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Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow-Part2_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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without him. The most she will probably do is to suggest a lozenge,

and even that in a tone implying that it is the noise more than



anything else she is anxious to get rid of.

Poor little Angelina, too, sheds silent tears, for Edwin has given up



carrying her old handkerchief in the inside pocket of his waistcoat.

Both are astonished at the falling off in the other one, but neither



sees their own change. If they did they would not suffer as they do.

They would look for the cause in the right quarter--in the littleness



of poor human nature--join hands over their common failing, and start

building their house anew on a more earthly and enduring foundation.



But we are so blind to our own shortcomings, so wide awake to those of

others. Everything that happens to us is always the other person's



fault. Angelina would have gone on loving Edwin forever and ever and

ever if only Edwin had not grown so strange and different. Edwin



would have adored Angelina through eternity if Angelina had only

remained the same as when he first adored her.



It is a cheerless hour for you both when the lamp of love has gone out

and the fire of affection is not yet lit, and you have to grope about



in the cold, raw dawn of life to kindle it. God grant it catches

light before the day is too far spent. Many sit shivering by the dead



coals till night come.

But, there, of what use is it to preach? Who that feels the rush of



young love through his veins can think it will ever flow feeble and

slow! To the boy of twenty it seems impossible that he will not love



as wildly at sixty as he does then. He cannot call to mind any

middle-aged or elderly gentleman of his acquaintance who is known to



exhibit symptoms of franticattachment, but that does not interfere in

his belief in himself. His love will never fall, whoever else's may.



Nobody ever loved as he loves, and so, of course, the rest of the

world's experience can be no guide in his case. Alas! alas! ere



thirty he has joined the ranks of the sneerers. It is not his fault.

Our passions, both the good and bad, cease with our blushes. We do



not hate, nor grieve, nor joy, nor despair in our thirties like we did

in our teens. Disappointment does not suggest suicide, and we quaff



success without intoxication.

We take all things in a minor key as we grow older. There are few



majestic passages in the later acts of life's opera. Ambition takes a

less ambitious aim. Honor becomes more reasonable and conveniently



adapts itself to circumstances. And love--love dies. "Irreverence

for the dreams of youth" soon creeps like a killing frost upon our



hearts. The tender shoots and the expanding flowers are nipped and

withered, and of a vine that yearned to stretch its tendrils round the



world there is left but a sapless stump.

My fair friends will deem all this rank heresy, I know. So far from a



man's not loving after he has passed boyhood, it is not till there is

a good deal of gray in his hair that they think his protestations at



all worthy of attention. Young ladies take their notions of our sex

from the novels written by their own, and compared with the



monstrosities that masquerade for men in the pages of that nightmare

literature, Pythagoras' plucked bird and Frankenstein's demon were



fair average specimens of humanity.

In these so-called books, the chief lover, or Greek god, as he is



admiringly referred to--by the way, they do not say which "Greek god"

it is that the gentleman bears such a strikinglikeness to; it might



be hump-backed Vulcan, or double-faced Janus, or even driveling

Silenus, the god of abstruse mysteries. He resembles the whole family



of them, however, in being a blackguard, and perhaps this is what is

meant. To even the little manliness his classical prototypes



possessed, though, he can lay no claim whatever, being a listless

effeminate noodle, on the shady side of forty. But oh! the depth and



strength of this elderly party's emotion for some bread-and-butter

school-girl! Hide your heads, ye young Romeos and Leanders! this



_blase_ old beau loves with an hysterical fervor that requires four

adjectives to every noun to properly describe.



It is well, dear ladies, for us old sinners that you study only books.

Did you read mankind, you would know that the lad's shy stammering



tells a truer tale than our bold eloquence. A boy's love comes from a




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