Zgryźliwość kojarzy mi się z radością, która źle skończyła.
Jerome K. Jerome
Three men in a boat
Retold by Ian Edward Transue
w
o r y g i n a l e
Chapter I
© Mediasat Poland Bis 2005
What We Need
is Rest!
Mediasat Poland Bis sp. z o.o.
ul. Mikołajska 26
31-027 Kraków
www.czytamy.pl
czytamy@czytamy.pl
Projekt okładki i ilustracje: Małgorzata Flis
Skład: Marek Szwarnóg
ISBN 83 - 89652 - 34 - X
Wszelkie prawa do książki przysługują Mediasat Poland Bis. Jakiekolwiek publiczne korzystanie w całości, jak i w
postaci fragmentów, a w szczególności jej zwielokrotnianie jakąkolowiek techniką, wprowadzanie do pamięci kom-
putera, publiczne odtwarzanie, nadawanie za pomocą wizji oraz fonii przewodowej lub bezprzewodowej, wymaga
wcześniejszej zgody Mediasat Poland Bis.
2
3
There were four of us - George, William Samuel
Harris, myself and Montmorency. We were sitting
in my room and talking about how bad we were - bad
from a medical point of view I mean, of course.
We were all feeling terrible, and we were getting
quite nervous about it. Harris and George said
they hardly knew what they were doing at times.
With me, it was my liver that was out of order. I
knew it was my liver that was out of order, because
I had just been reading an article which described
the various symptoms by which a man could tell
when his liver was out of order. I had them all.
It is an extraordinary thing, but I never read a
medicine article without coming to the conclusion
that I have the particular disease written about in
the article.
I remember going to the British Museum one
day to read about some illness which I had. I got
down the book and read all I could. Then I kept
reading about other diseases. I forget which was
the first disease I read about, but before I had
read halfway down the list of symptoms, I was
positive that I had got it.
Every disease I came to, I found that I had in
some form or another. I read through the whole
book, and the only illness I found that I had not
got was housemaid’s knee.
I had walked into that reading-room a happy,
healthy man. I crawled out a horrible wreck.
I went straight to my doctor and saw him, and
he said: „Well, what’s the matter with you?”
I said: „I will not take up your time telling you
what is the matter with me. Life is short, and you
might pass away before I have finished. But I will
tell you what is NOT the matter with me. I have
not got housemaid’s knee. Why I have not got
housemaid’s knee, I cannot tell you. Everything
else, however, I HAVE got.”
And I told him how I came to discover it all.
Then he examined me and held my wrist, and then
he hit me on the chest when I wasn’t expecting it
- a cowardly thing to do, I call it. After that, he sat
down, wrote out a prescription, folded it up and
gave it to me. I put it in my pocket and went out.
I took it to the nearest chemist’s and handed it
in. The man read it and then handed it back.
He said: „I am a chemist. If I was a store and
family hotel combined, I might be able to help
you. But I’m only a chemist.”
I read the prescription. It said:
„1 pound beefsteak, with
1 pint bitter beer every 6 hours.
1 ten-mile walk every morning.
1 bed at 11 sharp every night.
And don’t fill your head with things you don’t
understand.”
4
5
Going back to my liver, I had the symptoms,
beyond all mistake, the main one being „a general
disinterest in work of any kind”.
As a boy, the disease hardly ever left me for
a day. They did not know, then, that it was my
liver. They used to just call it laziness.
„Why, you little devil, you,” they would say,
„get up and do something for your living, can’t
you?” - not knowing, of course, that I was ill.
And they didn’t give me pills; they just hit me
on the side of the head. And, strange as it seems,
those hits on the head often cured me - for a short
while, anyway.
We sat there for half-an-hour, describing to
each other our illnesses, when Mrs. Poppets
knocked at the door to find out if we were ready
for supper. We smiled sadly at one another, and
said we supposed we had better try to eat a bit.
„What we want is rest,” said Harris after supper.
„Rest and a complete change,” said George,
„this will make us feel better.”
I agreed with George and suggested that we should
look for some quiet spot, far from the crowds.
Harris said he thought it would be boring and
suggested a sea trip instead.
I objected to the sea trip strongly. A sea trip does
you good when you are going to have a couple of
months of it, but, for a week, it is horrible.
6
7
You start on Monday with the idea that you are
going to enjoy yourself. On Tuesday, you wish
you hadn’t come. On Wednesday, Thursday, and
Friday, you wish you were dead. On Saturday,
you are able to drink a little tea and to sit up on
deck. On Sunday, you begin to walk about again
and eat solid food. And on Monday morning,
as you are waiting to step ashore, you begin to
thoroughly like it.
George said: „Let’s go up the river.”
He said we should have fresh air, exercise
and quiet. The constant change of scene would
occupy our minds (including what there was of
Harris’s), and the hard work would give us a good
appetite and make us sleep well.
Harris said he didn’t think George ought to do
anything that would make him sleepier than he
always was, as it might be dangerous. He added
that if he DID sleep any more, he might just as
well be dead.
Harris said, however, that the river would suit
him to a „T”. I don’t know what a „T” is, but it
seems to suit everybody.
The only one who was not happy with the
suggestion was Montmorency. He never did care
for the river.
„It’s all very well for you fellows,” he says. „You
like it, but I don’t. There’s nothing for me to do.
If I see a rat, you won’t stop, and if I go to sleep,
you’ll go fooling about with the boat and throw
me overboard. If you ask me, I call the whole
thing foolish.”
We were three to one, however, and the motion
was carried.
We arranged to start on the following Saturday
from Kingston. Harris and I would go down in
the morning and take the boat up to Chertsey,
and George, who would not be able to get away
from work till the afternoon (George goes to
sleep at a bank from ten to four each day, except
Saturdays, when they wake him up and make him
leave at two), would meet us there.
Should we „camp out” or sleep at inns?
George and I were for camping out. We said it
would be so wild and free – the golden sun fading
as it sets; the pale stars shining at night; and the
moon throwing her silver arms around the river
as we fall asleep to the sound of the water.
Harris said: „How about if it rains?”
There is no poetry about Harris. Harris never
„weeps, he knows not why”. If Harris’s eyes fill
with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has
been eating raw onions.
If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore
with Harris, and say: „Hark! do you not hear? Is it
but the mermaids singing deep below the waving
8
9
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl hannaeva.xlx.pl
Three men in a boat
Retold by Ian Edward Transue
w
o r y g i n a l e
Chapter I
© Mediasat Poland Bis 2005
What We Need
is Rest!
Mediasat Poland Bis sp. z o.o.
ul. Mikołajska 26
31-027 Kraków
www.czytamy.pl
czytamy@czytamy.pl
Projekt okładki i ilustracje: Małgorzata Flis
Skład: Marek Szwarnóg
ISBN 83 - 89652 - 34 - X
Wszelkie prawa do książki przysługują Mediasat Poland Bis. Jakiekolwiek publiczne korzystanie w całości, jak i w
postaci fragmentów, a w szczególności jej zwielokrotnianie jakąkolowiek techniką, wprowadzanie do pamięci kom-
putera, publiczne odtwarzanie, nadawanie za pomocą wizji oraz fonii przewodowej lub bezprzewodowej, wymaga
wcześniejszej zgody Mediasat Poland Bis.
2
3
There were four of us - George, William Samuel
Harris, myself and Montmorency. We were sitting
in my room and talking about how bad we were - bad
from a medical point of view I mean, of course.
We were all feeling terrible, and we were getting
quite nervous about it. Harris and George said
they hardly knew what they were doing at times.
With me, it was my liver that was out of order. I
knew it was my liver that was out of order, because
I had just been reading an article which described
the various symptoms by which a man could tell
when his liver was out of order. I had them all.
It is an extraordinary thing, but I never read a
medicine article without coming to the conclusion
that I have the particular disease written about in
the article.
I remember going to the British Museum one
day to read about some illness which I had. I got
down the book and read all I could. Then I kept
reading about other diseases. I forget which was
the first disease I read about, but before I had
read halfway down the list of symptoms, I was
positive that I had got it.
Every disease I came to, I found that I had in
some form or another. I read through the whole
book, and the only illness I found that I had not
got was housemaid’s knee.
I had walked into that reading-room a happy,
healthy man. I crawled out a horrible wreck.
I went straight to my doctor and saw him, and
he said: „Well, what’s the matter with you?”
I said: „I will not take up your time telling you
what is the matter with me. Life is short, and you
might pass away before I have finished. But I will
tell you what is NOT the matter with me. I have
not got housemaid’s knee. Why I have not got
housemaid’s knee, I cannot tell you. Everything
else, however, I HAVE got.”
And I told him how I came to discover it all.
Then he examined me and held my wrist, and then
he hit me on the chest when I wasn’t expecting it
- a cowardly thing to do, I call it. After that, he sat
down, wrote out a prescription, folded it up and
gave it to me. I put it in my pocket and went out.
I took it to the nearest chemist’s and handed it
in. The man read it and then handed it back.
He said: „I am a chemist. If I was a store and
family hotel combined, I might be able to help
you. But I’m only a chemist.”
I read the prescription. It said:
„1 pound beefsteak, with
1 pint bitter beer every 6 hours.
1 ten-mile walk every morning.
1 bed at 11 sharp every night.
And don’t fill your head with things you don’t
understand.”
4
5
Going back to my liver, I had the symptoms,
beyond all mistake, the main one being „a general
disinterest in work of any kind”.
As a boy, the disease hardly ever left me for
a day. They did not know, then, that it was my
liver. They used to just call it laziness.
„Why, you little devil, you,” they would say,
„get up and do something for your living, can’t
you?” - not knowing, of course, that I was ill.
And they didn’t give me pills; they just hit me
on the side of the head. And, strange as it seems,
those hits on the head often cured me - for a short
while, anyway.
We sat there for half-an-hour, describing to
each other our illnesses, when Mrs. Poppets
knocked at the door to find out if we were ready
for supper. We smiled sadly at one another, and
said we supposed we had better try to eat a bit.
„What we want is rest,” said Harris after supper.
„Rest and a complete change,” said George,
„this will make us feel better.”
I agreed with George and suggested that we should
look for some quiet spot, far from the crowds.
Harris said he thought it would be boring and
suggested a sea trip instead.
I objected to the sea trip strongly. A sea trip does
you good when you are going to have a couple of
months of it, but, for a week, it is horrible.
6
7
You start on Monday with the idea that you are
going to enjoy yourself. On Tuesday, you wish
you hadn’t come. On Wednesday, Thursday, and
Friday, you wish you were dead. On Saturday,
you are able to drink a little tea and to sit up on
deck. On Sunday, you begin to walk about again
and eat solid food. And on Monday morning,
as you are waiting to step ashore, you begin to
thoroughly like it.
George said: „Let’s go up the river.”
He said we should have fresh air, exercise
and quiet. The constant change of scene would
occupy our minds (including what there was of
Harris’s), and the hard work would give us a good
appetite and make us sleep well.
Harris said he didn’t think George ought to do
anything that would make him sleepier than he
always was, as it might be dangerous. He added
that if he DID sleep any more, he might just as
well be dead.
Harris said, however, that the river would suit
him to a „T”. I don’t know what a „T” is, but it
seems to suit everybody.
The only one who was not happy with the
suggestion was Montmorency. He never did care
for the river.
„It’s all very well for you fellows,” he says. „You
like it, but I don’t. There’s nothing for me to do.
If I see a rat, you won’t stop, and if I go to sleep,
you’ll go fooling about with the boat and throw
me overboard. If you ask me, I call the whole
thing foolish.”
We were three to one, however, and the motion
was carried.
We arranged to start on the following Saturday
from Kingston. Harris and I would go down in
the morning and take the boat up to Chertsey,
and George, who would not be able to get away
from work till the afternoon (George goes to
sleep at a bank from ten to four each day, except
Saturdays, when they wake him up and make him
leave at two), would meet us there.
Should we „camp out” or sleep at inns?
George and I were for camping out. We said it
would be so wild and free – the golden sun fading
as it sets; the pale stars shining at night; and the
moon throwing her silver arms around the river
as we fall asleep to the sound of the water.
Harris said: „How about if it rains?”
There is no poetry about Harris. Harris never
„weeps, he knows not why”. If Harris’s eyes fill
with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has
been eating raw onions.
If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore
with Harris, and say: „Hark! do you not hear? Is it
but the mermaids singing deep below the waving
8
9