116 Three men in a boat.pdf

Jerome K. Jerome

Three men in a boat

Retold by Ian Edward Transue

w o r y g i n a l e

Chapter I

What We Need

is Rest!

Mediasat Poland Bis sp. z o.o.

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There were four of us - George, William Samuel

Harris, myself and Montmorency. We were sitting

in my room and talking about how bad we were - bad

from a medical point of view I mean, of course.

We were all feeling terrible, and we were getting

quite nervous about it. Harris and George said

they hardly knew what they were doing at times.

With me, it was my liver that was out of order. I

knew it was my liver that was out of order, because

I had just been reading an article which described

the various symptoms by which a man could tell

when his liver was out of order. I had them all.

It is an extraordinary thing, but I never read a

medicine article without coming to the conclusion

that I have the particular disease written about in

the article.

I remember going to the British Museum one

day to read about some illness which I had. I got

down the book and read all I could. Then I kept

reading about other diseases. I forget which was

the first disease I read about, but before I had

read halfway down the list of symptoms, I was

positive that I had got it.

Every disease I came to, I found that I had in

some form or another. I read through the whole

book, and the only illness I found that I had not

got was housemaid’s knee.

I had walked into that reading-room a happy,

healthy man. I crawled out a horrible wreck.

I went straight to my doctor and saw him, and

he said: „Well, what’s the matter with you?”

I said: „I will not take up your time telling you

what is the matter with me. Life is short, and you

might pass away before I have finished. But I will

tell you what is NOT the matter with me. I have

not got housemaid’s knee. Why I have not got

housemaid’s knee, I cannot tell you. Everything

else, however, I HAVE got.”

And I told him how I came to discover it all.

Then he examined me and held my wrist, and then

he hit me on the chest when I wasn’t expecting it

- a cowardly thing to do, I call it. After that, he sat

down, wrote out a prescription, folded it up and

gave it to me. I put it in my pocket and went out.

I took it to the nearest chemist’s and handed it

in. The man read it and then handed it back.

He said: „I am a chemist. If I was a store and

family hotel combined, I might be able to help

you. But I’m only a chemist.”

I read the prescription. It said:

„1 pound beefsteak, with

1 pint bitter beer every 6 hours.

1 ten-mile walk every morning.

1 bed at 11 sharp every night.

And don’t fill your head with things you don’t

understand.”

Going back to my liver, I had the symptoms,

beyond all mistake, the main one being „a general

disinterest in work of any kind”.

As a boy, the disease hardly ever left me for

a day. They did not know, then, that it was my

liver. They used to just call it laziness.

„Why, you little devil, you,” they would say,

„get up and do something for your living, can’t

you?” - not knowing, of course, that I was ill.

And they didn’t give me pills; they just hit me

on the side of the head. And, strange as it seems,

those hits on the head often cured me - for a short

while, anyway.

We sat there for half-an-hour, describing to

each other our illnesses, when Mrs. Poppets

knocked at the door to find out if we were ready

for supper. We smiled sadly at one another, and

said we supposed we had better try to eat a bit.

„What we want is rest,” said Harris after supper.

„Rest and a complete change,” said George,

„this will make us feel better.”

I agreed with George and suggested that we should

look for some quiet spot, far from the crowds.

Harris said he thought it would be boring and

suggested a sea trip instead.

I objected to the sea trip strongly. A sea trip does

you good when you are going to have a couple of

months of it, but, for a week, it is horrible.

You start on Monday with the idea that you are

going to enjoy yourself. On Tuesday, you wish

you hadn’t come. On Wednesday, Thursday, and

Friday, you wish you were dead. On Saturday,

you are able to drink a little tea and to sit up on

deck. On Sunday, you begin to walk about again

and eat solid food. And on Monday morning,

as you are waiting to step ashore, you begin to

thoroughly like it.

George said: „Let’s go up the river.”

He said we should have fresh air, exercise

and quiet. The constant change of scene would

occupy our minds (including what there was of

Harris’s), and the hard work would give us a good

appetite and make us sleep well.

Harris said he didn’t think George ought to do

anything that would make him sleepier than he

always was, as it might be dangerous. He added

that if he DID sleep any more, he might just as

well be dead.

Harris said, however, that the river would suit

him to a „T”. I don’t know what a „T” is, but it

seems to suit everybody.

The only one who was not happy with the

suggestion was Montmorency. He never did care

for the river.

„It’s all very well for you fellows,” he says. „You

like it, but I don’t. There’s nothing for me to do.

If I see a rat, you won’t stop, and if I go to sleep,

you’ll go fooling about with the boat and throw

me overboard. If you ask me, I call the whole

thing foolish.”

We were three to one, however, and the motion

was carried.

We arranged to start on the following Saturday

from Kingston. Harris and I would go down in

the morning and take the boat up to Chertsey,

and George, who would not be able to get away

from work till the afternoon (George goes to

sleep at a bank from ten to four each day, except

Saturdays, when they wake him up and make him

leave at two), would meet us there.

Should we „camp out” or sleep at inns?

George and I were for camping out. We said it

would be so wild and free – the golden sun fading

as it sets; the pale stars shining at night; and the

moon throwing her silver arms around the river

as we fall asleep to the sound of the water.

Harris said: „How about if it rains?”

There is no poetry about Harris. Harris never

„weeps, he knows not why”. If Harris’s eyes fill

with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has

been eating raw onions.

If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore

with Harris, and say: „Hark! do you not hear? Is it

but the mermaids singing deep below the waving

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