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Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow-Part15_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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narrow streets and lanes below. How small men seem, how like a swarm

of ants sweltering in endless confusion on their tiny hill! How petty



seems the work on which they are hurrying and skurrying! How

childishly they jostle against one another and turn to snarl and



scratch! They jabber and screech and curse, but their puny voices do

not reach up here. They fret, and fume, and rage, and pant, and die;



"but I, mein Werther, sit above it all; I am alone with the stars."

The most extraordinary attic I ever came across was one a friend and I



once shared many years ago. Of all eccentrically planned things, from

Bradshaw to the maze at Hampton Court, that room was the most



eccentric. The architect who designed it must have been a genius,

though I cannot help thinking that his talents would have been better



employed in contriving puzzles than in shaping human habitations. No

figure in Euclid could give any idea of that apartment. It contained



seven corners, two of the walls sloped to a point, and the window was

just over the fireplace. The only possible position for the bedstead



was between the door and the cupboard. To get anything out of the

cupboard we had to scramble over the bed, and a large percentage of



the various commodities thus obtained was absorbed by the bedclothes.

Indeed, so many things were spilled and dropped upon the bed that



toward night-time it had become a sort of small cooperative store.

Coal was what it always had most in stock. We used to keep our coal



in the bottom part of the cupboard, and when any was wanted we had to

climb over the bed, fill a shovelful, and then crawl back. It was an



exciting moment when we reached the middle of the bed. We would hold

our breath, fix our eyes upon the shovel, and poise ourselves for the



last move. The next instant we, and the coals, and the shovel, and

the bed would be all mixed up together.



I've heard of the people going into raptures over beds of coal. We

slept in one every night and were not in the least stuck up about it.



But our attic, unique though it was, had by no means exhausted the

architect's sense of humor. The arrangement of the whole house was a



marvel of originality. All the doors opened outward, so that if any

one wanted to leave a room at the same moment that you were coming



downstairs it was unpleasant for you. There was no ground-floor--its

ground-floor belonged to a house in the next court, and the front door



opened direct upon a flight of stairs leading down to the cellar.

Visitors on entering the house would suddenly shoot past the person



who had answered the door to them and disappear down these stairs.

Those of a nervoustemperament used to imagine that it was a trap laid



for them, and would shout murder as they lay on their backs at the

bottom till somebody came and picked them up.



It is a long time ago now that I last saw the inside of an attic. I

have tried various floors since but I have not found that they have



made much difference to me. Life tastes much the same, whether we

quaff it from a golden goblet or drink it out of a stone mug. The



hours come laden with the same mixture of joy and sorrow, no matter

where we wait for them. A waistcoat of broadcloth or of fustian is



alike to an aching heart, and we laugh no merrier on velvet cushions

than we did on wooden chairs. Often have I sighed in those



low-ceilinged rooms, yet disappointments have come neither less nor

lighter since I quitted them. Life works upon a compensating balance,



and the happiness we gain in one direction we lose in another. As our

means increase, so do our desires; and we ever stand midway between



the two. When we reside in an attic we enjoy a supper of fried fish

and stout. When we occupy the first floor it takes an elaborate



dinner at the Continental to give us the same amount of satisfaction.

ON DRESS AND DEPORTMENT.



They say--people who ought to be ashamed of themselves do--that the

consciousness of being well dressed imparts a blissfulness to the



human heart that religion is powerless to bestow. I am afraid these

cynical persons are sometimes correct. I know that when I was a very



young man (many, many years ago, as the story-books say) and wanted

cheering up, I used to go and dress myself in all my best clothes. If



I had been annoyed in any manner--if my washerwoman had discharged me,

for instance; or my blank-verse poem had been returned for the tenth



time, with the editor's compliments "and regrets that owing to want of

space he is unable to avail himself of kind offer;" or I had been






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