Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (415 page)

“Nobody liked him, but everybody respected him. One felt grateful to him for his condescension in living at all.

“One summer, I was fishing over the Norfolk Broads, and on the Bank Holiday, thinking I would like to see the London ‘Arry in his glory, I ran over to Yarmouth. Walking along the sea-front in the evening, I suddenly found myself confronted by four remarkably choice specimens of the class. They were urging on their wild and erratic career arm-in-arm. The one nearest the road was playing an unusually wheezy concertina, and the other three were bawling out the chorus of a music-hall song, the heroine of which appeared to be ‘Hemmer.’

“They spread themselves right across the pavement, compelling all the women and children they met to step into the roadway. I stood my ground on the kerb, and as they brushed by me something in the face of the one with the concertina struck me as familiar.

“I turned and followed them. They were evidently enjoying themselves immensely. To every girl they passed they yelled out, ‘Oh, you little jam tart!’ and every old lady they addressed as ‘Mar.’ The noisiest and the most vulgar of the four was the one with the concertina.

“I followed them on to the pier, and then, hurrying past, waited for them under a gas-lamp. When the man with the concertina came into the light and I saw him clearly I started. From the face I could have sworn it was Joseph; but everything else about him rendered such an assumption impossible. Putting aside the time and the place, and forgetting his behaviour, his companions, and his instrument, what remained was sufficient to make the suggestion absurd. Joseph was always clean shaven; this youth had a smudgy moustache and a pair of incipient red whiskers. He was dressed in the loudest check suit I have ever seen, off the stage. He wore patent-leather boots with mother-of-pearl buttons, and a necktie that in an earlier age would have called down lightning out of Heaven. He had a low-crowned billycock hat on his head, and a big evil-smelling cigar between his lips.

“Argue as I would, however, the face was the face of Joseph; and, moved by a curiosity I could not control, I kept near him, watching him.

“Once, for a little while, I missed him; but there was not much fear of losing that suit for long, and after a little looking about I struck it again. He was sitting at the end of the pier, where it was less crowded, with his arm round a girl’s waist. I crept close. She was a jolly, red-faced girl, good-looking enough, but common to the last degree. Her hat lay on the seat beside her, and her head was resting on his shoulder. She appeared to be fond of him, but he was evidently bored.

“‘Don’tcher like me, Joe?’ I heard her murmur.

“‘Yas,’ he replied, somewhat unconvincingly, ‘o’ course I likes yer.’

“She gave him an affectionate slap, but he did not respond, and a few minutes afterwards, muttering some excuse, he rose and left her, and I followed him as he made his way towards the refreshment-room. At the door he met one of his pals.

“‘Hullo!’ was the question, ‘wot ‘a yer done wi’ ‘Liza?’

“‘Oh, I carn’t stand ‘er,’ was his reply; ‘she gives me the bloomin’ ‘ump. You ‘ave a turn with ‘er.’

“His friend disappeared in the direction of ‘Liza, and Joe pushed into the room, I keeping close behind him. Now that he was alone I was determined to speak to him. The longer I had studied his features the more resemblance I had found in them to those of my superior friend Joseph.

“He was leaning across the bar, clamouring for two of gin, when I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned his head, and the moment he saw me, his face went livid.

“‘Mr. Joseph Smythe, I believe,’ I said with a smile.

“‘Who’s Mr. Joseph Smythe?’ he answered hoarsely; ‘my name’s Smith, I ain’t no bloomin’ Smythe. Who are you? I don’t know yer.’

“As he spoke, my eyes rested upon a curious gold ring of Indian workmanship which he wore upon his left hand. There was no mistaking the ring, at all events: it had been passed round the club on more than one occasion as a unique curiosity. His eyes followed my gaze. He burst into tears, and pushing me before him into a quiet corner of the saloon, sat down facing me.

“‘Don’t give me away, old man,’ he whimpered; ‘for Gawd’s sake, don’t let on to any of the chaps ‘ere that I’m a member of that blessed old waxwork show in Saint James’s: they’d never speak to me agen. And keep yer mug shut about Oxford, there’s a good sort. I wouldn’t ‘ave ’em know as ‘ow I was one o’ them college blokes for anythink.’

“I sat aghast. I had listened to hear him entreat me to keep ‘Smith,’ the rorty ‘Arry, a secret from the acquaintances of ‘Smythe,’ the superior person. Here was ‘Smith’ in mortal terror lest his pals should hear of his identity with the aristocratic ‘Smythe,’ and discard him. His attitude puzzled me at the time, but, when I came to reflect, my wonder was at myself for having expected the opposite.

“‘I carn’t ‘elp it,’ he went on; ‘I ‘ave to live two lives. ‘Arf my time I’m a stuck-up prig, as orter be jolly well kicked—’

“‘At which times,’ I interrupted, ‘I have heard you express some extremely uncomplimentary opinions concerning ‘Arries.’

“‘I know,’ he replied, in a voice betraying strong emotion; ‘that’s where it’s so precious rough on me. When I’m a toff I despises myself, ‘cos I knows that underneath my sneering phiz I’m a bloomin’ ‘Arry. When I’m an ‘Arry, I ‘ates myself ‘cos I knows I’m a toff.’

“‘Can’t you decide which character you prefer, and stick to it?’ I asked.

“‘No,’ he answered, ‘I carn’t. It’s a rum thing, but whichever I am, sure as fate, ‘bout the end of a month I begin to get sick o’ myself.’

“‘I can quite understand it,’ I murmured; ‘I should give way myself in a fortnight.’

“‘I’ve been myself, now,’ he continued, without noticing my remark, ‘for somethin’ like ten days. One mornin’, in ‘bout three weeks’ time, I shall get up in my diggins in the Mile End Road, and I shall look round the room, and at these clothes ‘angin’ over the bed, and at this yer concertina’ (he gave it an affectionate squeeze), ‘and I shall feel myself gettin’ scarlet all over. Then I shall jump out o’ bed, and look at myself in the glass. “You howling little cad,” I shall say to myself, “I have half a mind to strangle you”; and I shall shave myself, and put on a quiet blue serge suit and a bowler ‘at, tell my landlady to keep my rooms for me till I comes back, slip out o’ the ‘ouse, and into the fust ‘ansom I meets, and back to the Halbany. And a month arter that, I shall come into my chambers at the Halbany, fling Voltaire and Parini into the fire, shy me ‘at at the bust of good old ‘Omer, slip on my blue suit agen, and back to the Mile End Road.’

“‘How do you explain your absence to both parties?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, that’s simple enough,’ he replied. ‘I just tells my ‘ousekeeper at the Halbany as I’m goin’ on the Continong; and my mates ‘ere thinks I’m a traveller.’

“‘Nobody misses me much,’ he added, pathetically; ‘I hain’t a partic’larly fetchin’ sort o’ bloke, either of me. I’m sich an out-and-outer. When I’m an ‘Arry, I’m too much of an ‘Arry, and when I’m a prig, I’m a reg’lar fust prize prig. Seems to me as if I was two ends of a man without any middle. If I could only mix myself up a bit more, I’d be all right.’

“He sniffed once or twice, and then he laughed. ‘Ah, well,’ he said, casting aside his momentary gloom; ‘it’s all a game, and wot’s the odds so long as yer ‘appy. ‘Ave a wet?’

“I declined the wet, and left him playing sentimental airs to himself upon the concertina.

“One afternoon, about a month later, the servant came to me with a card on which was engraved the name of ‘Mr. Joseph Smythe.’ I requested her to show him up. He entered with his usual air of languid superciliousness, and seated himself in a graceful attitude upon the sofa.

“‘Well,’ I said, as soon as the girl had closed the door behind her, ‘so you’ve got rid of Smith?’

“A sickly smile passed over his face. ‘You have not mentioned it to any one?’ he asked anxiously.

“‘Not to a soul,’ I replied; ‘though I confess I often feel tempted to.’

“‘I sincerely trust you never will,’ he said, in a tone of alarm. ‘You can have no conception of the misery the whole thing causes me. I cannot understand it. What possible affinity there can be between myself and that disgusting little snob passes my comprehension. I assure you, my dear Mac, the knowledge that I was a ghoul, or a vampire, would cause me less nausea than the reflection that I am one and the same with that odious little Whitechapel bounder. When I think of him every nerve in my body—’

“‘Don’t think about him any more,’ I interrupted, perceiving his strongly-suppressed emotion. ‘You didn’t come here to talk about him, I’m sure. Let us dismiss him.’

“‘Well,’ he replied, ‘in a certain roundabout way it is slightly connected with him. That is really my excuse for inflicting the subject upon you. You are the only man I
can
speak to about it — if I shall not bore you?’

“‘Not in the least,’ I said. ‘I am most interested.’ As he still hesitated, I asked him point-blank what it was.

“He appeared embarrassed. ‘It is really very absurd of me,’ he said, while the faintest suspicion of pink crossed his usually colourless face; ‘but I feel I must talk to somebody about it. The fact is, my dear Mac, I am in love.’

“‘Capital!’ I cried; ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ (I thought it might make a man of him.) ‘Do I know the lady?’

“‘I am inclined to think you must have seen her,’ he replied; ‘she was with me on the pier at Yarmouth that evening you met me.’

“‘Not ‘Liza!’ I exclaimed.

“‘That was she,’ he answered; ‘Miss Elizabeth Muggins.’ He dwelt lovingly upon the name.

“‘But,’ I said, ‘you seemed — I really could not help noticing, it was so pronounced — you seemed to positively dislike her. Indeed, I gathered from your remark to a friend that her society was distinctly distasteful to you.’

“‘To Smith,’ he corrected me. ‘What judge would that howling little blackguard be of a woman’s worth! The dislike of such a man as that is a testimonial to her merit!’

“‘I may be mistaken,’ I said; ‘but she struck me as a bit common.’

“‘She is not, perhaps, what the world would call a lady,’ he admitted; ‘but then, my dear Mac, my opinion of the world is not such as to render
its
opinion of much value to me. I and the world differ on most subjects, I am glad to say. She is beautiful, and she is good, and she is my choice.’

“‘She’s a jolly enough little girl,’ I replied, ‘and, I should say, affectionate; but have you considered, Smythe, whether she is quite — what shall we say — quite as intellectual as could be desired?’

“‘Really, to tell the truth, I have not troubled myself much about her intellect,’ he replied, with one of his sneering smiles. ‘I have no doubt that the amount of intellect absolutely necessary to the formation of a British home, I shall be able to supply myself. I have no desire for an intellectual wife. One is compelled to meet tiresome people, but one does not live with them if one can avoid it.’

“‘No,’ he continued, reverting to his more natural tone; ‘the more I think of Elizabeth the more clear it becomes to me that she is the one woman in the world for whom marriage with me is possible. I perceive that to the superficial observer my selection must appear extraordinary. I do not pretend to explain it, or even to understand it. The study of mankind is beyond man. Only fools attempt it. Maybe it is her contrast to myself that attracts me. Maybe my, perhaps, too spiritual nature feels the need of contact with her coarser clay to perfect itself. I cannot tell. These things must always remain mysteries. I only know that I love her — that, if any reliance is to be placed upon instinct, she is the mate to whom Artemis is leading me.’

“It was clear that he was in love, and I therefore ceased to argue with him. ‘You kept up your acquaintanceship with her, then, after you’ — I was going to say ‘after you ceased to be Smith,’ but not wishing to agitate him by more mention of that person than I could help, I substituted, ‘after you returned to the Albany?’

“‘Not exactly,’ he replied; ‘I lost sight of her after I left Yarmouth, and I did not see her again until five days ago, when I came across her in an aerated bread shop. I had gone in to get a glass of milk and a bun, and
she
brought them to me. I recognised her in a moment.’ His face lighted up with quite a human smile. ‘I take tea there every afternoon now,’ he added, glancing towards the clock, ‘at four.’

“‘There’s not much need to ask
her
views on the subject,’ I said, laughing; ‘her feelings towards you were pretty evident.’

“‘Well, that is the curious part of it,’ he replied, with a return to his former embarrassment; ‘she does not seem to care for me now at all. Indeed, she positively refuses me. She says — to put it in the dear child’s own racy language — that she wouldn’t take me on at any price. She says it would be like marrying a clockwork figure without the key. She’s more frank than complimentary, but I like that.’

“‘Wait a minute,’ I said; ‘an idea occurs to me. Does she know of your identity with Smith?’

“‘No,’ he replied, alarmed, ‘I would not have her know it for worlds. Only yesterday she told me that I reminded her of a fellow she had met at Yarmouth, and my heart was in my mouth.’

“‘How did she look when she told you that?’ I asked.

“‘How did she look?’ he repeated, not understanding me.

“‘What was her expression at that moment?’ I said—’was it severe or tender?’

“‘Well,’ he replied, ‘now I come to think of it, she did seem to soften a bit just then.’

“‘My dear boy,’ I said, ‘the case is as clear as daylight. She loves Smith. No girl who admired Smith could be attracted by Smythe. As your present self you will never win her. In a few weeks’ time, however, you will be Smith. Leave the matter over until then. Propose to her as Smith, and she will accept you. After marriage you can break Smythe gently to her.’

“‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed, startled out of his customary lethargy, ‘I never thought of that. The truth is, when I am in my right senses, Smith and all his affairs seem like a dream to me. Any idea connected with him would never enter my mind.’