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41 pages

English

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In this witty and imaginative collection of short tales, renowned humor writer Jerome K. Jerome dreams up a series of amusing and enlightening conversations between archetypal characters, including the Woman of the World, the Old Maid, the Philosopher, and the Minor Poet.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mars 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776677634
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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TEA-TABLE TALK
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JEROME K. JEROME

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Tea-Table Talk First published in 1903 Epub ISBN 978-1-77667-763-4 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77667-764-1 © 2015 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI
Chapter I
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"They are very pretty, some of them," said the Woman of the World;"not the sort of letters I should have written myself."
"I should like to see a love-letter of yours," interrupted the MinorPoet.
"It is very kind of you to say so," replied the Woman of the World."It never occurred to me that you would care for one."
"It is what I have always maintained," retorted the Minor Poet; "youhave never really understood me."
"I believe a volume of assorted love-letters would sell well," saidthe Girton Girl; "written by the same hand, if you like, but todifferent correspondents at different periods. To the same personone is bound, more or less, to repeat oneself."
"Or from different lovers to the same correspondent," suggested thePhilosopher. "It would be interesting to observe the response ofvarious temperaments exposed to an unvaried influence. It wouldthrow light on the vexed question whether the qualities that adornour beloved are her own, or ours lent to her for the occasion.Would the same woman be addressed as 'My Queen!' by onecorrespondent, and as 'Dear Popsy Wopsy!' by another, or would sheto all her lovers be herself?"
"You might try it," I suggested to the Woman of the World,"selecting, of course, only the more interesting."
"It would cause so much unpleasantness, don't you think?" repliedthe Woman of the World. "Those I left out would never forgive me.It is always so with people you forget to invite to a funeral—theythink it is done with deliberate intention to slight them."
"The first love-letter I ever wrote," said the Minor Poet, "was whenI was sixteen. Her name was Monica; she was the left-hand girl inthe third joint of the crocodile. I have never known a creature soethereally beautiful. I wrote the letter and sealed it, but I couldnot make up my mind whether to slip it into her hand when we passedthem, as we usually did on Thursday afternoons, or to wait forSunday."
"There can be no question," murmured the Girton Girl abstractedly,"the best time is just as one is coming out of church. There is somuch confusion; besides, one has one's Prayer-book—I beg yourpardon."
"I was saved the trouble of deciding," continued the Minor Poet."On Thursday her place was occupied by a fat, red-headed girl, whoreplied to my look of inquiry with an idiotic laugh, and on Sunday Isearched the Hypatia House pews for her in vain. I learntsubsequently that she had been sent home on the previous Wednesday,suddenly. It appeared that I was not the only one. I left theletter where I had placed it, at the bottom of my desk, and incourse of time forgot it. Years later I fell in love really. I satdown to write her a love-letter that should imprison her as by somesubtle spell. I would weave into it the love of all the ages. WhenI had finished it, I read it through and was pleased with it. Thenby an accident, as I was going to seal it, I overturned my desk, andon to the floor fell that other love-letter I had written sevenyears before, when a boy. Out of idle curiosity I tore it open; Ithought it would afford me amusement. I ended by posting it insteadof the letter I had just completed. It carried precisely the samemeaning; but it was better expressed, with greater sincerity, withmore artistic simplicity."
"After all," said the Philosopher, "what can a man do more than tella woman that he loves her? All the rest is mere picturesqueamplification, on a par with the 'Full and descriptive report fromour Special Correspondent,' elaborated out of a three-line telegramof Reuter's."
"Following that argument," said the Minor Poet, "you could reduce'Romeo and Juliet' to a two-line tragedy -
Lass and lad, loved like mad;
Silly muddle, very sad."
"To be told that you are loved," said the Girton Girl, "is only thebeginning of the theorem—its proposition, so to speak."
"Or the argument of the poem," murmured the Old Maid.
"The interest," continued the Girton Girl, "lies in proving it—whydoes he love me?"
"I asked a man that once," said the Woman of the World. "He said itwas because he couldn't help it. It seemed such a foolish answer—the sort of thing your housemaid always tells you when she breaksyour favourite teapot. And yet, I suppose it was as sensible as anyother."
"More so," commented the Philosopher. "It is the only possibleexplanation."
"I wish," said the Minor Poet, "it were a question one could ask ofpeople without offence; I so often long to put it. Why do men marryviragoes, pimply girls with incipient moustaches? Why do beautifulheiresses choose thick-lipped, little men who bully them? Why areold bachelors, generally speaking, sympathetic, kind-hearted men;and old maids, so many of them, sweet-looking and amiable?"
"I think," said the Old Maid, "that perhaps—" But there shestopped.
"Pray go on," said the Philosopher. "I shall be so interested tohave your views."
"It was nothing, really," said the Old Maid; "I have forgotten."
"If only one could obtain truthful answers," the Minor Poet, "what aflood of light they might let fall on the hidden half of life!"
"It seems to me," said the Philosopher, "that, if anything, Love isbeing exposed to too much light. The subject is becomingvulgarised. Every year a thousand problem plays and novels, poemsand essays, tear the curtain from Love's Temple, drag it naked intothe market-place for grinning crowds to gape at. In a million shortstories, would-be comic, would-be serious, it is handled more orless coarsely, more or less unintelligently, gushed over, gibed andjeered at. Not a shred of self-respect is left to it. It is madethe central figure of every farce, danced and sung round in everymusic-hall, yelled at by gallery, guffawed at by stalls. It is thestock-in-trade of every comic journal. Could any god, even a MumboJumbo, so treated, hold its place among its votaries? Every term ofendearment has become a catchword, every caress mocks us from thehoardings. Every tender speech we make recalls to us even while weare uttering it a hundred parodies. Every possible situation hasbeen spoilt for us in advance by the American humorist."
"I have sat out a good many parodies of 'Hamlet,'" said the MinorPoet, "but the play still interests me. I remember a walking tour Ionce took in Bavaria. In some places the waysides are lined withcrucifixes that are either comic or repulsive. There is a firm thatturns them out by machinery. Yet, to the peasants who pass by, theChrist is still beautiful. You can belittle only what is alreadycontemptible."
"Patriotism is a great virtue," replied the Philosopher: "theJingoes have made it ridiculous."
"On the contrary," said the Minor Poet, "they have taught us todistinguish between the true and the false. So it is with love.The more it is cheapened, ridiculed, employed for market purposes,the less the inclination to affect it—to be in love with love, asHeine admitted he was, for its own sake."
"Is the necessity to love born in us," said the Girton Girl, "or dowe practise to acquire it because it is the fashion—make up ourmind to love, as boys learn to smoke, because every other fellowdoes it, and we do not like to be peculiar?"
"The majority of men and women," said the Minor Poet, "are incapableof love. With most it is a mere animal passion, with others a mildaffection."
"We talk about love," said the Philosopher, "as though it were aknown quantity. After all, to say that a man loves is like sayingthat he paints or plays the violin; it conveys no meaning until wehave witnessed his performance. Yet to hear the subject discussed,one might imagine the love of a Dante or a society Johnny, of aCleopatra or a Georges Sand, to be precisely the same thing."
"It was always poor Susan's trouble," said the Woman of the World;"she could never be persuaded that Jim really loved her. It wasvery sad, because I am sure he was devoted to her, in his way. Buthe could not do the sort of things she wanted him to do; she was soromantic. He did try. He used to go to all the poetical plays andstudy them. But he hadn't the knack of it and he was naturallyclumsy. He would rush into the room and fling himself on his kneesbefore her, never noticing the dog, so that, instead of pouring outhis heart as he had intended, he would have to start off with, 'Soawfully sorry! Hope I haven't hurt the little beast?' Which wasenough to put anybody out."
"Young girls are so foolish," said the Old Maid; "they run afterwhat glitters, and do not see the gold until it is too late. Atfirst they are all eyes and no heart."
"I knew a girl," I said, "or, rather, a young married woman, who wascured of folly by the homoeopathic method. Her great trouble wasthat her husband had ceased to be her lover."
"It seems to me so sad," said the Old Maid. "Sometimes it is thewoman's fault, sometimes the man's; more often both. The littlecourtesies, the fond words, the tender nothings that mean so much tothose that love—it would cost so little not to forget them, andthey would make life so much more beautiful."
"There is a line of common sense running through all things," Ireplied; "the secret of life consists in not diverging far from iton either side. He had been the