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The Philosopher's Joke-Part1_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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been in bed, but having arrived by the last train from Dantzic, and



having supped on German fare, it had seemed to them discreeter to

remain awhile in talk. The house was strangely silent. The rotund



landlord, leaving their candles ranged upon the sideboard, had wished

them "Gute Nacht" an hour before. The spirit of the ancient house



enfolded them within its wings.

Here in this very chamber, if rumour is to be believed, Emmanuel Kant



himself had sat discoursing many a time and oft. The walls, behind

which for more than forty years the little peak-faced man had thought



and worked, rose silvered by the moonlight just across the narrow way;

the three high windows of the _Speise Saal_ give out upon the old



Cathedral tower beneath which now he rests. Philosophy, curious

concerning human phenomena, eager for experience, unhampered by the



limitation Convention would impose upon all speculation, was in the

smoky air.



"Not into future events," remarked the Rev. Nathaniel Armitage, "it is

better they should be hidden from us. But into the future of



ourselves--our temperament, our character--I think we ought to be

allowed to see. At twenty we are one individual; at forty, another



person entirely, with other views, with other interests, a different

outlook upon life, attracted by quite other attributes, repelled by



the very qualities that once attracted us. It is extremely awkward,

for all of us."



"I am glad to hear somebody else say that," observed Mrs. Everett, in

her gentle, sympathetic voice. "I have thought it all myself so



often. Sometimes I have blamed myself, yet how can one help it: the

things that appeared of importance to us, they become indifferent; new



voices call to us; the idols we once worshipped, we see their feet of

clay."



"If under the head of idols you include me," laughed the jovial Mr.

Everett, "don't hesitate to say so." He was a large red-faced



gentleman, with small twinkling eyes, and a mouth both strong and

sensuous. "I didn't make my feet myself. I never asked anybody to



take me for a stained-glass saint. It is not I who have changed."

"I know, dear, it is I," his thin wife answered with a meek smile. "I



was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, when you married me."

"You were, my dear," agreed her husband: "As a girl few could hold a



candle to you."

"It was the only thing about me that you valued, my beauty," continued



his wife; "and it went so quickly. I feel sometimes as if I had

swindled you."



"But there is a beauty of the mind, of the soul," remarked the Rev.

Nathaniel Armitage, "that to some men is more attractive than mere



physical perfection."

The soft eyes of the faded lady shone for a moment with the light of



pleasure. "I am afraid Dick is not of that number," she sighed.

"Well, as I said just now about my feet," answered her husband



genially, "I didn't make myself. I always have been a slave to beauty

and always shall be. There would be no sense in pretending among



chums that you haven't lost your looks, old girl." He laid his fine

hand with kindly intent upon her bony shoulder. "But there is no call



for you to fret yourself as if you had done it on purpose. No one but

a lover imagines a woman growing more beautiful as she grows older."



"Some women would seem to," answered his wife.

Involuntarily she glanced to where Mrs. Camelford sat with elbows



resting on the table; and involuntarily also the small twinkling eyes

of her husband followed in the same direction. There is a type that



reaches its prime in middle age. Mrs. Camelford, _nee_ Jessica

Dearwood, at twenty had been an uncanny-looking creature, the only



thing about her appealing to general masculine taste having been her

magnificent eyes, and even these had frightened more than they had



allured. At forty, Mrs. Camelford might have posed for the entire

Juno.



"Yes, he's a cunning old joker is Time," murmured Mr. Everett, almost

inaudibly.



"What ought to have happened," said Mrs. Armitage, while with deft

fingers rolling herself a cigarette, "was for you and Nellie to have



married."

Mrs. Everett's pale face flushed scarlet.



"My dear," exclaimed the shocked Nathaniel Armitage, flushing

likewise.



"Oh, why may one not sometimes speak the truth?" answered his wife

petulantly. "You and I are utterly unsuited to one another--everybody






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