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In "Passing of the Third Floor Back," Jerome K. Jerome weaves a delightful tapestry of humor, social commentary, and philosophical musings. Set within the confines of a modest boarding house, the narrative unfolds around a mysterious stranger who disrupts the lives of the eccentric residents. The text is characterized by Jerome's signature wit, employing a conversational style that invites readers into intimate reflections on life and human nature. Through clever dialogue and vivid characterization, the novella serves as both a comedic exploration of social class and an insightful examination of the human condition, enriched by the broader literary context of the late Victorian era and its evolving views on society. Jerome K. Jerome, known for his comedic prowess and mastery of satire, drew upon his own experiences in a diverse range of occupations and the cultural milieu of his time. His keen observations of human folly and charm shine through in this work, reflecting a desire to challenge societal norms and remind readers of the importance of kindness and connection amidst life's complexities. Jerome's unique background, including his interest in theatre and travel, greatly influenced his writing style and thematic concerns. "Passing of the Third Floor Back" is highly recommended for readers seeking a captivating blend of humor and introspective thought. It resonates with those interested in the intersection of comedy and philosophy, offering a timeless reflection on humanity. Jerome's ability to balance wit with wisdom makes this novella both an entertaining read and a profound commentary on life, making it a cherished addition to any literary collection.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Author of “Paul Kelver,” “Three Men in a Boat,” etc., etc.
New York
Dodd, Mead & Company
1909
Copyright, 1904, By Jerome K. Jerome
Copyright, 1908, By Dodd, Mead & Company
Published, September, 1908
The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o’clock of a November afternoon is not so crowded as to secure to the stranger, of appearance anything out of the common, immunity from observation. Tibb’s boy, screaming at the top of his voice that she was his honey, stopped suddenly, stepped backwards on to the toes of a voluble young lady wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to the somewhat personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he had reached the next corner—and then more as a soliloquy than as information to the street—did Tibb’s boy recover sufficient interest in his own affairs to remark that he was her bee. The voluble young lady herself, following some half-a-dozen yards behind, forgot her wrongs in contemplation of the stranger’s back. There was this that was peculiar about the stranger’s back: that instead of being flat it presented a decided curve. “It ain’t a ‘ump, and it don’t look like kervitcher of the spine,” observed the voluble young lady to herself. “Blimy if I don’t believe ‘e’s taking ’ome ‘is washing up his back.”
The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, noticed the stranger’s approach with gathering interest. “That’s an odd sort of a walk of yours, young man,” thought the constable. “You take care you don’t fall down and tumble over yourself.”
“Thought he was a young man,” murmured the constable, the stranger having passed him. “He had a young face right enough.”
The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read the name of the street upon the corner house, turned back.
“Why, ’tis a young man,” the constable told himself; “a mere boy.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger; “but would you mind telling me my way to Bloomsbury Square.”
“This is Bloomsbury Square,” explained the constable; “leastways round the corner is. What number might you be wanting?”
The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: “Mrs. Pennycherry. Number Forty-eight.”
“Round to the left,” instructed him the constable; “fourth house. Been recommended there?”
“By—by a friend,” replied the stranger. “Thank you very much.”
“Ah,” muttered the constable to himself; “guess you won’t be calling him that by the end of the week, young—”
“Funny,” added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the stranger. “Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he’ll look old all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry’s: stingy old cat.”
Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for not liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured lady. Maybe the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of generosity and amiability.
Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow’s cap before the looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the gas.
“And don’t stop gossiping, and don’t you take it upon yourself to answer questions. Say I’ll be up in a minute,” were Mrs. Pennycherry’s further instructions, “and mind you hide your hands as much as you can.”
***
“What are you grinning at?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of minutes later, of the dingy Mary Jane.
“Wasn’t grinning,” explained the meek Mary Jane, “was only smiling to myself.”
“What at?”
“Dunno,” admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling.
“What’s he like then?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry.
“ ‘E ain’t the usual sort,” was Mary Jane’s opinion.
“Thank God for that,” ejaculated Mrs. Pennycherry piously.