novel notes-第1节

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Novel　Notes

by　Jerome　K。　Jerome






PROLOGUE



Years　ago；　when　I　was　very　small；　we　lived　in　a　great　house　in　a　long；　straight；　brown…coloured　street；　in　the　east　end　of　London。　It　was　a　noisy；　crowded　street　in　the　daytime；　but　a　silent；　lonesome　street　at　night；　when　the　gas…lights；　few　and　far　between；　partook　of　the　character　of　lighthouses　rather　than　of　illuminants；　and　the　tramp；　tramp　of　the　policeman　on　his　long　beat　seemed　to　be　ever　drawing　nearer；　or　fading　away；　except　for　brief　moments　when　the　footsteps　ceased；　as　he　paused　to　rattle　a　door　or　window；　or　to　flash　his　lantern　into　some　dark　passage　leading　down　towards　the　river。

The　house　had　many　advantages；　so　my　father　would　explain　to　friends　who　expressed　surprise　at　his　choosing　such　a　residence；　and　among　these　was　included　in　my　own　small　morbid　mind　the　circumstance　that　its　back　windows　commanded　an　uninterrupted　view　of　an　ancient　and　much…peopled　churchyard。　　Often　of　a　night　would　I　steal　from　between　the　sheets；　and　climbing　upon　the　high　oak　chest　that　stood　before　my　bedroom　window；　sit　peering　down　fearfully　upon　the　aged　gray　tombstones　far　below；　wondering　whether　the　shadows　that　crept　among　them　might　not　be　ghostssoiled　ghosts　that　had　lost　their　natural　whiteness　by　long　exposure　to　the　city's　smoke；　and　had　grown　dingy；　like　the　snow　that　sometimes　lay　there。

I　persuaded　myself　that　they　were　ghosts；　and　came；　at　length；　to　have　quite　a　friendly　feeling　for　them。　　I　wondered　what　they　thought　when　they　saw　the　fading　letters　of　their　own　names　upon　the　stones；　whether　they　remembered　themselves　and　wished　they　were　alive　again；　or　whether　they　were　happier　as　they　were。　　But　that　seemed　a　still　sadder　idea。

One　night；　as　I　sat　there　watching；　I　felt　a　hand　upon　my　shoulder。　I　was　not　frightened；　because　it　was　a　soft；　gentle　hand　that　I　well　knew；　so　I　merely　laid　my　cheek　against　it。

〃What's　mumma's　naughty　boy　doing　out　of　bed？　　Shall　I　beat　him？〃　And　the　other　hand　was　laid　against　my　other　cheek；　and　I　could　feel　the　soft　curls　mingling　with　my　own。

〃Only　looking　at　the　ghosts；　ma；〃　I　answered。　　〃There's　such　a　lot　of　'em　down　there。〃　　Then　I　added；　musingly；　〃I　wonder　what　it　feels　like　to　be　a　ghost。〃

My　mother　said　nothing；　but　took　me　up　in　her　arms；　and　carried　me　back　to　bed；　and　then；　sitting　down　beside　me；　and　holding　my　hand　in　hersthere　was　not　so　very　much　difference　in　the　sizebegan　to　sing　in　that　low；　caressing　voice　of　hers　that　always　made　me　feel；　for　the　time　being；　that　I　wanted　to　be　a　good　boy；　a　song　she　often　used　to　sing　to　me；　and　that　I　have　never　heard　any　one　else　sing　since；　and　should　not　care　to。

But　while　she　sang；　something　fell　on　my　hand　that　caused　me　to　sit　up　and　insist　on　examining　her　eyes。　　She　laughed；　rather　a　strange；　broken　little　laugh；　I　thought；　and　said　it　was　nothing；　and　told　me　to　lie　still　and　go　to　sleep。　　So　I　wriggled　down　again　and　shut　my　eyes　tight；　but　I　could　not　understand　what　had　made　her　cry。

Poor　little　mother；　she　had　a　notion；　founded　evidently　upon　inborn　belief　rather　than　upon　observation；　that　all　children　were　angels；　and　that；　in　consequence；　an　altogether　exceptional　demand　existed　for　them　in　a　certain　other　place；　where　there　are　more　openings　for　angels；　rendering　their　retention　in　this　world　difficult　and　undependable。　　My　talk　about　ghosts　must　have　made　that　foolishly　fond　heart　ache　with　a　vague　dread　that　night；　and　for　many　a　night　onward；　I　fear。

For　some　time　after　this　I　would　often　look　up　to　find　my　mother's　eyes　fixed　upon　me。　　Especially　closely　did　she　watch　me　at　feeding　times；　and　on　these　occasions；　as　the　meal　progressed；　her　face　would　acquire　an　expression　of　satisfaction　and　relief。

Once；　during　dinner；　I　heard　her　whisper　to　my　father　（for　children　are　not　quite　so　deaf　as　their　elders　think）；　〃He　seems　to　eat　all　right。〃

〃Eat！〃　replied　my　father　in　the　same　penetrating　undertone；　〃if　he　dies　of　anything；　it　will　be　of　eating。〃

So　my　little　mother　grew　less　troubled；　and；　as　the　days　went　by；　saw　reason　to　think　that　my　brother　angels　might　consent　to　do　without　me　for　yet　a　while　longer；　and　I；　putting　away　the　child　with　his　ghostly　fancies；　became；　in　course　of　time；　a　grown…up　person；　and　ceased　to　believe　in　ghosts；　together　with　many　other　things　that；　perhaps；　it　were　better　for　a　man　if　he　did　believe　in。

But　the　memory　of　that　dingy　graveyard；　and　of　the　shadows　that　dwelt　therein；　came　back　to　me　very　vividly　the　other　day；　for　it　seemed　to　me　as　though　I　were　a　ghost　myself；　gliding　through　the　silent　streets　where　once　I　had　passed　swiftly；　full　of　life。

Diving　into　a　long　unopened　drawer；　I　had；　by　chance；　drawn　forth　a　dusty　volume　of　manuscript；　labelled　upon　its　torn　brown　paper　cover；　NOVEL　NOTES。　　The　scent　of　dead　days　clung　to　its　dogs'…eared　pages；　and；　as　it　lay　open　before　me；　my　memory　wandered　back　to　the　summer　eveningsnot　so　very　long　ago；　perhaps；　if　one　but　adds　up　the　years；　but　a　long；　long　while　ago　if　one　measures　Time　by　feelingwhen　four　friends　had　sat　together　making　it；　who　would　never　sit　together　any　more。　　With　each　crumpled　leaf　I　turned；　the　uncomfortable　conviction　that　I　was　only　a　ghost；　grew　stronger。　The　handwriting　was　my　own；　but　the　words　were　the　words　of　a　stranger；　so　that　as　I　read　I　wondered　to　myself；　saying：　　did　I　ever　think　this？　did　I　really　hope　that？　did　I　plan　to　do　this？　did　I　resolve　to　be　such？　does　life；　then；　look　so　to　the　eyes　of　a　young　man？　not　knowing　whether　to　smile　or　sigh。

The　book　was　a　compilation；　half　diary；　half　memoranda。　　In　it　lay　the　record　of　many　musings；　of　many　talks；　and　out　of　itselecting　what　seemed　suitable；　adding；　altering；　and　arrangingI　have　shaped　the　chapters　that　hereafter　follow。

That　I　have　a　right　to　do　so　I　have　fully　satisfied　my　own　conscience；　an　exceptionally　fussy　one。　　Of　the　four　joint　authors；　he　whom　I　call　〃MacShaughnassy〃　has　laid　aside　his　title　to　all　things　beyond　six　feet　of　sun…scorched　ground　in　the　African　veldt；　while　from　him　I　have　designated　〃Brown〃　I　have　borrowed　but　little；　and　that　little　I　may　fairly　claim　to　have　made　my　own　by　reason　of　the　artistic　merit　with　which　I　have　embellished　it。　　Indeed；　in　thus　taking　a　few　of　his　bald　ideas　and　shaping　them　into　readable　form；　am　I　not　doing　him　a　kindness；　and　thereby　returning　good　for　evil？　　For　has　he　not；　slipping　from　the　high　ambition　of　his　youth；　sunk　ever　downward　step　by　step；　until　he　has　become　a　critic；　and；　therefore；　my　natural　enemy？　　Does　he　not；　in　the　columns　of　a　certain　journal　of　large　pretension　but　small　circulation；　call　me　〃'Arry〃　（without　an　〃H；〃　the　satirical　rogue）；　and　is　not　his　contempt　for　the　English…speaking　people　based　chiefly　upon　the　fact　that　some　of　them　read　my　books？　　But　in　the　days　of　Bloomsbury　lodgings　and　first…night　pits　we　thought　each　other　clever。

From　〃Jephson〃　I　hold　a　letter；　dated　from　a　station　deep　in　the　heart　of　the　Queensland　bush。　　〃Do　what　you　like　with　it；　dear　boy；〃　the　letter　runs；　〃so　long　as　you　keep　me　out　of　it。　　Thanks　for　your　complimentary　regrets；　but　I　cannot　share　them。　　I　was　never　fitted　for　a　literary　career。　　Lucky　for　me；　I　found　it　out　in　time。　　Some　poor　devils　don't。　　（I'm　not　getting　at　you；　old　man。　　We　read　all　your　stuff；　and　like　it　very　much。　　Time　hangs　a　bit　heavy；　you　know；　here；　in　the　winter；　and　we　are　glad　of　almost　anything。）　This　life　suits　me　better。　　I　love　to　feel　my　horse　between　my　thighs；　and　the　sun　upon　my　skin。　　And　there　are　the　youngsters　growing　up　about　us；　and　the　hands　to　look　after；　and　the　stock。　　I　daresay　it　seems　a　very　commonplace　unintellectual　life　to　you；　but　it　satisfies　my　nature　more　than　the　writing　of　books　could　ever　do。　Besides；　there　are　too　many　authors　as　it　is。　　The　world　is　so　busy　reading　and　writing；　it　has　no　time　left　for　thinking。　　You'll　tell　me；　of　course；　that　books　are　thought；　but　that　is　only　the　jargon　of　the　Press。　　You　come　out　here；　old　man；　and　sit　as　I　do　sometimes　for　days　and　nights　together　alone　with　the　dumb　cattle　on　an　upheaved　island　of　earth；　as　it　were；　jutting　out　into　the　deep　sky；　and　you　will　know　that　they　are　not。　　What　a　man　thinksreally　thinksgoes　down　into　him　and　grows　in　silence。　　What　a　man　writes　in　books　are　the　thoughts　that　he　wishes　to　be　thought　to　think。〃


Poor　Jephson！　he　promised　so　well　at　one　time。　　But　he　always　had　strange　notions。



CHAPTER　I



When；　on　returning　home　one　evening；　after　a　pipe　party　at　my　friend　Jephson's；　I　informed　my　wife　that　I　was　going　to　write　a　novel；　she　expressed　herself　as　pleased　with　the　idea。　　She　said　she　had　often　wondered　I　had　never　thought　of　doing　so　before。　　〃Look；〃　she　added；　〃how　silly　all　the　novels　are　nowadays；　I'm　sure　you　could　write　one。〃　　（Ethelbertha　intended　to　be　complimentary；　I　am　convinced；　but　there　is　a　looseness　about　her　mode　of　expression　which；　at　times；　renders　her　meaning　obscure。）

When；　however；　I　told　her　that　my　friend　Jephson　was　going　to　collaborate　with　me；　she　remarked；　〃Oh；〃　in　a　doubtful　tone；　and　when　I　further　went　on　to　explain　to　her　that　Selkirk　Brown　and　Derrick　MacShaughnassy　were　also　going　to　assist；　she　replied；　〃Oh；