Three men in a boat / Трое в лодке, не считая собаки. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Джером Клапка Джером

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      1. It was Mrs. Poppets that woke me up next morning.

      2. I do think that this “weather-forecast” fraud is about the most annoying.

      3. The barometer is useless: it is as misleading as the newspaper forecast.

      4. But who wants to be foretold the weather?

      5. Then Harris and I carried out our luggage on to the doorstep, and waited for a cab.

      6. By this time, quite a small crowd had collected.

      7. Nobody at Waterloo ever knows where a train is going to start from.

      8. We learnt, afterwards, that the train we had come by was really the Exeter mail.

      9. Answer the following questions.

      1. Did the friends wake up at the time they planned? Why / why not?

      2. Why did Harris and the narrator decide to save George?

      3. What is the narrator’s attitude to weather forecasts? Why?

      4. How did the narrator and his friends spend the holiday he recollects about?

      5. What does the narrator think about barometers and weather foretelling?

      6. What show did the street boys get interested in? Who was the first?

      7. What kind of people Biggs’s boys usually were?

      8. Did the friends face any problem at Waterloo station? What was it?

      9. How did the friends get to Kingston?

      10. Was Montmorency happy to start the journey?

      10. Retell the chapter for the persons of the narrator, Biggs’s boy, George, Harris, Montmorency.

      CHAPTER VI

      It was a wonderful morning, late spring or early summer, as you care to take it81. The attractive streets of Kingston, where they came down to the water’s edge, looked quite picturesque in the flashing sunlight, the river with its barges, the neat villas on the other side, Harris, in a red and orange blazer, grunting away at the sculls82, the distant glimpses of the grey old palace of the Tudors83, all made a sunny picture, so bright but calm, so full of life, and yet so peaceful.

      I thought about Kingston, or “Kyningestun,” as it was once called in the days when Saxon kings were crowned there. Great Caesar crossed the river Thames there, and the Roman legions camped upon its hills. Caesar like Elizabeth, some years later, seems to have stopped everywhere: only he didn’t stay at the public houses.

      The English Queen was crazy about public houses. There’s hardly a pub within ten miles of London that she does not seem to have looked in, or stopped at, or slept at, some time or other. I wonder now, supposing Harris became a great and good man, and got to be Prime Minister, and died, if they would put up signs over the public houses that he had visited: “Harris had a glass of beer in this house;” “Harris had two glasses of Scotch whisky here in the summer of ’88;” “Harris was thrown away from here in December, 1886.”

      No, there would be too many of them! The houses that he had never entered would become famous. “The only house in South London that Harris never had a drink in!” The people would rush to it to see what could have been the matter with it.

      Saxon kings were crowned in Kingston but then its greatness passed away for a time, to rise once more when Hampton Court84 became the palace of the Tudors and the Stuarts85. Many of the old houses speak of those days when Kingston was a royal town, and nobles and courtiers lived there, near their King, and the long road to the palace gates was cheerful all day with clanking steel and rustling silks and velvets, and fair faces. The spacious houses, with their large windows, their huge fireplaces, and their gabled roofs86 were constructed in the days “when men knew how to build.” The hard red bricks have only become more firm with time, and their oak stairs do not creak and grunt when you try to go down them quietly.

      Speaking of oak staircases reminds me that there is a magnificent carved oak87 staircase in one of the houses in Kingston. It is a shop now but it was evidently once the mansion of some great person. A friend of mine, who lives in Kingston, went in there to buy a hat one day, and, in a thoughtless moment, put his hand in his pocket and paid for it then and there88.

      The shopman (he knows my friend) was naturally a little amazed at first; but, quickly recovering himself, and feeling that something ought to be done to encourage this sort of thing, asked our hero if he would like to see some fine old carved oak. My friend said he would, and the shopman took him through the shop, and up the staircase of the house. The balusters were a brilliant piece of art, and the wall all the way up was oak-paneled, with carving that would have done credit to89 a palace.

      From the stairs, they went into the drawing-room, which was a large, bright room, decorated with startling though cheerful blue paper. There was nothing, however, remarkable about the room, and my friend wondered why he had been brought there. The owner went up to the paper, and tapped it. It gave a wooden sound.

      “Oak,” he explained. “All carved oak, right up to the ceiling, just the same as you saw on the staircase.”

      “But, good heavens! man,” protested my friend; “you don’t mean to say you have covered over carved oak with blue wallpaper?”

      “Yes,” was the reply: “it was an expensive work. But the room looks cheerful now. It was awful gloomy before.”

      I can’t say I altogether blame the man. From his point of view90, which is of the average householder, desiring to take life as lightly as possible, there is reason on his side. Carved oak is very pleasant to look at, and to have a little of, but it is no doubt somewhat depressing to live in, for those who aren’t fond of it. It would be like living in a church.

      No, what was sad in his case was that he, who didn’t care for carved oak, should have his drawing-room paneled with it, while people who do care for it have to pay enormous prices to get it. It seems to be the rule of this world. Each person has what he doesn’t want, and other people have what he does want.

      Married men have wives, and don’t seem to want them; and young single fellows cry out that they can’t get them. Poor people who can hardly keep themselves91 have eight hearty children. Rich old couples, with no one to leave their money to, die childless.

      Then there are girls with lovers. The girls that have lovers never want them. They say they would rather be without them, that they bother them, and why don’t they go and make love to Miss Smith and Miss Brown, who are plain and elderly, and haven’t got any lovers? They themselves don’t want lovers. They never mean to marry.

      It does not do to dwell on these things92; it makes one so sad.

      There СКАЧАТЬ