The Surprise of Mr. Milberry and other novels / Сюрприз мистера Милберри и другие новеллы. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Джером Клапка Джером

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СКАЧАТЬ sir,” answered the man a little gruffly, I thought. “May I ask what you’re a-doing of?”

      “Oh, it’s all right,” I responded, with a wave of my umbrella; “I’m just seeing my friend part of the way home.”

      He said, “What friend?”

      “Oh, ah, of course,” I laughed; “I forgot. He’s invisible to you. He is the ghost of the gentleman that killed the wait. I’m just going to the corner with him.”

      “Ah, I don’t think I would, if I was you, sir,” said Jones severely. “If you take my advice, you’ll say good-bye to your friend here, and go back indoors. Perhaps you are not aware that you are walking about with nothing on but a night-shirt and a pair of boots and an opera-hat. Where’s your trousers?”

      I did not like the man’s manner at all. I said, “Jones! I don’t wish to have to report you, but it seems to me you’ve been drinking. My trousers are where a man’s trousers ought to be – on his legs. I distinctly remember putting them on.”

      “Well, you haven’t got them on now,” he retorted.

      “I beg your pardon,” I replied. “I tell you I have; I think I ought to know[34].”

      “I think so, too,” he answered, “but you evidently don’t. Now you come along indoors with me, and don’t let’s have any more of it.”

      Uncle John came to the door at this point, having been awaked, I suppose, by the altercation; and, at the same moment, Aunt Maria appeared at the window in her nightcap.

      I explained the constable’s mistake to them, treating the matter as lightly as I could, so as not to get the man into trouble, and I turned for confirmation to the ghost.

      He was gone! He had left me without a word – without even saying good-bye!

      It struck me as so unkind, his having gone off in that way, that I burst into tears; and Uncle John came out, and led me back into the house.

      On reaching my room, I discovered that Jones was right. I had not put on my trousers, after all. They were still hanging over the bed-rail. I suppose, in my anxiety not to keep the ghost waiting, I must have forgotten them.

      Such are the plain facts of the case, out of which it must, doubtless, to the healthy, charitable mind appear impossible that calumny could spring.

      But it has.

      Persons – I say ‘persons’ – have professed themselves unable to understand the simple circumstances herein narrated, except in the light of explanations at once misleading and insulting. Slurs have been cast and aspersions made on me by those of my own flesh and blood.

      But I bear no ill-feeling. I merely, as I have said, set forth this statement for the purpose of clearing my character from injurious suspicion[35].

      Evergreens

      (Excerpt)

      (From Diary of a Pilgrimage and Other Stories, 1891)

      What a splendid old dog the bull-dog is! so grim, so silent, so stanch; so terrible, when he has got his idea of his duty clear before him; so absurdly meek, when it is only himself that is concerned.

      He is the gentlest, too, and the most lovable of all dogs. He does not look it. The sweetness of his disposition would not strike the casual observer at first glance.[36] He resembles the gentleman spoken of in the oft-quoted stanza:

                                ’E’s all right when yer knows ’im.

                                But yer’ve got to know ’im fust.

      The first time I ever met a bull-dog – to speak to, that is – was many years ago. We were lodging down in the country, an orphan friend of mine named George, and myself, and one night, coming home late from some dissolving views we found the family had gone to bed. They had left a light in our room, however, and we went in and sat down, and began to take off our boots.

      And then, for the first time, we noticed on the hearthrug a bull-dog. A dog with a more thoughtfully ferocious expression – a dog with, apparently, a heart more dead to all ennobling and civilizing sentiments – I have never seen. As George said, he looked more like some heathen idol than a happy English dog.

      He appeared to have been waiting for us; and he rose up and greeted us with a ghastly grin, and got between us and the door.

      We smiled at him – a sickly, propitiatory smile. We said, “Good dog – poor fellow!” and we asked him, in tones implying that the question could admit of no negative[37], if he was not a “nice old chap.” We did not really think so. We had our own private opinion concerning him, and it was unfavourable. But we did not express it. We would not have hurt his feelings for the world. He was a visitor, our guest, so to speak – and, as well-brought-up young men, we felt that the right thing to do was for us to prevent his gaining any hint that we were not glad to see him, and to make him feel as little as possible the awkwardness of his position.

      I think we succeeded. He was singularly unembarrassed, and far more at his ease than even we were. He took but little notice of our flattering remarks, but was much drawn toward George’s legs. George used to be, I remember, rather proud of his legs. I could never see enough in them myself to excuse George’s vanity; indeed, they always struck me as lumpy. It is only fair to acknowledge, however, that they quite fascinated that bull-dog. He walked over and criticized them with the air of a long-baffled connoisseur[38] who had at last found his ideal. At the termination of his inspection he distinctly smiled.

      George, who at that time was modest and bashful, blushed and drew them up on to the chair. On the dog’s displaying a desire to follow them, George moved up on to the table, and squatted there in the middle, nursing his knees. George’s legs being lost to him, the dog appeared inclined to console himself with mine. I went and sat beside George on the table.

      Sitting with your feet drawn up in front of you, on a small and rickety one-legged table, is a most trying exercise, especially if you are not used to it[39].

      George and I both felt our position keenly. We did not like to call out for help, and bring the family down. We were proud young men, and we feared lest, to the unsympathetic eye of the comparative stranger, the spectacle we should present might not prove imposing.

      We sat on in silence for about half an hour, the dog keeping a reproachful eye upon us from the nearest chair, and displaying elephantine delight whenever we made any movement suggestive of climbing down.

      At the end of the half hour we discussed the advisability of “chancing it,” but decided not to. “We should never,” George said, “confound foolhardiness with courage[40].”

      “Courage,” he continued – George had quite a gift for maxims – “courage is the wisdom of manhood; foolhardiness, the folly of youth.”

      He said that to get down from the table while that dog remained in the room, would clearly prove us to be possessed СКАЧАТЬ