Original subtitles

Some people find great difficulty

in saying goodbye when making a call

or spending the evening.

I think the saddest case of this kind of thing

that I ever knew was that of my poor friend,

Melpomenus Jones.

He was too modest to tell a lie

and too religious to wish to appear rude.

He simply couldn't get away from people.

Now it happened that he went to call on some friends of his

on the very first afternoon of his summer vacation.

The next six weeks were entirely his own.

Absolutely nothing to do.

drank two cups of tea,

then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly,

"Well, I think I..."

But the lady of the house said,

"Oh no, Mr. Jones. Can't you really stay a little longer?"

Jones was always truthful.

"Oh yes," he said. "Of course I can stay."

"Then please don't go."

He stayed.

He drank 11 cups of tea.

Night was falling.

He rose again.

"Well, now," he said shyly. "I think I really..."

"You must go?" said the lady politely.

"I thought perhaps you could have stayed to dinner."

"Oh, well, so I could you know," Jones said.

"Then please stay. I'm sure my husband will be delighted."

"All right," he said feebly. "I'll stay."

And he sank back into his chair,

just full of tea and miserable.

Papa came home.

All through the meal Jones sat planning to leave at 8:30.

All the family wondered whether Mr. Jones was stupid

and sulky, or only stupid.

After dinner, Mama undertook to draw him out,

and showed him photographs.

Photos of Papa's uncle and his wife,

and Mama's brother and his little boy,

an awfully interesting photo of Papa's uncle's friend

in his Bengal uniform, and an awfully wicked one

of Papa as the devil for a fancy dress ball.

At 8:30, Jones had examined 71 photographs.

There were about 69 more that he hadn't.

Jones rose.

"I must say good night now," he pleaded.

"Say good night?" they said.

"Why, it's only half past eight!"

"Have you anything to do?"

"Nothing," he admitted, and muttered something

about staying six weeks.

Just then it turned out that the favorite child

of the family, who was such a dear little romp,

had hidden Mr. Jones's hat.

So Papa said that he must stay,

and invited him to a pipe and a chat.

Papa had the pipe and gave Jones the chat,

and still he stayed.

Every moment he meant to take the plunge, but couldn't.

Then Papa began to get very tired of Jones,

and fidgeted and finally said with jocular irony

that Jones had better stay all night.

Jones mistook his meaning and thanked him with tears

in his eyes, and Papa put Jones to bed in the spare room

and cursed him heartily.

After breakfast the next day, Papa went off to his work

in the city, and left Jones playing

with the baby, broken-hearted.

His nerve was utterly gone.

He was meaning to leave all day,

but the thing had got on his mind and he simply couldn't.

When Papa came home in the evening, he was surprised

and chagrined to find Jones still there.

He thought to jockey him out with a jest,

and said he thought he'd have to charge him

for his board, "heh, heh!"

The unhappy young man stared wildly for a moment,

then wrung Papa's hand, paid him a month's board in advance,

and broke down and sobbed like a child.

In the days that followed, he was moody and unapproachable.

He lived, of course, entirely in the drawing room,

and the lack of air and exercise began

to tell sadly on his health.

He passed his time in drinking tea

and looking at the photographs.

He'd stand for hours gazing at the photographs

of Papa's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform,

talking to it, sometimes swearing bitterly at it.

His mind was visibly failing.

At length, the crash came.

They carried him upstairs in a raging delirium of fever.

The illness that followed was terrible.

He recognized no one.

At times, he'd start up from his bed and shriek,

"Another cup of tea and more photographs!"

"More photographs, har, har!"

After a month of agony, on the last day

of his vacation, he passed away.

They say that when the last moment came,

he sat up in bed and said, "Well, the angels are calling me."

"I'm afraid I really must go now."

"Good afternoon."

And the rushing of his spirit from its prison house was

as rapid as a hunted cat passing over a garden fence.