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Stage-Land-Part7_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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afterward, bury them there and put up rude crosses over the graves to

mark the spot.



The comic lovers are often very young, and when people on the stage

are young they _are_ young. He is supposed to be about sixteen and



she is fifteen. But they both talk as if they were not more than

seven.



In real life "boys" of sixteen know a thing or two, we have generally

found. The average "boy" of sixteen nowadays usually smokes cavendish



and does a little on the Stock Exchange or makes a book; and as for

love! he has quite got over it by that age. On the stage, however,



the new-born babe is not in it for innocence with the boy lover of

sixteen.



So, too, with the maiden. Most girls of fifteen off the stage, so our

experience goes, know as much as there is any actual necessity for



them to know, Mr. Gilbert standing" target="_blank" title="prep.&conj.虽然；还是">notwithstanding; but when we see a young

lady of fifteen on the stage we wonder where her cradle is.



The comic lovers do not have the facilities for love-making that the

hero and heroine do. The hero and heroine have big rooms to make love



in, with a fire and plenty of easy-chairs, so that they can sit about

in picturesque attitudes and do it comfortably. Or if they want to do



it out of doors they have a ruined abbey, with a big stone seat in the

center, and moonlight.



The comic lovers, on the other hand, have to do it standing up all the

time, in busy streets, or in cheerless-looking and curiously narrow



rooms in which there is no furniture whatever and no fire.

And there is always a tremendous row going on in the house when the



comic lovers are making love. Somebody always seems to be putting up

pictures in the next room, and putting them up boisterously, too, so



that the comic lovers have to shout at each other.

THE PEASANTS.



They are so clean. We have seen peasantry off the stage, and it has

presented an untidy--occasionally a disreputable and



unwashed--appearance; but the stage peasant seems to spend all his

wages on soap and hair-oil.



They are always round the corner--or rather round the two corners--and

they come on in a couple of streams and meet in the center; and when



they are in their proper position they smile.

There is nothing like the stage peasants' smile in this world--nothing



so perfectly inane, so calmly imbecile.

They are so happy. They don't look it, but we know they are because



they say so. If you don't believe them, they dance three steps to the

right and three steps to the left back again. They can't help it. It



is because they are so happy.

When they are more than usually rollicking they stand in a semicircle,



with their hands on each other's shoulders, and sway from side to

side, trying to make themselves sick. But this is only when they are



simply bursting with joy.

Stage peasants never have any work to do.



Sometimes we see them going to work, sometimes coming home from work,

but nobody has ever seen them actually at work. They could not afford



to work--it would spoil their clothes.

They are very sympathetic, are stage peasants. They never seem to



have any affairs of their own to think about, but they make up for

this by taking a three-hundred-horse-power interest in things in which



they have no earthly concern.

What particularly rouses them is the heroine's love affairs. They



could listen to them all day.

They yearn to hear what she said to him and to be told what he replied



to her, and they repeat it to each other.

In our own love-sick days we often used to go and relate to various



people all the touching conversations that took place between our

lady-love and ourselves; but our friends never seemed to get excited



over it. On the contrary, a casualobserver might even have been led

to the idea that they were bored by our recital. And they had trains



to catch and men to meet before we had got a quarter through the job.

Ah, how often in those days have we yearned for the sympathy of a



stage peasantry, who would have crowded round us, eager not to miss

one word of the thrilling narrative, who would have rejoiced with us



with an encouraging laugh, and have condoled with us with a grieved

"Oh," and who would have gone off, when we had had enough of them,



singing about it.

By the way, this is a very beautiful trait in the character of the






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