Simon the Jester | Page 5

the Labour interest called me during the last
electoral campaign? My disciple and secretary, young Dale Kynnersley,
the only mortal besides Rogers who knows my whereabouts, trembles
for my reason. In the eyes of the excellent Rogers I am horn- mad.
What my constituents would think did they see me taking the muddy
air on a soggy afternoon, I have no conception. Dale keeps them at bay.

He also baffles the curiosity of my sisters, and by his diplomacy has
sent Eleanor Faversham on a huffy trip to Sicily. She cannot understand
why I bury myself in bleak solitude, instead of making cheerful holiday
among the oranges and lemons of the South.
Eleanor is a girl with a thousand virtues, each of which she expects to
find in counterpart in the man to whom she is affianced. Until a week
or two ago I actually thought myself in love with Eleanor. There
seemed a whimsical attraction in the idea of marrying a girl with a
thousand virtues. Before me lay the pleasant prospect of reducing them
--say, ten at a time--until I reached the limit at which life was possible,
and then one by one until life became entertaining. I admired her
exceedingly--a strapping, healthy English girl who looked you straight
in the eyes and gripped you fearlessly by the hand.
My friends "lucky-dog'd" me until I began to smirk to myself at my
own good fortune. She visited the constituency and comported herself
as if she had been a Member's wife since infancy, thereby causing my
heart to swell with noble pride. This unparalleled young person
compelled me to take my engagement almost seriously. If I shot forth a
jest, it struck against a virtue and fell blunted to the earth. Indeed, even
now I am sorry I can't marry Eleanor. But marriage is out of the
question.
I have been told by the highest medical authorities that I may manage
to wander in the flesh about this planet for another six months. After
that I shall have to do what wandering I yearn for through the medium
of my ghost. There is a certain humourousness in the prospect. Save for
an occasional pain somewhere inside me, I am in the most robust
health.
But this same little pain has been diagnosed by the Faculty as the
symptom of an obscure disease. An operation, they tell me, would kill
me on the spot. What it is called I cannot for the life of me remember.
They gave it a kind of lingering name, which I wrote down on my
shirt-cuff.
The name or characteristics of the thing, however, do not matter a fig. I

have always hated people who talked about their insides, and I am not
going to talk about mine, even to myself. Clearly, if it is only going to
last me six months, it is not worth talking about. But the quaint fact of
its brief duration is worth the attention of a contemplative mind.
It is in order perfectly to focus this attention that I have come to
Murglebed-on-Sea. Here I am alone with the murk and the mud and my
own indrawn breath of life. There are no flowers, blue sky, smiling
eyes, and dainty faces--none of the adventitious distractions of the earth.
There are no Blue-books. Before the Faculty made their jocular
pronouncement I had been filling my head with statistics on pauper
lunacy so as to please my constituency, in which the rate has increased
alarmingly of late years. Perhaps that is why I found myself their
representative in Parliament. I was to father a Bill on the subject next
session. Now the labour will fall on other shoulders. I interest myself in
pauper lunacy no more. A man requires less flippant occupation for the
premature sunset of his days. Well, in Murglebed I can think, I can
weigh the /pros/ and /cons/ of existence with an even mind, I can
accustom myself to the concept of a Great Britain without Simon de
Gex. M.P.
Of course, when I go I shall "cast one longing, lingering look behind." I
don't particularly want to die. In fact, having otherwise the prospect of
an entertaining life, I regard my impending dissolution in the light of a
grievance. But I am not afraid. I shall go through the dismal formality
with a graceful air and as much of a smile on my face as the pain in my
inside will physically permit.
My dear but somewhat sober-sided friend Marcus Aurelius says: "Let
death surprise me when it will, and where it will, I may be /eumoiros/,
or a happy man, nevertheless. For he is a happy man who in his lifetime
dealeth unto himself a happy lot and portion. A happy lot and portion in
good inclinations