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Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow-Part3_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Thompsons. While pulling on your gloves, however, it occurs to you

that the Thompsons are idiots; that they never have supper; and that



you will be expected to jump the baby. You curse the Thompsons and

decide not to go.



By this time you feel completely crushed. You bury your face in your

hands and think you would like to die and go to heaven. You picture



to yourself your own sick-bed, with all your friends and relations

standing round you weeping. You bless them all, especially the young



and pretty ones. They will value you when you are gone, so you say to

yourself, and learn too late what they have lost; and you bitterly



contrast their presumed regard for you then with their decided want of

veneration now.



These reflections make you feel a little more cheerful, but only for a

brief period; for the next moment you think what a fool you must be to



imagine for an instant that anybody would be sorry at anything that

might happen to you. Who would care two straws (whatever precise



amount of care two straws may represent) whether you are blown up, or

hung up, or married, or drowned? Nobody cares for you. You never



have been properly appreciated, never met with your due deserts in any

one particular. You review the whole of your past life, and it is



painfully apparent that you have been ill-used from your cradle.

Half an hour's indulgence in these considerations works you up into a



state of savage fury against everybody and everything, especially

yourself, whom anatomical reasons alone prevent your kicking.



Bed-time at last comes, to save you from doing something rash, and you

spring upstairs, throw off your clothes, leaving them strewn all over



the room, blow out the candle, and jump into bed as if you had backed

yourself for a heavy wager to do the whole thing against time. There



you toss and tumble about for a couple of hours or so, varying the

monotony by occasionally jerking the clothes off and getting out and



putting them on again. At length you drop into an uneasy and fitful

slumber, have bad dreams, and wake up late the next morning.



At least, this is all we poor single men can do under the

circumstances. Married men bully their wives, grumble at the dinner,



and insist on the children's going to bed. All of which, creating, as

it does, a good deal of disturbance in the house, must be a great



relief to the feelings of a man in the blues, rows being the only form

of amusement in which he can take any interest.



The symptoms of the infirmity are much the same in every case, but the

affliction itself is variously termed. The poet says that "a feeling



of sadness comes o'er him." 'Arry refers to the heavings of his

wayward heart by confiding to Jimee that he has "got the blooming



hump." Your sister doesn't know what is the matter with her to-night.

She feels out of sorts altogether and hopes nothing is going to



happen. The every-day young man is "so awful glad to meet you, old

fellow," for he does "feel so jolly miserable this evening." As for



myself, I generally say that "I have a strange, unsettled feeling

to-night" and "think I'll go out."



By the way, it never does come except in the evening. In the

sun-time, when the world is bounding forward full of life, we cannot



stay to sigh and sulk. The roar of the working day drowns the voices

of the elfin sprites that are ever singing their low-toned _miserere_



in our ears. In the day we are angry, disappointed, or indignant, but

never "in the blues" and never melancholy. When things go wrong at



ten o'clock in the morning we--or rather you--swear and knock the

furniture about; but if the misfortune comes at ten P.M., we read



poetry or sit in the dark and think what a hollow world this is.

But, as a rule, it is not trouble that makes us melancholy. The



actuality is too stern a thing for sentiment. We linger to weep over

a picture, but from the original we should quickly turn our eyes away.



There is no pathos in real misery: no luxury in real grief. We do not

toy with sharp swords nor hug a gnawing fox to our breast for choice.



When a man or woman loves to brood over a sorrow and takes care to

keep it green in their memory, you may be sure it is no longer a pain



to them. However they may have suffered from it at first, the

recollection has become by then a pleasure. Many dear old ladies who



daily look at tiny shoes lying in lavender-scented drawers, and weep

as they think of the tiny feet whose toddling march is done, and






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