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Three Men in a Boat ▾
contents
  1. Preface
  2. I 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 overworked, 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.
  3. II 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.
  4. III 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.
  5. IV 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 for getting upset—I pack—Cussedness of toothbrushes—George and Harris pack—Awful behaviour of Montmorency—We retire to rest.
  6. V Mrs. P. arouses us—George, the sluggard—The “weather forecast” swindle—Our luggage—Depravity of the small boy—The people gather round us—We drive off in great style, and arrive at Waterloo—Innocence of South Western Officials concerning such worldly things as trains—We are afloat, afloat in an open boat.
  7. VI Kingston—Instructive remarks on early English history—Instructive observations on carved oak and life in general—Sad case of Stivvings, junior—Musings on antiquity—I forget that I am steering—Interesting result—Hampton Court Maze—Harris as a guide.
  8. VII The river in its Sunday garb—Dress on the river—A chance for the men—Absence of taste in Harris—George’s blazer—A day with the fashion-plate young lady—Mrs. Thomas’s tomb—The man who loves not graves and coffins and skulls—Harris mad—His views on George and Banks and lemonade—He performs tricks.
  9. VIII Blackmailing—The proper course to pursue—Selfish boorishness of riverside landowner—“Notice” boards—Unchristianlike feelings of Harris—How Harris sings a comic song—A high-class party—Shameful conduct of two abandoned young men—Some useless information—George buys a banjo.
  10. IX George is introduced to work—Heathenish instincts of towlines—Ungrateful conduct of a double-sculling skiff—Towers and towed—A use discovered for lovers—Strange disappearance of an elderly lady—Much haste, less speed—Being towed by girls: exciting sensation—The missing lock or the haunted river—Music—Saved!
  11. X Our first night—Under canvas—An appeal for help—Contrariness of teakettles, how to overcome—Supper—How to feel virtuous—Wanted! a comfortably-appointed, well-drained desert island, neighbourhood of South Pacific Ocean preferred—Funny thing that happened to George’s father—A restless night.
  12. XI How George, once upon a time, got up early in the morning—George, Harris, and Montmorency do not like the look of the cold water—Heroism and determination on the part of J.—George and his shirt: story with a moral—Harris as cook—Historical retrospect, specially inserted for the use of schools.
  13. XII Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn—Disadvantages of living in same house with pair of lovers—A trying time for the English nation—A night search for the picturesque—Homeless and houseless—Harris prepares to die—An angel comes along—Effect of sudden joy on Harris—A little supper—Lunch—High price for mustard—A fearful battle—Maidenhead—Sailing—Three fishers—We are cursed.
  14. XIII Marlow—Bisham Abbey—The Medmenham Monks—Montmorency thinks he will murder an old Tom cat—But eventually decides that he will let it live—Shameful conduct of a fox terrier at the Civil Service Stores—Our departure from Marlow—An imposing procession—The steam launch, useful receipts for annoying and hindering it—We decline to drink the river—A peaceful dog—Strange disappearance of Harris and a pie.
  15. XIV Wargrave—Waxworks—Sonning—Our stew—Montmorency is sarcastic—Fight between Montmorency and the teakettle—George’s banjo studies—Meet with discouragement—Difficulties in the way of the musical amateur—Learning to play the bagpipes—Harris feels sad after supper—George and I go for a walk—Return hungry and wet—There is a strangeness about Harris—Harris and the swans, a remarkable story—Harris has a troubled night.
  16. XV Household duties—Love of work—The old river hand, what he does and what he tells you he has done—Scepticism of the new generation—Early boating recollections—Rafting—George does the thing in style—The old boatman, his method—So calm, so full of peace—The beginner—Punting—A sad accident—Pleasures of friendship—Sailing, my first experience—Possible reason why we were not drowned.
  17. XVI Reading—We are towed by steam launch—Irritating behaviour of small boats—How they get in the way of steam launches—George and Harris again shirk their work—Rather a hackneyed story—Streatley and Goring.
  18. XVII Washing day—Fish and fishers—On the art of angling—A conscientious fly-fisher—A fishy story.
  19. XVIII Locks—George and I are photographed—Wallingford—Dorchester—Abingdon—A family man—A good spot for drowning—A difficult bit of water—Demoralizing effect of river air.
  20. XIX Oxford—Montmorency’s idea of Heaven—The hired upriver boat, its beauties and advantages—The Pride of the Thames—The weather changes—The river under different aspects—Not a cheerful evening—Yearnings for the unattainable—The cheery chat goes round—George performs upon the banjo—A mournful melody—Another wet day—Flight—A little supper and a toast.
  21. Endnotes
English ▾

Three Men in a Boat

Jerome K. Jerome

free · 67,054 words · 6 h 58 m audiobook, read by Nick Bulka for LibriVox · first published 1889

text from Standard Ebooks

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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.

I

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 overworked, 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 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.

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 cooperative 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 6 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.”

restoring your place…

fetching the rest…

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thank you for reading

Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome. The text is in the US public domain, from the Standard Ebooks edition. Served from our own copy; read on their site for the full edition with images and typography.

Narrated by Nick Bulka for LibriVox, also public domain.

First published in 1889.

tale.fyi