Novel Notes

Novel Notes

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Novel Notes, by Jerome K. Jerome
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Title: Novel Notes
Author: Jerome K. Jerome
Release Date: March 24, 2005 [eBook #2037]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOVEL
NOTES***

Transcribed from the 1893 Leadenhall Press Ltd. edition by David
Price, email [email protected]

NOVEL NOTES
To Big-Hearted, Big-Souled, Big-Bodied friend Conan Doyle

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 ghosts--soiled 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
hers--there was not so very much difference in the size--began 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