Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (416 page)

“He rose and held out his hand. ‘I am so glad I came to see you,’ he said; ‘your suggestion has almost reconciled me to my miserable fate. Indeed, I quite look forward to a month of Smith, now.’

“‘I’m so pleased,’ I answered, shaking hands with him. ‘Mind you come and tell me how you get on. Another man’s love affairs are not usually absorbing, but there is an element of interest about yours that renders the case exceptional.’

“We parted, and I did not see him again for another month. Then, late one evening, the servant knocked at my door to say that a Mr. Smith wished to see me.

“‘Smith, Smith,’ I repeated; ‘what Smith? didn’t he give you a card?’

“‘No, sir,’ answered the girl; ‘he doesn’t look the sort that would have a card. He’s not a gentleman, sir; but he says you’ll know him.’ She evidently regarded the statement as an aspersion upon myself.

“I was about to tell her to say I was out, when the recollection of Smythe’s other self flashed into my mind, and I directed her to send him up.

“A minute passed, and then he entered. He was wearing a new suit of a louder pattern, if possible, than before. I think he must have designed it himself. He looked hot and greasy. He did not offer to shake hands, but sat down awkwardly on the extreme edge of a small chair, and gaped about the room as if he had never seen it before.

“He communicated his shyness to myself. I could not think what to say, and we sat for a while in painful silence.

“‘Well,’ I said, at last, plunging head-foremost into the matter, according to the method of shy people, ‘and how’s ‘Liza?’

“‘Oh,
she’s
all right,’ he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on his hat.

“‘Have you done it?’ I continued.

“‘Done wot?’ he asked, looking up.

“‘Married her.’

“‘No,’ he answered, returning to the contemplation of his hat.

“‘Has she refused you then?’ I said.

“‘I ain’t arst ‘er,’ he returned.

“He seemed unwilling to explain matters of his own accord. I had to put the conversation into the form of a cross-examination.

“‘Why not?’ I asked; ‘don’t you think she cares for you any longer?’

“He burst into a harsh laugh. ‘There ain’t much fear o’ that,’ he said; ‘it’s like ‘aving an Alcock’s porous plaster mashed on yer, blowed if it ain’t. There’s no gettin’ rid of ‘er. I wish she’d giv’ somebody else a turn. I’m fair sick of ‘er.’

“‘But you were enthusiastic about her a month ago!’ I exclaimed in astonishment.

“‘Smythe may ‘ave been,’ he said; ‘there ain’t no accounting for that ninny, ‘is ‘ead’s full of starch. Anyhow, I don’t take ‘er on while I’m myself. I’m too jolly fly.’

“‘That sort o’ gal’s all right enough to lark with,’ he continued; ‘but yer don’t want to marry ‘em. They don’t do yer no good. A man wants a wife as ‘e can respect — some one as is a cut above ‘imself, as will raise ‘im up a peg or two — some one as ‘e can look up to and worship. A man’s wife orter be to ‘im a gawddess — a hangel, a—’

“‘You appear to have met the lady,’ I remarked, interrupting him.

“He blushed scarlet, and became suddenly absorbed in the pattern of the carpet. But the next moment he looked up again, and his face seemed literally transformed.

“‘Oh! Mr. MacShaughnassy,’ he burst out, with a ring of genuine manliness in his voice, ‘you don’t know ‘ow good, ‘ow beautiful she is. I ain’t fit to breathe ‘er name in my thoughts. An’ she’s so clever. I met ‘er at that Toynbee ‘All. There was a party of toffs there all together. You would ‘ave enjoyed it, Mr. MacShaughnassy, if you could ‘ave ‘eard ‘er; she was makin’ fun of the pictures and the people round about to ‘er pa — such wit, such learnin’, such ‘aughtiness. I follered them out and opened the carriage door for ‘er, and she just drew ‘er skirt aside and looked at me as if I was the dirt in the road. I wish I was, for then perhaps one day I’d kiss ‘er feet.’

“His emotion was so genuine that I did not feel inclined to laugh at him. ‘Did you find out who she was?’ I asked.

“‘Yes,’ he answered; ‘I ‘eard the old gentleman say “‘Ome” to the coachman, and I ran after the carriage all the way to ‘Arley Street. Trevior’s ‘er name, Hedith Trevior.’

“‘Miss Trevior!’ I cried, ‘a tall, dark girl, with untidy hair and rather weak eyes?’

“‘Tall and dark,’ he replied ‘with ‘air that seems tryin’ to reach ‘er lips to kiss ‘em, and heyes, light blue, like a Cambridge necktie. A ‘undred and seventy-three was the number.’

“‘That’s right,’ I said; ‘my dear Smith, this is becoming complicated. You’ve met the lady and talked to her for half an hour — as Smythe, don’t you remember?’

“‘No,’ he said, after cogitating for a minute, ‘carn’t say I do; I never can remember much about Smythe. He allers seems to me like a bad dream.’

“‘Well, you met her,’ I said; ‘I’m positive. I introduced you to her myself, and she confided to me afterwards that she thought you a most charming man.’

“‘No — did she?’ he remarked, evidently softening in his feelings towards Smythe; ‘and did
I
like ‘
er
?’

“‘Well, to tell the truth,’ I answered, ‘I don’t think you did. You looked intensely bored.’

“‘The Juggins,’ I heard him mutter to himself, and then he said aloud: ‘D’yer think I shall get a chance o’ seein’ ‘er agen, when I’m — when I’m Smythe?’

“‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I’ll take you round myself. By the bye,’ I added, jumping up and looking on the mantelpiece, ‘I’ve got a card for a Cinderella at their place — something to do with a birthday. Will you be Smythe on November the twentieth?’

“‘Ye — as,’ he replied; ‘oh, yas — bound to be by then.’

“‘Very well, then,’ I said, ‘I’ll call round for you at the Albany, and we’ll go together.’

“He rose and stood smoothing his hat with his sleeve. ‘Fust time I’ve ever looked for’ard to bein’ that hanimated corpse, Smythe,’ he said slowly. ‘Blowed if I don’t try to ‘urry it up—’pon my sivey I will.’

“‘He’ll be no good to you till the twentieth,’ I reminded him. ‘And,’ I added, as I stood up to ring the bell, ‘you’re sure it’s a genuine case this time. You won’t be going back to ‘Liza?’

“‘Oh, don’t talk ‘bout ‘Liza in the same breath with Hedith,’ he replied, ‘it sounds like sacrilege.’

“He stood hesitating with the handle of the door in his hand. At last, opening it and looking very hard at his hat, he said, ‘I’m goin’ to ‘Arley Street now. I walk up and down outside the ‘ouse every evening, and sometimes, when there ain’t no one lookin’, I get a chance to kiss the doorstep.’

“He disappeared, and I returned to my chair.

“On November twentieth, I called for him according to promise. I found him on the point of starting for the club: he had forgotten all about our appointment. I reminded him of it, and he with difficulty recalled it, and consented, without any enthusiasm, to accompany me. By a few artful hints to her mother (including a casual mention of his income), I manoeuvred matters so that he had Edith almost entirely to himself for the whole evening. I was proud of what I had done, and as we were walking home together I waited to receive his gratitude.

“As it seemed slow in coming, I hinted my expectations.

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think I managed that very cleverly for you.’

“‘Managed what very cleverly?’ said he.

“‘Why, getting you and Miss Trevior left together for such a long time in the conservatory,’ I answered, somewhat hurt; ‘
I
fixed that for you.’

“‘Oh, it was
you
, was it,’ he replied; ‘I’ve been cursing Providence.’

“I stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, and faced him. ‘Don’t you love her?’ I said.

“‘Love her!’ he repeated, in the utmost astonishment; ‘what on earth is there in her to love? She’s nothing but a bad translation of a modern French comedy, with the interest omitted.’

“This ‘tired’ me — to use an Americanism. ‘You came to me a month ago,’ I said, ‘raving over her, and talking about being the dirt under her feet and kissing her doorstep.’

“He turned very red. ‘I wish, my dear Mac,’ he said, ‘you would pay me the compliment of not mistaking me for that detestable little cad with whom I have the misfortune to be connected. You would greatly oblige me if next time he attempts to inflict upon you his vulgar drivel you would kindly kick him downstairs.’

“‘No doubt,’ he added, with a sneer, as we walked on, ‘Miss Trevior would be his ideal. She is exactly the type of woman, I should say, to charm that type of man. For myself, I do not appreciate the artistic and literary female.’

“‘Besides,’ he continued, in a deeper tone, ‘you know my feelings. I shall never care for any other woman but Elizabeth.’

“‘And she?’ I said

“‘She,’ he sighed, ‘is breaking her heart for Smith.’

“‘Why don’t you tell her you are Smith?’ I asked.

“‘I cannot,’ he replied, ‘not even to win her. Besides, she would not believe me.’

“We said good-night at the corner of Bond Street, and I did not see him again till one afternoon late in the following March, when I ran against him in Ludgate Circus. He was wearing his transition blue suit and bowler hat. I went up to him and took his arm.

“‘Which are you?’ I said.

“‘Neither, for the moment,’ he replied, ‘thank God. Half an hour ago I was Smythe, half an hour hence I shall be Smith. For the present half-hour I am a man.’

“There was a pleasant, hearty ring in his voice, and a genial, kindly light in his eyes, and he held himself like a frank gentleman.

“‘You are certainly an improvement upon both of them,’ I said.

“He laughed a sunny laugh, with just the shadow of sadness dashed across it. ‘Do you know my idea of Heaven?’ he said.

“‘No,’ I replied, somewhat surprised at the question.

“‘Ludgate Circus,’ was the answer. ‘The only really satisfying moments of my life,’ he said, ‘have been passed in the neighbourhood of Ludgate Circus. I leave Piccadilly an unhealthy, unwholesome prig. At Charing Cross I begin to feel my blood stir in my veins. From Ludgate Circus to Cheapside I am a human thing with human feeling throbbing in my heart, and human thought throbbing in my brain — with fancies, sympathies, and hopes. At the Bank my mind becomes a blank. As I walk on, my senses grow coarse and blunted; and by the time I reach Whitechapel I am a poor little uncivilised cad. On the return journey it is the same thing reversed.’

“‘Why not live in Ludgate Circus,’ I said, ‘and be always as you are now?’

“‘Because,’ he answered, ‘man is a pendulum, and must travel his arc.’

“‘My dear Mac,’ said he, laying his hand upon my shoulder, ‘there is only one good thing about me, and that is a moral. Man is as God made him: don’t be so sure that you can take him to pieces and improve him. All my life I have sought to make myself an unnaturally superior person. Nature has retaliated by making me also an unnaturally inferior person. Nature abhors lopsidedness. She turns out man as a whole, to be developed as a whole. I always wonder, whenever I come across a supernaturally pious, a supernaturally moral, a supernaturally cultured person, if they also have a reverse self.’

“I was shocked at his suggested argument, and walked by his side for a while without speaking. At last, feeling curious on the subject, I asked him how his various love affairs were progressing.

“‘Oh, as usual,’ he replied; ‘in and out of a
cul de sac
. When I am Smythe I love Eliza, and Eliza loathes me. When I am Smith I love Edith, and the mere sight of me makes her shudder. It is as unfortunate for them as for me. I am not saying it boastfully. Heaven knows it is an added draught of misery in my cup; but it is a fact that Eliza is literally pining away for me as Smith, and — as Smith I find it impossible to be even civil to her; while Edith, poor girl, has been foolish enough to set her heart on me as Smythe, and as Smythe she seems to me but the skin of a woman stuffed with the husks of learning, and rags torn from the corpse of wit.’

“I remained absorbed in my own thoughts for some time, and did not come out of them till we were crossing the Minories. Then, the idea suddenly occurring to me, I said:

“‘Why don’t you get a new girl altogether? There must be medium girls that both Smith and Smythe could like, and that would put up with both of you.’

“‘No more girls for this child,’ he answered ‘they’re more trouble than they’re worth. Those yer want yer carn’t get, and those yer can ‘ave, yer don’t want.’

“I started, and looked up at him. He was slouching along with his hands in his pockets, and a vacuous look in his face.

“A sudden repulsion seized me. ‘I must go now,’ I said, stopping. ‘I’d no idea I had come so far.’

“He seemed as glad to be rid of me as I to be rid of him. ‘Oh, must yer,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Well, so long.’

“We shook hands carelessly. He disappeared in the crowd, and that is the last I have ever seen of him.”

* * * * *

“Is that a true story?” asked Jephson.

“Well, I’ve altered the names and dates,” said MacShaughnassy; “but the main facts you can rely upon.”

CHAPTER X

The final question discussed at our last meeting been: What shall our hero be? MacShaughnassy had suggested an author, with a critic for the villain. My idea was a stockbroker, with an undercurrent of romance in his nature. Said Jephson, who has a practical mind: “The question is not what we like, but what the female novel-reader likes.”

“That is so,” agreed MacShaughnassy. “I propose that we collect feminine opinion upon this point. I will write to my aunt and obtain from her the old lady’s view. You,” he said, turning to me, “can put the case to your wife, and get the young lady’s ideal. Let Brown write to his sister at Newnham, and find out whom the intellectual maiden favours, while Jephson can learn from Miss Medbury what is most attractive to the common-sensed girl.”

This plan we had adopted, and the result was now under consideration. MacShaughnassy opened the proceedings by reading his aunt’s letter. Wrote the old lady:

“I think, if I were you, my dear boy, I should choose a soldier. You know your poor grandfather, who ran away to America with that
wicked
Mrs. Featherly, the banker’s wife, was a soldier, and so was your poor cousin Robert, who lost eight thousand pounds at Monte Carlo. I have always felt singularly drawn towards soldiers, even as a girl; though your poor dear uncle could not bear them. You will find many allusions to soldiers and men of war in the Old Testament (see Jer. xlviii. 14). Of course one does not like to think of their fighting and killing each other, but then they do not seem to do that sort of thing nowadays.”