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Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow-Part11_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Not but what the shy man himself would much rather not be happy in

that way. He longs to "go it" with the others, and curses himself



every day for not being able to. He will now and again, screwing up

his courage by a tremendous effort, plunge into roguishness. But it



is always a terrible _fiasco_, and after one or two feeble flounders

he crawls out again, limp and pitiable.



I say "pitiable," though I am afraid he never is pitied. There are

certain misfortunes which, while inflicting a vast amount of suffering



upon their victims, gain for them no sympathy. Losing an umbrella,

falling in love, toothache, black eyes, and having your hat sat upon



may be mentioned as a few examples, but the chief of them all is

shyness. The shy man is regarded as an animate joke. His tortures



are the sport of the drawing-room arena and are pointed out and

discussed with much gusto.



"Look," cry his tittering audience to each other; "he's blushing!"

"Just watch his legs," says one.



"Do you notice how he is sitting?" adds another: "right on the edge

of the chair."



"Seems to have plenty of color," sneers a military-looking gentleman.

"Pity he's got so many hands," murmurs an elderly lady, with her own



calmly folded on her lap. "They quite confuse him."

"A yard or two off his feet wouldn't be a disadvantage," chimes in the



comic man, "especially as he seems so anxious to hide them."

And then another suggests that with such a voice he ought to have been



a sea-captain. Some draw attention to the desperate way in which he

is grasping his hat. Some comment upon his limited powers of



conversation. Others remark upon the troublesome nature of his cough.

And so on, until his peculiarities and the company are both thoroughly



exhausted.

His friends and relations make matters still more unpleasant for the



poor boy (friends and relations are privileged to be more disagreeable

than other people). Not content with making fun of him among



themselves, they insist on his seeing the joke. They mimic and

caricature him for his own edification. One, pretending to imitate



him, goes outside and comes in again in a ludicrously nervous manner,

explaining to him afterward that that is the way he--meaning the shy



fellow--walks into a room; or, turning to him with "This is the way

you shake hands," proceeds to go through a comic pantomime with the



rest of the room, taking hold of every one's hand as if it were a hot

plate and flabbily dropping it again. And then they ask him why he



blushes, and why he stammers, and why he always speaks in an almost

inaudible tone, as if they thought he did it on purpose. Then one of



them, sticking out his chest and strutting about the room like a

pouter-pigeon, suggests quite seriously that that is the style he



should adopt. The old man slaps him on the back and says: "Be bold,

my boy. Don't be afraid of any one." The mother says, "Never do



anything that you need be ashamed of, Algernon, and then you never

need be ashamed of anything you do," and, beamingmildly at him, seems



surprised at the clearness of her own logic. The boys tell him that

he's "worse than a girl," and the girls repudiate the implied slur



upon their sex by indignantly exclaiming that they are sure no girl

would be half as bad.



They are quite right; no girl would be. There is no such thing as a

shy woman, or, at all events, I have never come across one, and until



I do I shall not believe in them. I know that the generally accepted

belief is quite the reverse. All women are supposed to be like timid,



startled fawns, blushing and casting down their gentle eyes when

looked at and running away when spoken to; while we man are supposed



to be a bold and rollicky lot, and the poor dear little women admire

us for it, but are terribly afraid of us. It is a pretty theory, but,



like most generally accepted theories, mere nonsense. The girl of

twelve is self-contained and as cool as the proverbial cucumber, while



her brother of twenty stammers and stutters by her side. A woman will

enter a concert-room late, interrupt the performance, and disturb the



whole audience without moving a hair, while her husband follows her, a

crushed heap of apologizing misery.






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