Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (518 page)

Later it is recorded:

We spent two very pleasant days at Oxford. There are plenty of dogs in the City of Oxford.

Montmorency had eleven fights on the first day, and fourteen on the second, and evidently thought he had got to Heaven.

Montmorency, however, exercised more discretion with regard to cats. On one occasion:

His victim was a large black Tom. I never saw a larger or a more disreputable-looking cat. It had lost half its tail, one of its ears, and a fairly appreciable portion of its nose. It was a long, sinewy-looking animal. It had a calm, contented air about it.

Montmorency went for that poor cat at the rate of twenty miles an hour, but the cat did not hurry up — did not seem to have grasped the idea that its life was in danger. It trotted quietly on until its would-be assassin was within a yard of it, and then it turned round and sat down in the middle of the road, and looked at Montmorency with a gentle, inquiring expression that said:

“Yes, you want me?”

Montmorency does not lack pluck, but there was something about the look of that cat that might have chilled the heart of the boldest dog. He stopped abruptly and looked at Tom.

Neither spoke, but the conversation, one could imagine, was clearly as follows:

The Cat: “Can I do anything for you?” Montmorency: “No — no — thanks!”

The Cat: “Don’t you mind speaking, if you really want anything, you know.”

Montmorency (backing down the High Street):

“Oh, no, not at all — certainly — don’t you trouble.

I — I am afraid I’ve made a mistake. I thought I knew you. Sorry I disturbed you.”

The Cat: “Not at all — quite a pleasure. Sure you don’t want anything now?”

Montmorency (still backing): “Not at all, thanks — not at all — very kind of you. Good morning.”

The Cat: “Good morning.”

Then the cat rose and continued his trot, and Montmorency, fitting what he calls his tail carefully into its groove, came back to us and took up an inconspicuous position in the rear.

To this day, if you say the word “Cats!” to Montmorency, he will visibly shrink and look up piteously at you, as if to say “Please don’t!”

“Three Men in a Boat” was written when Jerome was in his thirtieth year, and has proved to be his most successful book. The sale exceeded that of “Idle Thoughts”. Mr. Arrowsmith (senior), the publisher of “Three Men in a Boat”, in conversation with Mr. Keble Howard, said: “I pay Jerome so much in royalties every year. I can’t imagine what becomes of all the copies of that book I issue. I often think the public must eat them.” In America over a million copies were sold, but this was a case of literary piracy. Owing to the state of the international copyright laws Jerome had no remedy, and to use his own words:

“God’s own country has not paid me for either ‘Idle Thoughts’ or ‘Three Men in a Boat’.”

Addison, the eighteenth century essayist, once remarked that the one test of true humour is that it will bear translation into another language. Jerome’s humour stood the test of translation into not one only, but into many languages, and it appears to be relished equally in all.

“Three Men in a Boat” has been translated into most European languages. In Russia it had a great vogue. It was said that the moujik at one time read only two translations of English books, the Jacobean version of the Bible and “Three Men in a Boat”. The latter was also used in Germany as a school reading-book.

The translations, however, were badly done. On July 8th, 1902, Mr. Jerome wrote to
The Times
stating that books were published in Russia under his name, the titles of which were entirely new to him, and contained garbled and incorrect stories, only a faint resemblance to anything he had ever written. His play
Miss Hobbs
was produced in Moscow. Although he had authorized a translation, an unauthorized one was used, which was simply a concoction founded on memory.

“Although it is pleasant,” he said, “to reap honour beyond the shores of one’s own language, it is very discomforting to have to submit to the injustices of misrepresentation in a strange country. If an author is worth translating at all, he ought to be translated correctly.”

In 1890 a party of three, consisting of J. K. J., Eden Phillpotts, and Walter Helmore, decided to visit Germany in order to see the Ober-Ammergau Passion Play. Helmore and Phillpotts were at that time in the Sun Insurance Office, Charing Cross, but the latter, owing to ill-health, had to withdraw from the trip and J. K. J. and Helmore went.

In the following year “The Diary of a Pilgrimage”, with illustrations by G. G. Fraser, was published. This is a diverting account of their journey and experience. In the preface Jerome states that a friend said to him: “Well, now, why don’t you write a sensible book?” Jerome replied: “This is a sensible book.”

In all seriousness it is, it proves that a humorist can see beneath the surface of things as clearly as anyone, and perhaps more clearly than many.

There are many amusing stories told in Jerome’s inimitable way. The one, for instance, about the German bed and “its goings on”. The fun they have over the language is humour of the best kind.

“Told after Supper”, illustrated by K. M. Skeaping, was published in 1891. This is a series of uncanny ghost stories, told at a Christmas Eve party after a supper consisting of “hot veal pasties, toasted lobsters, and warm cheese-cakes, washed down by a particular brand of old ale,” followed up by a “special brew of whisky punch”. The fun of it is that the ghost stories are supposed to be told by people who are more or less drunk. The doctor’s story, about the ghost of one of his patients, appears to have been fairly intelligible; but the author, who was supposed to record it, must have fallen asleep and the story was lost. The curate’s story bears unmistakable evidence of his having broken the pledge. In the author’s own story there are similar indications.

“The Humours of Cycling” was published in 1887. This book contains a series of illustrated articles by J. K. J., H. G. Wells, Barry Pain, G. B. Burgin, Pett Ridge, and others. Jerome’s article is entitled “Women on Wheels”. The illustration represents J. K. J. teaching a lady to ride. His arm is too short to be much assistance, owing to the lady being so stout. He was told that he ought to steady the bicycle by holding the saddle. He said he couldn’t find the saddle.

“The Second Thoughts of an Idle Fellow” was published in August, 1898. By January 1st, 1899, the fourth edition had been printed; other editions followed. The book consists of a series of twelve articles upon subjects which lend themselves to Jerome’s particular kind of humour. “On the Care and Management of Women”, “On the Nobility of Ourselves”, “On the Inadvisability of Following Advice” are good examples. Here is an extract from the latter article:

I remember a pony I had once.... It was a thoroughbred Welsh pony.... I had to go to Amersham on business. I put him in the cart and drove him across.... He was a bit uppish, and had lathered himself pretty freely by the time we reached the town.

A man was at the door of the hotel. He says: “That’s a good pony of yours.”

“Pretty middling,” I says. “He’s done ten miles, and I’ve done most of the pulling. I reckon I’m a jolly sight more exhausted than he is.”

I went inside and did my business, and when I came out the man was still there. He says: “You take my advice, give him a pint of old ale before you start.”

“Old ale?” I says. “Why, he’s a teetotaller.”

“Never you mind that,” he answers. “You give him a pint of old ale. I know these ponies. He’s a good ‘un, but he ain’t set. A pint of old ale and he’ll take you up that hill like a cable-tramway, and not hurt himself.”

I don’t know what it is about this class of man; one asks one’s self afterwards why one didn’t knock his hat over his eyes and run his head into the nearest horse-trough; but at the time one listens to them. I got a pint of old ale in a hand-bowl and brought it out. About half a dozen chaps were standing round, and, of course, there was a good deal of chaff.

“You’re starting him on the downward course, Jim,” says one of them. “He’ll take to gambling, rob a bank, and murder his mother. That’s always the result of a glass of ale, ‘cording to the tracts.”

“He won’t drink it like that,” says another; “it’s as flat as ditch-water. Put a head on it for him.”

“Ain’t you got a cigar for him?” says a third.

“A cup of coffee and a round of buttered toast would do him a sight more good a cold day like this,” says a fourth.

I’d half a mind to throw the stuff away, or drink it myself. It seemed a piece of bally nonsense giving good ale to a four-year-old pony; but the moment the beggar smelt the bowl he reached out his head and lapped it up as though he’d been a Christian; and I jumped into the cart and started off, amid cheers. We got up the hill pretty steady. Then the liquor began to work in his head. I’ve taken home a drunken man more than once, and there’s pleasanter jobs than that; I’ve seen a drunken woman, and they’re worse; but a drunken Welsh pony I never want to have anything more to do with as long as I live. Having four legs, he managed to hold himself up, but as to guiding himself, he couldn’t, and as to letting me do it, he wouldn’t. First we were on one side of the road, and then we were the other. When we were not either side we were crossways in the middle. I heard a bicycle-bell behind me, but I dared not turn my head. All I could do was to shout to the fellow to keep where he was.

“I want to pass you,” he sang out, so soon as he was near enough.

“Well, you can’t do it,” I called back.

“Why can’t I?” he answered. “How much of the road do
you
want?”

“All of it, and a bit over,” I answered him, “for this job, and nothing in the way.”

He followed me for half a mile, abusing me, and every time he thought he saw a chance he tried to pass me, but the pony was always a bit too smart for him. You might have thought the brute was doing it on purpose.

“You’re not fit to be driving,” he shouted.

He was quite right, I wasn’t. I was feeling just about dead-beat.

“What do you think you are,” he continued, “a musical ride?” (He was a common sort of fellow.) “Who sent
you
home with the washing?”

Well, he was making me wild by this time. “What’s the good of talking to me?” I shouted back. “Come and blackguard the pony if you want to blackguard anybody. I’ve got all I can do, without the help of that alarm-clock of yours. Go away; you’re only making him worse.”

“What’s the matter with the pony?” he called out. “Can’t you see?” I answered. “He’s drunk.” Well, of course, it sounded foolish, the truth often does. “One of you’s drunk,” he retorted. “For two pins I’d come and haul you out of the cart.”

I wish to goodness he had! I’d have given something to be out of that cart; but he didn’t have the chance. At that moment the pony gave a sudden swerve, and I take it he must have been a bit too close. I heard a yell and a curse, and at the same instant I was splashed from head to foot with ditch-water. Then the brute bolted. A mile outside the town I sighted the High Wycombe coach. I didn’t feel I minded much. I had got to that pass when it didn’t seem to matter to me what happened. I only felt curious. A dozen yards off the coach the pony stopped dead; that jerked me off the seat to the bottom of the cart. I couldn’t get up, because the seat was on top of me. I could see nothing but the sky — and occasionally the head of the pony when he stood upon his hind legs — but I could hear what the driver of the coach said, and I judged he was having trouble also.

“Take that damn circus out of the road,” he shouted. If he’d had any sense he’d have seen how helpless I was. I could hear his cattle plunging about; they are like that, horses — if they see one fool, then they all want to be fools.

“Take it home and tie it up to its organ,” shouted the guard.

Then an old woman went into hysterics and began laughing like a hyena. That started the pony off again, and, as far as I could calculate by watching the clouds, we did another four miles at the gallop. Then he thought he’d try to jump a gate, and, finding, I suppose, that the cart hampered him, he started kicking it to pieces. I’d never have thought a cart could have been separated into so many pieces if I hadn’t seen it done. When he had got rid of everything but half a wheel and the splash-board, he bolted again. I remained behind with the other ruins, and glad I was to get a little rest. He came back later in the afternoon, and I was pleased to sell him the next week for a five-pound note; it cost me about another ten to repair myself.

To this day I am chaffed about that pony, and the local temperance society made a lecture out of me. That’s what comes of following advice.

“Three Men on the Bummel”. The following letter, written to Mr. Coulson Kernahan in 1900, reveals the genesis of another book:

My dear Jack, Thanks for your letter and the papers. At present I am not worrying about anything, but am holidaying through the Black Forest with two old friends, and forgetting everything but sleeping, resting and laughing. What a good life it would be, I sometimes think, if Art and Culture had never come to trouble us. They missed much of good and evil, the old folks. Probably in November we go to Munich. It is cheaper than Davos, and there is music, which I am coming to love deeply. Music takes one up in a lift, where thought toils up the stairs....

With love, yours ever,

JEROME.

J. K. J. and George Wingrave and Carl Hentschel — the same personnel as the “Three Men in a Boat”—”wanting a change”, had gone on a bummel through the Black Forest. They had long wished to see this glorious country and its magnificent scenery; it was a revelation to them, and they never forgot its music, its villages, the smell of its pines, and the sweep of its wooded hills. In the same year “Three Men on the Bummel”, illustrated by L. Raven Hill, was published. The short time Jerome took to write it, and its obvious spontaneity, indicate that humour of this kind slipped from his pen almost unconsciously. He could always find the comic element in the most trivial incidents. There was a shortage of humour in the world — and he tried to remedy that state of things. The most confirmed pessimist will find this book a real tonic, while thousands of readers cannot fail to be happier for the magic touch of its kindly humour.