FullReads

An American lady, a year or two ago, wrote me a letter that did me real good: she appreciated my work with so much understanding, criticised it with such sympathetic interest. She added that, when in England the summer before, she had been on the point of accepting an invitation to meet me; but at the last moment she had changed her mind; she felt so sure–she put it pleasantly, but this is what it came to–that in my own proper person I should fall short of her expectations. For my own sake I felt sorry she had cried off; it would have been worth something to have met so sensible a woman. An author introduced to people who have read–or who say that they have read–his books, feels always like a man taken for the first time to be shown to his future wife’s relations. They are very pleasant. They try to put him at his ease. But he knows instinctively they are disappointed with him. I remember, when a very young man, attending a party at which a famous American humorist was the chief guest. I was standing close behind a lady who was talking to her husband.

“He doesn’t look a bit funny,” said the lady.

“Great Scott!” answered her husband. “How did you expect him to look? Did you think he would have a red nose and a patch over one eye?”

“Oh, well, he might look funnier than that, anyhow,” retorted the lady, highly dissatisfied. “It isn’t worth coming for.”

We all know the story of the hostess who, leaning across the table during the dessert, requested of the funny man that he would kindly say something amusing soon, because the dear children were waiting to go to bed. Children, I suppose, have no use for funny people who don’t choose to be funny. I once invited a friend down to my house for a Saturday to Monday. He is an entertaining man, and before he came I dilated on his powers of humour–somewhat foolishly perhaps– in the presence of a certain youthful person who resides with me, and who listens when she oughtn’t to, and never when she ought. He happened not to be in a humorous mood that evening. My young relation, after dinner, climbed upon my knee. For quite five minutes she sat silent. Then she whispered:

“Has he said anything funny?”

“Hush. No, not yet; don’t be silly.”

Five minutes later: “Was that funny?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because–can’t you hear? We are talking about Old Age Pensions.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s–oh, never mind now. It isn’t a subject on which one can be funny.”

“Then what’s he want to talk about it for?”

She waited for another quarter of an hour. Then, evidently bored, and much to my relief, suggested herself that she might as well go to bed. She ran to me the next morning in the garden with an air of triumph.

“He said something so funny last night,” she told me.

“Oh, what was it?” I inquired. It seemed to me I must have missed it.

“Well, I can’t exactly ‘member it,” she explained, “not just at the moment. But it was so funny. I dreamed it, you know.”

For folks not Lions, but closely related to Lions, introductions must be trying ordeals. You tell them that for years you have been yearning to meet them. You assure them, in a voice trembling with emotion, that this is indeed a privilege. You go on to add that when a boy –

At this point they have to interrupt you to explain that they are not the Mr. So-and-So, but only his cousin or his grandfather; and all you can think of to say is: “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

I had a nephew who was once the amateur long-distance bicycle champion. I have him still, but he is stouter and has come down to a motor car. In sporting circles I was always introduced as “Shorland’s Uncle.” Close-cropped young men would gaze at me with rapture; and then inquire: “And do you do anything yourself, Mr. Jerome?”