Novel Notes

by Jerome Klapka Jerome

  "'Yes,' he answered; 'I 'eard the old gentleman say "'Ome" to the coachman, and I ran after the carriage all the way to 'Arley Street. Trevior's 'er name, Hedith Trevior.'

  "'Miss Trevior!' I cried, 'a tall, dark girl, with untidy hair and rather weak eyes?'

  "'Tall and dark,' he replied 'with 'air that seems tryin' to reach 'er lips to kiss 'em, and heyes, light blue, like a Cambridge necktie. A 'undred and seventy-three was the number.'

  "'That's right,' I said; 'my dear Smith, this is becoming complicated. You've met the lady and talked to her for half an hour―as Smythe, don't you remember?'

  "'No,' he said, after cogitating for a minute, 'carn't say I do; I never can remember much about Smythe. He allers seems to me like a bad dream.'

  "'Well, you met her,' I said; 'I'm positive. I introduced you to her myself, and she confided to me afterwards that she thought you a most charming man.'

  "'No―did she?' he remarked, evidently softening in his feelings towards Smythe; 'and did I like 'ER?'

  "'Well, to tell the truth,' I answered, 'I don't think you did. You looked intensely bored.'

  "'The Juggins,' I heard him mutter to himself, and then he said aloud: 'D'yer think I shall get a chance o' seein' 'er agen, when I'm―when I'm Smythe?'

  "'Of course,' I said, 'I'll take you round myself. By the bye,' I added, jumping up and looking on the mantelpiece, 'I've got a card for a Cinderella at their place―something to do with a birthday. Will you be Smythe on November the twentieth?'

  "'Ye―as,' he replied; 'oh, yas―bound to be by then.'

  "'Very well, then,' I said, 'I'll call round for you at the Albany, and we'll go together.'

  "He rose and stood smoothing his hat with his sleeve. 'Fust time I've ever looked for'ard to bein' that hanimated corpse, Smythe,' he said slowly. 'Blowed if I don't try to 'urry it up―'pon my sivey I will.'

  "'He'll be no good to you till the twentieth,' I reminded him. 'And,' I added, as I stood up to ring the bell, 'you're sure it's a genuine case this time. You won't be going back to 'Liza?'

  "'Oh, don't talk 'bout 'Liza in the same breath with Hedith,' he replied, 'it sounds like sacrilege.'

  "He stood hesitating with the handle of the door in his hand. At last, opening it and looking very hard at his hat, he said, 'I'm goin' to 'Arley Street now. I walk up and down outside the 'ouse every evening, and sometimes, when there ain't no one lookin', I get a chance to kiss the doorstep.'

  "He disappeared, and I returned to my chair.

  "On November twentieth, I called for him according to promise. I found him on the point of starting for the club: he had forgotten all about our appointment. I reminded him of it, and he with difficulty recalled it, and consented, without any enthusiasm, to accompany me. By a few artful hints to her mother (including a casual mention of his income), I manoeuvred matters so that he had Edith almost entirely to himself for the whole evening. I was proud of what I had done, and as we were walking home together I waited to receive his gratitude.

  "As it seemed slow in coming, I hinted my expectations.

  "'Well,' I said, 'I think I managed that very cleverly for you.'

  "'Managed what very cleverly?' said he.

  "'Why, getting you and Miss Trevior left together for such a long time in the conservatory,' I answered, somewhat hurt; 'I fixed that for you.'

  "'Oh, it was YOU, was it,' he replied; 'I've been cursing Providence.'

  "I stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, and faced him. 'Don't you love her?' I said.

  "'Love her!' he repeated, in the utmost astonishment; 'what on earth is there in her to love? She's nothing but a bad translation of a modern French comedy, with the interest omitted.'

  "This 'tired' me―to use an Americanism. 'You came to me a month ago,' I said, 'raving over her, and talking about being the dirt under her feet and kissing her doorstep.'

  "He turned very red. 'I wish, my dear Mac,' he said, 'you would pay me the compliment of not mistaking me for that detestable little cad with whom I have the misfortune to be connected. You would greatly oblige me if next time he attempts to inflict upon you his vulgar drivel you would kindly kick him downstairs.'

  "'No doubt,' he added, with a sneer, as we walked on, 'Miss Trevior would be his ideal. She is exactly the type of woman, I should say, to charm that type of man. For myself, I do not appreciate the artistic and literary female.'

  "'Besides,' he continued, in a deeper tone, 'you know my feelings. I shall never care for any other woman but Elizabeth.'

  "'And she?' I said

  "'She,' he sighed, 'is breaking her heart for Smith.'

  "'Why don't you tell her you are Smith?' I asked.

  "'I cannot,' he replied, 'not even to win her. Besides, she would not believe me.'

  "We said good-night at the corner of Bond Street, and I did not see him again till one afternoon late in the following March, when I ran against him in Ludgate Circus. He was wearing his transition blue suit and bowler hat. I went up to him and took his arm.

  "'Which are you?' I said.

  "'Neither, for the moment,' he replied, 'thank God. Half an hour ago I was Smythe, half an hour hence I shall be Smith. For the present half-hour I am a man.'

  "There was a pleasant, hearty ring in his voice, and a genial, kindly light in his eyes, and he held himself like a frank gentleman.

  "'You are certainly an improvement upon both of them,' I said.

  "He laughed a sunny laugh, with just the shadow of sadness dashed across it. 'Do you know my idea of Heaven?' he said.

  "'No,' I replied, somewhat surprised at the question.

  "'Ludgate Circus,' was the answer. 'The only really satisfying moments of my life,' he said, 'have been passed in the neighbourhood of Ludgate Circus. I leave Piccadilly an unhealthy, unwholesome prig. At Charing Cross I begin to feel my blood stir in my veins. From Ludgate Circus to Cheapside I am a human thing with human feeling throbbing in my heart, and human thought throbbing in my brain―with fancies, sympathies, and hopes. At the Bank my mind becomes a blank. As I walk on, my senses grow coarse and blunted; and by the time I reach Whitechapel I am a poor little uncivilised cad. On the return journey it is the same thing reversed.'

  "'Why not live in Ludgate Circus,' I said, 'and be always as you are now?'

  "'Because,' he answered, 'man is a pendulum, and must travel his arc.'

  "'My dear Mac,' said he, laying his hand upon my shoulder, 'there is only one good thing about me, and that is a moral. Man is as God made him: don't be so sure that you can take him to pieces and improve him. All my life I have sought to make myself an unnaturally superior person. Nature has retaliated by making me also an unnaturally inferior person. Nature abhors lopsidedness. She turns out man as a whole, to be developed as a whole. I always wonder, whenever I come across a supernaturally pious, a supernaturally moral, a supernaturally cultured person, if they also have a reverse self.'

  "I was shocked at his suggested argument, and walked by his side for a while without speaking. At last, feeling curious on the subject, I asked him how his various love affairs were progressing.

  "'Oh, as usual,' he replied; 'in and out of a cul de sac. When I am Smythe I love Eliza, and Eliza loathes me. When I am Smith I love Edith, and the mere sight of me makes her shudder. It is as unfortunate for them as for me. I am not saying it boastfully. Heaven knows it is an added draught of misery in my cup; but it is a fact that Eliza is literally pining away for me as Smith, and―as Smith I find it impossible to be even civil to her; while Edith, poor girl, has been foolish enough to set her heart on me as Smythe, and as Smythe she seems to me but the skin of a woman stuffed with the husks of learning, and rags torn from the corpse of wit.'

  "I remained absorbed in my own thoughts for some time, and did not come out of them till we were crossing the Minories. Then, the idea suddenly occurring to me, I said:

  "'Why don't you get a new girl altogether? There must be medium girls that both Smith and Smythe could like, and that would
put up with both of you.'

  "'No more girls for this child,' he answered 'they're more trouble than they're worth. Those yer want yer carn't get, and those yer can 'ave, yer don't want.'

  "I started, and looked up at him. He was slouching along with his hands in his pockets, and a vacuous look in his face.

  "A sudden repulsion seized me. 'I must go now,' I said, stopping. 'I'd no idea I had come so far.'

  "He seemed as glad to be rid of me as I to be rid of him. 'Oh, must yer,' he said, holding out his hand. 'Well, so long.'

  "We shook hands carelessly. He disappeared in the crowd, and that is the last I have ever seen of him."

  "Is that a true story?" asked Jephson.

  "Well, I've altered the names and dates," said MacShaughnassy; "but the main facts you can rely upon."

  CHAPTER X

  The final question discussed at our last meeting been: What shall our hero be? MacShaughnassy had suggested an author, with a critic for the villain. My idea was a stockbroker, with an undercurrent of romance in his nature. Said Jephson, who has a practical mind: "The question is not what we like, but what the female novel-reader likes."

  "That is so," agreed MacShaughnassy. "I propose that we collect feminine opinion upon this point. I will write to my aunt and obtain from her the old lady's view. You," he said, turning to me, "can put the case to your wife, and get the young lady's ideal. Let Brown write to his sister at Newnham, and find out whom the intellectual maiden favours, while Jephson can learn from Miss Medbury what is most attractive to the common-sensed girl."

  This plan we had adopted, and the result was now under consideration. MacShaughnassy opened the proceedings by reading his aunt's letter. Wrote the old lady:

  "I think, if I were you, my dear boy, I should choose a soldier. You know your poor grandfather, who ran away to America with that WICKED Mrs. Featherly, the banker's wife, was a soldier, and so was your poor cousin Robert, who lost eight thousand pounds at Monte Carlo. I have always felt singularly drawn towards soldiers, even as a girl; though your poor dear uncle could not bear them. You will find many allusions to soldiers and men of war in the Old Testament (see Jer. xlviii. 14). Of course one does not like to think of their fighting and killing each other, but then they do not seem to do that sort of thing nowadays."

  "So much for the old lady," said MacShaughnassy, as he folded up the letter and returned it to his pocket. "What says culture?"

  Brown produced from his cigar-case a letter addressed in a bold round hand, and read as follows:

  "What a curious coincidence! A few of us were discussing this very subject last night in Millicent Hightopper's rooms, and I may tell you at once that our decision was unanimous in favour of soldiers. You see, my dear Selkirk, in human nature the attraction is towards the opposite. To a milliner's apprentice a poet would no doubt be satisfying; to a woman of intelligence he would he an unutterable bore. What the intellectual woman requires in man is not something to argue with, but something to look at. To an empty-headed woman I can imagine the soldier type proving vapid and uninteresting; to the woman of mind he represents her ideal of man―a creature strong, handsome, well-dressed, and not too clever."

  "That gives us two votes for the army," remarked MacShaughnassy, as Brown tore his sister's letter in two, and threw the pieces into the waste-paper basket. "What says the common-sensed girl?"

  "First catch your common-sensed girl," muttered Jephson, a little grumpily, as it seemed to me. "Where do you propose finding her?"

  "Well," returned MacShaughnassy, "I looked to find her in Miss Medbury."

  As a rule, the mention of Miss Medbury's name brings a flush of joy to Jephson's face; but now his features wore an expression distinctly approaching a scowl.

  "Oh!" he replied, "did you? Well, then, the common-sensed girl loves the military also."

  "By Jove!" exclaimed MacShaughnassy, "what an extraordinary thing. What reason does she give?"

  "That there's a something about them, and that they dance so divinely," answered Jephson, shortly.

  "Well, you do surprise me," murmured MacShaughnassy, "I am astonished."

  Then to me he said: "And what does the young married woman say? The same?"

  "Yes," I replied, "precisely the same."

  "Does SHE give a reason?" he asked.

  "Oh yes," I explained; "because you can't help liking them."

  There was silence for the next few minutes, while we smoked and thought. I fancy we were all wishing we had never started this inquiry.

  That four distinctly different types of educated womanhood should, with promptness and unanimity quite unfeminine, have selected the soldier as their ideal, was certainly discouraging to the civilian heart. Had they been nursemaids or servant girls, I should have expected it. The worship of Mars by the Venus of the white cap is one of the few vital religions left to this devoutless age. A year or two ago I lodged near a barracks, and the sight to be seen round its huge iron gates on Sunday afternoons I shall never forget. The girls began to assemble about twelve o'clock. By two, at which hour the army, with its hair nicely oiled and a cane in its hand, was ready for a stroll, there would be some four or five hundred of them waiting in a line. Formerly they had collected in a wild mob, and as the soldiers were let out to them two at a time, had fought for them, as lions for early Christians. This, however, had led to scenes of such disorder and brutality, that the police had been obliged to interfere; and the girls were now marshalled in QUEUE, two abreast, and compelled, by a force of constables specially told off for the purpose, to keep their places and wait their proper turn.

  At three o'clock the sentry on duty would come down to the wicket and close it. "They're all gone, my dears," he would shout out to the girls still left; "it's no good your stopping, we've no more for you to-day."

  "Oh, not one!" some poor child would murmur pleadingly, while the tears welled up into her big round eyes, "not even a little one. I've been waiting SUCH a long time."

  "Can't help that," the honest fellow would reply, gruffly, but not unkindly, turning aside to hide his emotion; "you've had 'em all between you. We don't make 'em, you know: you can't have 'em if we haven't got 'em, can you? Come earlier next time."

  Then he would hurry away to escape further importunity; and the police, who appeared to have been waiting for this moment with gloating anticipation, would jeeringly hustle away the weeping remnant. "Now then, pass along, you girls, pass along," they would say, in that irritatingly unsympathetic voice of theirs. "You've had your chance. Can't have the roadway blocked up all the afternoon with this 'ere demonstration of the unloved. Pass along."

  In connection with this same barracks, our char-woman told Amenda, who told Ethelbertha, who told me a story, which I now told the boys.

  Into a certain house, in a certain street in the neighbourhood, there moved one day a certain family. Their servant had left them―most of their servants did at the end of a week―and the day after the moving-in an advertisement for a domestic was drawn up and sent to the Chronicle. It ran thus:

  WANTED, GENERAL SERVANT, in small family of eleven. Wages, 6 pounds; no beer money. Must be early riser and hard worker. Washing done at home. Must be good cook, and not object to window-cleaning. Unitarian preferred.―Apply, with references, to A. B., etc.

  That advertisement was sent off on Wednesday afternoon. At seven o'clock on Thursday morning the whole family were awakened by continuous ringing of the street-door bell. The husband, looking out of window, was surprised to see a crowd of about fifty girls surrounding the house. He slipped on his dressing-gown and went down to see what was the matter. The moment he opened the door, fifteen of them charged tumultuously into the passage, sweeping him completely off his legs. Once inside, these fifteen faced round, fought the other thirty-five or so back on to the door-step, and slammed the door in their faces. Then they picked up the master of the house, and asked him politely to conduct them to A. B."

  At first, owing to the clamour of the
mob outside, who were hammering at the door and shouting curses through the keyhole, he could understand nothing, but at length they succeeded in explaining to him that they were domestic servants come ill answer to his wife's advertisement. The man went and told his wife, and his wife said she would see them, one at a time.

  Which one should have audience first was a delicate question to decide. The man, on being appealed to, said he would prefer to leave it to them. They accordingly discussed the matter among themselves. At the end of a quarter of an hour, the victor, having borrowed some hair-pins and a looking-glass from our charwoman, who had slept in the house, went upstairs, while the remaining fourteen sat down in the hall, and fanned themselves with their bonnets.

  "A. B." was a good deal astonished when the first applicant presented herself. She was a tall, genteel-looking girl. Up to yesterday she had been head housemaid at Lady Stanton's, and before that she had been under-cook for two years to the Duchess of York.

  "And why did you leave Lady Stanton?" asked "A. B."

  "To come here, mum," replied the girl. The lady was puzzled.

  "And you'll be satisfied with six pounds a year?" she asked.

  "Certainly, mum, I think it ample."

  "And you don't mind hard work?"

  "I love it, mum."

  "And you're an early riser?"

  "Oh yes, mum, it upsets me stopping in bed after half-past five."

  "You know we do the washing at home?"

  "Yes, mum. I think it so much better to do it at home. Those laundries ruin good clothes. They're so careless."

  "Are you a Unitarian?" continued the lady.

  "Not yet, mum," replied the girl, "but I should like to be one."

  The lady took her reference, and said she would write.

  The next applicant offered to come for three pounds―thought six pounds too much. She expressed her willingness to sleep in the back kitchen: a shakedown under the sink was all she wanted. She likewise had yearnings towards Unitarianism.

  The third girl did not require any wages at all―could not understand what servants wanted with wages―thought wages only encouraged a love of foolish finery―thought a comfortable home in a Unitarian family ought to be sufficient wages for any girl.