They and I

by Jerome Klapka Jerome

  "And of course they must not argue," Veronica insisted.

  "If they answer back, Veronica, that will show they are cursed with an argumentative temperament which must be rooted out at any cost," I agreed; "and if they don't say anything, that will prove them possessed of a surly disposition which must be checked at once, before it develops into a vice."

  "And whatever we do to them we will tell them it's for their own good," Veronica chortled.

  "Of course it will be for their own good," I answered. "That will be our chief pleasure―making them good and happy. It won't be their pleasure, but that will be owing to their ignorance."

  "They will be grateful to us later on," gurgled Veronica.

  "With that assurance we will comfort them from time to time," I answered. "We will be good to them in all ways. We will let them play games―not stupid games, golf and croquet, that do you no good and lead only to language and dispute―but bears and wolves and whales; educational sort of games that will aid them in acquiring knowledge of natural history. We will show them how to play Pirates and Red Indians and Ogres―sensible play that will help them to develop their imaginative faculties. That is why grown-up people are so dull; they are never made to think. But now and then," I continued, "we will let them play their own games, say on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. We will invite other grown-ups to come to tea with them, and let them flirt in the garden, or if wet make love in the dining-room, till nurse comes for them. But we, of course, must choose their friends for them―nice, well-behaved ladies and gentlemen, the parents of respectable children; because left to themselves―well, you know what they are! They would just as likely fall in love with quite undesirable people―men and women we could not think of having about the house. We will select for them companions we feel sure will be the most suitable for them; and if they don't like them―if Uncle William says he can't bear the girl we have invited up to love him―that he positively hates her, we till tell him that it is only his wilful temper, and that he's got to like her because she's good for him; and don't let us have any of his fretfulness. And if Grandmamma pouts and says she won't love old man Jones merely because he's got a red nose, or a glass eye, or some silly reason of that sort, we will say to her: 'All right, my lady, you will play with Mr. Jones and be nice to him, or you will spend the afternoon putting your room tidy; make up your mind.' We will let them marry (on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons), and play at keeping house. And if they quarrel we will shake them and take the babies away from them, and lock them up in drawers, and tell them they sha'n't have them again till they are good."

  "And the more they try to be good, the more it will turn out that they ain't been good," Veronica reflected.

  "Their goodness and their badness will depend upon us in more senses than one, Veronica," I explained. "When Consols are down, when the east wind has touched up our liver, they will be surprised how bad they are."

  "And they mustn't ever forget what they've ever been once told," crowed Veronica. "We mustn't have to tell 'em the same thing over and over again, like we was talking to brick walls."

  "And if we meant to tell them and forgot to tell them," I added, "we will tell them that they ought not to want us to tell them a simple thing like that, as if they were mere babies. We must remember all these points."

  "And if they grumble we'll tell them that's 'cos they don't know how happy they are. And we'll tell them how good we used to be when―I say, don't you miss your train, or I shall get into a row."

  "Great Scott! I'd forgotten all about that train, Veronica," I admitted.

  "Better run," suggested Veronica.

  It sounded good advice.

  "Keep on thinking about that book," shouted Veronica.

  "Make a note of things as they occur to you," I shouted back.

  "What shall we call it?" Veronica screamed.

  "'Why the Man in the Moon looks sat upon,'" I shrieked.

  When I turned again she was sitting on the top rail of the stile conducting an imaginary orchestra with one of her own shoes. The six-fifteen was fortunately twenty minutes late.

  I thought it best to tell Ethelbertha the truth; that things had gone wrong with the kitchen stove.

  "Let me know the worst," she said. "Is Veronica hurt?"

  "The worst," I said, "is that I shall have to pay for a new range. Why, when anything goes amiss, poor Veronica should be assumed as a matter of course to be in it, appears to me unjust."

  "You are sure she's all right?" persisted Ethelbertha.

  "Honest Injun―confound those children and their slang―I mean positively," I answered. The Little Mother looked relieved.

  I told her all the trouble we had had in connection with the cow. Her sympathies were chiefly with the cow. I told her I had hopes of Robina's developing into a sensible woman. We talked quite a deal about Robina. We agreed that between us we had accomplished something rather clever.

  "I must get back as soon as I can," I said. "I don't want young Bute getting wrong ideas into his head."

  "Who is young Bute?" she asked.

  "The architect," I explained.

  "I thought he was an old man," said Ethelbertha.

  "Old Spreight is old enough," I said. "Young Bute is one of his young men; but he understands his work, and seems intelligent."

  "What's he like?" she asked.

  "Personally, an exceedingly nice young fellow. There's a good deal of sense in him. I like a boy who listens."

  "Good-looking?" she asked.

  "Not objectionably so," I replied. "A pleasant face―particularly when he smiles."

  "Is he married?" she asked.

  "Really, it did not occur to me to ask him," I admitted. "How curious you women are! No, I don't think so. I should say not."

  "Why don't you think so?" she demanded.

  "Oh, I don't know. He doesn't give you the idea of a married man. You'll like him. Seems so fond of his sister."

  "Shall we be seeing much of him?" she asked.

  "A goodish deal," I answered. "I expect he will be going down on Monday. Very annoying, this stove business."

  "What is the use of his being there without you?" Ethelbertha wanted to know.

  "Oh, he'll potter round," I suggested, "and take measurements. Dick will be about to explain things to him. Or, if he isn't, there's Robina―awkward thing is, Robina seems to have taken a dislike to him."

  "Why has she taken a dislike to him?" asked Ethelbertha.

  "Oh, because he mistook the back of the house for the front, or the front of the house for the back," I explained; "I forget which now. Says it's his smile that irritates her. She owns herself there's no real reason."

  "When will you be going down again?" Ethelbertha asked.

  "On Thursday next," I told her; "stove or no stove."

  She said she would come with me. She felt the change would do her good, and promised not to do anything when she got there. And then I told her all that I had done for Dick.

  "The ordinary farmer," I pointed out to her, "is so often a haphazard type of man with no ideas. If successful, it is by reason of a natural instinct which cannot be taught. St. Leonard has studied the theory of the thing. From him Dick will learn all that can be learnt about farming. The selection, I felt, demanded careful judgment."

  "But will Dick stick to it?" Ethelbertha wondered.

  "There, again," I pointed out to her, "the choice was one calling for exceptional foresight. The old man―as a matter of fact, he isn't old at all; can't be very much older than myself; I don't know why they all call him the old man―has formed a high opinion of Dick. His daughter told me so, and I have taken care to let Dick know it. The boy will not care to disappoint him. Her mother―"

  "Whose mother?" interrupted Ethelbertha.

  "Janie's mother, Mrs. St. Leonard," I explained. "She also has formed a good opinion of him. The children like him. Janie told me so."

  "She seems to do a goodish deal of talking, this Miss Janie," remark
ed Ethelbertha.

  "You will like her," I said. "She is a charming girl―so sensible, and good, and unselfish, and―"

  "Who told you all this about her?" interrupted Ethelbertha.

  "You can see it for yourself," I answered. "The mother appears to be a nonentity, and St. Leonard himself―well, he is not a business man. It is Janie who manages everything―keeps everything going."

  "What is she like?" asked Ethelbertha.

  "I am telling you," I said. "She is so practical, and yet at the same time―"

  "In appearance, I mean," explained Ethelbertha.

  "How you women," I said, "do worry about mere looks! What does it matter? If you want to know, it is that sort of face that grows upon you. At first you do not notice how beautiful it is, but when you come to look into it―"

  "And has she also formed a high opinion of Dick?" interrupted Ethelbertha.

  "She will be disappointed in him," I said, "if he does not work hard and stick to it. They will all be disappointed in him."

  "What's it got to do with them?" demanded Ethelbertha.

  "I'm not thinking about them," I said. "What I look at is―"

  "I don't like her," said Ethelbertha. "I don't like any of them."

  "But―" She didn't seem to be listening.

  "I know that class of man," she said; "and the wife appears, if anything, to be worse. As for the girl―"

  "When you come to know them―" I said.

  She said she didn't want to know them. She wanted to go down on Monday, early.

  I got her to see―it took some little time―the disadvantages of this. We should only be adding to Robina's troubles; and change of plan now would unsettle Dick's mind.

  "He has promised to write me," I said, "and tell me the result of his first day's experience. Let us wait and hear what he says."

  She said that whatever could have possessed her to let me take those poor unfortunate children away from her, and muddle up everything without her, was a mystery to herself. She hoped that, at least, I had done nothing irrevocable in the case of Veronica.

  "Veronica," I said, "is really wishful, I think, to improve. I have bought her a donkey."

  "A what?" exclaimed Ethelbertha.

  "A donkey," I repeated. "The child took a fancy to it, and we all agreed it might help to steady her―give her a sense of responsibility."

  "I somehow felt you hadn't overlooked Veronica," said Ethelbertha.

  I thought it best to change the conversation. She seemed in a fretful mood.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Robina's letter was dated Monday evening, and reached us Tuesday morning.

  "I hope you caught your train," she wrote. "Veronica did not get back till half-past six. She informed me that you and she had found a good deal to talk about, and that 'one thing had led to another.' She is a quaint young imp, but I think your lecture must have done her good. Her present attitude is that of gentle forbearance to all around her―not without its dignity. She has not snorted once, and at times is really helpful. I have given her an empty scribbling diary we found in your desk, and most of her spare time she remains shut up with it in the bedroom. She tells me you and she are writing a book together. I asked her what about. She waved me aside with the assurance that I would know 'all in good time,' and that it was going to do good. I caught sight of just the title-page last night. It was lying open on the dressing-table: 'Why the Man in the Moon looks sat upon.' It sounds like a title of yours. But I would not look further, though tempted. She has drawn a picture underneath. It is really not bad. The old gentleman really does look sat upon, and intensely disgusted.

  "'Sir Robert'―his name being Theodore, which doesn't seem to suit him―turns out to be the only son of a widow, a Mrs. Foy, our next-door neighbour to the south. We met her coming out of church on Sunday morning. She was still crying. Dick took Veronica on ahead, and I walked part of the way home with them. Her grandfather, it appears, was killed many years ago by the bursting of a boiler; and she is haunted, poor lady, by the conviction that Theodore is the inheritor of an hereditary tendency to getting himself blown up. She attaches no blame to us, seeing in Saturday's catastrophe only the hand of the Family Curse. I tried to comfort her with the idea that the Curse having spent itself upon a futile effort, nothing further need now be feared from it; but she persists in taking the gloomier view that in wrecking our kitchen, Theodore's 'Doom,' as she calls it, was merely indulging in a sort of dress rehearsal; the finishing performance may be relied upon to follow. It sounds ridiculous, but the poor woman was so desperately in earnest that when an unlucky urchin, coming out of a cottage we were passing, tripped on the doorstep and let fall a jug, we both screamed at the same time, and were equally surprised to find 'Sir Robert' still between us and all in one piece. I thought it foolish to discuss all this before the child himself; but did not like to stop her. As a result, he regards himself evidently as the chosen foe of Heaven, and is not, unnaturally, proud of himself. She called here this (Monday) afternoon to leave cards; and, at her request, I showed her the kitchen and the mat over which he had stumbled. She seemed surprised that the 'Doom' had let slip so favourable a chance of accomplishing its business, and gathered from the fact added cause for anxiety. Evidently something much more thorough is in store for Master Theodore. It was only half a pound of gunpowder, she told me. Doctor Smallboy's gardener had bought it for the purpose of raising the stump of an old elm-tree, and had left it for a moment on the grass while he had returned to the house for more brown paper. She seemed pleased with the gardener, who, as she said, might, if dishonestly inclined, have charged her for a pound. I wanted to pay for―at all events―our share, but she would not take a penny. Her late lamented grandfather she regards as the person responsible for the entire incident, and perhaps it may be as well not to disturb her view. Had I suggested it, I feel sure she would have seen the justice of her providing us with a new kitchen range.

  "Wildly exaggerated accounts of the affair are flying round the neighbourhood; and my chief fear is that Veronica may discover she is a local celebrity. Your sudden disappearance is supposed to have been heavenward. An old farm labourer who saw you pass on your way to the station speaks of you as 'the ghost of the poor gentleman himself;' and fragments of clothing found anywhere within a radius of two miles are being preserved, I am told, as specimens of your remains. Boots would appear to have been your chief apparel. Seven pairs have already been collected from the surrounding ditches. Among the more public-spirited there is talk of using you to start a local museum."

  These first three paragraphs I did not read to Ethelbertha. Fortunately they just filled the first sheet, which I took an opportunity of slipping into my pocket unobserved.

  "The new boy arrived on Sunday morning," she continued. "His name―if I have got it right―is William. Anyhow, that is the nearest I can get to it. His other name, if any, I must leave you to extract from him yourself. It may be Berkshire that he talks, but it sounds more like barking. Please excuse the pun; but I have just been talking to him for half an hour, trying to make him understand that I want him to go home, and maybe, as a result, I am feeling a little hysterical. Anything more rural I cannot imagine. But he is anxious to learn, and a fairly wide field is in front of him. I caught him after our breakfast on Sunday calmly throwing everything left over onto the dust-heap. I pointed out to him the wickedness of wasting nourishing food, and impressed upon him that the proper place for victuals was inside us. He never answers. He stands stock still, with his mouth as wide open as it will go―which is saying a good deal―and one trusts that one's words are entering into him. All Sunday afternoon he was struggling valiantly against an almost supernatural sleepiness. After tea he got worse, and I began to think he would be no use to me. We none of us ate much supper; and Dick, who appears able to understand him, helped him to carry the things out. I heard them talking, and then Dick came back and closed the door behind him. 'He wants to know,' said Dick, 'if he can leave the corned
beef over till tomorrow. Because, if he eats it all to-night, he doesn't think he will be able to walk home.'

  "Veronica takes great interest in him. She has evidently a motherly side to her character, for which we none of us have given her credit. She says she is sure there is good in him. She sits beside him while he chops wood, and tells him carefully selected stories, calculated, she argues, to develop his intelligence. She is careful, moreover, not to hurt his feelings by any display of superiority. 'Of course, anyone leading a useful life, such as yours,' I overheard her saying to him this morning, 'don't naturally get much time for reading. I've nothing else to do, you see, 'cept to improve myself.'

  "The donkey arrived this afternoon while I was out―galloping, I am given to understand, with 'Opkins on his back. There seems to be some secret between those two. We have tried him with hay, and we have tried him with thistles; but he seems to prefer bread-and-butter. I have not been able as yet to find out whether he takes tea or coffee in the morning. But he is an animal that evidently knows his own mind, and fortunately both are in the house. We are putting him up for to-night with the cow, who greeted him at first with enthusiasm and wanted to adopt him, but has grown cold to him since on discovering that he is not a calf. I have been trying to make friends with her, but she is so very unresponsive. She doesn't seem to want anything but grass, and prefers to get that for herself. She doesn't seem to want to be happy ever again.

  "A funny thing happened in church. I was forgetting to tell you. The St. Leonards occupy two pews at the opposite end from the door. They were all there when we arrived, with the exception of the old gentleman himself. He came in just before the 'Dearly Beloved,' when everybody was standing up. A running fire of suppressed titters followed him up the aisle, and some of the people laughed outright. I could see no reason why. He looked a dignified old gentleman in his grey hair and tightly buttoned frock coat, which gives him a somewhat military appearance. But when he came level with our pew I understood. Hurrying back from his morning round, and with no one there to superintend him, the dear old absent-minded thing had forgotten to change his breeches. From a little above the knee upward he was a perfect Christian; but his legs were just those of a disreputable sinner.