The Diary of a Pilgrimage/Tea-Kettles

by Jerome Klapka Jerome

TEA-KETTLES.

TEA-KETTLES.

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It is asserted by scientific men that you can take a kettle full of boiling water off the fire, and, placing it on your outstretched hand, carry it round the room without suffering any hurt to yourself whatever, unless, of course, the thing upsets.

It is necessary to be sure that the water actually boils, as otherwise you will burn your hand; and it is also as well to look and see that there are no hot cinders clinging to the bottom of the kettle. These two rules observed, the exercise may be indulged in with much success.

The explanation of the seeming phenomenon is very simple. The heat from the fire passes through the kettle and into the water, and thus, as soon as the water boils, the kettle, as anyone who has studied science and those sort of things will readily understand, becomes cool, and may be carried about in the way I have explained instead of by the handle.

For myself, I generally adopt the handle method, notwithstanding, and take a towel to it. I did try the scientific way once, but I do not think the water could have been boiling; and that, as I have explained, is a very important point, because, except when the water is actually boiling, the kettle is hot, and you are apt to say: "Oh! Damn!" and drop it, and the water splashes out all over the floor. And then all the folks you have invited into the kitchen to witness this triumph of science, they say "Oh! Damn!" too, and skip about in a disorderly manner, and flick their feet in the air, and rush out into the passage, where they sit down on the cool oilcloth, and try to take off both boots at once.

I do not know how it is, but I have generally found a certain amount of variance between theory and practice. I remember they told me, when I was learning swimming, that if I lay flat on my back, with my arms extended, and kept perfectly still, I could not sink—not even if I wanted to. I don't know why they should have thought that I wanted to; but they evidently considered that there was a chance of my trying to do so, and that it was only kind of them to advise me not to, as the effort could only result in disappointment and loss of time. I might, if I stopped there on the water long enough, die of starvation or old age; or I might, in the case of a fog coming on, be run down by a boat and killed that way; but sink and be drowned, they assured me, I could not be. For a man to sink when lying on his back on the water was an utter impossibility: they worked this out on a slate, and made it quite clear to me, so that I saw it for myself.

And day after day, I would go down to the sea and place myself on the water in that position in which, as I have explained, it was contrary to the laws of nature that I should sink, and invariably and promptly go straight down to the bottom, head foremost!

Then there is that theory of the power of the human eye, and how it will subdue cows and other wild beasts. I tried that once. I was crossing a field near a farmhouse at which I was staying; and, just when I had nearly reached the middle, and was about three hundred yards from the handiest fence, I became aware of the fact that I was being regarded with quite an embarrassing amount of attention by an active and intelligent-looking cow. I took it at first as a compliment, and thought that I had mashed the cow; but when she slewed her head round so as to bring the point of her left horn exactly opposite the pit of my stomach, and began to sling her tail round and round in a circle, and foam at the mouth, I concluded that there must be something more in her mind than a mere passing fancy!

And then it suddenly occurred to me that it was because of this very cow I had been warned not to go near this very field. The poor animal had lately suffered a severe mental strain, owing to having been deprived of her offspring, and had evidently determined to relieve her overburdened feelings on the very first living thing that came fooling around.

Well, there I was, and what was I to do? I paused for a moment, wondering. At first I thought I would lie down and pretend to be dead. I had read somewhere that if you lie down and pretend to be dead, the most savage animal will never touch you. I forget the reason why it will not; I rather think it is supposed to be because it is disappointed at not having had the fun of killing you itself. That makes it sulky, and it will have nothing to do with you. Or else its conscience is touched in some way, and the result of the deed it has been contemplating brought home to it; so that it goes away full of thankfulness at having been kept from a great crime, and determines to be a better beast for the future.

But, as I was preparing to drop down, the thought struck me: Was it all beasts that felt this way when they saw a man shamming dead, or was it only lions and tigers? I could not call to mind any instance of a traveller having escaped from a Jersey cow by this device; and to lie down in front of the animal, if it were merely going to take advantage of your doing so to jump on you, seemed unwise.

Then, too, how about getting up again? In the African desert, of course, you wait until the animal has gone home; but, in this case, the cow lived in the field, and I should have to go on pretending to be dead for perhaps a week!

No; I would try the power of the human eye. The human eye has a very wonderful effect upon animals, so I have been informed. No animal can bear its steady gaze. Under its influence a vague sense of terror gradually steals over the creature's senses; and, after vainly battling for a while against its irresistible power, the animal invariably turns and flies.

So I opened my right eye to its fullest extent, and fixed it hard on that unfortunate cow.

"I will not unduly terrify the poor thing," I said to myself. "I will just frighten her a little, and then let her go; and I will, afterwards, return the way I came, and not needlessly pain her by crossing the field any further."

But what appeared so extraordinary to my mind was, that the cow showed no signs of alarm whatever. "A vague sense of terror" began to gradually—I may say rapidly—steal over one of us, it is certain; but that one was not the cow. I can hardly expect anyone to believe it; but as a matter of fact the cow's eye, fixed with an intensely malevolent expression upon myself, caused more uneasiness to me than did my eye to the cow!

I glared at her harder than ever. All my feelings of kindly consideration towards the brute were gone. I should not have minded now if I had sent her into fits.

But she bore up under it. Nay, she did more. She lowered her head, slung up her tail stiff at right angles to her back, and, roaring, made towards me.

Then I lost all faith in the power of the human eye, and tried the power of the human leg; and reached the other side of the fence with the sixteenth of a second to spare.

No; it is not well to rule oneself by theories. We think, when we are very young, that theories, or "philosophies" as we term them, are guiding lights, held out by Wisdom over the pathway of life; we learn, as we grow older, that, too often, they are mere will-o'-the-wisps, hovering over dismal swamps where dead men's bones lie rotting.

We stand with our hand upon the helm of our little bark, and we gather round us in a heap the log-books of the great dead captains that have passed over the sea before us. We note with care their course; and, in our roll of memory, we mark their soundings, and we learn their words of counsel, and their wise maxims, and all the shrewd, deep thoughts that came to them during the long years they sailed upon those same troubled waters that are heaving round us now.

Their experience shall be our compass. Their voices, whispering in our ear, shall be our pilot. By the teaching of their silent lips will we set our sails to the unseen wind.

But the closer we follow the dog's-eared logs, the wilder our poor craft tosses. The wind that filled the sails of those vanished ships blew not as blows the wind that strains our masts this day; and where they rode in safety, we run aground on reefs and banks, and our quivering timbers creak and groan, and we are well-nigh wrecked.

We must close those fading pages. They can teach us to be brave sailors, but they cannot tell us how to sail.

Over the sea of Life each must guide the helm for himself: and none can give us aid or counsel; for no one knows, nor ever has known, the pathway over that trackless ocean. In the Heavens above us shines the sun: and when the night falls, the stars come forth; and by these, looking upward, we must steer, and God be with us on the waters!

For the sea of Life is very deep, and no man knows its soundings, and no man knows its hidden shoals and rocks, nor the strong currents flowing underneath its sunny surface; for its sands are ever shifting, and its tides are ever varying, and for the ships upon its waves there is no chart.

The sea of Life is vast and boundless, and no man knows its shores. For many thousand ages have its waters flowed and ebbed, and ever, day by day, from out the mist have come the little ships into the light, and beckoned with their ghost-like sails, and passed away; and no man knows from whence they came, and no man knows the whither they have gone. And to each ship it is an unknown sea, and, over it, they sail to reach an unknown land; and where that land lies none can tell.

The sailors that have gone before! who are they, that we should follow them? For a brief day they have lain tossed upon the heaving waters: for a short hour they have clung to their poor bark of Time; and on the restless current it has drifted, and before the fitful wind it has been wafted, and over the deep they have passed into the darkness; and never more have they returned, and never more, though eyes, washed clear with bitter tears, have strained to pierce the gloom, have they or their frail ships been seen. Behind them the waters have closed up, and, of the way they went, there is no trail. Who are they, that they should draw a chart of this great ocean, and that we should trust to it?

What saw they of the mighty sea, but the waves lapping around their keel? They knew not the course they had sailed; they knew not the harbour that they sought. In the night they foundered and went down, and its lights they never saw.

The log of their few days' cruise, telling the struggles and dangers of their ship as it sailed, among so many myriad others, let us read and learn from; but their soundings of this fathomless sea, their tracings of its unseen shores, of what value are they, but as guesses to riddles whose answers are lost? Do moles draw maps of the world for the guidance of other moles?

In all things do we not listen too much to the voices of our brothers, especially in those matters wherein they are least able to instruct us? Is there not in the world too much pulpit-preaching of this doctrine, and too much novel and essay-writing against that, and too much shrieking out of directions to this truth and of warnings against that; so that, amid the shrieking and the thumping of so many energetic ladies and gentlemen, the still, low voice of God himself, speaking to our souls, gets quite drowned?

Ever since this world was set a-spinning we have been preaching and lecturing, and crusading and pamphleteering, and burning and advising each other into the way to go to Heaven; and we are still hard at it, and we are still all rushing about as confused and bewildered as ever, and nobody knows who is right, but we are all convinced that everybody else is wrong!

This way, that way, not the other way, we cry.

"Here is the path, the only path; follow me, unless you wish to be lost!"

"Follow him not! He is leading you wrong!" says another. "I alone know the way!"

"No, no, heed neither of them!" says a third. "This is the road. I have just found it. All the roads men have gone by before have led them wrong; but we shall be all right now: follow me!"

In one age, by sword and fire, and other kinds of eloquent appeal, we drive men up to Heaven through one gate, and in the next generation we furiously chase them away from that same gate; for we have discovered that it is a wrong gate, and leads, in fact, to perdition, and we hurry them off by another route entirely.

So, like chickens in a dusty highway, we scuttle round and round, and spin about and cry, and none of us knows the way home.

It is sincerely to be hoped that we do all get to this Heaven one day, wherever it may be. We make hullaballoo enough about it, and struggle hard enough to squeeze in. We do not know very much what it is like. Some fancy it is an exhibition of gold and jewels; and others, that it is a sort of everlasting musical "At Home." But we are all agreed that it is a land where we shall live well and not do any work, and we are going to have everything our own way and be very happy; and the people we do not like will not be allowed in.

It is a place, we have made up our minds, where all the good things of the other world are going to be given away; and, oh, how anxious we all are to be well to the front there!

Perhaps there are others, though, not of the piously self-seeking crew, to whom Heaven only means a wider sphere of thought and action, a clearer vision, a nobler life, nearer to God; and these, walking through the darkness of this world, "stretch lame hands of faith and grope," trying to find the light. And so many are shouting out directions to them, and they that know the least shout the loudest!

Yes, yes, they are clever and earnest, these shouters, and they have thought, and have spoken the thought that was in them, so far as they have understood it themselves; but what is it all, but children teaching children? We are poor little fatherless brats, let to run wild about the streets and alleys of this noisy earth; and the wicked urchins among us play pitch-and-toss or marbles, and fight; and we quiet ones sit on a doorstep and play at schools, and little 'Liza Philosophy and Tommy Goodboy will take it in turn to be "teacher," and will roar at us, and slap us, and instruct us in all they have learnt. And, if we are good and pay attention, we shall come to know as much as they do: think of that!

Come away—come away from the gutter and the tiresome game. Come away from the din. Come away to the quiet fields, over which the great sky stretches, and where, between us and the stars, there lies but silence; and there, in the stillness let us listen to the voice that is speaking within us.

Hark to it, O poor questioning children; it is the voice of God! To the mind of each of us it speaks, showing the light to our longing eyes, making all things clear to us, if we will but follow it. All through the weary days of doubt and terror, has it been whispering words of strength and comfort to our aching heart and brain, pointing out the path through the darkness to the knowledge and truth that our souls so hunger for; and, all the while, we have been straining our ears to catch the silly wisdom. of the two-legged human things that cackle round us, and have not heeded it! Let us have done with other men's teaching, other men's guidance. Let us listen to ourselves.———No, you cannot tell what you have learnt to others. That is what so many are trying to do. They would not understand you, and it would only help to swell the foolish din. The truths he has taught to us, we cannot teach to our fellow-men: none but God himself can speak their language, from no other voice but his can they be heard,—"The Lord is in his holy temple, let all the earth keep silence before him."

The serious and the comic seem to be for ever playing hide-and-seek with one another in and out our lives, like light and shadow through an April day; and ofttimes they, as children in a game, catch one another and embrace, and, with their arms entwined, lean for a space upon each other before the chase begins afresh. I was walking up and down the garden, following out this very idea—namely, of the childishness of our trying to teach one another in matters that we know so little of ourselves—when, on passing the summer-house, I overheard my argument being amusingly illustrated by my eldest niece, aged seven, who was sitting very upright in a very big chair, giving information to her younger sister, aged five, on the subject of "Babies: their origin, discovery, and use."

"You know, babies," she was remarking in conclusion, "ain't like dollies. Babies is 'live. Nobody gives you babies till you're growed up. An' they're very improper. We 're not s'posed to talk 'bout such things—we was babies once."

She is a very thoughtful child, is my eldest niece. Her thirst for knowledge is a most praiseworthy trait in her character, but has rather an exhausting effect upon the rest of the family. We limit her now to seven hundred questions a day. After she has asked seven hundred questions, and we have answered them, or, rather, as many as we are able, we boycott her; and she retires to bed, indignant, asking:

"Why only seven hundred? Why not eight?"

Nor is her range of inquiry what you would call narrow or circumscribed at all. It embraces most subjects that are known as yet to civilisation, from abstract theology to cats; from the failure of marriage to chocolate, and why you must not take it out and look at it when you have once put it inside your mouth.

She has her own opinion, too, about most of these matters, and expresses it with a freedom which is apt to shock respectably-brought-up folk. I am not over orthodox myself, but she staggers even me at times. Her theories are too advanced for me at present.

She has not given much attention to the matter of babies hitherto. It is only this week that she has gone in for that subject. The explanation is—I hardly like mentioning it. Perhaps it—I don't know, I don't see that there can be any harm in it, though. Yet—well, the fact of the matter is, there is an "event" expected in our family, or rather, in my brother-in-law's; and there! you know how these things get discussed among relations, and May, that is my niece's name, is one of those children that you are always forgetting is about, and never know how much it has heard and how much it has not.

The child said nothing, however, and all seemed right until last Sunday afternoon. It was a wet day, and I was reading in the breakfast-parlour, and Emily was sitting on the sofa, looking at an album of Swiss views with Dick Chetwyn. Dick and Emily are engaged. Dick is a steady young fellow, and Emily loves him dearly, I am sure; but they both suffer, in my opinion, from an over-sense of modesty. As for Emily, it does not so much matter: girls are like that before they are married. But in Dick it seems out of place. They both of them flare up quite scarlet at the simplest joke even. They always make me think of Gilbert's bashful young couple.

Well, there we were, sitting round, the child on the floor, playing with her bricks. She had been very quiet for about five minutes, and I was just wondering what could be the matter with her, when, all of a sudden, and without a word of warning, she observed, in the most casual tone of voice, while continuing her building operations:

"Is Auntie Cissy goin' to have a little boy-baby, or a little girl-baby, uncle?"

"Oh, don't ask silly questions; she hasn't made up her mind yet."

"Oh, oh! I think I should 'vise her to have a little girl, 'cause little girls ain't so much trouble as boys, is they? Which would you 'vise her to have, uncle?"

"Will you go on with your bricks, and not talk about things you don't understand? We're not supposed to talk about those sort of things at all. It isn't proper."

"What isn't p'oper? Ain't babies p'oper?"

"No; very improper, especially some of them."

"'Umph! then what's people have 'em for, if they isn't p'oper?"

"Will you go on with your bricks, or will you not? How much oftener am I to speak to you, I wonder? People can't help having them. They are sent to chasten us; to teach us what a worrying, drive-you-mad sort of world this is, and we have to put up with them. But there's no need to talk about them."

There was silence for a few minutes, and then came:

"Does Uncle Henry know? He'll be her puppa, won't he?"

"Eh! What? Know what? What are you talking about now?"

"Does Uncle Henry know 'bout this baby that Auntie Cissy's goin' to have?"

"Yes, of course, you little idiot!—Does Uncle Henry know!"

"Yes—I s'pose they'd tell him, 'cause, you see, he'll have to pay for it, won't he?"

"Well, nobody else will if he doesn't."

"It costs heaps and heaps and heaps of money, a baby, don't it?"

"Yes, heaps."

"Two shillin's?"

"Oh, more than that! "

"Yes, I s'pose they're very 'spensive. Could I have a baby, uncle?"

"Oh, yes; two."

"No, really! On my birthday?"

"Oh, don't be so silly! Babies are not dolls. Babies are alive! You don't buy them. You are given them. when you are grown up."

"Shall I have a baby when I'm growed up?"

"Oh, it all depends! And don't say 'growed up.' You've been told that before. It's 'grown up,' not 'growed up.' I don't know where you get your English from."

"When I'm growned up, then. Shall I have a baby when I'm growned up?"

"Oh, bother the child! Yes, if you're good and don't worry, and get married."

"What's 'married'? What mumma and puppa is?"

"Yes."

"And what Auntie Emily and Mr. Chetwyn is goin' to be?"

"Yes; don't talk so much."

"Oh! can't you have a baby 'less you're married?"

"No, certainly not."

"Oh! Will Auntie Emily have a———"

"Go on with your bricks! I'll take those bricks away from you, if you don't play quietly with them. You never hear me or your father ask silly questions like that. You haven't learnt your lessons for to-morrow yet, you know."

Confound the child! I can't make out where children get their notions from, confounded little nuisances!

Let me see, what was I writing about? Oh! I know, "Tea-kettles." Yes, it ought to be rather an interesting subject, "Tea-kettles." I should think a man might write a very good article on "Tea-kettles." I must have a try at it one of these days!

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