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Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow-Part18_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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joyous shoutings, its jolly larks, and its hot tears falling on



beastly Latin grammars and silly old copy-books. It is at school that

he injures himself for life--as I firmly believe--trying to pronounce



German; and it is there, too, that he learns of the importance

attached by the French nation to pens, ink, and paper. "Have you



pens, ink, and paper?" is the first question asked by one Frenchman of

another on their meeting. The other fellow has not any of them, as a



rule, but says that the uncle of his brother has got them all three.

The first fellow doesn't appear to care a hang about the uncle of the



other fellow's brother; what he wants to know now is, has the neighbor

of the other fellow's mother got 'em? "The neighbor of my mother has



no pens, no ink, and no paper," replies the other man, beginning to

get wild. "Has the child of thy femalegardener some pens, some ink,



or some paper?" He has him there. After worrying enough about these

wretched inks, pens, and paper to make everybody miserable, it turns



out that the child of his own femalegardener hasn't any. Such a

discovery would shut up any one but a French exercise man. It has no



effect at all, though, on this shameless creature. He never thinks of

apologizing, but says his aunt has some mustard.



So in the acquisition of more or less useless knowledge, soon happily

to be forgotten, boyhood passes away. The red-brick school-house



fades from view, and we turn down into the world's high-road. My

little friend is no longer little now. The short jacket has sprouted



tails. The battered cap, so useful as a combination of

pocket-handkerchief, drinking-cup, and weapon of attack, has grown



high and glossy; and instead of a slate-pencil in his mouth there is a

cigarette, the smoke of which troubles him, for it will get up his



nose. He tries a cigar a little later on as being more stylish--a big

black Havanna. It doesn't seem altogether to agree with him, for I



find him sitting over a bucket in the back kitchen afterward, solemnly

swearing never to smoke again.



And now his mustache begins to be almost visible to the naked eye,

whereupon he immediately takes to brandy-and-sodas and fancies himself



a man. He talks about "two to one against the favorite," refers to

actresses as "Little Emmy" and "Kate" and "Baby," and murmurs about



his "losses at cards the other night" in a style implying that

thousands have been squandered, though, to do him justice, the actual



amount is most probably one-and-twopence. Also, if I see aright--for

it is always twilight in this land of memories--he sticks an eyeglass



in his eye and stumbles over everything.

His female relations, much troubled at these things, pray for him



(bless their gentle hearts!) and see visions of Old Bailey trials and

halters as the only possible outcome of such reckless dissipation; and



the prediction of his first school-master, that he would come to a bad

end, assumes the proportions of inspired prophecy.



He has a lordlycontempt at this age for the other sex, a blatantly

good opinion of himself, and a sociably patronizing manner toward all



the elderly male friends of the family. Altogether, it must be

confessed, he is somewhat of a nuisance about this time.



It does not last long, though. He falls in love in a little while,

and that soon takes the bounce out of him. I notice his boots are



much too small for him now, and his hair is fearfully and wonderfully

arranged. He reads poetry more than he used, and he keeps a rhyming



dictionary in his bedroom. Every morning Emily Jane finds scraps of

torn-up paper on the floor and reads thereon of "cruel hearts and



love's deep darts," of "beauteous eyes and lovers' sighs," and much

more of the old, old song that lads so love to sing and lassies love



to listen to while giving their dainty heads a toss and pretending

never to hear.



The course of love, however, seems not to have run smoothly, for later

on he takes more walking exercise and less sleep, poor boy, than is



good for him; and his face is suggestive of anything but wedding-bells

and happiness ever after.



And here he seems to vanish. The little, boyish self that has grown

up beside me as we walked is gone.



I am alone and the road is very dark. I stumble on, I know not how

nor care, for the way seems leading nowhere, and there is no light to



guide.

But at last the morning comes, and I find that I have grown into



myself.

THE END.






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