Three Men on the Bummel

by Jerome K. Jerome

  CHAPTER II

  A delicate business--What Ethelbertha might have said--What she didsay--What Mrs. Harris said--What we told George--We will start onWednesday--George suggests the possibility of improving our minds--Harrisand I are doubtful--Which man on a tandem does the most work?--Theopinion of the man in front--Views of the man behind--How Harris lost hiswife--The luggage question--The wisdom of my late Uncle Podger--Beginningof story about a man who had a bag.

  I opened the ball with Ethelbertha that same evening. I commenced bybeing purposely a little irritable. My idea was that Ethelbertha wouldremark upon this. I should admit it, and account for it by over brainpressure. This would naturally lead to talk about my health in general,and the evident necessity there was for my taking prompt and vigorousmeasures. I thought that with a little tact I might even manage so thatthe suggestion should come from Ethelbertha herself. I imagined hersaying: "No, dear, it is change you want; complete change. Now bepersuaded by me, and go away for a month. No, do not ask me to come withyou. I know you would rather that I did, but I will not. It is thesociety of other men you need. Try and persuade George and Harris to gowith you. Believe me, a highly strung brain such as yours demandsoccasional relaxation from the strain of domestic surroundings. Forgetfor a little while that children want music lessons, and boots, andbicycles, with tincture of rhubarb three times a day; forget there aresuch things in life as cooks, and house decorators, and next-door dogs,and butchers' bills. Go away to some green corner of the earth, whereall is new and strange to you, where your over-wrought mind will gatherpeace and fresh ideas. Go away for a space and give me time to miss you,and to reflect upon your goodness and virtue, which, continually presentwith me, I may, human-like, be apt to forget, as one, through use, growsindifferent to the blessing of the sun and the beauty of the moon. Goaway, and come back refreshed in mind and body, a brighter, better man--ifthat be possible--than when you went away."

  But even when we obtain our desires they never come to us garbed as wewould wish. To begin with, Ethelbertha did not seem to remark that I wasirritable; I had to draw her attention to it. I said:

  "You must forgive me, I'm not feeling quite myself to-night."

  She said: "Oh! I have not noticed anything different; what's the matterwith you?"

  "I can't tell you what it is," I said; "I've felt it coming on forweeks."

  "It's that whisky," said Ethelbertha. "You never touch it except when wego to the Harris's. You know you can't stand it; you have not a stronghead."

  "It isn't the whisky," I replied; "it's deeper than that. I fancy it'smore mental than bodily."

  "You've been reading those criticisms again," said Ethelbertha, moresympathetically; "why don't you take my advice and put them on the fire?"

  "And it isn't the criticisms," I answered; "they've been quite flatteringof late--one or two of them."

  "Well, what is it?" said Ethelbertha; "there must be something to accountfor it."

  "No, there isn't," I replied; "that's the remarkable thing about it; Ican only describe it as a strange feeling of unrest that seems to havetaken possession of me."

  Ethelbertha glanced across at me with a somewhat curious expression, Ithought; but as she said nothing, I continued the argument myself.

  "This aching monotony of life, these days of peaceful, uneventfulfelicity, they appal one."

  "I should not grumble at them," said Ethelbertha; "we might get some ofthe other sort, and like them still less."

  "I'm not so sure of that," I replied. "In a life of continuous joy, Ican imagine even pain coming as a welcome variation. I wonder sometimeswhether the saints in heaven do not occasionally feel the continualserenity a burden. To myself a life of endless bliss, uninterrupted by asingle contrasting note, would, I feel, grow maddening. I suppose," Icontinued, "I am a strange sort of man; I can hardly understand myself attimes. There are moments," I added, "when I hate myself."

  Often a little speech like this, hinting at hidden depths ofindescribable emotion has touched Ethelbertha, but to-night she appearedstrangely unsympathetic. With regard to heaven and its possible effectupon me, she suggested my not worrying myself about that, remarking itwas always foolish to go half-way to meet trouble that might never come;while as to my being a strange sort of fellow, that, she supposed, Icould not help, and if other people were willing to put up with me, therewas an end of the matter. The monotony of life, she added, was a commonexperience; there she could sympathise with me.

  "You don't know I long," said Ethelbertha, "to get away occasionally,even from you; but I know it can never be, so I do not brood upon it."

  I had never heard Ethelbertha speak like this before; it astonished andgrieved me beyond measure.

  "That's not a very kind remark to make," I said, "not a wifely remark."

  "I know it isn't," she replied; "that is why I have never said it before.You men never can understand," continued Ethelbertha, "that, however fonda woman may be of a man, there are times when he palls upon her. Youdon't know how I long to be able sometimes to put on my bonnet and goout, with nobody to ask me where I am going, why I am going, how long Iam going to be, and when I shall be back. You don't know how I sometimeslong to order a dinner that I should like and that the children wouldlike, but at the sight of which you would put on your hat and be off tothe Club. You don't know how much I feel inclined sometimes to invitesome woman here that I like, and that I know you don't; to go and see thepeople that I want to see, to go to bed when _I_ am tired, and to get upwhen _I_ feel I want to get up. Two people living together are boundboth to be continually sacrificing their own desires to the other one. Itis sometimes a good thing to slacken the strain a bit."

  On thinking over Ethelbertha's words afterwards, have come to see theirwisdom; but at the time I admit I was hurt and indignant.

  "If your desire," I said, "is to get rid of me--"

  "Now, don't be an old goose," said Ethelbertha; "I only want to get ridof you for a little while, just long enough to forget there are one ortwo corners about you that are not perfect, just long enough to let meremember what a dear fellow you are in other respects, and to lookforward to your return, as I used to look forward to your coming in theold days when I did not see you so often as to become, perhaps, a littleindifferent to you, as one grows indifferent to the glory of the sun,just because he is there every day."

  I did not like the tone that Ethelbertha took. There seemed to be afrivolity about her, unsuited to the theme into which we had drifted.That a woman should contemplate cheerfully an absence of three or fourweeks from her husband appeared to me to be not altogether nice, not whatI call womanly; it was not like Ethelbertha at all. I was worried, Ifelt I didn't want to go this trip at all. If it had not been for Georgeand Harris, I would have abandoned it. As it was, I could not see how tochange my mind with dignity.

  "Very well, Ethelbertha," I replied, "it shall be as you wish. If youdesire a holiday from my presence, you shall enjoy it; but if it be notimpertinent curiosity on the part of a husband, I should like to knowwhat you propose doing in my absence?"

  "We will take that house at Folkestone," answered Ethelbertha, "and I'llgo down there with Kate. And if you want to do Clara Harris a goodturn," added Ethelbertha, "you'll persuade Harris to go with you, andthen Clara can join us. We three used to have some very jolly timestogether before you men ever came along, and it would be just delightfulto renew them. Do you think," continued Ethelbertha, "that you couldpersuade Mr. Harris to go with you?"

  I said I would try.

  "There's a dear boy," said Ethelbertha; "try hard. You might get Georgeto join you."

  I replied there was not much advantage in George's coming, seeing he wasa bachelor, and that therefore nobody would be much benefited by hisabsence. But a woman never understands satire. Ethelbertha merelyremarked it would look unkind leaving him behind. I promised to put itto him.

  I met Harris at the Club in the afternoon, and asked him how
he had goton.

  He said, "Oh, that's all right; there's no difficulty about gettingaway."

  But there was that about his tone that suggested incomplete satisfaction,so I pressed him for further details.

  "She was as sweet as milk about it," he continued; "said it was anexcellent idea of George's, and that she thought it would do me good."

  "That seems all right," I said; "what's wrong about that?"

  "There's nothing wrong about that," he answered, "but that wasn't all.She went on to talk of other things."

  "I understand," I said.

  "There's that bathroom fad of hers," he continued.

  "I've heard of it," I said; "she has started Ethelbertha on the sameidea."

  "Well, I've had to agree to that being put in hand at once; I couldn'targue any more when she was so nice about the other thing. That willcost me a hundred pounds, at the very least."

  "As much as that?" I asked.

  "Every penny of it," said Harris; "the estimate alone is sixty."

  I was sorry to hear him say this.

  "Then there's the kitchen stove," continued Harris; "everything that hasgone wrong in the house for the last two years has been the fault of thatkitchen stove."

  "I know," I said. "We have been in seven houses since we were married,and every kitchen stove has been worse than the last. Our present one isnot only incompetent; it is spiteful. It knows when we are giving aparty, and goes out of its way to do its worst."

  "_We_ are going to have a new one," said Harris, but he did not say itproudly. "Clara thought it would be such a saving of expense, having thetwo things done at the same time. I believe," said Harris, "if a womanwanted a diamond tiara, she would explain that it was to save the expenseof a bonnet."

  "How much do you reckon the stove is going to cost you?" I asked. I feltinterested in the subject.

  "I don't know," answered Harris; "another twenty, I suppose. Then wetalked about the piano. Could you ever notice," said Harris, "anydifference between one piano and another?"

  "Some of them seem to be a bit louder than others," I answered; "but onegets used to that."

  "Ours is all wrong about the treble," said Harris. "By the way, what_is_ the treble?"

  "It's the shrill end of the thing," I explained; "the part that sounds asif you'd trod on its tail. The brilliant selections always end up with aflourish on it."

  "They want more of it," said Harris; "our old one hasn't got enough ofit. I'll have to put it in the nursery, and get a new one for thedrawing-room."

  "Anything else?" I asked.

  "No," said Harris; "she didn't seem able to think of anything else."

  "You'll find when you get home," I said, "she has thought of one otherthing."

  "What's that?" said Harris.

  "A house at Folkestone for the season."

  "What should she want a house at Folkestone for?" said Harris.

  "To live in," I suggested, "during the summer months."

  "She's going to her people in Wales," said Harris, "for the holidays,with the children; we've had an invitation."

  "Possibly," I said, "she'll go to Wales before she goes to Folkestone, ormaybe she'll take Wales on her way home; but she'll want a house atFolkestone for the season, notwithstanding. I may be mistaken--I hopefor your sake that I am--but I feel a presentiment that I'm not."

  "This trip," said Harris, "is going to be expensive."

  "It was an idiotic suggestion," I said, "from the beginning."

  "It was foolish of us to listen to him," said Harris; "he'll get us intoreal trouble one of these days."

  "He always was a muddler," I agreed.

  "So headstrong," added Harris.

  We heard his voice at that moment in the hall, asking for letters.

  "Better not say anything to him," I suggested; "it's too late to go backnow."

  "There would be no advantage in doing so," replied Harris. "I shouldhave to get that bathroom and piano in any case now."

  He came in looking very cheerful.

  "Well," he said, "is it all right? Have you managed it?"

  There was that about his tone I did not altogether like; I noticed Harrisresented it also.

  "Managed what?" I said.

  "Why, to get off," said George.

  I felt the time was come to explain things to George.

  "In married life," I said, "the man proposes, the woman submits. It isher duty; all religion teaches it."

  George folded his hands and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

  "We may chaff and joke a little about these things," I continued; "butwhen it comes to practice, that is what always happens. We havementioned to our wives that we are going. Naturally, they are grieved;they would prefer to come with us; failing that, they would have usremain with them. But we have explained to them our wishes on thesubject, and--there's an end of the matter."

  George said, "Forgive me; I did not understand. I am only a bachelor.People tell me this, that, and the other, and I listen."

  I said, "That is where you do wrong. When you want information come toHarris or myself; we will tell you the truth about these questions."

  George thanked us, and we proceeded with the business in hand.

  "When shall we start?" said George.

  "So far as I am concerned," replied Harris, "the sooner the better."

  His idea, I fancy, was to get away before Mrs. H. thought of otherthings. We fixed the following Wednesday.

  "What about route?" said Harris.

  "I have an idea," said George. "I take it you fellows are naturallyanxious to improve your minds?"

  I said, "We don't want to become monstrosities. To a reasonable degree,yes, if it can be done without much expense and with little personaltrouble."

  "It can," said George. "We know Holland and the Rhine. Very well, mysuggestion is that we take the boat to Hamburg, see Berlin and Dresden,and work our way to the Schwarzwald, through Nuremberg and Stuttgart."

  "There are some pretty bits in Mesopotamia, so I've been told," murmuredHarris.

  George said Mesopotamia was too much out of our way, but that the Berlin-Dresden route was quite practicable. For good or evil, he persuaded usinto it.

  "The machines, I suppose," said George, "as before. Harris and I on thetandem, J.--"

  "I think not," interrupted Harris, firmly. "You and J. on the tandem, Ion the single."

  "All the same to me," agreed George. "J. and I on the tandem, Harris--"

  "I do not mind taking my turn," I interrupted, "but I am not going tocarry George _all_ the way; the burden should be divided."

  "Very well," agreed Harris, "we'll divide it. But it must be on thedistinct understanding that he works."

  "That he what?" said George.

  "That he works," repeated Harris, firmly; "at all events, uphill."

  "Great Scott!" said George; "don't you want _any_ exercise?"

  There is always unpleasantness about this tandem. It is the theory ofthe man in front that the man behind does nothing; it is equally thetheory of the man behind that he alone is the motive power, the man infront merely doing the puffing. The mystery will never be solved. It isannoying when Prudence is whispering to you on the one side not to overdoyour strength and bring on heart disease; while Justice into the otherear is remarking, "Why should you do it all? This isn't a cab. He's notyour passenger:" to hear him grunt out:

  "What's the matter--lost your pedals?"

  Harris, in his early married days, made much trouble for himself on oneoccasion, owing to this impossibility of knowing what the person behindis doing. He was riding with his wife through Holland. The roads werestony, and the machine jumped a good deal.

  "Sit tight," said Harris, without turning his head.

  What Mrs. Harris thought he said was, "Jump off." Why she should havethought he said "Jump off," when he said "Sit tight," neither of them canexplain.

  Mrs. Harris puts it in this way, "If you had said, 'Sit ti
ght,' whyshould I have jumped off?"

  Harris puts it, "If I had wanted you to jump off, why should I have said'Sit tight!'?"

  The bitterness is past, but they argue about the matter to this day.

  Be the explanation what it may, however, nothing alters the fact thatMrs. Harris did jump off, while Harris pedalled away hard, under theimpression she was still behind him. It appears that at first shethought he was riding up the hill merely to show off. They were bothyoung in those days, and he used to do that sort of thing. She expectedhim to spring to earth on reaching the summit, and lean in a careless andgraceful attitude against the machine, waiting for her. When, on thecontrary, she saw him pass the summit and proceed rapidly down a long andsteep incline, she was seized, first with surprise, secondly withindignation, and lastly with alarm. She ran to the top of the hill andshouted, but he never turned his head. She watched him disappear into awood a mile and a half distant, and then sat down and cried. They hadhad a slight difference that morning, and she wondered if he had taken itseriously and intended desertion. She had no money; she knew no Dutch.People passed, and seemed sorry for her; she tried to make themunderstand what had happened. They gathered that she had lost something,but could not grasp what. They took her to the nearest village, andfound a policeman for her. He concluded from her pantomime that some manhad stolen her bicycle. They put the telegraph into operation, anddiscovered in a village four miles off an unfortunate boy riding a lady'smachine of an obsolete pattern. They brought him to her in a cart, butas she did not appear to want either him or his bicycle they let him goagain, and resigned themselves to bewilderment.

  Meanwhile, Harris continued his ride with much enjoyment. It seemed tohim that he had suddenly become a stronger, and in every way a morecapable cyclist. Said he to what he thought was Mrs. Harris:

  "I haven't felt this machine so light for months. It's this air, Ithink; it's doing me good."

  Then he told her not to be afraid, and he would show her how fast he_could_ go. He bent down over the handles, and put his heart into hiswork. The bicycle bounded over the road like a thing of life; farmhousesand churches, dogs and chickens came to him and passed. Old folks stoodand gazed at him, the children cheered him.

  In this way he sped merrily onward for about five miles. Then, as heexplains it, the feeling began to grow upon him that something was wrong.He was not surprised at the silence; the wind was blowing strongly, andthe machine was rattling a good deal. It was a sense of void that cameupon him. He stretched out his hand behind him, and felt; there wasnothing there but space. He jumped, or rather fell off, and looked backup the road; it stretched white and straight through the dark wood, andnot a living soul could be seen upon it. He remounted, and rode back upthe hill. In ten minutes he came to where the road broke into four;there he dismounted and tried to remember which fork he had come down.

  While he was deliberating a man passed, sitting sideways on a horse.Harris stopped him, and explained to him that he had lost his wife. Theman appeared to be neither surprised nor sorry for him. While they weretalking another farmer came along, to whom the first man explained thematter, not as an accident, but as a good story. What appeared tosurprise the second man most was that Harris should be making a fussabout the thing. He could get no sense out of either of them, andcursing them he mounted his machine again, and took the middle road onchance. Half-way up, he came upon a party of two young women with oneyoung man between them. They appeared to be making the most of him. Heasked them if they had seen his wife. They asked him what she was like.He did not know enough Dutch to describe her properly; all he could tellthem was she was a very beautiful woman, of medium size. Evidently thisdid not satisfy them, the description was too general; any man could saythat, and by this means perhaps get possession of a wife that did notbelong to him. They asked him how she was dressed; for the life of himhe could not recollect.

  I doubt if any man could tell how any woman was dressed ten minutes afterhe had left her. He recollected a blue skirt, and then there wassomething that carried the dress on, as it were, up to the neck.Possibly, this may have been a blouse; he retained a dim vision of abelt; but what sort of a blouse? Was it green, or yellow, or blue? Hadit a collar, or was it fastened with a bow? Were there feathers in herhat, or flowers? Or was it a hat at all? He dared not say, for fear ofmaking a mistake and being sent miles after the wrong party. The twoyoung women giggled, which in his then state of mind irritated Harris.The young man, who appeared anxious to get rid of him, suggested thepolice station at the next town. Harris made his way there. The policegave him a piece of paper, and told him to write down a full descriptionof his wife, together with details of when and where he had lost her. Hedid not know where he had lost her; all he could tell them was the nameof the village where he had lunched. He knew he had her with him then,and that they had started from there together.

  The police looked suspicious; they were doubtful about three matters:Firstly, was she really his wife? Secondly, had he really lost her?Thirdly, why had he lost her? With the aid of a hotel-keeper, however,who spoke a little English, he overcame their scruples. They promised toact, and in the evening they brought her to him in a covered wagon,together with a bill for expenses. The meeting was not a tender one.Mrs. Harris is not a good actress, and always has great difficulty indisguising her feelings. On this occasion, she frankly admits, she madeno attempt to disguise them.

  The wheel business settled, there arose the ever-lasting luggagequestion.

  "The usual list, I suppose," said George, preparing to write.

  That was wisdom I had taught them; I had learned it myself years ago frommy Uncle Podger.

  "Always before beginning to pack," my Uncle would say, "make a list."

  He was a methodical man.

  "Take a piece of paper"--he always began at the beginning--"put down onit everything you can possibly require, then go over it and see that itcontains nothing you can possibly do without. Imagine yourself in bed;what have you got on? Very well, put it down--together with a change.You get up; what do you do? Wash yourself. What do you wash yourselfwith? Soap; put down soap. Go on till you have finished. Then takeyour clothes. Begin at your feet; what do you wear on your feet? Boots,shoes, socks; put them down. Work up till you get to your head. Whatelse do you want besides clothes? A little brandy; put it down. Acorkscrew, put it down. Put down everything, then you don't forgetanything."

  That is the plan he always pursued himself. The list made, he would goover it carefully, as he always advised, to see that he had forgottennothing. Then he would go over it again, and strike out everything itwas possible to dispense with.

  Then he would lose the list.

  Said George: "Just sufficient for a day or two we will take with us onour bikes. The bulk of our luggage we must send on from town to town."

  "We must be careful," I said; "I knew a man once--"

  Harris looked at his watch.

  "We'll hear about him on the boat," said Harris; "I have got to meetClara at Waterloo Station in half an hour."

  "It won't take half an hour," I said; "it's a true story, and--"

  "Don't waste it," said George: "I am told there are rainy evenings in theBlack Forest; we may be glad of it. What we have to do now is to finishthis list."

  Now I come to think of it, I never did get off that story; somethingalways interrupted it. And it really was true.