Трое в лодке, не считая собаки / Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog). Джером Клапка ДжеромЧитать онлайн книгу.
unravel it; and, before he had unwound a dozen yards, the thing was more like a badly-made door-mat[74] than anything else.
An example of the dangerous case was witnessed by George and myself once up near Walton. We were camping on the opposite bank, noticing things in general. A small boat came in sight, towed through the water by a powerful horse, on which sat a very small boy. In the boat there lay five fellows, the man who was steering had a particularly restful appearance.
“I should like to see him pull the wrong line,” murmured George, as they passed. And at that precise moment the man did it, and the boat rushed up the bank. Two men, a hamper, and three oars immediately left the boat on the larboard side, and afterwards, two other men disembarked from the starboard, and sat down among boat-hooks and sails and carpet-bags and bottles. The last man went on twenty yards further, and then got out on his head.
This lightened the boat, and it went on much easier. The small boy shouted, and urged his steed into a gallop. The fellows sat up and stared at one another. It was some seconds before they realised what had happened to them, but, when they did, they began to shout for the boy to stop. He, however, was too much occupied with the horse to hear them, and we watched them, flying after him, until the distance hid them from view.[75]
Of all experiences in connection with towing, the most exciting is being towed by girls. It is a sensation that nobody ought to miss. It takes three girls to tow always; two hold the rope, and the other one runs round and round, and giggles. They generally begin by getting themselves tied up. They get the line round their legs, and have to sit down on the path and undo each other, and then they twist it round their necks, and are nearly strangled. They fix it straight, however, at last, and start off at a run, pulling the boat along at quite a dangerous pace. At the end of a hundred yards they are naturally breathless, and suddenly stop, and all sit down on the grass and laugh, and your boat drifts out to mid-stream and turns round, before you know what has happened. Then they stand up, and are surprised.
“Oh, look!” they say, “he’s gone right out into the middle.”
After this the boat runs aground 1.
You jump up, and you shout to them not to stop.
“Yes. What’s the matter?” they shout back.
“Don’t stop,” you roar.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t stop – go on – go on!”
“Go back, Emily, and see what it is they want,” says one; and Emily comes back, and asks what it is.
“What do you want?” she says, “anything happened?”
1 runs aground – садится на мель
“No,” you reply, “it’s all right; only go on, you know – don’t stop.”
“Why not?”
“We can’t steer, if you stop. You must keep the boat moving.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll tell them. Are we doing it all right?”
“Oh, yes, very nicely, indeed, only don’t stop.”
“It doesn’t seem difficult at all. I thought it was so hard.”
“Oh, no, it’s simple enough. You want to keep on steady at it, that’s all.”
“I see. Give me out my red shawl, it’s under the cushion.”
You find the shawl, and by this time another one has come back and thinks she will have hers too, and they take Mary’s on chance,[76] and Mary does not want it, so they bring it back and have a pocket-comb instead. It is about twenty minutes before they get off again, and, at the next corner, they see a cow, and you have to leave the boat to drive the cow away.
Finally George towed us steadily on to Penton Hook.[77] There we discussed the important question of camping. We had decided to sleep on board that night. We decided to go to Runnymead,[78] three and a half miles further, a quiet wooded part of the river, and where there is good shelter.
We all wished, however, afterward that we had stopped at Penton Hook. Three or four miles up stream is really nothing early in the morning, but it is a hard job at the end of a long day. You do not chat and laugh. Every half-mile you cover seems like two. When you have gone – what seems to you – at least ten miles, and still the lock is not in sight, you begin to seriously fear that somebody had stolen it.
I remember one day I was out with a young lady – cousin on my mother’s side – and we were pulling down to Goring.[79] It was rather late, and we were anxious to come home – at least she was anxious to return home. It was half-past six when we reached Benson’s lock,[80] and dusk was drawing on, and she began to get excited then. I drew out a map I had with me to see exactly how far it was. I saw it was just a mile and a half to the next lock – Wallingford[81] – and five on from there to Cleeve.[82]
“Oh, it’s all right!” I said. “We’ll be through the next lock before seven, and then there is only one more”, and I settled down and pulled steadily away.
We passed the bridge, and soon after that I asked if she saw the lock. She said no, she did not see any lock; and I said, “Oh!” and pulled on. Another five minutes went by, and then I asked her to look again.
“No,” she said; “I can’t see any signs of a lock.”
“You – you are sure you know a lock, when you do see one?” I asked hesitatingly, not wishing to offend her.
The question did offend her, however, and she suggested that I had better look for myself. Not a sign of a lock was to be seen.
“You don’t think we have lost our way, do you?” asked my companion, and she began to cry.
I tried to reassure her. I said that I was not rowing fast, but that we should soon reach the lock now; and I pulled on for another mile.
Then I began to get nervous myself. I looked again at the map. There was Wallingford lock, clearly marked, a mile and a half below Benson’s. It was a good, reliable map. Where were we? What had happened to us? I began to think it must be all a dream, and that I was really asleep in bed.
I asked my cousin if she thought it could be a dream, and she replied that she was just about to ask me the same question; and then we both wondered if we were both asleep, and if so, who was the real one that was dreaming, and who was the one that was only a dream.
I still went on pulling, however, and still no lock came in sight, and the river grew more and more gloomy and mysterious under the gathering shadows of night, and things became weird and uncanny. I thought of hobgoblins and banshees, and will-o’-the-wisps,[83] and those wicked girls who sit up all night on rocks, and lure people into whirl-pools and things. In the middle of these reflections I heard the sounds of a song, played, badly, on a concertina, and knew that we were saved.
I do not admire the tones of a concertina, as a rule; but, oh! how beautiful the music seemed to us both then – far, far more beautiful than the voice of Orpheus[84] or the lute of Apollo.[85] The music was human and reassuring.
The sweet sounds drew nearer, and soon the boat from which they came lay alongside us. I never saw more attractive, lovable people in all my life. I hailed them, and asked if they could tell me the way to Wallingford lock; and I explained that
a badly-made door-mat – плохо сплетённый половик у двери
from view – из виду
on chance – на всякий случай
Penton Hook – Пентон-Хук
Runnymead – Раннимид
Goring – Горинг
Benson’s lock – Бенсонский шлюз
Wallingford lock – Уоллингфордский шлюз
Cleeve – Клив
will-o’-the-wisps – блуждающие огоньки (
Orpheus – Орфей
Apollo – Аполлон