Better let us have a bottle, Oberon, to keep by
us.

Oberon, Oberon, what are you thinking of? You have given the bottle
to Puck. Take it away from him, quick. Lord help us all if that
Imp has the bottle. Lord save us from Puck while we sleep.

Or may we, fairy Oberon, regard your lotion as an eye-opener, rather
than as an eye-closer? You remember the story the storks told the
children, of the little girl who was a toad by day, only her sweet
dark eyes being left to her. But at night, when the Prince clasped
her close to his breast, lo! again she became the king's daughter,
fairest and fondest of women. There be many royal ladies in
Marshland, with bad complexion and thin straight hair, and the silly
princes sneer and ride away to woo some kitchen wench decked out in
queen's apparel. Lucky the prince upon whose eyelids Oberon has
dropped the magic philtre.

In the gallery of a minor Continental town I have forgotten, hangs a
picture that lives with me. The painting I cannot recall, whether
good or bad; artists must forgive me for remembering only the
subject. It shows a man, crucified by the roadside. No martyr he.
If ever a man deserved hanging it was this one. So much the artist
has made clear. The face, even under its mask of agony, is an evil,
treacherous face. A peasant girl clings to the cross; she stands
tip-toe upon a patient donkey, straining her face upward for the
half-dead man to stoop and kiss her lips.

Thief, coward, blackguard, they are stamped upon his face, but UNDER
the face, under the evil outside? Is there no remnant of manhood-
-nothing tender, nothing, true? A woman has crept to the cross to
kiss him: no evidence in his favour, my Lord? Love is blind-aye,
to our faults. Heaven help us all; Love's eyes would be sore indeed
if it were not so. But for the good that is in us her eyes are
keen. You, crucified blackguard, stand forth. A hundred witnesses
have given their evidence against you. Are there none to give
evidence for him? A woman, great Judge, who loved him. Let her
speak.

But I am wandering far from Hyde Park and its show of girls.

They passed and re-passed me, laughing, smiling, talking. Their
eyes were bright with merry thoughts; their voices soft and musical.
They were pleased, and they wanted to please. Some were married,
some had evidently reasonable expectations of being married; the
rest hoped to be. And we, myself, and some ten thousand other young
men. I repeat it--myself and some ten thousand other young men; for
who among us ever thinks of himself but as a young man? It is the
world that ages, not we. The children cease their playing and grow
grave, the lasses' eyes are dimmer. The hills are a little steeper,
the milestones, surely, further apart. The songs the young men sing
are less merry than the songs we used to sing. The days have grown
a little colder, the wind a little keener. The wine has lost its
flavour somewhat; the new humour is not like the old. The other
boys are becoming dull and prosy; but we are not changed. It is the
world that is growing old. Therefore, I brave your thoughtless
laughter, youthful Reader, and repeat that we, myself and some ten
thousand other young men, walked among these sweet girls; and, using
our boyish eyes, were fascinated, charmed, and captivated. How
delightful to spend our lives with them, to do little services for
them that would call up these bright smiles. How pleasant to jest
with them, and hear their flute-like laughter, to console them and
read their grateful eyes. Really life is a pleasant thing, and the
idea of marriage undoubtedly originated in the brain of a kindly
Providence.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14