Jerome Klapka Jerome

Paul Cox

Jerome K. Jerome was born in Staffordshire i n 1859. He left school at fourteen and, after a succession o f jobs, took up writing as a profession. Three Men in a Boat is his most famous work. '

Three Men in a Boat

Bekki

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 awhile, 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.

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.

everything has its drawbacks, as the man said when his mother-in-law died, and they came down upon him for the funeral expenses.

“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.”

I remember a holiday of mine being completely ruined one late autumn by our paying attention to the weather report of the local newspaper.  

“Heavy showers, with thunderstorms, may be expected to-day,” it would say on Monday, and so we would give up our picnic, and stop indoors all day, waiting for the rain. — And people would pass the house, going off in wagonettes and coaches as jolly and merry as could be, the sun shining out, and not a cloud to be seen. 

“Ah!” we said, as we stood looking out at them through the window, “won’t they come home soaked!” 

And we chuckled to think how wet they were going to get, and came back and stirred the fire, and got our books, and arranged our specimens of seaweed and cockle shells.  

By twelve o’clock, with the sun pouring into the room, the heat became quite oppressive, and we wondered when those heavy showers and occasional thunderstorms were going to begin. 

“Ah! they’ll come in the afternoon, you’ll find,” we said to each other.  “Oh, won’t those people get wet.  What a lark!” 

At one o’clock, the landlady would come in to ask if we weren’t going out, as it seemed such a lovely day. 

“No, no,” we replied, with a knowing chuckle, “not we.  We don’t mean to get wet—no, no.” 

And when the afternoon was nearly gone, and still there was no sign of rain, we tried to cheer ourselves up with the idea that it would come down all at once, just as the people had started for home, and were out of the reach of any shelter, and that they would thus get more drenched than ever. 

 But not a drop ever fell, and it finished a grand day, and a lovely night after it. 

The next morning we would read that it was going to be a “warm, fine to set-fair day; much heat;” and we would dress ourselves in flimsy things, and go out, and, half-an-hour after we had started, it would commence to rain hard, and a bitterly cold wind would spring up, and both would keep on steadily for the whole day, and we would come home with colds and rheumatism all over us, and go to bed.

Will it be the same in the future?  Will the prized treasures of to-day always be the cheap trifles of the day before?  Will rows of our willow-pattern dinner-plates be ranged above the chimneypieces of the great in the years 2000 and odd?  Will the white cups with the gold rim and the beautiful gold flower inside (species unknown), that our Sarah Janes now break in sheer light-heartedness of spirit, be carefully mended, and stood upon a bracket, and dusted only by the lady of the house?

The “sampler” that the eldest daughter did at school will be spoken of as “tapestry of the Victorian era,” and be almost priceless.  

The blue-and-white mugs of the present-day roadside inn will be hunted up, all cracked and chipped, and sold for their weight in gold, and rich people will use them for claret cups; and travellers from Japan will buy up all the “Presents from Ramsgate,” and “Souvenirs of Margate,” that may have escaped destruction, and take them back to Jedo as ancient English curios.

The first thing was that they thought the boat was not clean.  We dusted all the seats for them, and then assured them that it was, but they didn’t believe us.  One of them rubbed the cushion with the forefinger of her glove, and showed the result to the other, and they both sighed, and sat down, with the air of early Christian martyrs trying to make themselves comfortable up against the stake.

It was a lovely landscape.  It was idyllic, poetical, and it inspired me.  I felt good and noble.  I felt I didn’t want to be sinful and wicked any more.  I would come and live here, and never do any more wrong, and lead a blameless, beautiful life, and have silver hair when I got old, and all that sort of thing.

I don’t understand German myself.  I learned it at school, but forgot every word of it two years after I had left, and have felt much better ever since.

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