Книга - Троє в одному човні (як не рахувати собаки) = Three Men in a Boat (to Say Nothing of the Dog)

Трое в одному човнi (як не рахувати собаки) = Three Men in a Boat (to Say Nothing of the Dog)
Jerome Klapka Jerome


Видання з паралельним текстом
Якщо ви бажаете дiстати заряд гарного настрою i захопитися тонким гумором, пропонуемо вiдкрити книжку англiйського письменника Джерома Клапки Джерома (1859—1927) «Трое в одному човнi (як не рахувати собаки)». ii головний розповiдач – типовий англiець – з суто англiйською незворушнiстю викладае прекумеднi iсторii.

Для тих, хто збираеться здiйснити подорож рiчкою, досвiд персонажiв книжки просто безцiнний. З повiстi можна почерпнути цiкавi вiдомостi про мистецтво веслування: як не скинути з човна напарника i не облити водою пасажирок; як ставити вiтрило, щоб воно не обгорнулося навколо вас; як, гойдаючись на хвилях, приготувати яечню i не розмазати яйця по одежi.

Цей блискучий твiр видатного письменника пережив свiй час i радуе нас оригiнальнiстю i заразливим гумором.





Джером Клапка Джером

Трое в одному човнi. Three Men in a Boat





Preface


The chief beauty of this book lies not so much in its literary style, or in the extent and usefulness of the information it conveys, as in its simple truthfulness. Its pages form the record of events that really happened. All that has been done is to colour them; and, for this, no extra charge has been made. George and Harris and Montmorency are not poetic ideals, but things of flesh and blood – especially George, who weighs about twelve stone. Other works may excel this in depth of thought and knowledge of human nature: other books may rival it in originality and size; but, for hopeless and incurable veracity, nothing yet discovered can surpass it. This, more than all its other charms, will, it is felt, make the volume precious in the eye of the earnest reader; and will lend additional weight to the lesson that the story teaches.



    London, August, 1889.




Передмова


Головна принада цiеi книжки не стiльки в лiтературному стилi чи повнотi й корисностi вiдомостей, що мiстяться в нiй, скiльки в ii щирiй правдивостi. Їi сторiнки – це звiт про подii, що вiдбувались насправдi. Я лише трiшечки прикрасив iх i не прошу за це доплати. Джордж, Гаррiс i Монтморенсi – не iдеальнi витвори поетичноi фантазii, а iстоти цiлком матерiальнi, особливо Джордж, що важить близько ста сiмдесяти фунтiв. Мабуть, iншi книжки перевершують цю глибиною думки i знанням людськоi природи; iншi книжки можуть змагатися з нею за оригiнальнiстю й обсягом; але щодо безнадiйноi, невилiковноi правдивостi жоден з вiдомих досi творiв не зрiвняеться з нею. І я гадаю, що з усiх ii принад саме ця зробить книжку неоцiненною для вдумливого читача й додасть iще бiльшоi ваги тiй науцi, яку з неi можна здобути.



    Лондон, серпень 1889 року.




Chapter One




Three Invalids – Sufferings of George and Harris – A victim to one hundred and seven fatal maladies – Useful prescriptions – Cure for liver complaint in children – We agree that we are over-worked, and need rest – A week on the rolling deep? – George suggests the River – Montmorency lodges an objection – Original motion carried by majority of three to one.


There were four of us – George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montmorency. We were sitting in my room, smoking, and talking about how bad we were – bad from a medical point of view I mean, of course.

We were all feeling seedy, and we were getting quite nervous about it. Harris said he felt such extraordinary fits of giddiness come over him at times, that he hardly knew what he was doing; and then George said that he had fits of giddiness too, and hardly knew what he was doing. 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 a patent liver-pill circular, in which were detailed the various symptoms by which a man could tell when his liver was out of order. I had them all.

It is a most extraordinary thing, but I never read a patent medicine advertisement without being impelled to the conclusion that I am suffering from the particular disease therein dealt with in its most virulent form. The diagnosis seems in every case to correspond exactly with all the sensations that I have ever felt.

I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch – hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases, generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into – some fearful, devastating scourge, I know – and, before I had glanced half down the list of “premonitory symptoms,” it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it.

I sat for a while frozen with horror; and then in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever – read the symptoms – discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it – wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus’s Dance – found, as I expected, that I had that too – began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically – read up ague, and learnt that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright’s disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid’s knee.

I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn’t I got housemaid’s knee? Why this invidious reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and I grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid’s knee. Gout, in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there was nothing else the matter with me.

I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class! Students would have no need to “walk the hospitals” if they had me. I was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk round me, and, after that, take their diploma.

Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I made it a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had scarlet fever.

I had walked into that reading-room a happy, healthy man. I crawled out a decrepit wreck.

I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I’m ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. “What a doctor wants,” I said, “is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each.” So I went straight up and saw him, and he said:

“Well, what’s the matter with you?”

I said:

“I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief and you might pass away before I had 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; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I have got.”

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

Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn’t expecting it – a cowardly thing to do, I call it – and immediately afterwards butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out.

I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist’s, and handed it in. The man read it, and then handed it back.

He said he didn’t keep it.

I said:

“You are a chemist?”

He said:

“I am a chemist. If I was a co-operative stores and family hotel combined, I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me.”

I read the prescription. It ran:

“1 lb. beefsteak, with

1 pt. bitter beer

every six hours.

1 ten-mile walk

every morning.

1 bed

at 11 sharp every night.

And don’t stuff up your head with things you don’t understand.”

I followed the directions, with the happy result – speaking for myself – that my life was preserved, and is still going on.

In the present instance, going back to the liver-pill circular, I had the symptoms, beyond all mistake, the chief among them being “a general disinclination to work of any kind.”

What I suffer in that way no tongue can tell. From my earliest infancy I have been a martyr to it. As a boy, the disease hardly ever left me for a day. They did not know, then, that it was my liver. Medical science was in a far less advanced state than now, and they used to put it down to laziness.

“Why, you skulking 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 gave me clumps on the side of the head. And, strange as it may appear, those clumps on the head often cured me – for the time being. I have known one clump on the head have more effect upon my liver, and make me feel more anxious to go straight away then and there, and do what was wanted to be done, without further loss of time, than a whole box of pills does now.

You know, it often is so – those simple, old-fashioned remedies are sometimes more efficacious than all the dispensary stuff.

We sat there for half-an-hour, describing to each other our maladies. I explained to George and William Harris how I felt when I got up in the morning, and William Harris told us how he felt when he went to bed; and George stood on the hearth-rug, and gave us a clever and powerful piece of acting, illustrative of how he felt in the night.

George fancies he is ill; but there’s never anything really the matter with him, you know.

At this point, Mrs. Poppets knocked at the door to know if we were ready for supper. We smiled sadly at one another, and said we supposed we had better try to swallow a bit. Harris said a little something in one’s stomach often kept the disease in check; and Mrs. Poppets brought the tray in, and we drew up to the table, and toyed with a little steak and onions, and some rhubarb tart.

I must have been very weak at the time; because I know, after the first half-hour or so, I seemed to take no interest whatever in my food – an unusual thing for me – and I didn’t want any cheese.

This duty done, we refilled our glasses, lit our pipes, and resumed the discussion upon our state of health. What it was that was actually the matter with us, we none of us could be sure of; but the unanimous opinion was that it – whatever it was – had been brought on by overwork.

“What we want is rest,” said Harris.

“Rest and a complete change,” said George. “The overstrain upon our brains has produced a general depression throughout the system. Change of scene, and absence of the necessity for thought, will restore the mental equilibrium.”

George has a cousin, who is usually described in the chargesheet as a medical student, so that he naturally has a somewhat family-physicianary way of putting things.

I agreed with George, and suggested that we should seek out some retired and old-world spot, far from the madding crowd, and dream away a sunny week among its drowsy lanes – some halfforgotten nook, hidden away by the fairies, out of reach of the noisy world – some quaint-perched eyrie on the cliffs of Time, from whence the surging waves of the nineteenth century would sound far-off and faint.

Harris said he thought it would be humpy. He said he knew the sort of place I meant; where everybody went to bed at eight o’clock, and you couldn’t get a Referee for love or money, and had to walk ten miles to get your baccy.

“No” said Harris, “if you want rest and change, you can’t beat a sea trip.”

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 wicked.

You start on Monday with the idea implanted in your bosom that you are going to enjoy yourself. You wave an airy adieu to the boys on shore, light your biggest pipe, and swagger about the deck as if you were Captain Cook, Sir Francis Drake, and Christopher Columbus all rolled into one. On Tuesday, you wish you hadn’t come. On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, you wish you were dead. On Saturday you are able to swallow a little beef tea, and to sit up on deck, and answer with a wan, sweet smile when kindhearted people ask you how you feel now. On Sunday, you begin to walk about again, and take solid food. And on Monday morning, as, with your bag and umbrella in your hand, you stand by the gunwale, waiting to step ashore, you begin to thoroughly like it.

I remember my brother-in-law going for a short sea trip once for the benefit of his health. He took a return berth from London to Liverpool; and when he got to Liverpool, the only thing he was anxious about was to sell that return ticket.

It was offered round the town at a tremendous reduction, so I am told; and was eventually sold for eighteen pence to a biliouslooking youth who had just been advised by his medical men to go to the sea-side, and take exercise.

“Sea-side!” said my brother-in-law, pressing the ticket affectionately into his hand; “why, you’ll have enough to last you a lifetime; and as for exercise! why, you’ll get more exercise, sitting down on that ship, than you would turning somersaults on dry land.”

He himself – my brother-in-law – came back by train. He said the North-Western Railway was healthy enough for him.

Another fellow I knew went for a week’s voyage round the coast, and, before they started, the steward came to him to ask whether he would pay for each meal as he had it, or arrange beforehand for the whole series.

The steward recommended the latter course, as it would come so much cheaper. He said they would do him for the whole week at two-pounds-five. He said for breakfast there would be fish, followed by a grill. Lunch was at one, and consisted of four courses. Dinner at six – soup, fish, entrеe, joint, poultry, salad, sweets, cheese, and dessert. And a light meat supper at ten.

My friend thought he would close on the two-pounds-five job (he is a hearty eater), and did so.

Lunch came just as they were off Sheerness. He didn’t feel so hungry as he thought he should, and so contented himself with a bit of boiled beef, and some strawberries and cream. He pondered a good deal during the afternoon, and at one time it seemed to him that he had been eating nothing but boiled beef for weeks, and at other times it seemed that he must have been living on strawberries and cream for years.

Neither the beef nor the strawberries and cream seemed happy, either – seemed discontented like.

At six, they came and told him dinner was ready. The announcement aroused no enthusiasm within him, but he felt that there was some of that two-pounds-five to be worked off, and he held on to ropes and things and went down. A pleasant odour of onions and hot ham, mingled with fried fish and greens, greeted him at the bottom of the ladder; and then the steward came up with an oily smile, and said:

“What can I get you, sir?”

“Get me out of this,” was the feeble reply.

And they ran him up quick, and propped him up, over to leeward, and left him.

For the next four days he lived a simple and blameless life on thin captain’s biscuits (I mean that the biscuits were thin, not the captain) and soda-water; but, towards Saturday, he got uppish, and went in for weak tea and dry toast, and on Monday he was gorging himself on chicken broth. He left the ship on Tuesday, and as it steamed away from the landing-stage he gazed after it regretfully.

“There she goes,” he said, “there she goes, with two pounds’ worth of food on board that belongs to me, and that I haven’t had.”

He said that if they had given him another day he thought he could have put it straight.

So I set my face against the sea trip. Not, as I explained, upon my own account. 1 was never queer. But I was afraid for George. George said he should be all right, and would rather like it, but he would advise Harris and me not to think of it, as he felt sure we should both be ill. Harris said that, to himself, it was always a mystery how people managed to get sick at sea – said he thought people must do it on purpose, from affectation – said he had often wished to be, but had never been able.

Then he told us anecdotes of how he had gone across the Channel when it was so rough that the passengers had to be tied into their berths, and he and the captain were the only two living souls on board who were not ill. Sometimes it was he and the second mate who were not ill; but it was generally he and one other man. If not he and another man, then it was he by himself.

It is a curious fact, but nobody ever is sea-sick on land. At sea, you come across plenty of people very bad indeed, whole boatloads of them; but I never met a man yet, on land, who had ever known at all what it was to be sea-sick. Where the thousands upon thousands of bad sailors that swarm in every ship hide themselves when they are on land is a mystery.

If most men were like a fellow I saw on the Yarmouth boat one day, I could account for the seeming enigma easily enough. It was just off Southend Pier, I recollect, and he was leaning out through one of the port-holes in a very dangerous position. I went up to him to try and save him.

“He! come further in,” I said shaking him by the shoulder. “You’ll be overboard.”

“Oh my! I wish I was,” was the only answer I could get; and there I had to leave him.

Three weeks afterwards, I met him in the coffee-room of a Bath hotel, talking about his voyages, and explaning, with enthusiasm, how he loved the sea.

“Good sailor!” he replied in answer to a mild young man’s envious query; “well, I did feel a little queer once, I confess. It was off Cape Horn. The vessel was wrecked the next morning.”

I said:

“Weren’t you a little shaky by Southend Pier one day, and wanted to be thrown overboard?”

“Southend Pier!” he replied with a puzzled expression.

“Yes; going down to Yarmouth, last Friday three weeks.”

“Oh, an – yes,” he answered, brightening up; “I remember now. I did have a headache that afternoon. It was the pickles, you know. They were the most disgraceful pickles I ever tasted in a respectable boat. Did you have any?”

For myself, I have discovered an excellent preventive against seasickness, in balancing myself. You stand in the centre of the deck, and, as the ship heaves and pitches, you move your body about, so as to keep it always straight. When the front of the ship rises, you lean forward, till the deck almost touches your nose; and when its back-end gets up, you lean backwards. This is all very well for an hour or two; but you can’t balance yourself for a week.

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 have a tendency to make him sleepier than he always was, as it might be dangerous. He said he didn’t very well understand how George was going to sleep any more than he did now, seeing that there were only twenty-four hours in each day, summer and winter alike; but thought that if he did sleep any more, he might just as well be dead, and so save his board and lodging.

Harris said, however, that the river would suit him to a “T.” I don’t know what a “T” is (except a sixpenny one, which includes bread-and-butter and cake ad lib., and is cheap at the price, if you haven’t had any dinner). It seems to suit everybody, however, which is greatly to its credit.

It suited me to a “T” too, and Harris and I both said it was a good idea of George’s; and we said it in a tone that seemed to somehow imply that we were surprised that George should have come out so sensible.

The only one who was not struck with the suggestion was Montmorency. He never did care for the river, did Montmorency. “It’s all very well for you fellows,” he says; “you like it but don’t. There’s nothing for me to do. Scenery is not in my line, and I don’t smoke. If I see a rat, you won’t stop; and if I go to sleep, you get fooling about with the boat, and slop me overboard. If you ask me, I call the whole thing bally foolishness.”

We were three to one, however, and the motion was carried.




Роздiл перший




Трое недужих. Страждання Джорджа i Гаррiса. Жертва ста семи жахливих хвороб. Корисний рецепт. Лiки вiд хвороб печiнки у дiтей. Ми погоджуемось на тому, що перевтомились i потребуемо вiдпочинку. Тиждень на морських хвилях? Джордж пропонуе подорож Темзою. Монтморенсi висувае заперечення. Пропозицiю прийнято бiльшiстю трьох голосiв проти одного.


Нас було четверо: Джордж, Вiльям-Семюел-Гаррiс, я i Монтморенсi. Ми сидiли в моiй кiмнатi, курили й розмовляли про те, що ми нiкуди не годимося – тобто, звичайно, з погляду здоров’я.

Усi ми почували себе кепсько, i це вже неабияк тривожило нас. Гаррiс сказав, що в нього iнколи якось дивно паморочиться в головi i вiн тодi сам не тямить, що робить. Джордж озвався, що й у нього теж бувае таке запаморочення, коли вiн сам не тямить, що робить. Ну а в мене було не гаразд iз печiнкою. Я знав, що в мене розладналась печiнка, бо щойно прочитав рекламу патентованих пiлюль вiд печiнкових хвороб, де були описанi рiзнi симптоми, за якими можна визначити, що у вас хвора печiнка. І всi тi симптоми я знайшов у себе.

Дивовижна рiч: щоразу, коли я прочитаю рекламу якихось патентованих лiкiв, я неодмiнно доходжу висновку, що хворiю на описану в тiй рекламi хворобу, i то в найтяжчiй формi. Усi перелiченi там симптоми якнайточнiше збiгаються з тим, що вiдчуваю я.

Пам’ятаю, якось я пiшов до бiблiотеки Британського музею, щоб прочитати, чим лiкують одну легку хворобу, що саме причепилася до мене, – здаеться, сiнну гарячку. Виписавши потрiбну книжку, я перечитав там усе, про що хотiв дiзнатись; а потiм машинально почав лiниво гортати сторiнки й вивчати всiлякi хвороби. Забув уже, як називалась перша, що на неi я наткнувся, – якась жахлива, згубна недуга, – але, ще не перебiгши очима й половини «попереднiх симптомiв», я упевнився, що хворiю на неi, i то тяжко.

Кiлька хвилин я сидiв, зацiпенiлий iз жаху; а потiм, уже з байдужiстю вiдчаю, знову почав гортати книжку. Натрапив на черевний тиф, перечитав його симптоми й вiдкрив, що я хворий i на черевний тиф – певне, вже кiлька мiсяцiв хворий, сам того не знаючи. Менi стало цiкаво, якi ж iще хвороби е у мене. Знайшов у книжцi хворобу св. Вiта i, як i сподiвався, виявив, що хворiю й на неi; тодi мене по-справжньому зацiкавив стан мого здоров’я, я вирiшив з’ясувати його до кiнця й почав читати про всi хвороби пiдряд, за алфавiтом. Прочитав про ангiну – i виявив, що вона в мене тiльки починаеться, а загострення настане через кiлька днiв. З полегкiстю я дiзнався, що брайтова хвороба, тобто запалення нирок, у мене в легкiй формi, з якою можна прожити багато рокiв. Зате вiспа у мене була з тяжкими ускладненнями, а на дифтерит я, видно, слабував вiд самого народження. Я сумлiнно простудiював усi двадцять шiсть лiтер алфавiту i з усiх хвороб, описаних у книжцi, не знайшов у себе тiльки однiеi – раку сажотрусiв.

Спершу я навiть образився, бо вiдчув у цьому якусь зневагу. Чому менi не дiсталось раку сажотрусiв? За вiщо така дискримiнацiя? Але трохи перегодом у менi взяли гору скромнiшi почуття. Я подумав, що в мене е всi iншi хвороби, вiдомi медицинi, i вирiшив, що негарно бути таким жадюгою. Обiйдусь i без того раку сажотрусiв. Сухоти, як видно, розвинулись у мене до найтяжчоi стадii так, що я й не помiтив; а ящур я, мабуть, пiдхопив десь iще пiдлiтком. Пiсля ящура в довiднику бiльше не було хвороб, i я зробив висновок, що й у мене бiльше нiчого немае.

Я довго сидiв замислений. Я думав, який з мене цiкавий об’ект для медицини, якою знахiдкою був би я для аудиторii медикiв! Якби студенти мали мене, iм було б не потрiбно ходити по лiкарнях. Бо я сам був цiлою лiкарнею. Досить студентовi обiйти мене довкола – i одержуй диплом.

Потiм я подумав: а чи довго ще менi жити на свiтi? Я вирiшив обстежити себе. Помацав свiй пульс. Вiдразу я взагалi не мiг його намацати, а тодi раптом вiн почав битись. Я вийняв годинник i став рахувати. Вийшло сто сорок сiм ударiв на хвилину. Я спробував прослухати свое серце, але нiяк не мiг його розшукати. Воно перестало битися. Згодом я, звичайно, зрозумiв, що воно, напевне, весь час було на своему мiсцi й весь час билось, але пояснити, чому я його не знаходив, не можу. Я обмацав усього себе спереду – вiд того, що я називаю талiею, аж до шиi, – i з обох бокiв, i, скiльки спромiгся дiстати, зi спини. Проте не намацав i не вiдчув нiчого. Тодi спробував оглянути свiй язик. Вистромив його якомога далi, заплющив одне око, а друге скосив униз, але змiг побачити лише кiнчик язика. З вигляду того кiнчика я тiльки ще дужче впевнився, що у мене скарлатина.

Я ввiйшов до тiеi читальнi здоровою, щасливою людиною, а вийшов звiдти немiчним iнвалiдом.

Я побiг до свого лiкаря. Вiн мiй давнiй приятель i, коли менi здасться, нiби я занедужав, лiчить мiй пульс, i оглядае язик, i розмовляе зi мною про погоду – все, звичайно, задарма; отож я й вирiшив, що тепер зможу йому гiдно вiддячити. «Адже ж лiкаревi найпотрiбнiша практика, – так сказав я собi. – І я вiддам себе йому. На менi вiн матиме бiльше практики, нiж на тисячi звичайних, буденних пацiентiв з однiею-двома хворобами». Отож я подався просто до нього. Вiн прийняв мене i спитав:

– Ну, що в тебе там за болячка?

Я вiдповiв:

– Любий мiй, я не хочу вiдбирати в тебе час, розповiдаючи про своi болячки. Життя коротке, i ти можеш померти, перше нiж я скiнчу. Краще я скажу тобi, якоi болячки у мене немае. У мене нема раку сажотрусiв. Як це так вийшло, що я його не пiдхопив, пояснити не можу, але це факт, що у мене його немае. А всi iншi хвороби в мене е.

І розповiв йому, як я про те довiдався.

Тодi вiн звелiв менi роздягтись, i обдивився всього, i потримав за пульс, а тодi зовсiм несподiвано стусонув у груди – отака дурна вихватка! – та ще й буцнув головою. Потiм сiв, написав рецепта, склав його вдвое й вiддав менi. Я сховав рецепт у кишеню i вийшов.

Я навiть не розгортав рецепта. Зайшов у найближчу аптеку й подав його аптекаревi. Той прочитав – i повернув його менi. Мовляв, таким вiн не торгуе.

– Хiба ви не аптекар? – здивувався я.

– Аптекар, – вiдповiв вiн. – От якби я держав мебльованi кiмнати зi столуванням, то змiг би вас обслужити. А як аптекар – нiчого не можу вдiяти.

Тодi я прочитав рецепт. У ньому було написано:

«Rp. Бiфштекс 1 фунт

Пиво 1 пiнта

Приймати що 6 годин.

Десятимильна прогулянка пiшки 1

Щоранку.

Лiжко 1

Щовечора рiвно об 11 годинi.

І не забивай собi голови тим, чого не тямиш».

Я послухався цих вказiвок – i результат, бачте, непоганий, принаймнi для мене: життя мое було врятоване, i я й досi живий.

Однак це все мiж iншим, а тепер, як вiрити тiй рекламцi печiнкових пiлюль, у мене були незаперечнi симптоми захворювання печiнки, серед яких головний – «гостра нехiть до будь-якоi працi».

Скiльки я перетерпiв через цей симптом, не розкажеш нiякими словами. Із самою малечку я був через нього справжнiм мучеником. А пiдлiтком я не мав жодного дня перепочинку вiд цiеi хвороби. Рiвень медичноi науки тодi ще був багато нижчий, нiж тепер, i всi моi страждання звичайно приписували лiнощам.

– Та ворушися, чортiв ледацюго! – було, кричали на мене. – Роби що-небудь, а то тiльки дурно хлiб iси!

Нiхто ж бо не знав, що це в мене хвороба. І пiлюль нiяких менi не давали, самi лише запотиличники. І треба сказати правду – хоч воно й дивно, але тi запотиличники частенько допомагали вiд моеi хвороби, принаймнi на якийсь час. Я пам’ятаю, що тодi один запотиличник краще впливав на мою печiнку й пробуджував у менi бiльшу охоту зразу пiти куди сказано i зробити що сказано, не гаючи нi хвилини, нiж тепер цiла коробка пiлюль.

А втiм, хiба рiдко бувае, що отакi простi старосвiтськi засоби виявляються дiйовiшi, нiж увесь отой аптечний непотрiб.

Ми просидiли з пiвгодини, описуючи один одному своi недуги. Я розповiв Джорджевi та Вiльямовi-Гаррiсу, як я себе почуваю, коли встаю вранцi, а Гаррiс розповiв нам, як вiн себе почувае, коли лягае спати; а Джордж став на постилку перед камiном i влаштував нам цiлу виставу, дуже наочно й виразно показавши, як вiн себе почувае вночi.

Джорджевi, бачте, тiльки здаеться, нiби й вiн хворий; насправдi ж вiн здоровiсiнький.

Потiм у дверi постукала мiсiс Попетс i спитала, чи вже подавати нам вечерю. Ми сумно посмiхнулись один до одного й вiдповiли, що, мабуть, спробуемо щось проковтнути. Гаррiс сказав, що дрiбка iжi в шлунку все ж таки часом полегшуе хворобу; тодi мiсiс Попетс унесла тацю, ми пiдсiли до столу й трохи побавились бiфштексом iз цибулею та ревеневим пирогом.

Я, напевне, був тодi в дуже тяжкому станi, бо, пам’ятаю, через якихось пiвгодини вже втратив будь-який iнтерес до iжi – рiч незвичайна для мене – i навiть не схотiв сиру.

Виконавши цей обов’язок, ми знову наповнили келихи, закурили люльки й повели далi розмову про свое здоров’я. Жоден з нас не знав напевне, що саме з ним дiеться; але щодо причини наша думка була одностайна: ми перевтомилися.

– Нам потрiбен вiдпочинок, – сказав Гаррiс.

– Вiдпочинок i цiлковита змiна оточення, – додав Джордж. – Розумове перенапруження виснажило й ослабило нашi органiзми. Нове оточення, де не буде постiйноi необхiдностi весь час думати, вiдновить рiвновагу нервовоi системи.

Джордж мае двоюрiдного брата, що в протоколах полiцii звичайно пишеться студентом-медиком; а тому вiн, природно, полюбляе висловлюватись, як домашнiй лiкар.

Я погодився iз Джорджем i сказав, що треба знайти якусь глуху, забуту свiтом мiсцину, далеко вiд людського мурашника, i промрiяти погожий тиждень чи два у ii соннiй тишi – такий собi напiвзабутий закуток, схований феями вiд гамiрного свiту, щось нiби орлине гнiздо, прилiплене на скелi Часу так високо, що рев бурхливих хвиль дев’ятнадцятого сторiччя лиш ледь чутно долинае туди.

Гаррiс вiдказав, що це бредня. Вiн, мовляв, знае такi мiсця, як я маю на увазi; там лягають спати о восьмiй годинi, спортивноi газети не дiстанеш нi за якi грошi, а по куриво треба ходити пiшки за десять миль.

– Нi, – сказав вiн, – коли хочете вiдпочити й змiнити оточення, нема краще, як подорож морем.

Але я рiшуче повстав проти морськоi подорожi. Морем корисно поплавати мiсяцiв зо два – зо три, але тиждень – це нiкуди не годиться.

Вiдпливаеш у понедiлок, твердо переконаний, що на тебе чекае неабияка втiха. На прощання махаеш рукою друзям, що прийшли тебе проводжати, закурюеш найдовшу свою люльку й походжаеш по палубi, так пишаючись, немовби ти капiтан Кук, сер Френсiс Дрейк i Христофор Колумб в однiй особi. У вiвторок ти вже не радий, що поплив. У четвер, середу й п’ятницю ти не радий бiлому свiтовi. У суботу ти вже спроможний випити трохи бульйону й посидiти в шезлонгу на палубi, iз кволою, сумирною усмiшкою вiдповiдаючи на запитання добросердих людей, як ти себе почуваеш. У недiлю ти починаеш ходити своiми ногами i iсти справжню iжу. А в понедiлок, стоячи iз саквояжем i парасолькою бiля поручня й ладнаючись зiйти на берег, ти думаеш, що подорож тобi вже подобаеться.

Пригадую, якось мiй свояк надумав поправити здоров’я морським плаванням. Вiн узяв квиток з Лондона до Лiверпуля й назад, а коли прибув до Лiверпуля, едина його думка була – як продати той зворотний квиток.

Менi потiм розповiдали, що вiн оббiгав усе мiсто, пропонуючи квиток запiвдарма, i врештi таки продав його за вiсiмнадцять пенсiв якомусь молодиковi iз жовтяничним обличчям, що йому лiкар недавно порадив морське повiтря i фiзичнi вправи.

– Морське повiтря? – вигукнув мiй свояк, зi щирою приязню втискуючи квиток у руку молодиковi. – Матимете його стiльки, що на все життя вистачить. А фiзичнi вправи – та на суднi ви сидячи навправляетесь бiльше, нiж якби ви на землi безперестану перекидалися через голову.

А сам вiн – тобто мiй свояк – вернувся додому поiздом. Сказав, що для його здоров’я добра й Пiвнiчно-Захiдна залiзниця.

Іще один мiй знайомий теж був на тиждень вибрався в морську подорож понад узбережжям. Перед вiдплиттям до нього в каюту прийшов стюард i спитав, чи вiн платитиме за iжу кожного разу окремо, чи заплатить наперед за весь час.

Стюард радив заплатити наперед – так, мовляв, вийде багато дешевше. Сказав, що за тиждень iз нього вiзьмуть два фунти п’ять шилiнгiв. На снiданок у них подають рибу й смажене м’ясо. О першiй годинi обiд iз чотирьох страв. Вечеря о шостiй – суп, риба, антре[1 - Страва, що подаеться перед печенею (з французькоi).], печеня, птиця, салат, солодке, сир i десерт. І легенька м’ясна перекуска о десятiй.

Мiй знайомий обрав це меню за два фунти й п’ять шилiнгiв (вiн любить попоiсти).

Обiд подали, коли минали Шiрнес. Мiй знайомий чомусь не почував такого апетиту, як сподiвався, а тому з’iв тiльки трохи вареного м’яса й полуницi з вершками. Удень вiн не раз згадував той обiд, i часом йому здавалося, що вiн уже кiлька тижнiв не iв нiчого, крiм вареного м’яса, а часом – що вiн уже кiлька рокiв живе на самих полуницях iз вершками.

Та м’ясовi i полуницям з вершками теж, видно, було не солодко, бо вони просились на волю.

О шостiй прийшли й сказали, що вечеря готова. Це повiдомлення мiй знайомий сприйняв без великого захвату, проте подумав, що треба ж вiдробити частину тих двох фунтiв i п’яти шилiнгiв, i, держачись за линви та iншi речi, спустився до iдальнi. Унизу його зустрiв приемний аромат цибулi й гарячоi шинки, змiшаний з пахощами смаженоi риби й зеленi. Пiдiйшов, улесливо всмiхаючись, стюард i спитав:

– Чого вам принести, сер?

– Краще винесiть… мене звiдси, – насилу вiдповiв мiй знайомий.

Його пiдхопили, хутенько винесли нагору й зоставили бiля завiтряного борту.

Наступнi чотири днi вiн жив скромно й безгрiшно, живлячись самими сухариками та содовою водою; однак у суботу, набравшися зухвальства, зважився випити слабенького чаю iз грiнками, а в понедiлок уже поглинав курячий бульйон. У вiвторок вiн зiйшов на берег i довго стояв на пристанi, iз жалем в очах дивлячись услiд пароплавовi.

– Бач, поплив, – нарiкав вiн. – І моя iжа на ньому зосталась. На два фунти iжi! Заплатити заплатив, а з’iсти не з’iв…

Вiн запевняв, що надолужив би свое, якби йому ще хоч один день.

Ось чому я так рiшуче виступив проти морськоi подорожi. Я пояснив, що боюся не за себе. Менi море нiколи не вадило. Але я боявся за Джорджа. Джордж вiдказав, що з ним було б усе гаразд, йому навiть подобаеться морське плавання, але нам iз Гаррiсом вiн не радить i думати про щось таке, бо певен, що ми обидва на морi слабуватимемо. А Гаррiс заявив, що для нього завжди було таемницею, як це люди примудряються хворiти на морську хворобу, – вiн навiть гадае, що вони роблять це навмисне, аби похизуватись. Вiн, мовляв, i сам не раз хотiв спробувати, але так i не зумiв.

Потiм вiн почав розповiдати нам, як йому траплялося пливти через Ла-Манш у таку бурю, що пасажирiв доводилось прив’язувати до койок, i на всьому пароплавi тiльки двох – його та капiтана – не брала морська хвороба. Інколи той другий був не капiтан, а помiчник, але, як правило, здоровими лишалися двое: Гаррiс i ще хто-небудь. А як не двое, то самий Гаррiс.

Цiкава рiч: нiкого нiколи не бере морська хвороба… на суходолi. У морi бачиш скiльки завгодно хворих на неi – повнi пароплави, але на суходолi я ще не зустрiчав людини, яка б знала, що це таке – морська хвороба. Де ховаються, зiйшовши на берег, тi тисячi змучених нею пасажирiв, що кишать на кожному суднi, – це для мене загадка.

Правда, якщо бiльшiсть людей такi, як той чоловiк, що його я якось бачив на одному ярмутському пароплавi, то цю уявну загадку розгадати неважко. Пригадую, ми тiльки-но вiдпливли вiд Саутендського молу, а вiн уже вистромлявся у вiдчинений iлюмiнатор у дуже небезпечнiй позi. Я пiдiйшов i спробував урятувати його. Поторсав за плече й сказав:

– Слухайте, вiдiйдiть-но, а то за бортом опинитесь.

– Ох, я б i радий! – тiльки й вiдповiв вiн.

Довелося залишити його там.

Через три тижнi я побачив його в кав’ярнi при одному батському готелi. Вiн розповiдав про своi подорожi i з великим захватом говорив, як вiн любить море.

– Морська хвороба? – вигукнув вiн у вiдповiдь на сповнене заздростi запитання якогось лагiдного молодика. – Ну що ж, признаюсь, одного разу мене трохи млоiло. Це було коло мису Горн. Другого дня вранцi корабель розбився.

Я озвався:

– А це не вам нещодавно було погано бiля Саутендського молу, й ви хотiли опинитися за бортом?

– Бiля Саутендського молу? – спантеличено перепитав вiн.

– Так. На ярмутському пароплавi, у п’ятницю три тижнi тому.

– А… справдi! – зрадiв вiн. – Тепер пригадую. У мене тодi чомусь голова розболiлась. Мабуть, вiд пiкулiв. Такий начебто пристойний пароплав був, а пiкулi подали – просто гидота. Ви iх не куштували?

Що ж до мене, то я винайшов чудовий спосiб, як запобiгати морськiй хворобi. Треба балансувати своiм тiлом у такт iз хитанням судна. Стати посерединi палуби, i коли пiдiймаеться нiс пароплава – нахилятись уперед, аж поки ледь не торкнешся палуби власним носом; а коли пiдiймаеться корма – вiдхилятись назад. Тодi ви самi весь час стоятимете вертикально. Годину-двi воно помагае дуже добре; але ж неможливо хитатись так уперед та назад цiлий тиждень!

Джордж запропонував:

– Давайте попливемо вгору Темзою.

І пояснив, що тодi в нас буде досхочу i свiжого повiтря, i руху, i спокою; постiйна змiна краевидiв розвiюватиме думки (навiть тi, якi знайдуться в Гаррiсовiй головi); а натомившись вiд веслування, ми добре iстимемо й ще краще спатимемо.

Гаррiс зауважив, що Джорджевi небезпечно робити щось таке, вiд чого вiн спатиме ще краще; i взагалi йому незрозумiло, як це Джордж примудриться спати бiльше, нiж вiн спить звичайно: адже в добi завжди, i взимку i влiтку, бувае тiльки двадцять чотири години. Ну а якщо вiн i справдi зумiе спати бiльше, то чи не краще вiдразу померти та й не витрачатись на харчi й помешкання.

А втiм, додав Гаррiс, йому самому Темза пiдiйде «на всi сто». Я нiколи не розумiв, що це за «сто» – сто пенсiв чи сто шилiнгiв, сто дюймiв чи сто футiв, – але так кажуть усi; отже, мабуть, i справдi це якесь дуже пiдходяще «сто».

Менi Темза теж пiдходила «на всi сто», i ми з Гаррiсом обидва сказали, що Джорджевi набiгла непогана думка; але сказали таким тоном, нiби дивувались, як це Джордж спромiгся придумати щось таке розумне.

Єдиний, хто не зрадiв Джорджевiй пропозицii, був Монтморенсi. Сказати по правдi, його нiколи не тягло на Темзу.

«Для вас, хлопцi, воно, може, й добре, – думав вiн. – Вам воно подобаеться. А менi… Ну що менi там робити? Краевиди мене не цiкавлять, тютюну я не курю. Як я побачу на березi пацюка, ви ж однаково не спинитесь. А як я засну, ви почнете якiсь витiвки в човнi, i я можу вилетiти за борт. Нi, якби ви спитали мене, я б сказав, що це дурне дiло. Дурне-дурнiсiньке».

Проте нас було трое проти одного, i пропозицiю прийняли бiльшiстю голосiв.




Chapter Two




Plans discussed – Pleasures of “camping out,” on fine nights – Ditto, wet nights – Compromise decided on – Montmorency, first impressions of – Fears lest he is too good for this world, fears subsequently dismissed as groundless – Meeting adjourns.


We pulled out the maps, and discussed plans.

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 the City till the afternoon (George goes to sleep at a bank from ten to four each day, except Saturdays, when they wake him up and put him outside 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, so patriarchal like.

Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the cold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrowing children, the birds have ceased their song, and only the moorhen’s plaintive cry and the harsh croak of the corncrake stirs the awed hush around the couch of waters, where the dying day breathes out her last.

From the dim woods on either bank, Night’s ghostly army, the grey shadows, creep out with noiseless tread to chase away the lingering rear-guard of the light, and pass, with noiseless, unseen feet, above the waving river-grass, and through the sighing rushes; and Night, upon her sombre throne, folds her black wings above the darkening world, and, from her phantom palace, lit by the pale stars, reigns in stillness.

Then we run our little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent is pitched, and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes are filled and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes round in musical undertone; while, in the pauses of our talk, the river, playing round the boat, prattles strange old tales and secrets, sings low the old child’s song that it has sung so many thousand years – will sing so many thousand years to come, before its voice grows harsh and old – a song that we, who have learnt to love its changing face, who have so often nestled on its yielding bosom, think, somehow, we understand, though we could not tell you in mere words the story that we listen to.

And we sit there, by its margin, while the moon, who loves it too, stoops down to kiss it with a sister’s kiss, and throws her silver arms around it clingingly; and we watch it as it flows, ever singing, ever whispering, out to meet its king, the sea – till our voices die away in silence, and the pipes go out – till we, commonplace, everyday young men enough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half-sad, halfsweet, and do not care or want to speak – till we laugh, and, rising, knock the ashes from our burnt-out pipes, and say “Good-night,” and, lulled by the lapping water and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the great, still stars, and dream that the world is young again – young and sweet as she used to be ere the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair face ere her children’s sins and follies had made old her loving heart – sweet as she was in those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she nursed us, her children, upon her own deep breast – ere the wiles of painted civilisation had lured us away from her fond arms, and the poisoned sneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of the simple life we led with her, and the simple, stately home where mankind was born so many thousands of years ago.

Harris said:

“How about when it rained?”

You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris – no wild yearning for the unattainable. 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, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.

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 waters; or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses, held by seaweed?” Harris would take you by the arm, and say:

“I know what it is, old man; you’ve got a chill. Now, you come along with me. I know a place round the corner here, where you can get a drop of the finest Scotch whisky you ever tasted – put you right in less than no time.”

Harris always does know a place round the corner where you can get something brilliant in the drinking line. I believe that if you met Harris up in Paradise (supposing such a thing likely), he would immediately greet you with:

“So glad you’ve come, old fellow; I’ve found a nice place round the corner here, where you can get some really first-class nectar.”

In the present instance, however, as regarded the camping out, his practical view of the matter came as a very timely hint. Camping out in rainy weather is not pleasant.

It is evening. You are wet through, and there is a good two inches of water in the boat, and all the things are damp. You find a place on the banks that is not quite so puddly as other places you have seen, and you land and lug out the tent, and two of you proceed to fix it.

It is soaked and heavy, and it flops about, and tumbles down on you, and clings round your head and makes you mad. The rain is pouring steadily down all the time. It is difficult enough to fix a tent in dry weather; in wet, the task becomes herculean. Instead of helping you it seems to you that the other man is simply playing the fool. Just as you get your side beautifully fixed, he gives it a hoist from his end, and spoils it all.

“Here! what are you up to?” you call out.

“What are you to?” he retorts; “leggo, can’t you?”

“Don’t pull it; you’ve got it all wrong, you stupid ass!” you shout.

“No, I haven’t,” he yells back; “let go your side!”

“I tell you you’ve got it all wrong!” you roar, wishing that you could get at him; and you give your ropes a lug that pulls all his pegs out.

“Ah, the bally idiot!” you hear him mutter to himself; and then comes a savage haul, and away goes your side. You lay down the mallet and start to go round and tell him what you think about the whole business, and, at the same time, he starts round in the same direction to come and explain his views to you. And you follow each other round and round, swearing at one another, until the tent tumbles down in a heap, and leaves you looking at each other across its ruins, then you both indignantly exclaim, in the same breath:

“There you are! what did I tell you?”

Meanwhile, the third man, who has been baling out the boat, and who has spilled the water down his sleeve, and has been cursing away to himself steadily for the last ten minutes, wants to know what the thundering blazes you’re playing at, and why the blarmed tent isn’t up yet.

At last, somehow or other, it does get up, and you land the things. It is hopeless attempting to make a wood fire, so you light the methylated spirit stove, and crowd round that.

Rainwater is the chief article of diet at supper. The bread is two-thirds rainwater, the beefsteak-pie is exceedingly rich in it, and the jam, and the butter, and the salt, and the coffee have all combined with it to make soup.

After supper, you find your tobacco is damp, and you cannot smoke. Luckily you have a bottle of the stuff that cheers and inebriates, if taken in proper quantity, and this restores to you sufficient interest in life to induce you to go to bed.

There you dream that an elephant has suddenly sat down on your chest, and that the volcano has exploded and thrown you down to the bottom of the sea – the elephant still sleeping peacefully on your bosom. You wake up and grasp the idea that something terrible really has happened. Your first impression is that the end of the world has come; and then you think that this cannot be, and that it is thieves and murderers, or else fire, and this opinion you express in the usual method. No help comes; however, and all you know is that thousands of people are kicking you, and you are being smothered.

Somebody else seems in trouble, too. You can hear his faint cries coming from underneath your bed. Determining, at all events, to sell your life dearly, you struggle frantically, hitting out right and left with arms and legs, and yelling lustily the while, and at last something gives way, and you find your head in the fresh air. Two feet off, you dimly observe a half-dressed ruffian, waiting to kill you, and you are preparing for a life-and-death struggle with him, when it begins to dawn upon you that it’s Jim.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he says, recognising you at the same moment.

“Yes,” you answer, rubbing your eyes; “what’s happened?”

“Bally tent’s blown down, I think,” he says. “Where’s Bill?”

Then you both raise up your voices and shout for “Bill!” and the ground beneath you heaves and rocks, and the muffled voice that you heard before replies from out the ruin:

“Get off my head, can’t you?”

And Bill struggles out, a muddy, trampled wreck, and in an unnecessarily aggressive mood – he being under the evident belief that the whole thing has been done on purpose.

In the morning you are all three speechless, owing to having caught severe colds in the night; you also feel very quarrelsome, and you swear at each other in hoarse whispers during the whole of breakfast time.

We therefore decided that we would sleep out on fine nights; and hotel it, and inn it, and pub it, like respectable folks, when it was wet, or when we felt inclined for a change.

Montmorency hailed this compromise with much approval. He does not revel in romantic solitude. Give him something noisy; and if a trifle low, so much the jollier. To look at Montmorency you would imagine that he was an angel sent upon the earth, for some reason withheld from mankind, in the shape of a small fox-terrier. There is a sort of Oh-what-a-wicked-world-this-is-and-how-I-wish-I-could-do-something-to-make-it-better-and-nobler expression about Montmorency that has been known to bring the tears into the eyes of pious old ladies and gentlemen.

When first he came to live at my expense, I never thought I should be able to get him to stop long. I used to sit down and look at him, as he sat on the rug and looked up at me, and think: “Oh, that dog will never live. He will be snatched up to the bright skies in a chariot, that is what will happen to him.”

But, when I had paid for about a dozen chickens that he had killed; and had dragged him, growling and kicking, by the scruff of his neck, out of a hundred and fourteen street fights; and had had a dead cat brought round for my inspection by an irate female, who called me a murderer; and had been summoned by the man next door but one for having a ferocious dog at large, that had kept him pinned up in his own tool-shed, afraid to venture his nose outside the door for over two hours on a cold night; and had learned that the gardener, unknown to myself, had won thirty shillings by backing him to kill rats against time, then I began to think that maybe they’d let him remain on earth for a bit longer, after all.

To hang about a stable, and collect a gang of the most disreputable dogs to be found in the town, and lead them out to march round the slums to fight other disreputable dogs, is Montmorency’s idea of “life;” and so, as I before observed, he gave to the suggestion of inns, and pubs, and hotels his most emphatic approbation.

Having thus settled the sleeping arrangements to the satisfaction of all four of us, the only thing left to discuss was what we should take with us; and this we had begun to argue, when Harris said he’d had enough oratory for one night, and proposed that we should go out and have a smile, saying that he had found a place, round by the square, where you could really get a drop of Irish worth drinking.

George said he felt thirsty (I never knew George when he didn’t); and as I had a presentiment that a little whisky, warm, with a slice of lemon, would do my complaint good, the debate was, by common assent, adjourned to the following night; and the assembly put on its hats and went out.




Роздiл другий




Обговорення плану. Принади ночiвлi «на природi» в погожу нiч. Те саме – в непогожу. Компромiсна ухвала. Перше враження вiд Монтморенсi. Чи не занадто добрий вiн для нашого свiту? Цi побоювання виявляються безпiдставними. Нараду вiдкладено.


Ми розшукали карти й почали складати план подорожi.

Вирiшили, що вiдпливемо наступноi суботи з Кiнгстона. Ми з Гаррiсом прибудемо туди вранцi й удвох пiдженемо човен до Чертсi, а Джордж, що зможе вибратись iз Сiтi лише пополуднi (вiн ходить до якогось банку спати з десятоi до четвертоi години щодня, опрiч суботи, коли його будять i виганяють за дверi о другiй), приеднаеться до нас там.

Перше питання було – де нам ночувати: «на природi» чи в заiздах?

Ми iз Джорджем були за ночiвлю на природi. Мовляв, у нiй е щось таке первiсне, вiльне, патрiархальне…

Золотий спомин про померле сонце повiльно блiдне в серцях холодних, сумних хмар. Пташки вже не спiвають, вони змовкли, мов зажуренi дiти, i лише жадiбний крик болотяноi курiпки та рiзке скрипiння деркача порушують святобливу тишу над лоном вод, де ще ледве дихае, вмираючи, день.

З iмлистого лiсу понад берегами нечутно крадеться примарне вiйсько Ночi, сiрi тiнi; пiд iхнiм натиском вiдступають останнi загони дня, i пiд нечутною, невидною ходою цього вiйська хвилюеться осока й зiтхають очерети. Владарка Нiч, сидячи на похмурому тронi, огортае чорними крилами потемнiлий свiт i в тишi править ним зi свого чарiвного палацу, освiтленого блiдими зорями.

А ми завели свiй човник у тиху затоку i, напнувши намет, готуемо i споживаемо скромну вечерю. Тодi запалюемо довгi люльки – i вже злагоджено точиться весела неголосна розмова. А як ми вмовкаемо, рiчка, що хлюпоче в борти човна, гомоном хвильок оповiдае дивнi правiчнi казки, сповненi таемниць, i тихо наспiвуе давню колискову пiсню, яка лунае вже багато тисяч лiт – i лунатиме ще багато тисяч, аж поки голос ii стане старечим i хрипким. І нам, що так давно навчились любити ii мiнливе лице й так часто горнулись до ii м’якого лона, здаеться, нiби ми розумiемо ii, хоча й не змогли б переповiсти словами цю повiсть, що чаруе наш слух.

Ми сидимо над рiчкою, а мiсяць, що теж ii любить, схиляеться й припадае до неi братнiм цiлунком i нiжно обiймае срiбними руками. А ми все дивимось, як тече вона, все спiваючи, все щось шепочучи, до свого владаря – до моря, i нарештi голоси нашi завмирають у тишi, люльки гаснуть, а нас, звичайних собi, нiчим не примiтних хлопцiв, якось дивно переповнюють думи, сумнi й приемнi, i говорити нам уже не хочеться. Потiм, засмiявшись, пiдводимось, вибиваемо попiл iз люльок, кажемо один одному «добранiч» i засинаемо пiд великими мовчазними зорями, вколисанi плюскотом води та шелестом дерев, i сниться нам, нiби земля наша знову молода – молода i прекрасна, як була вона тодi, коли сторiччя прикрощiв i турбот iще не вкрили зморшками ii прекрасного лиця, а грiхи й безумства дiтей iще не зiстарили ii велелюбного серця, прекрасна, як була в тi прадавнi днi, коли вона, молода мати, колисала нас, ii дiтей, на своiх широких грудях, – коли хитрощi розмальованоi цивiлiзацii ще не виманили нас iз ii ласкавих рук, а отруйнi насмiшки штучностi не змусили нас соромитись того простого життя, яким ми жили при нiй, i тiеi простоi й величноi оселi, де багато тисячолiть тому народилося людство.

– Ну а як дощ пiде? – спитав Гаррiс.

Цього Гаррiса нiчим не розворушиш. У ньому немае нiякоi поезii, нiякоi туги за недосяжним. З ним нiколи не бувае так, щоб вiн «плакав, сам не знаючи вiд чого». Якщо Гаррiсовi очi налилися слiзьми, це означае, що вiн iв сиру цибулю або ж занадто щедро намазав котлету гiрчицею.

Спробуйте привести Гаррiса вночi на морський берег i сказати йому: «Слухай! Невже не чуеш? Це, мабуть, русалки спiвають у глибинах або ж сумнi духи тужать над бiлими тiлами утоплих, заплутаними у водоростях!»

Вiн вiзьме вас пiд руку й вiдкаже: «Я знаю, що це таке. У тебе гарячка, ти, мабуть, застудився. Ходiм-но зi мною. Я тут за рогом знаю одне мiсце, там можна випити чарочку такого шотландського вiскi, як ти ще зроду не пив. І все вмить мов рукою знiме».

Гаррiс за кожним рогом знае таке мiсце, де можна випити чогось дуже доброго. Я гадаю, що якби зустрiти Гаррiса в раю (це, звичайно, тiльки припущення), вiн привiтав би вас такими словами:

– А, й ти вже тут, друзяко? Дуже радий. Ходiмо, я тут за рогом знайшов одне гарненьке мiсце, де можна випити справжнього першосортного нектару.

Одначе в даному випадку, коли йшлося про ночiвлю на природi, його практичне зауваження було дуже вчасне й доречне. Ночувати надворi в дощ справдi не вельми приемно.

Вечiр. Ви змокли до рубця, у човнi добрих два дюйми води, i всi вашi речi вогкi. Ви нагледiли на березi мiсцину, де трохи менше калюж, причалюете там, витягаете на берег намет i вдвох iз товаришем починаете його напинати.

Намет мокрий, важкий, вiн хляпае на вiтрi, падае на вас, обмотуеться кругом голови, доводить вас до шалу. Дощ лле безперестану. Напнути намет i в гарну погоду нелегко, а в дощ – це робота для Геркулеса. Вам усе здаеться, що ваш товариш не допомагае вам, а тiльки дурня клеiть. Тiльки-но ви закрiпите як слiд свiй бiк, вiн зi свого боку смикне – i вся ваша робота пропала.

– Слухай, що ти там робиш? – гукаете ви.

– А ти що робиш? – вiдрубуе вiн. – Попусти-но!

– Не тягни! Ти все менi зiпсував, йолопе! – кричите ви.

– Нiчого я не зiпсував! – гиркае вiн у вiдповiдь. – Попусти свiй бiк, чуеш?

– А я тобi кажу, що ти все переплутав! – горлаете ви, ладнi вже кинутись на нього з кулаками, i, щосили шарпнувши за мотузки, вириваете всi кiлочки з його боку.

– Чортiв iдiот! – бурмоче вiн сам до себе, тодi раптом шарпае теж – i висмикуе iз землi вже вашi кiлочки.

Ви кидаете довбешку, якою iх забивали, i в обхiд намету рушаете до нього – сказати йому в вiчi, що ви про все це дiло думаете. А вiн у ту саму хвилину й з тiею самою метою рушае до вас, тiльки другим боком. Так ви й ходите, лаючись, один за одним довкола намету, аж поки вiн падае на землю безформною купою; ви спиняетесь i якусь мить дивитесь один на одного через ту купу, а тодi обурено вигукуете в один голос:

– От бач! А я що казав?

Тим часом третiй ваш товариш, що вихлюпував iз човна воду, налив собi в рукав i останнi десять хвилин безперестану лаявся собi пiд нiс, запитуе вас, у якого дiдька ви там бавитесь i чого цей проклятущий намет i досi не напнуто.

Нарештi ви сяк-так його напинаете й заходжуетеся переносити iз човна речi. Розпалити багаття – шкода й пробувати, тому ви запалюете спиртiвку й тиснетесь бiля неi.

Головна складова частина вашоi вечерi – дощова вода. У хлiбi ii двi третини, м’ясний пирiг теж щедро нею приправлений; i повидло, i масло, i сiль, i кава – усе змiшалося з нею, перетворившись у якусь юшку.

Пiсля вечерi виявляеться, що тютюн вологий i закурити не можна. На щастя, у вас е пляшка тiеi рiдини, що веселить i хмелить, коли випити ii в належнiй кiлькостi, i вона пробуджуе в вас iнтерес до життя, достатнiй для того, щоб ви захотiли влягтися спати.

А серед ночi вам сниться, що на вас несподiвано сiв слон i що вибух вулкана скинув вас на дно морське разом iз тим слоном, який спокiйнiсiнько спить у вас на грудях. Ви прокидаетеся й переконуетесь, що справдi сталося щось жахливе. Перше ваше враження – що настав кiнець свiту; потiм приходить думка, що цього не може бути i що це, мабуть, напад грабiжникiв i убивць або пожежа. Цю думку ви висловлюете традицiйним способом, тобто кричите: «Рятуйте!» – але рятувати нiхто не поспiшае; ви тiльки вiдчуваете, що вас щось душить i стусають тисячi нiг.

Здаеться, ви не самi попали в таку халепу. Ви чуете ще чийсь здушений крик звiдкись знизу, з-пiд вашоi постелi. Наважившись принаймнi дорого продати свое життя, ви несамовито пручаетесь, штурхаете руками й ногами на всi боки й дико репетуете. Нарештi щось вiдпускае вас, i ваша голова опиняеться на вiльному повiтрi. За крок вiд себе ви невиразно бачите якогось напiводягненого бандюгу, готового вас замордувати, i вже готуетеся зчепитись iз ним не на життя, а на смерть, коли раптом здогадуетеся, що це Джим.

– А, це ти?.. – озиваеться вiн, у ту саму хвилину впiзнавши вас.

– Я, – вiдповiдаете ви, протираючи очi. – А що сталося?

– Та, мабуть, бiсiв намет вiтром повалило, – вiдказуе вiн. – А де ж Бiлл?

Ви обидва починаете гукати: «Бiлле! Бiлле!» – i чуете, що земля пiд вами ходить ходором, а той самий здушений голос, що ви вже чули, вiдповiдае вам iз-пiд звалища:

– Устань з моеi голови, лобуряко!

Нарештi Бiлл виборсуеться на волю – брудний, потоптаний i в якомусь недоречно войовничому настроi. Очевидно, вiн гадае, що ви пiдстроiли все це навмисне.

Уранцi ви всi трое не можете говорити, бо вночi прикро застудилися. До того ж на вас напала незвичайна дратливiсть, i пiд час снiданку ви раз у раз лаете один одного хрипким шепотом.

Тому ми вирiшили, що спатимемо в наметi погожими ночами, а коли йтиме дощ чи просто коли нам набридне намет, ночуватимемо в готелях, заiздах чи корчмах, як усi поряднi люди.

Монтморенсi сприйняв такий компромiс дуже задоволено. Його не вабить романтичне вiдлюддя. Йому давайте щось гамiрливе; а якщо розвага трошечки вульгарна, тим веселiше буде. Як подивитись на нього, може здатися, що це ангел, iз якихось незбагненних для людей причин посланий з неба на землю в подобi маленького фокстер’ера. Його очi мають такий вираз, нiби промовляють: «Ох, який же зiпсутий цей свiт, i як би я хотiв зробити його кращим, чистiшим!» – i не раз я бачив, як цей вираз викликав сльози на очах у побожних лiтнiх дам i панiв.

Коли Монтморенсi перейшов на мое утримання, я не думав, що зможу довго тiшитись його товариством. Бувало, вiн сидить на своiй постилцi, звiвши на мене очi, а я сиджу в крiслi, дивлюсь на нього й думаю: «Нi, цей песик довго не проживе. З неба спуститься осяйна колiсниця й забере його – ось що з ним буде».

Та коли я заплатив за десяте курча, що вiн задушив; i коли всточотирнадцяте за в’язи витяг його, розлюченого як чортеня, iз собачоi бiйки; i коли якась розгнiвана жiнка принесла менi на огляд загризеного кота й назвала мене душогубом; i коли один чоловiк з нашоi вулицi подав на мене в суд за те, що я держу злого пса, через якого вiн одного зимового вечора двi години просидiв у власнiй повiточцi, боячись носа поткнути надвiр; i коли я дiзнався, що наш садiвник без мого вiдома виграв на ньому тридцять шилiнгiв, закладаючись, чий фокстер’ер за годину загризе бiльше пацюкiв, – тодi я почав думати, що йому, може, все-таки дозволять пожити на грiшнiй землi трохи довше.

Тинятись бiля якоiсь стайнi, зiбрати зграю найбiльших шибайголiв собачоi породи, якi тiльки знайдуться в мiстi, й повести iх по найбруднiших завулках на бiй з iншими собачими шибайголовами – ось що Монтморенсi вважае справжнiм життям. Тому, як я вже вiдзначив, вiн з превеликою радiстю сприйняв пропозицiю ночувати в готелях, заiздах i корчмах.

Коли ми таким чином знайшли прийнятне для всiх чотирьох розв’язання проблеми ночiвлi, нам лишилося тiльки вирiшити, що брати в дорогу. Про це ми й почали говорити, коли Гаррiс раптом сказав, що з нього вже досить дебатiв на сьогоднiшнiй вечiр, i запропонував сходити перехилити по однiй – вiн, мовляв, знайшов тут неподалiк за рогом, через майдан, таке мiсце, де е справдi путяще iрландське вiскi.

Джордж вiдказав, що i йому хочеться чогось випити (я не пам’ятаю такого випадку, щоб йому цього не хотiлось). Та й я теж вiдчував, що крапелька пiдiгрiтого вiскi зi скибочкою лимона буде корисна для моеi печiнки; отож, за спiльною згодою, обговорення планiв вiдклали на завтрашнiй вечiр, i учасники зборiв, понадягавши капелюхи, вийшли надвiр.




Chapter Three




Arrangements settled – Harris’s method of doing work – How the elderly family-man puts up a picture – George makes a sensible remark – Delights of early morning bathing – Provisions for getting upset.


So, on the following evening, we again assembled, to discuss and arrange our plans. Harris said:

“Now, the first thing to settle is what to take with us. Now, you get a bit of paper and write down, J., and you get the grocery catalogue, George, and somebody give me a bit of pencil, and then I’ll make out a list.”

That’s Harris all over – so ready to take the burden of everything himself, and put it on the backs of other people.

He always reminds me of my poor Uncle Podger. You never saw such a commotion up and down a house, in all your life, as when my Uncle Podger undertook to do a job. A picture would have come home from the framemaker’s, and be standing in the dining-room, waiting to be put up; and Aunt Podger would ask what was to be done with it, and Uncle Podger would say:

“Oh, you leave that to me. Don’t you, any of you, worry yourselves about that. I’ll do all that.”

And then he would take off his coat, and begin. He would send the girl out for sixpen’orth of nails and then one of the boys after her to tell her what size to get; and, from that, he would gradually work down, and start the whole house.

“Now you go and get me my hammer, Will,” he would shout; “and you bring me the rule, Tom; and I shall want the step-ladder, and I had better have a kitchen-chair, too; and, Jim! you run round to Mr. Goggles, and tell him, ‘Pa’s kind regards, and hopes his leg’s better; and will he lend him his spirit-level?’ And don’t you go, Maria, because I shall want somebody to hold me the light; and when the girl comes back, she must go out again for a bit of picture-cord: and Tom! – where’s Tom? – Tom, you come here; I shall want you to hand me up the picture.”

And then he would lift up the picture, and drop it, and it would come out of the frame, and he would try to save the glass, and cut himself; and then he would spring round the room, looking for his handkerchief. He could not find his handkerchief, because it was in the pocket of the coat he had taken off, and he did not know where he had put the coat, and all the house had to leave off looking for his tools, and start looking for his coat; while he would dance round and hinder them.

“Doesn’t anybody in the whole house know where my coat is? I never came across such a set in all my life – upon my word I didn’t. Six of you! – and you can’t find a coat that I put down not five minutes ago! Well, of all the —”

Then he’d get up, and find that he had been sitting on it, and would call out:

“Oh, you can give it up! I’ve found it myself now. Might just as well ask the cat to find anything as expect you people to find it.”

And, when half-an-hour had been spent in tying up his finger, and a new glass had been got, and the tools, and the ladder, and the chair, and the candle had been brought, he would have another go, the whole family, including the girl and the charwoman, standing round in a semi-circle, ready to help. Two people would have to hold the chair, and a third would help him up on it, and hold him there, and a fourth would hand him a nail, and a fifth would pass him up the hammer, and he would take hold of the nail, and drop it.

“There!” he would say, in an injured tone, “now the nail’s gone.”

And we would all have to go down on our knees and grovel for it, while he would stand on the chair, and grunt, and want to know if he was to be kept there all the evening.

The nail would be found at last, but by that time he would have lost the hammer.

“Where’s the hammer? What did I do with the hammer? Great heavens! Seven of you, gaping round there, and you don’t know what I did with the hammer!”

We would find the hammer for him, and then he would have lost sight of the mark he had made on the wall, where the nail was to go in, and each of us had to get up on the chair, beside him, and see if we could find it; and we would each discover it in a different place, and he would call us all fools, one after another, and tell us to get down. And he would take the rule, and re-measure, and find that he wanted half thirty-one and three-eighths inches from the corner, and would try to do it in his head, and go mad.

And we would all try to do it in our heads, and all arrive at different results, and sneer at one another. And in the general row, the original number would be forgotten, and Uncle Podger would have to measure it again.

He would use a bit of string this time, and at the critical moment, when the old fool was leaning over the chair at an angle of forty-five, and trying to reach a point three inches beyond what was possible for him to reach, the string would slip, and down he would slide on to the piano, a really fine musical effect being produced by, the suddenness with which his head and body struck all the notes at the same time.

And Aunt Maria would say that she would not allow the children to stand round and hear such language.

At last, Uncle Podger would get the spot fixed again, and put the point of the nail on it with his left hand, and take the hammer in his right hand. And, with the first blow, he would smash his thumb, and drop the hammer, with a yell, on somebody’s toes.

Aunt Maria would mildly observe that next time Uncle Podger was going to hammer a nail into the wall, she hoped he’d let her know in time, so that she could make arrangements to go and spend a week with her mother while it was being done.

“Oh! you women, you make such a fuss over everything,” Uncle Podger would reply, picking himself up. “Why, I like doing a little job of this sort.”

And then he would have another try, and, at the second blow, the nail would go clean through the plaster, and half the hammer after it, and Uncle Podger be precipitated against the wall with force nearly sufficient to flatten his nose.

Then we had to find the rule and the string again, and a new hole was made; and, about midnight, the picture would be up – very crooked and insecure, the wall for yards round looking as if it had been smoothed down with a rake, and everybody dead beat and wretched – except Uncle Podger.

“There you are,” he would say, stepping heavily off the chair on to the charwoman’s corns, and surveying the mess he had made with evident pride. “Why, some people would have had a man in to do a little thing like that!”

Harris will be just that sort of man when he grows up, I know, and I told him so. I said I could not permit him to take so much labour upon himself, I said:

“No: you get the paper, and the pencil, and the catalogue, and George write down, and I’ll do the work.”

The first list we made out had to be discarded. It was clear that the upper reaches of the Thames would not allow of the navigation of a boat sufficiently large to take the things we had set down as indispensable; so we tore the list up, and looked at one another!

George said:

“You know we are on the wrong track altogether. We must not think of the things we could do with, but only of the things that we can’t do without.”

George comes out really quite sensible at times. You’d be surprised. I call that downright wisdom, not merely as regards the present case, but with reference to our trip up the river of life, generally. How many people, on that voyage, load up the boat till it is ever in danger of swamping with a store of foolish things which they think essential to the pleasure and comfort of the trip, but which are really only useless lumber.

How they pile the poor little craft mast-high with fine clothes and big houses; with useless servants, and a host of swell friends that do not care twopence for them, and that they do not care three ha’ pence for; with expensive entertainments that nobody enjoys, with formalities and fashions, with pretence and ostentation, and with – oh, heaviest, maddest lumber of all! – the dread of what will my neighbour think, with luxuries that only cloy, with pleasures that bore, with empty show that, like the criminal’s iron crown of yore, makes to bleed and swoon the aching head that wears it!

It is lumber, man – all lumber! Throw it overboard. It makes the boat so heavy to pull, you nearly faint at the oars. It makes it so cumbersome and dangerous to manage, you never know a moment’s freedom from anxiety and care, never gain a moment’s rest for dreamy laziness – no time to watch the windy shadows skimming lightly o’er the shallows, or the glittering sunbeams flitting in and out among the ripples, or the great trees by the margin looking down at their own image, or the woods all green and golden, or the lilies white and yellow, or the sombre-waving rushes, or the sedges, or the orchis, or the blue forget-me-nots.

Throw the lumber over, man! Let your boat of life be light, packed with only what you need – a homely home and simple pleasures, one or two friends worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, and a pipe or two, enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than enough to drink; for thirst is a dangerous thing.

You will find the boat easier to pull then, and it will not be so liable to upset, and it will not matter so much if it does upset; good, plain merchandise will stand water. You will have time to think as well as to work. Time to drink in life’s sunshine – time to listen to the Aeolian music that the wind of God draws from the human heart-strings around us – time to —

I beg your pardon, really. I quite forgot.

Well, we left the list to George, and he began it.

“We won’t take a tent,” suggested George; “we will have a boat with a cover. It is ever so much simpler, and more comfortable.”

It seemed a good thought, and we adopted it. I do not know whether you have ever seen the thing I mean. You fix iron hoops up over the boat, and stretch a huge canvas over them, and fasten it down all round, from stem to stern, and it converts the boat into a sort of little house, and it is beautifully cosy, though a trifle stuffy; but there, everything has its drawbacks, as the man said when his mother-in-law died, and they came down upon him for the funeral expenses.

George said that in that case we must take a rug each, a lamp, some soap, a brush and comb (between us), a tooth-brush (each), a basin, some tooth-powder, some shaving tackle (sounds like a French exercise, doesn’t it?); and a couple of big towels for bathing. I notice that people always make gigantic arrangements for bathing when they are going anywhere near the water, but that they don’t bathe much when they are there.

It is the same when you go to the sea-side. I always determine – when thinking over the matter in London – that I’ll get up early every morning, and go and have a dip before breakfast, and I religiously pack up a pair of drawers and a bath towel. I always get red bathing drawers. I rather fancy myself in red drawers. They suit my complexion so. But when I get to the sea I don’t feel somehow that I want that early morning bathe nearly so much as I did when I was in town.

On the contrary, I feel more that I want to stop in bed till the last moment, and then come down and have my breakfast. Once or twice virtue has triumphed, and I have got out at six and halfdressed myself, and have taken my drawers and towel, and stumbled dismally off. But I haven’t enjoyed it. They seem to keep a specially cutting east wind, waiting for me, when I go to bathe in the early morning; and they pick out all the three-cornered stones, and put them on the top, and they sharpen up the rocks and cover the points over with a bit of sand so that I can’t see them, and they take the sea and put it two miles out, so that I have to huddle myself up in my arms and hop, shivering, through six inches of water. And when I do get to the sea, it is rough and quite insulting.

One huge wave catches me up and chucks me in a sitting posture, as hard as ever it can, down on to a rock which has been put there for me. And, before I’ve said “Oh! Ugh!” and found out what has gone, the wave comes back and carries me out to midocean. I begin to strike out frantically for the shore, and wonder if I shall ever see home and friends again, and wish I’d been kinder to my little sister when a boy (when I was a boy, I mean). Just when I have given up all hope, a wave retires and leaves me sprawling like a star-fish on the sand, and I get up and look back and find that I’ve been swimming for my life in two feet of water. I hop back and dress, and crawl home, where I have to pretend I liked it.

In the present instance, we all talked as if we were going to have a long swim every morning. George said it was so pleasant to wake up in the boat in the fresh morning, and plunge into the limpid river. Harris said there was nothing like a swim before breakfast to give you an appetite. He said it always gave him an appetite. George said that if it was going to make Harris eat more than Harris ordinarily ate, then he should protest against Harris having a bath at all.

He said there would be quite enough hard work in towing sufficient food for Harris up against stream, as it was.

I urged upon George, however, how much pleasanter it would be to have Harris clean and fresh about the boat, even if we did have to take a few more hundred-weight of provisions; and he got to see it in my light, and withdrew his opposition to Harris’s bath.

Agreed, finally, that we should take three bath towels, so as not to keep each other waiting.

For clothes, George said two suits of flannel would be sufficient, as we could wash them ourselves, in the river, when they got dirty. We asked him if he had ever tried washing flannels in the river, and he replied: “No, not exactly himself like; but he knew some fellows who had, and it was easy enough;” and Harris and I were weak enough to fancy he knew what he was talking about, and that three respectable young men, without position or influence, and with no experience in washing, could really clean their own shirts and trousers in the river Thames with a bit of soap.

We were to learn in the days to come, when it was too late, that George was a miserable impostor who could evidently have known nothing whatever about the matter. If you had seen these clothes after – but, as the shilling shockers say, we anticipate.

George impressed upon us to take a change of underthings and plenty of socks, in case we got upset and wanted a change; also plenty of handkerchiefs, as they would do to wipe things, and a pair of leather boots as well as our boating shoes, as we should want them if we got upset.




Роздiл третiй




Усе вирiшено. Гаррiсiв метод роботи. Як лiтнiй сiмейний чоловiк вiшае картину. Джордж висловлюе розумне зауваження. Принади ранкового купання. Запаси на той випадок, якщо ми перекинемось.


Отже, наступного вечора ми зiбралися знову, щоб обговорити все до кiнця. Гаррiс сказав:

– Ну, насамперед треба вирiшити, що нам брати в дорогу. Дж.[2 - Початковi лiтери iменi автора (Джером).], ти вiзьми аркуш паперу, записуватимеш, а ти, Джордже, принеси прейскурант продуктовоi крамницi, а менi хто-небудь дайте олiвця, i я складу вам список.

Це типова Гаррiсова манера: вiн завжди готовий узяти всякий тягар на своi плечi, а потiм перекласти на чужi.

Цим вiн завжди нагадуе менi мого покiйного дядька Поджера. Ви зроду не бачили такоi метушнi в домi, як бувала тодi, коли дядечко Поджер брався зробити якесь дiло. От, скажiмо, принесли вiд столяра вставлену в раму картину й поставили у iдальнi; треба ii десь повiсити. Тiтуся Поджер питае в дядька, що робити з картиною, i дядько вiдповiдае:

– Полиште це дiло на мене. Нiхто про неi не думайте i не турбуйтеся. Я сам усе зроблю.

Тодi скидае пiджак i береться до дiла. Насамперед посилае покоiвку купити на пiвшилiнга цвяхiв, тодi котрогось iз хлопцiв навздогiн за нею – сказати, яких завбiльшки; i так, почавши iз цього, помалу сколотить i запряже в роботу всiх у домi.

– Принеси-но молоток, Вiллi! – гукае вiн. – А ти, Томе, лiнiйку. І ще менi треба драбинки, i табуретку теж принесiть! Ти, Джиме, збiгай до мiстера Гоглза й скажи йому: «Тато кланяеться й питае, чи вже полегшало вам iз ногою. І чи не позичите ви йому ватерпас?» Ти, Марiе, не заходь нiкуди, бо ж треба буде, щоб хтось менi свiтло подержав. А як вернеться те дiвчисько, нехай сходить ще раз, купить шворки, на чому вiшати. Томе! Де ж Том? Томе, йди сюди, ти будеш потрiбен. Подаси менi картину.

Потiм дядько пiднiмае картину i впускае ii. Картина випадае з рами, дядько намагаеться врятувати скло, розрiзуе собi руку й бiгае по кiмнатi, шукаючи носовичка. Знайти його вiн нiяк не може, бо носовичок лежить у кишенi пiджака, якого вiй щойно скинув, а де поклав – не пам’ятае, i всiй родинi доводиться покинути розшуки iнструментiв для нього й шукати пiджак, а дядько метушиться по кiмнатi й заважае всiм:

– Невже нiхто в цiлому домi не знае, де мiй пiджак? Зроду ще не бачив такоi безголовоi компанii, слово честi, не бачив. Шестеро вас – i не можете знайти пiджака, хоч я його лише п’ять хвилин як скинув! Таких, як ви, мабуть…

Тодi пiдхоплюеться i, побачивши, що сам сидiв на своему пiджаку, вигукуе:

– Годi, не шукайте! Уже сам знайшов. Мабуть, краще кота попросити, нiж вас, коли треба щось розшукати!

Потiм iз пiвгодини перев’язують йому палець, добувають нове скло, i коли нарештi вже принесено всi iнструменти, драбинку, табуретку й свiчку, дядько починае другу спробу, а вся родина, з покоiвкою й поденною служницею включно, пiвколом стоiть позаду, наготувавшись йому допомагати. Двое держать табуретку, трете пiдсаджуе дядька на неi i притримуе, щоб не впав, четверте подае йому цвях, п’яте молоток, а вiн бере цвях i зразу впускае.

– Ну ось, маеш! – промовляе ображеним тоном, – Тепер цвях упав.

І всiм нам доводиться рачкувати навколiшки, розшукуючи той цвях, а дядько стоiть на табуретцi й бурчить, i в’iдливо питае: що йому, цiлий вечiр там простояти, чи як?

Нарештi цвях знайдено, але виявляеться, що тим часом пропав молоток.

– Де молоток? Де я подiв молоток? Господи милосердний! Стоiте сiм душ, пороззявлявши роти, i не знаете, де я поклав молоток!

Ми знаходимо йому молоток – та вiн уже згубив позначку, яку зробив на стiнi там, де треба забити цвях, i кожне з нас тепер мусить вилазити до нього на табуретку й придивлятися до стiни, шукаючи тiеi позначки. І кожне знаходить ii в iншому мiсцi. А дядько взивае нас одного за одним дурнями й наказуе злазити геть. Тодi знов бере лiнiйку й ще раз усе перемiрюе. Одержуе тридцять один i три восьмих дюйма вiд кутка, i цю вiдстань йому треба подiлити на два. Вiн пробуе зробити це в думцi й зовсiм навiснiе.

Ми теж пробуемо подiлити це число в думцi, i результат виходить у всiх рiзний. Ми глузуемо одне з одного i в суперечцi забуваемо, яке ж число треба подiлити. Дядьковi Поджеру доводиться вимiряти ще раз.

Тепер вiн мiряе шворкою, i в критичну мить, коли старий бевзь перехилявся через табуретку пiд кутом сорок п’ять градусiв, намагаючись дотягтися рукою до точки, на три дюйми дальшоi, нiж вiн мiг дiстати, шворка сприсае, i вiн гепаеться на пiанiно. Вiд раптового удару головою й тулубом вiдразу по всiх клавiшах виходить просто-таки надзвичайний музичний ефект.

А тiтонька Марiя каже, що вона не дозволить, щоб дiти стояли тут i слухали такi вислови.

Нарештi дядько таки вiдшукуе потрiбну точку, лiвою рукою приставляе до неi гострий кiнець цвяха, а в праву бере молоток. Першим ударом вiн влучае себе по великому пальцю i, дико скрикнувши, впускае молоток комусь на ногу.

Тiтонька Марiя лагiдно просить дядька, щоб вiн, коли йому знов заманеться забити цвях у стiну, попередив ii завчасно: вона тодi хутенько збереться, поiде на тиждень до матерi й перечекае там.

– Ет! Ви, жiнки, завжди робите драми казна з чого, – бадьоро вiдповiдае дядько. – А менi от подобаеться iнколи зробити отаку невеличку роботу.

Потiм пробуе ще раз i за другим ударом заганяе в стiну весь цвях i пiвмолотка, а його самого кидае на стiну з такою силою, що вiн ледь не розплiскуе собi носа.

Далi нам доводиться знов розшукувати лiнiйку i шворку, i пробиваеться ще одна дiрка. Десь так опiвночi картину нарештi повiшено – дуже косо i ненадiйно, а стiна на кiлька ярдiв довкола мае такий вигляд, нiби ii скородили граблями. Усi ми на смерть зморенi й нещаснi – крiм самого дядька.

– Ну ось, – каже вiн, важко ступаючи з табуретки просто на мозолi служницi, й з вiдвертою гордiстю оглядае те, що наробив. – А хтось iнший наймав би майстра задля такоi дрiбнички!

Я певен, що й Гаррiс буде точнiсiнько такий, коли виросте великий. Так я йому й сказав. І додав, що не згоден, щоб вiн брав стiльки мороки на себе.

– Нi, краще ти знайди папiр, i олiвець, i прейскурант, а Джордж нехай пише, а всю решту я зроблю сам, – сказав я.

Перший список, який ми склали, довелось вiдкинути. Було очевидно, що у верхiв’я Темзи не пройде човен, досить великий, щоб умiстити всi речi, якi ми вважали необхiдними для подорожi. Ми порвали список i втупились один в одного.

Джордж сказав:

– Ви знаете, ми пiшли хибним шляхом. Треба думати не про те, чим ми можемо обiйтись, а про те, без чого ми не можемо обiйтись.

Джордж iнколи може сказати досить розумну рiч. Аж диво бере. По-моему, в цих його словах е глибока iстина, справедлива не тiльки для оцiеi прогулянки Темзою, а й взагалi для нашоi подорожi рiкою життя. Як багато людей у тiй подорожi, ризикуючи потопити свiй човен, перевантажують його всiлякими безглуздими речами, якi здаються iм необхiдними для приемного й вигiдного плавання, а насправдi е тiльки непотрiбним мотлохом!

Як вони завалюють утле суденечко аж понад щогли гарним убранням, великими будинками, зайвими служниками, безлiччю шикарних друзiв, якi не дбають про них нi на пенс i про яких самi вони не дбають i на пiвпенса; дорогими розвагами, що нiкого не тiшать, умовностями та церемонiями, претензiями та пихою, i – о, це найтяжчий, найбезглуздiший мотлох з усього! – страхом перед тим, що подумае сусiд; i набридлими розкошами, i нудними втiхами – всiею пустою шумихою, що, неначе залiзний вiнець, який у давнину надягали на злочинцiв, лише кривавить i гнiтить зболiлу голову!

Усе це мотлох, повiрте, – нiкчемний мотлох! Викиньте його за борт. Через нього ваш човен iде так важко, що ви, гребучи, знемагаете; через цей мотлох вiн такий неповороткий i хисткий, що ви не маете й хвилини, вiльноi вiд тривог i турбот, i хвилини перепочинку, мрiйного бездiлля, – не маете коли помилуватись i на блискiтки, що ними сонце хвилi посипае, i на жмури, що вiд вiтру пробiгають по гладiнi, i на верби, що у воду задивилися на себе, й на лiси в зелених шатах чи у золотi осiннiм, на латаття жовте й бiле, на комиш iз осокою, i на квiтку зозулинця, й на невиннi оченята незабудок голубих.

Викинь весь мотлох за борт, друже! Нехай човен твого життя буде легкий, хай вiн несе лише те, що тобi справдi потрiбне: затишний дiм, простi втiхи, двое-трое друзiв, тi, кого ти любиш i хто любить тебе, кiт, собака, люлька чи двi, скiльки треба iжi та одягу, а напоiв трохи бiльше нiж треба, бо спрага – небезпечна рiч.

Тодi легше буде гребти i човен не так норовитиме перекинутись, а якщо й перекинеться коли, – невелике лихо, бо простий, добротний товар не боiться води. Тодi ти матимеш час i попрацювати, i подумати. Удосталь часу, щоб упиватися сонцем життя i щоб слухати, як вiтер Господнiй грае на еолових арфах наших сердець, i щоб…

Ох, вибачте. Я захопився й забув…

Отже, ми доручили список Джорджевi, i вiн почав його складати.

– Намету ми не братимемо, – запропонував вiн. – Вiзьмемо човен iз тентом. Так буде й багато простiше, i вигiднiше…

Думка здалась нам непоганою, i ми погодились. Не знаю, чи траплялось вам бачити таку рiч. Над човном установлюють залiзнi дуги вiд борту до борту, на них накидають великий брезент i скрiплюють його краi з бортами кругом, вiд носа до корми. Човен перетворюеться на маленький будиночок, надзвичайно затишний, хоч i тiснуватий; але все мае своi вади, як сказав один чоловiк, коли вмерла його теща i вiд нього зажадали грошей на похорон.

Потiм Джордж сказав, що в такому разi треба взяти по пледу для кожного, лiхтар, мила, щiтку для волосся й гребiнець (на всiх трьох), по зубнiй щiтцi на кожного, велику миску, зубний порошок, усе приладдя для голiння (схоже на текст iз пiдручника французькоi мови, правда?) i зо два великих купальних рушники. Я давно помiтив, що люди, збираючись кудись до води, завжди ретельно запасаються всiм потрiбним для купання, але, приiхавши на мiсце, купаються дуже мало.

Так бувае й тодi, коли ми iдемо до моря. Я, обмiрковуючи таку подорож у Лондонi, завжди вирiшую, що вставатиму рано й щодня до снiданку ходитиму купатись, i святобливо кладу у валiзу купальнi труси й рушник. Труси я завжди купую червонi. Я подобаюсь сам собi в червоних трусах. Вони менi дуже личать. Але, приiхавши на море, я чомусь не вiдчуваю такоi охоти купатися щоранку, як вiдчував у мiстi.

Навпаки, менi хочеться лежати в лiжку якомога довше, а потiм зiйти вниз i поснiдати. Раз чи двiчi сумлiння перемагае, я пiдхоплююсь о шостiй годинi, беру труси й рушник i, напiводягнений, пригнiчено плентаюсь до моря. Купання мене зовсiм не тiшить. Наче навмисне хтось приберiг на цей ранок, спецiально для мене, надзвичайно рiзкий схiдний вiтер, i повибирав усi гострi камiнцi та посипав ними мою дорогу, i, позагострювавши велике камiння, ледь прикрив пiском, щоб не було видно, i взяв море та вiднiс його миль на двi далi, так що я мушу, зiщулившись i тремтячи, довго-довго брести до нього по кiсточки у водi. А коли нарештi дiйду до моря, воно виявляеться розхвильоване й сердите.

Перша велика хвиля, накотившись, пiдхоплюе мене й садовить з усього розмаху на каменюку, навмисне покладену там. Не встигаю я вигукнути «Ох!» i збагнути, що сталось, як хвиля вертаеться й тягне мене iз собою в чисте море. Я починаю шалено рватись до берега, i думаю, що бiльш не побачу своiх рiдних i друзiв, i шкодую, що в дитинствi так знущався з меншоi сестри. Саме коли я вже прощаюся з бiлим свiтом, хвиля втiкае i лишае мене розпростертого, мов медуза, на пiску. Я пiдводжусь, озираюся й бачу, що там, де я так вiдчайдушно боровся за свое життя, усього по колiна води. Я дибаю назад, одягаюсь i йду додому, де мушу вдавати, нiби купання було для мене бозна-якою насолодою.

Ось i тепер ми всi мiркували так, нiби збираемося щоранку подовгу плавати. Джордж розписував, як приемно прокинутись у човнi свiжим ранком i поринути в чисту, прозору воду. Гаррiс сказав, що нiщо так не збуджуе апетиту, як купання перед снiданком. Принаймнi йому таке купання завжди додавало апетиту. Джордж тодi зауважив, що як Гаррiс пiсля купання iстиме ще бiльше, нiж звичайно, то вiн, Джордж тобто, взагалi не згоден, щоб Гаррiс купався. Мовляв, i так це досить важка робота – везти човном проти течii стiльки харчiв, як потрiбно Гаррiсовi.

Тодi я почав доводити Джорджевi, що куди приемнiше мати Гаррiса в човнi чистого й свiжого, навiть якщо задля цього треба везти зайвих кiлькасот фунтiв провiзii. Глянувши на справу iз цiеi точки зору, Джордж зняв свое заперечення проти Гаррiсового купання.

Урештi-решт ми вирiшили взяти три купальнi рушники, щоб не чекати один одного.

Щодо одежi Джордж сказав, що досить буде взяти по два фланелевих костюми, бо ми можемо самi прати iх у рiчцi, коли забрудняться. Ми його спитали, чи вiн коли пробував прати фланелевий костюм у рiчцi, i вiн вiдповiв:

– Та нi, сам не пробував… але я знаю людей, що пробували, i вони казали, що це досить легке дiло.

І ми з Гаррiсом, як наiвнi дiти, повiрили, нiби вiн знае що говорить, i нiби трое порядних молодикiв, якi ще не здобули нi високого суспiльного становища i впливу, нi досвiду в праннi, справдi зумiють за допомогою бруска мила чисто випрати в рiчцi Темзi своi сорочки i штани.

Згодом, коли було вже запiзно, ми пересвiдчилися, що Джордж – жалюгiдний брехун i що вiн, очевидно, нiчогiсiнько не тямив у праннi. Якби ви побачили нашу одежу пiсля… але, як люблять висловлюватись автори дешевих детективних романiв, ми забiгаемо наперед.

Джордж наполiг, щоб ми взяли по перемiнi бiлизни й чимбiльше шкарпеток на той випадок, коли човен перекинеться й доведеться переодягатись; а також чимбiльше носовичкiв, щоб було чим усе витирати, i мiцнi шкiрянi черевики на додачу до гумових веслярських – знов таки на той випадок, якщо перекинемось.




Chapter Four




The food question – Objections to paraffin oil as an atmosphere – Advantages of cheese as a travelling companion – A married woman deserts her home – Further provision far getting upset – I pack – Cussedness of tooth-brushes – George and Harris pack – Awful behaviour of Montmorency – We retire to rest.


Then we discussed the food question. George said:

“Begin with breakfast.” (George is so practical.) “Now for breakfast we shall want a frying-pan” – (Harris said it was indigestible; but we merely urged him not to be an ass, and George went on) – “a tea-pot and a kettle, and a methylated spirit stove.”

“No oil,” said George, with a significant look; and Harris and I agreed.

We had taken up an oil-stove once, but “never again.” It had been like living in an oil-shop that week. It oozed. I never saw such a thing as paraffin oil is to ooze. We kept it in the nose of the boat, and, from there, it oozed down to the rudder, impregnating the whole boat and everything in it on its way, and it oozed over the river, and saturated the scenery and spoilt the atmosphere. Sometimes a westerly oily wind blew, and at other times an easterly oily wind, and sometimes it blew a northerly oily wind, and maybe a southerly oily wind; but whether it came from the Arctic snows, or was raised in the waste of the desert sands, it came alike to us laden with the fragrance of paraffin oil.

And that oil oozed up and ruined the sunset; and as for the moonbeams, they positively reeked of paraffin.

We tried to get away from it at Marlow. We left the boat by the bridge, and took a walk through the town to escape it, but it followed us. The whole town was full of oil. We passed through the churchyard, and it seemed as if the people had been buried in oil. The High Street stunk of oil; we wondered how people could live in it. And we walked miles upon miles out Birmingham way; but it was no use, the country was steeped in oil.

At the end of that trip we met together at midnight in a lonely field, under a blasted oak, and took an awful oath (we had been swearing for a whole week about the thing in an ordinary, middleclass way, but this was a swell affair) – an awful oath never to take paraffin oil with us in a boat again – except, of course, in case of sickness.

Therefore, in the present instance, we confined ourselves to methylated spirit. Even that is bad enough. You get methylated pie and methylated cake. But methylated spirit is more wholesome when taken into the system in large quantities than paraffin oil.

For other breakfast things, George suggested eggs and bacon, which were easy to cook, cold meat, tea, bread and butter, and jam. For lunch, he said, we could have biscuits, cold meat, bread and butter, and jam – but no cheese. Cheese, like oil, makes too much of itself. It wants the whole boat to itself. It goes through the hamper, and gives a cheesy flavour to everything else there. You can’t tell whether you are eating apple-pie or German sausage, or strawberries and cream. It all seems cheese. There is too much odour about cheese.

I remember a friend of mine buying a couple of cheeses at Liverpool. Splendid cheeses they were, ripe and mellow, and with a two hundred horse-power scent about them that might have been warranted to carry three miles, and knock a man over at twohundred yards. I was in Liverpool at the time, and my friend said that if I didn’t mind he would get me to take them back with me to London, as he should not be coming up for a day or two himself, and he did not think the cheeses ought to be kept much longer.

“Oh, with pleasure, dear boy,” I replied, “with pleasure.”

I called for the cheeses, and took them away in a cab. It was a ramshackle affair, dragged along by a knock-kneed, brokenwinded somnambulist, which his owner, in a moment of enthusiasm, during conversation, referred to as a horse. I put the cheeses on the top, and we started off at a shamble that would have done credit to the swiftest steam-roller ever built, and all went merry as a funeral bell, until we turned the corner. There, the wind carried a whiff from the cheeses full on to our steed. It woke him up, and, with a snort of terror, he dashed off at three miles an hour. The wind still blew in his direction, and before we reached the end of the street he was laying himself at the rate of nearly four miles an hour, leaving the cripples and stout old ladies simply, nowhere.

It took two porters as well as the driver to hold him in at the station; and I do not think thev would have done it, even then, had not one of the men had the presence of mind to put a handkerchief over his nose, and to light a bit of brown paper.

I took my ticket, and marched proudly up the platform, with my cheeses, the people falling back respectfully on either side. The train was crowded, and I had to get into a carriage where there were already seven other people. One crusty old gentleman objected, but I got in, notwithstanding; and, putting my cheeses upon the rack, squeezed down with a pleasant smile, and said it was a warm day. A few moments passed, and then the old gentleman began to fidget.

“Very close in here,” he said.

“Quite oppressive,” said the man next him.

And then they both began sniffing, and, at the third sniff, they caught it right on the chest and rose up without another word and went out. And then a stout lady got up, and said it was disgraceful that a respectable married woman should be harried about in this way, and gathered up a bag and eight parcels and went. The remaining four passengers sat on for a while, until a solemnlooking man in the corner who, from his dress and general appearance, seemed to belong to the undertaker class, said it put him in mind of a dead baby; and the other three passengers tried to get out of the door at the same time, and hurt themselves.

I smiled at the black gentleman, and said I thought we were going to have the carriage to ourselves; and he laughed pleasantly, and said that some people made such a fuss over a little thing. But even he grew strangely depressed after we had started, and so, when we reached Crewe, I asked him to come and have a drink. He accepted, and we forced our way into the buffet, where we yelled, and stamped, and waved our umbrellas for a quarter of an hour; and then a young lady came and asked us if we wanted anything.

“What’s yours?” I said, turning to my friend.

“I’ll have half-a-crown’s worth of brandy, neat, if you please, miss,” he responded.

And he went off quietly after he had drunk it and got into another carriage, which I thought mean.

From Crewe I had the compartment to myself, though the train was crowded. As we drew up at the different stations, the people, seeing my empty carriage, would rush for it. “Here y’are, Maria; come along, plenty of room.” “All right, Tom; we’ll get in here,” they would shout. And they would run along, carrying heavy bags and fight round the door to get in first. And one would open the door and mount the steps, and stagger back into the arms of the man behind him; and they would all come and have a sniff, and then droop off and squeeze into other carriages, or pay the difference and go first.

From Euston, I took the cheeses down to my friend’s house. When his wife came into the room she smelt round for an instant. Then she said:

“What is it? Tell me the worst.”

I said:

“It’s cheeses. Tom bought them in Liverpool, and asked me to bring them up with me.”

And I added that I hoped she understood that it had nothing to do with me; and she said that she was sure of that, but that she would speak to Tom about it when he came back.

My friend was detained in Liverpool longer than he expected and, three days later, as he hadn’t returned home, his wife called on me. She said:

“What did Tom say about those cheeses?”

I replied that he had directed they were to be kept in a moist place, and that nobody was to touch them.

She said:

“Nobody’s likely to touch them. Had he smelt them?”

I thought he had, and added that he seemed greatly attached to them.

“You think he would be upset,” she queried, “if I gave a man a sovereign to take them away and bury them?”

I answered that I thought he would never smile again.

An idea struck her. She said:

“Do you mind keeping them for him? Let me send them round to you.”

“Madam,” I replied, “for myself I like the smell of cheese, and the journey the other day with them from Liverpool I shall ever look back upon as a happy ending to a pleasant holiday. But, in this world, we must consider others. The lady under whose roof I have the honour of residing is a widow, and, for all I know, possibly an orphan too. She has a strong, I may say an eloquent, objection to being what she terms ‘put upon.’ The presence of your husband’s cheeses in her house she would, I instinctively feel, regard as a ‘put upon;’ and it shall never be said that I put upon the widow and the orphan.”

“Very well, then,” said my friend’s wife, rising, “all I have to say is, that I shall take the children and go to an hotel until those cheeses are eaten. I decline to live any longer in the same house with them.”

She kept her word, leaving the place in charge of the charwoman, who, when asked if she could stand the smell, replied, “What smell?” and who, when taken close to the cheeses and told to sniff hard, said she could detect a faint odour of melons. It was argued from this that little injury could result to the woman from the atmosphere, and she was left.

The hotel bill came to fifteen guineas; and my friend, after reckoning everything up, found that the cheeses had cost him eight-and-sixpence a pound. He said he dearly loved a bit of cheese, but it was beyond his means; so he determined to get rid of them. He threw them into the canal; but had to fish them out again, as the bargemen complained. They said it made them feel quite faint. And, after that, he took them one dark night and left them in the parish mortuary. But the coroner discovered them, and made a fearful fuss.

He said it was a plot to deprive him of his living by waking up the corpses.

My friend got rid of them, at last, by taking them down to a sea-side town, and burying them on the beach. It gained the place quite a reputation. Visitors said they had never noticed before how strong the air was, and weak-chested and consumptive people used to throng there for years afterwards.

Fond as I am of cheese, therefore, I hold that George was right in declining to take any.

“We shan’t want any tea,” said George (Harris’s face fell at this); “but we’ll have a good round square, slap-up meal at seven – dinner, tea, and supper combined.”

Harris grew more cheerful. George suggested meat and fruit pies, cold meat, tomatoes, fruit, and green stuff. For drink, we took some wonderful sticky concoction of Harris’s, which you mixed with water and called lemonade, plenty of tea, and a bottle of whisky, in case, as George said, we got upset.

It seemed to me that George harped too much on the gettingupset idea. It seemed to me the wrong spirit to go about the trip in.

But I’m glad we took the whisky.

We didn’t take beer or wine. They are a mistake up the river. They make you feel sleepy and heavy. A glass in the evening when you are doing a mouch round the town and looking at the girls is all right enough; but don’t drink when the sun is blazing down on your head, and you’ve got hard work to do.

We made a list of the things to be taken, and a pretty lengthy one it was, before we parted that evening. The next day, which was Friday, we got them all together, and met in the evening to pack. We got a big Gladstone for the clothes, and a couple of hampers for the victuals and the cooking utensils. We moved the table up against the window, piled everything in a heap in the middle of the floor, and sat round and looked at it.

I said I’d pack.

I rather pride myself on my packing. Packing is one of those many things that I feel I know more about than any other person living. (It surprises me myself sometimes, how many of these subjects there are.) I impressed the fact upon George and Harris, and told them that they had better leave the whole matter entirely to me. They fell into the suggestion with a readiness that had something uncanny about it. George put on a pipe and spread himself over the easy-chair, and Harris cocked his legs on the table and lit a cigar.

This was hardly what I intended. What I had meant, of course, was, that I should boss the job, and that Harris and George should potter about under my directions, I pushing them aside every now and then with, “Oh, you – !” “Here, let me do it.” “There you are, simple enough!” – really teaching them, as you might say. Their taking it in the way they did irritated me. There is nothing does irritate me more than seeing other people sitting about doing nothing when I’m working.

I lived with a man once who used to make me mad that way. He would loll on the sofa and watch me doing things by the hour together, following me round the room with his eyes, wherever I went. He said it did him real good to look on at me, messing about. He said it made him feel that life was not an idle dream to be gaped and yawned through, but a noble task, full of duty and stern work. He said he often wondered now how he could have gone on before he met me, never having anybody to look at while they worked.

Now, I’m not like that. I can’t sit still and see another man slaving and working. I want to get up and superintend, and walk round with my hands in my pockets, and tell him what to do. It is my energetic nature. I can’t help it.

However, I did not say anything, but started the packing. It seemed a longer job than I had thought it was going to be; but I got the bag finished at last, and I sat on it and strapped it.

“Ain’t you going to put the boots in?” said Harris.

And I looked round, and found I had forgotten them. That’s just like Harris. He couldn’t have said a word until I’d got the bag shut and strapped, of course. And George laughed – one of those irritating, senseless, chuckle-headed, crack-jawed laughs of his. They do make me so wild.

I opened the bag and packed the boots in; and then, just as I was going to close it, a horrible idea occurred to me. Had I packed my tooth-brush? I don’t know how it is, but I never do know whether I’ve packed my tooth-brush.

My tooth-brush is a thing that haunts me when I’m travelling, and makes my life a misery. I dream that I haven’t packed it, and wake up in a cold perspiration, and get out of bed and hunt for it. And, in the morning, I pack it before I have used it, and have to unpack again to get it, and it is always the last thing I turn out of the bag; and then I repack and forget it, and have to rush upstairs for it at the last moment and carry it to the railway station, wrapped up in my pocket-handkerchief.

Of course I had to turn every mortal thing out now, and, of course, I could not find it. I rummaged the things up into much the same state that they must have been before the world was created, and when chaos reigned. Of course, I found George’s and Harris’s eighteen times over, but I couldn’t find my own. I put the things back one by one, and held everything up and shook it. Then I found it inside a boot. I repacked once more.

When I had finished, George asked if the soap was in. I said I didn’t care a hang whether the soap was in or whether it wasn’t; and I slammed the bag to and strapped it, and found that I had packed my tobacco-pouch in it, and had to re-open it. It got shut up finally at 10.5 p. m., and then there remained the hampers to do. Harris said that we should be wanting to start in less than twelve hours’ time, and thought that he and George had better do the rest; and I agreed and sat down, and they had a go.

They began in a light-hearted spirit, evidently intending to show me how to do it. I made no comment; I only waited. When George is hanged Harris will be the worst packer in this world; and I looked at the piles of plates and cups, and kettles, and bottles, and jars, and pies, and stoves, and cakes, and tomatoes, etc., and felt that the thing would soon become exciting.

It did. They started with breaking a cup. That was the first thing they did. They did that just to show you what they could do, and to get you interested.

Then Harris packed the strawberry jam on top of a tomato and squashed it, and they had to pick out the tomato with a teaspoon.

And then it was George’s turn, and he trod on the butter. I didn’t say anything, but I came over and sat on the edge of the table and watched them. It irritated them more than anything I could have said. I felt that. It made them nervous and excited, and they stepped on things, and put things behind them; and then couldn’t find them when they wanted them; and they packed the pies at the bottom, and put heavy things on top, and smashed the pies in.

They upset salt over everything, and as for the butter! I never saw two men do more with one-and-twopence worth of butter in my whole iife than they did. After George had got it off his slipper, they tried to put it in the kettle. It wouldn’t go in, and what was in wouldn’t come out. They did scrape it out at last, and put it down on a chair, and Harris sat on it, and it stuck to him, and they went looking for it all over the room.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=45135221) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.



notes



1


Страва, що подаеться перед печенею (з французькоi).




2


Початковi лiтери iменi автора (Джером).