JIMMY.
（An Inverted Love Story）
By William Schwenk Gilbert
I am a poor paralysed fellow who， for many years past， hasbeen confined to a bed or a sofa. For the last six years I haveoccupied a small room， giving on to one of the side canals ofVenice， and having no one about me but a deaf old woman，who makes my bed and attends to my food； and there I eke outa poor income of about thirty pounds a year by making watercolourdrawings of flowers and fruit （they are the cheapestmodels in Venice）， and these I send to a friend in London， whosells them to a dealer for small sums. But， on the whole， I amhappy and content.
It is necessary that I should describe the position of my roomrather minutely. Its only window is about five feet above thewater of the canal， and above it the house projects some sixfeet， and overhangs the water， the projecting portion beingsupported by stout piles driven into the bed of the canal.
This arrangement has the disadvantage （among others） of solimiting my upward view that I am unable to see more thanabout ten feet of the height of the house immediately oppositeto me， although， by reaching as far out of the window as myinfirmity will permit， I can see for a considerable distanceup and down the canal， which does not exceed fifteen feet inwidth. But， although I can see but little of the material houseopposite， I can see its reflection upside down in the canal， andI take a good deal of inverted interest in such of its inhabitantsas show themselves from time to time （always upside down）on its balconies and at its windows.
When I first occupied my room， about six years ago， myattention was directed to the reflection of a little girl of thirteenor so （as nearly as I could judge）， who passed every day ona balcony just above the upward range of my limited fieldof view. She had a glass of flowers and a crucifix on a littletable by her side； and as she sat there， in fine weather， fromearly morning until dark， working assiduously all the time，I concluded that she earned her living by needle-work. Shewas certainly an industrious little girl， and， as far as I couldjudge by her upside-down reflection， neat in her dress andpretty. She had an old mother， an invalid， who， on warm days，would sit on the balcony with her， and it interested me to seethe little maid wrap the old lady in shawls， and bring pillowsfor her chair， and a stool for her feet， and every now and againlay down her work and kiss and fondle the old lady for half aminute， and then take up her work again.
Time went by， and as the little maid grew up， her reflectiongrew down， and at last she was quite a little woman of， Isuppose， sixteen or seventeen. I can only work for a coupleof hours or so in the brightest part of the day， so I had plentyof time on my hands in which to watch her movements， andsufficient imagination to weave a little romance about her，and to endow her with a beauty which， to a great extent， I hadto take for granted. I saw—or fancied that I could see—thatshe began to take an interest in my reflection （which， ofcourse， she could see as I could see hers）； and one day， whenit appeared to me that she was looking right at it—that is tosay when her reflection appeared to be looking right at me—Itried the desperate experiment of nodding to her， and to myintense delight her reflection nodded in reply. And so our tworeflections became known to one another.
It did not take me very long to fall in love with her， buta long time passed before I could make up my mind to domore than nod to her every morning， when the old womanmoved me from my bed to the sofa at the window， and againin the evening， when the little maid left the balcony for thatday. One day， however， when I saw her reflection lookingat mine， I nodded to her， and threw a flower into the canal.
She nodded several times in return， and I saw her direct hermother’s attention to the incident. Then every morning I threwa flower into the water for ‘good morning’， and another in theevening for ‘goodnight’， and I soon discovered that I had notaltogether thrown them in vain， for one day she threw a flowerto join mine， and she laughed and clapped her hands whenshe saw the two flowers join forces and float away together.
And then every morning and every evening she threw herflower when I threw mine， and when the two flowers met sheclapped her hands， and so did I； but when they were separated，as they sometimes were， owing to one of them having met anobstruction which did not catch the other， she threw up herhands in a pretty affectation of despair， which I tried to imitatebut in an English and unsuccessful fashion. And when theywere rudely run down by a passing gondola （which happenednot unfrequently） she pretended to cry， and I did the same.
Then， in pretty pantomime， she would point downwards tothe sky to tell me that it was Destiny that had caused theshipwreck of our flowers， and I， in pantomime， not nearly sopretty， would try to convey to her that Destiny would be kindernext time， and that perhaps tomorrow our flowers would bemore fortunate—and so the innocent courtship went on. Oneday she showed me her crucifix and kissed it， and thereupon Itook a little silver crucifix that always stood by me， and kissedthat， and so she knew that we were one in religion.
