Paul Kelver. Jerome Klapka Jerome

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Being on the spot gives one such an advantage,” said the grey man. “I shall know just when to buy. It’s a great thing, being on the spot.”

      “Of course, it must be,” said my mother.

      I suppose I must have dozed, for the next words I heard the grey man say were:

      “Of course you have the park opposite, but then the house is small.”

      “But shall we need a very large one?” asked my mother.

      “One never knows,” said the grey man. “If I should go into Parliament – ”

      At this point a hissing sound arose from the neighbourhood of the fire.

      “It looks,” said my mother, “as if it were done.”

      “If you will hold the dish,” said the grey man, “I think I can pour it in without spilling.”

      Again I must have dozed.

      “It depends,” said the grey man, “upon what he is going to be. For the classics, of course, Oxford.”

      “He’s going to be very clever,” said my mother. She spoke as one who knows.

      “We’ll hope so,” said the grey man.

      “I shouldn’t be surprised,” said my mother, “if he turned out a poet.”

      The grey man said something in a low tone that I did not hear.

      “I’m not so sure,” answered my mother, “it’s in the blood. I’ve often thought that you, Luke, ought to have been a poet.”

      “I never had the time,” said the grey man. “There were one or two little things – ”

      “They were very beautiful,” interrupted my mother. The clatter of the knives and forks continued undisturbed for a few moments. Then continued the grey man:

      “There would be no harm, provided I made enough. It’s the law of nature. One generation earns, the next spends. We must see. In any case, I think I should prefer Oxford for him.”

      “It will be so hard parting from him,” said my mother.

      “There will be the vacations,” said the grey man, “when we shall travel.”

      CHAPTER II.

      IN WHICH PAUL MAKES ACQUAINTANCE OF THE MAN WITH THE UGLY MOUTH

      The case of my father and mother was not normal. You understand they had been separated for some years, and though they were not young in age – indeed, before my childish eyes they loomed quite ancient folk, and in fact my father must have been nearly forty and my mother quit of thirty – yet, as you will come to think yourself, no doubt, during the course of my story, they were in all the essentials of life little more than boy and girl. This I came to see later on, but at that time, had I been consulted by enquiring maid or bachelor, I might unwittingly have given wrong impressions concerning marriage in the general. I should have described a husband as a man who could never rest quite content unless his wife were by his side; who twenty times a day would call from his office door: “Maggie, are you doing anything important? I want to talk to you about a matter of business.” … “Maggie, are you alone? Oh, all right, I’ll come down.” Of a wife I should have said she was a woman whose eyes were ever love-lit when resting on her man; who was glad where he was and troubled where he was not. But in every case this might not have been correct.

      Also, I should have had something to say concerning the alarms and excursions attending residence with any married couple. I should have recommended the holding up of feet under the table lest, mistaken for other feet, they should be trodden on and pressed. Also, I should have advised against entry into any room unpreceded by what in Stageland is termed “noise without.” It is somewhat disconcerting to the nervous incomer to be met, the door still in his hand, by a sound as of people springing suddenly into the air, followed by a weird scuttling of feet, and then to discover the occupants sitting stiffly in opposite corners, deeply engaged in book or needlework. But, as I have said, with regard to some households, such precautions might be needless.

      Personally, I fear, I exercised little or no controlling influence upon my parents in this respect, my intrusions coming soon to be greeted with: “Oh, it’s only Spud,” in a tone of relief, accompanied generally by the sofa cushion; but of my aunt they stood more in awe. Not that she ever said anything, and, indeed, to do her justice, in her efforts to spare their feelings she erred, if at all, on the side of excess. Never did she move a footstep about the house except to the music of a sustained and penetrating cough. As my father once remarked, ungratefully, I must confess, the volume of bark produced by my aunt in a single day would have done credit to the dying efforts of a hospital load of consumptives; to a robust and perfectly healthy lady the cost in nervous force must have been prodigious. Also, that no fear should live with them that her eyes had seen aught not intended for them, she would invariably enter backwards any room in which they might be, closing the door loudly and with difficulty before turning round: and through dark passages she would walk singing. No woman alive could have done more; yet – such is human nature! – neither my father nor my mother was grateful to her, so far as I could judge.

      Indeed, strange as it may appear, the more sympathetic towards them she showed herself, the more irritated against her did they become.

      “I believe, Fanny, you hate seeing Luke and me happy together,” said my mother one day, coming up from the kitchen to find my aunt preparing for entry into the drawing-room by dropping teaspoons at five-second intervals outside the door: “Don’t make yourself so ridiculous.” My mother spoke really quite unkindly.

      “Hate it!” replied my aunt. “Why should I? Why shouldn’t a pair of turtle doves bill and coo, when their united age is only a little over seventy, the pretty dears?” The mildness of my aunt’s answers often surprised me.

      As for my father, he grew positively vindictive. I remember the occasion well. It was the first, though not the last time I knew him lose his temper. What brought up the subject I forget, but my father stopped suddenly; we were walking by the canal bank.

      “Your aunt” – my father may not have intended it, but his tone and manner when speaking of my aunt always conveyed to me the impression that he regarded me as personally responsible for her existence. This used to weigh upon me. “Your aunt is the most cantankerous, the most – ” he broke off, and shook his fist towards the setting sun. “I wish to God,” said my father, “your aunt had a comfortable little income of her own, with a freehold cottage in the country, by God I do!” But the next moment, ashamed, I suppose, of his brutality: “Not but what sometimes, of course, she can be very nice, you know,” he added; “don’t tell your mother what I said just now.”

      Another who followed with sympathetic interest the domestic comedy was Susan, our maid-of-all-work, the first of a long and varied series, extending unto the advent of Amy, to whom the blessing of Heaven. Susan was a stout and elderly female, liable to sudden fits of sleepiness, the result, we were given to understand, of trouble; but her heart, it was her own proud boast, was always in the right place. She could never look at my father and mother sitting anywhere near each other but she must flop down and weep awhile; the sight of connubial bliss always reminding her, so she would explain, of the past glories of her own married state.

      Though an earnest enquirer, I was never able myself to grasp the ins and outs of this past married life of Susan’s. Whether her answers were purposely framed СКАЧАТЬ