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    The Angel and the Author and Others
    The Angel and the Author and Others
    The Angel and the Author and Others
    Ebook232 pages2 hours

    The Angel and the Author and Others

    By Jerome K. Jerome

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    This early work by Jerome K. Jerome was originally published in 1904 and we are now republishing it with a brand new introductory biography. 'The Angel and the Author and Others' is a collection of short stories, including 'Literature and the Middle Classes', 'Man and His Master', 'If Only We Had Not Lost Our Tails!', and many more. Jerome Klapka Jerome was born in Walsall, England in 1859. Both his parents died while he was in his early teens, and he was forced to quit school to support himself. In 1889, Jerome published his most successful and best-remembered work, 'Three Men in a Boat'. Featuring himself and two of his friends encountering humorous situations while floating down the Thames in a small boat, the book was an instant success, and has never been out of print. In fact, its popularity was such that the number of registered Thames boats went up fifty percent in the year following its publication.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWhite Press
    Release dateApr 24, 2015
    ISBN9781473373426
    The Angel and the Author and Others
    Author

    Jerome K. Jerome

    Jerome K. Jerome (1859–1927) was a British writer and humorist best known for the comic travelogue Three Men in a Boat. Inspired by his honeymoon boat trip on the River Thames, the novel was initially derided by critics as “vulgar,” but it soon became a phenomenon on both sides of the Atlantic and has never been out of print. 

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      Book preview

      The Angel and the Author and Others - Jerome K. Jerome

      The Angel and the Author and Others

      by

      Jerome K. Jerome

      Copyright © 2013 Read Books Ltd.

      This book is copyright and may not be

      reproduced or copied in any way without

      the express permission of the publisher in writing

      British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      Contents

      Jerome K. Jerome

      CHAPTER I

      The Author tells of his Good Deeds.

      The Angel appears to have made a slight Mistake.

      The Author is troubled concerning his Investments.

      And questions a Man of Thought.

      CHAPTER II

      Philosophy and the Dæmon.

      When the Dæmon will not work.

      CHAPTER III

      Literature and the Middle Classes.

      May a man of intelligence live, say, in Surbiton?

      CHAPTER IV

      Man and his Master.

      Why the Man in Uniform has, generally, sad Eyes.

      The Traveller’s one Friend.

      The disadvantage of being an unknown Person.

      CHAPTER V

      If only we had not lost our Tails!

      And little Boys would always tell the Truth!

      And everyone obtained his just Deserts!

      And only people would do Parlour Tricks who do them well!

      And all the World had Sense!

      CHAPTER VI

      Fire and the Foreigner.

      My British Stupidity.

      I am considered Cold and Mad.

      Sometimes I wish I were an American Woman.

      CHAPTER VII

      Too much Postcard.

      The Postcard as a Family Curse.

      The Artist’s Dream.

      Why not the Eternal Male for a change?

      How Women are ruined by Art.

      Difficulty of living up to the Poster.

      CHAPTER VIII

      The Lady and the Problem.

      The Stage Hero who, for once, had Justice done to him.

      She has a way of mislaying her Husband.

      What is a Lady to do with a Husband when she has finished with him?

      Could she—herself—have been to blame?

      CHAPTER IX

      Civilization and the Unemployed.

      Early instances of Dumping.

      Cricket, as viewed from the fixed Stars.

      The Heir of all Ages.  His Inheritance.

      Is it Playing the Game?

      CHAPTER X

      Patience and the Waiter.

      Waiterkind in the making.

      His Little Mistakes.

      How to insult him.

      CHAPTER XI

      The everlasting Newness of Woman.

      Doctor says she is not to be bothered.

      That Higher Life.

      Is there anything left for her to learn?

      When they have tried it the other way round.

      A brutal suggestion.

      CHAPTER XII

      Why I hate Heroes.

      Because it always seems to be his Day.

      Because he always gets there, without any trouble.

      Because he’s so damned clever.

      And, finally, because I don’t believe he’s true.

      CHAPTER XIII

      How to be Healthy and Unhappy.

      The unsympathetic Umbrella.

      A Martyr to Health.

      He was never pig-headed.

      Only just in time.

      How to avoid Everything.

      The one Cure-All.

      CHAPTER XIV

      Europe and the bright American Girl.

      She has the Art of Listening.

      The Republican Idea in practice.

      What the Soldier dared not do.

      Her path of Usefulness.

      CHAPTER XV

      Music and the Savage.

      Recreation for the Higher clergy.

      Why are we so young?

      Where Brotherly (and Sisterly) Love reigns supreme.

      The one sure Joke.

      How Anarchists are made.

      CHAPTER XVI

      The Ghost and the Blind Children.

      Why not, occasionally, a cheerful Ghost.

      Where are the dead Humorists?

      The Spirit does not shine as a Conversationalist.

      She is now a Believer.

      How does he do it?

      Blind Children playing in a World of Darkness.

      CHAPTER XVII

      Parents and their Teachers.

      Their first attempt.

      The Parent can do no right.

      His foolish talk.

      The Child of Fiction.

      The misunderstood Father.

      CHAPTER XVIII

      Marriage and the Joke of it.

      Love and the Satyr.

      What the Gipsy did not mention.

      A few rules for Married Happiness.

      The real Darby and Joan.

      Many ways of Love.

      Which is it?

      CHAPTER XIX

      Man and his Tailor.

      The difficulty of being a Gentleman.

      How we might, all of us, be Gentlemen.

      Things a Gentleman should never do.

      How one may know the perfect Gentleman.

      Why not an Exhibition of Gentlemen?

      CHAPTER XX

      Woman and her behaviour.

      Woman’s God.

      Those unsexed Creatures.

      References given—and required.

      The ideal World.

      A Lover’s View.

      No time to think of Husbands.

      The Wife of the Future.

      Jerome K. Jerome

      Jerome Klapka Jerome was born in Walsall, England in 1859. Both his parents died while he was in his early teens, and he was forced to quit school to support himself. Jerome worked for a number of years collecting coal along railway tracks, before trying his hand at acting, journalism, teaching and soliciting. At long last, in 1885, he had some success with On the Stage – and Off, a comic memoir of his experiences with an acting troupe. Jerome produced a number of essays over the following years, and married in 1888, spending the honeymoon in a little boat on the Thames.

      In 1889, Jerome published his most successful and best-remembered work, Three Men in a Boat. Featuring himself and two of his friends encountering humorous situations while floating down the Thames in a small boat, the book was an instant success, and has never been out of print. In fact, its popularity was such that the number of registered Thames boats went up fifty percent in the year following its publication. With the financial security provided by Three Men in a Boat, Jerome was able to dedicate himself fully to writing, producing eleven more novels and a number of anthologies of short fiction.

      In 1926, Jerome published his autobiography, My Life and Times. He died a year later, aged 68.

      CHAPTER I

      I had a vexing dream one night, not long ago: it was about a fortnight after Christmas.  I dreamt I flew out of the window in my nightshirt.  I went up and up.  I was glad that I was going up.  They have been noticing me, I thought to myself.  If anything, I have been a bit too good.  A little less virtue and I might have lived longer.  But one cannot have everything.  The world grew smaller and smaller.  The last I saw of London was the long line of electric lamps bordering the Embankment; later nothing remained but a faint luminosity buried beneath darkness.  It was at this point of my journey that I heard behind me the slow, throbbing sound of wings.

      I turned my head.  It was the Recording Angel.  He had a weary look; I judged him to be tired.

      Yes, he acknowledged, it is a trying period for me, your Christmas time.

      I am sure it must be, I returned; the wonder to me is how you get through it all.  You see at Christmas time, I went on, all we men and women become generous, quite suddenly.  It is really a delightful sensation.

      You are to be envied, he agreed.

      It is the first Christmas number that starts me off, I told him; "those beautiful pictures—the sweet child looking so pretty in her furs, giving Bovril with her own dear little hands to the shivering street arab; the good old red-faced squire shovelling out plum pudding to the crowd of grateful villagers.  It makes me yearn to borrow a collecting box and go round doing good myself.

      And it is not only me—I should say I, I continued; I don’t want you to run away with the idea that I am the only good man in the world.  That’s what I like about Christmas, it makes everybody good.  The lovely sentiments we go about repeating! the noble deeds we do! from a little before Christmas up to, say, the end of January! why noting them down must be a comfort to you.

      Yes, he admitted, noble deeds are always a great joy to me.

      They are to all of us, I said; I love to think of all the good deeds I myself have done.  I have often thought of keeping a diary—jotting them down each day.  It would be so nice for one’s children.

      He agreed there was an idea in this.

      That book of yours, I said, I suppose, now, it contains all the good actions that we men and women have been doing during the last six weeks?  It was a bulky looking volume.

      Yes, he answered, they were all recorded in the book.

      The Author tells of his Good Deeds.

      It was more for the sake of talking of his than anything else that I kept up with him.  I did not really doubt his care and conscientiousness, but it is always pleasant to chat about one’s self.  "My five shillings subscription to the Daily Telegraph’s Sixpenny Fund for the Unemployed—got that down all right?" I asked him.

      Yes, he replied, it was entered.

      As a matter of fact, now I come to think of it, I added, it was ten shillings altogether.  They spelt my name wrong the first time.

      Both subscriptions had been entered, he told me.

      Then I have been to four charity dinners, I reminded him; I forget what the particular charity was about.  I know I suffered the next morning.  Champagne never does agree with me.  But, then, if you don’t order it people think you can’t afford it.  Not that I don’t like it.  It’s my liver, if you understand.  If I take more—

      He interrupted me with the assurance that my attendance had been noted.

      Last week I sent a dozen photographs of myself, signed, to a charity bazaar.

      He said he remembered my doing so.

      Then let me see, I continued, I have been to two ordinary balls.  I don’t care much about dancing, but a few of us generally play a little bridge; and to one fancy dress affair.  I went as Sir Walter Raleigh.  Some men cannot afford to show their leg.  What I say is, if a man can, why not?  It isn’t often that one gets the opportunity of really looking one’s best.

      He told me all three balls had been duly entered: and commented upon.

      "And, of course, you remember my performance of Talbot Champneys in Our Boys the week before last, in aid of the Fund for Poor Curates, I went on.  I don’t know whether you saw the notice in the Morning Post, but—"

      He again interrupted me to remark that what the Morning Post man said would be entered, one way or the other, to the critic of the Morning Post, and had nothing to do with me.  Of course not, I agreed; and between ourselves, I don’t think the charity got very much.  Expenses, when you come to add refreshments and one thing and another, mount up.  But I fancy they rather liked my Talbot Champneys.

      He replied that he had been present at the performance, and had made his own report.

      I also reminded him of the four balcony seats I had taken for the monster show at His Majesty’s in aid of the Fund for the Destitute British in Johannesburg.  Not all the celebrated actors and actresses announced on the posters had appeared, but all had sent letters full of kindly wishes; and the others—all the celebrities one had never heard of—had turned up to a man.  Still, on the whole, the show was well worth the money.  There was nothing to grumble at.

      There were other noble deeds of mine.  I could not remember them at the time in their entirety.  I seemed to have done a good many.  But I did remember the rummage sale to which I sent all my old clothes, including a coat that had got mixed up with them by accident, and that I believe I could have worn again.

      And also the raffle I had joined for a motor-car.

      The Angel said I really need not be alarmed, that everything had been noted, together with other matters I, may be, had forgotten.

      The Angel appears to have made a slight Mistake.

      I felt a certain curiosity.  We had been getting on very well together—so it had seemed to me.  I asked him if he would mind my seeing the book.  He said there could be no objection.  He opened it at the page devoted to myself, and I flew a little higher, and looked down over his shoulder.  I can hardly believe it, even now—that I could have dreamt anything so foolish:

      He had got it all down wrong!

      Instead of to the credit side of my account he had put the whole bag of tricks to my debit.  He had mixed them up with my sins—with my acts of hypocrisy, vanity, self-indulgence.  Under the head of Charity he had but one item to my credit for the past six months: my giving up my seat inside a tramcar, late one wet night, to a dismal-looking old woman, who had not had even the politeness to say thank you, she seemed just half asleep.  According to this idiot, all the time and money I had spent responding to these charitable appeals had been wasted.

      I was not angry with him, at first.  I was willing to regard what he had done as merely a clerical error.

      You have got the items down all right, I said (I spoke quite friendly), but you have made a slight mistake—we all do now and again; you have put them down on the wrong side of the book.  I only hope this sort of thing doesn’t occur often.

      What irritated me as much as anything was the grave, passionless face the Angel turned upon me.

      There is no mistake, he answered.

      No mistake! I cried.  Why, you blundering—

      He closed the book with a weary sigh.

      I felt so mad with him, I went to snatch it out of his hand.  He did not do anything that I was aware of, but at once I began falling.  The faint luminosity beneath me grew, and then the lights of London seemed shooting up to meet me.  I was coming down on the clock tower at Westminster.  I gave myself a convulsive twist, hoping

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