Chapter XIX

by Jerome K. Jerome

　　OXFORD. - MONTMORENCY'S IDEA OF HEAVEN. - THE HIRED UP-RIVER BOAT, ITSBEAUTIES AND ADVANTAGES. - THE "PRIDE OF THE THAMES." - THE WEATHERCHANGES. - THE RIVER UNDER DIFFERENT ASPECTS. - NOT A CHEERFUL EVENING. -YEARNINGS FOR THE UNATTAINABLE. - THE CHEERY CHAT GOES ROUND. - GEORGEPERFORMS UPON THE BANJO. - A MOURNFUL MELODY. - ANOTHER WET DAY. -FLIGHT. - A LITTLE SUPPER AND A TOAST.WE spent two very pleasant days at Oxford. There are plenty of dogs inthe town of Oxford. Montmorency had eleven fights on the first day, andfourteen on the second, and evidently thought he had got to heaven.Among folk too constitutionally weak, or too constitutionally lazy,whichever it may be, to relish up-stream work, it is a common practice toget a boat at Oxford, and row down. For the energetic, however, the up-stream journey is certainly to be preferred. It does not seem good to bealways going with the current. There is more satisfaction in squaringone's back, and fighting against it, and winning one's way forward inspite of it - at least, so I feel, when Harris and George are scullingand I am steering.To those who do contemplate making Oxford their starting-place, I wouldsay, take your own boat - unless, of course, you can take someone else'swithout any possible danger of being found out. The boats that, as arule, are let for hire on the Thames above Marlow, are very good boats.They are fairly water-tight; and so long as they are handled with care,they rarely come to pieces, or sink. There are places in them to sitdown on, and they are complete with all the necessary arrangements - ornearly all - to enable you to row them and steer them.But they are not ornamental. The boat you hire up the river above Marlowis not the sort of boat in which you can flash about and give yourselfairs. The hired up-river boat very soon puts a stop to any nonsense ofthat sort on the part of its occupants. That is its chief - one may say,its only recommendation.The man in the hired up-river boat is modest and retiring. He likes tokeep on the shady side, underneath the trees, and to do most of histravelling early in the morning or late at night, when there are not manypeople about on the river to look at him.When the man in the hired up-river boat sees anyone he knows, he gets outon to the bank, and hides behind a tree.I was one of a party who hired an up-river boat one summer, for a fewdays' trip. We had none of us ever seen the hired up-river boat before;and we did not know what it was when we did see it.We had written for a boat - a double sculling skiff; and when we wentdown with our bags to the yard, and gave our names, the man said:"Oh, yes; you're the party that wrote for a double sculling skiff. It'sall right. Jim, fetch round THE PRIDE OF THE THAMES."The boy went, and re-appeared five minutes afterwards, struggling with anantediluvian chunk of wood, that looked as though it had been recentlydug out of somewhere, and dug out carelessly, so as to have beenunnecessarily damaged in the process.My own idea, on first catching sight of the object, was that it was aRoman relic of some sort, - relic of WHAT I do not know, possibly of acoffin.The neighbourhood of the upper Thames is rich in Roman relics, and mysurmise seemed to me a very probable one; but our serious young man, whois a bit of a geologist, pooh-poohed my Roman relic theory, and said itwas clear to the meanest intellect (in which category he seemed to begrieved that he could not conscientiously include mine) that the thingthe boy had found was the fossil of a whale; and he pointed out to usvarious evidences proving that it must have belonged to the preglacialperiod.To settle the dispute, we appealed to the boy. We told him not to beafraid, but to speak the plain truth: Was it the fossil of a pre-Adamitewhale, or was it an early Roman coffin?The boy said it was THE PRIDE OF THE THAMES.We thought this a very humorous answer on the part of the boy at first,and somebody gave him twopence as a reward for his ready wit; but when hepersisted in keeping up the joke, as we thought, too long, we got vexedwith him."Come, come, my lad!" said our captain sharply, "don't let us have anynonsense. You take your mother's washing-tub home again, and bring us aboat."The boat-builder himself came up then, and assured us, on his word, as apractical man, that the thing really was a boat - was, in fact, THE boat,the "double sculling skiff" selected to take us on our trip down theriver.We grumbled a good deal. We thought he might, at least, have had itwhitewashed or tarred - had SOMETHING done to it to distinguish it from abit of a wreck; but he could not see any fault in it.He even seemed offended at our remarks. He said he had picked us out thebest boat in all his stock, and he thought we might have been moregrateful.He said it, THE PRIDE OF THE THAMES, had been in use, just as it nowstood (or rather as it now hung together), for the last forty years, tohis knowledge, and nobody had complained of it before, and he did not seewhy we should be the first to begin.We argued no more.We fastened the so-called boat together with some pieces of string, got abit of wall-paper and pasted over the shabbier places, said our prayers,and stepped on board.They charged us thirty-five shillings for the loan of the remnant for sixdays; and we could have bought the thing out-and-out for four-and-sixpence at any sale of drift-wood round the coast.The weather changed on the third day, - Oh! I am talking about ourpresent trip now, - and we started from Oxford upon our homeward journeyin the midst of a steady drizzle.The river - with the sunlight flashing from its dancing wavelets, gildinggold the grey-green beech- trunks, glinting through the dark, cool woodpaths, chasing shadows o'er the shallows, flinging diamonds from themill-wheels, throwing kisses to the lilies, wantoning with the weirs'white waters, silvering moss-grown walls and bridges, brightening everytiny townlet, making sweet each lane and meadow, lying tangled in therushes, peeping, laughing, from each inlet, gleaming gay on many a farsail, making soft the air with glory - is a golden fairy stream.But the river - chill and weary, with the ceaseless rain-drops falling onits brown and sluggish waters, with a sound as of a woman, weeping low insome dark chamber; while the woods, all dark and silent, shrouded intheir mists of vapour, stand like ghosts upon the margin; silent ghostswith eyes reproachful, like the ghosts of evil actions, like the ghostsof friends neglected - is a spirit-haunted water through the land of vainregrets.Sunlight is the life-blood of Nature. Mother Earth looks at us with suchdull, soulless eyes, when the sunlight has died away from out of her. Itmakes us sad to be with her then; she does not seem to know us or to carefor us. She is as a widow who has lost the husband she loved, and herchildren touch her hand, and look up into her eyes, but gain no smilefrom her.We rowed on all that day through the rain, and very melancholy work itwas. We pretended, at first, that we enjoyed it. We said it was achange, and that we liked to see the river under all its differentaspects. We said we could not expect to have it all sunshine, nor shouldwe wish it. We told each other that Nature was beautiful, even in hertears.Indeed, Harris and I were quite enthusiastic about the business, for thefirst few hours. And we sang a song about a gipsy's life, and howdelightful a gipsy's existence was! - free to storm and sunshine, and toevery wind that blew! - and how he enjoyed the rain, and what a lot ofgood it did him; and how he laughed at people who didn't like it.George took the fun more soberly, and stuck to the umbrella.We hoisted the cover before we had lunch, and kept it up all theafternoon, just leaving a little space in the bow, from which one of uscould paddle and keep a look-out. In this way we made nine miles, andpulled up for the night a little below Day's Lock.I cannot honestly say that we had a merry evening. The rain poured downwith quiet persistency. Everything in the boat was damp and clammy.Supper was not a success. Cold veal pie, when you don't feel hungry, isapt to cloy. I felt I wanted whitebait and a cutlet; Harris babbled ofsoles and white-sauce, and passed the remains of his pie to Montmorency,who declined it, and, apparently insulted by the offer, went and sat overat the other end of the boat by himself.George requested that we would not talk about these things, at all eventsuntil he had finished his cold boiled beef without mustard.We played penny nap after supper. We played for about an hour and ahalf, by the end of which time George had won fourpence - George alwaysis lucky at cards - and Harris and I had lost exactly twopence each.We thought we would give up gambling then. As Harris said, it breeds anunhealthy excitement when carried too far. George offered to go on andgive us our revenge; but Harris and I decided not to battle any furtheragainst Fate.After that, we mixed ourselves some toddy, and sat round and talked.George told us about a man he had known, who had come up the river twoyears ago and who had slept out in a damp boat on just such another nightas that was, and it had given him rheumatic fever, and nothing was ableto save him, and he had died in great agony ten days afterwards. Georgesaid he was quite a young man, and was engaged to be married. He said itwas one of the saddest things he had ever known.And that put Harris in mind of a friend of his, who had been in theVolunteers, and who had slept out under canvas one wet night down atAldershot, "on just such another night as this," said Harris; and he hadwoke up in the morning a cripple for life. Harris said he wouldintroduce us both to the man when we got back to town; it would make ourhearts bleed to see him.This naturally led to some pleasant chat about sciatica, fevers, chills,lung diseases, and bronchitis; and Harris said how very awkward it wouldbe if one of us were taken seriously ill in the night, seeing how faraway we were from a doctor.There seemed to be a desire for something frolicksome to follow upon thisconversation, and in a weak moment I suggested that George should get outhis banjo, and see if he could not give us a comic song.I will say for George that he did not want any pressing. There was nononsense about having left his music at home, or anything of that sort.He at once fished out his instrument, and commenced to play "Two LovelyBlack Eyes."I had always regarded "Two Lovely Black Eyes" as rather a commonplacetune until that evening. The rich vein of sadness that George extractedfrom it quite surprised me.The desire that grew upon Harris and myself, as the mournful strainsprogressed, was to fall upon each other's necks and weep; but by greateffort we kept back the rising tears, and listened to the wild yearnfulmelody in silence.When the chorus came we even made a desperate effort to be merry. We re-filled our glasses and joined in; Harris, in a voice trembling withemotion, leading, and George and I following a few words behind:"Two lovely black eyes;Oh! what a surprise!Only for telling a man he was wrong,Two - "There we broke down. The unutterable pathos of George's accompaniment tothat "two" we were, in our then state of depression, unable to bear.Harris sobbed like a little child, and the dog howled till I thought hisheart or his jaw must surely break.George wanted to go on with another verse. He thought that when he hadgot a little more into the tune, and could throw more "abandon," as itwere, into the rendering, it might not seem so sad. The feeling of themajority, however, was opposed to the experiment.There being nothing else to do, we went to bed - that is, we undressedourselves, and tossed about at the bottom of the boat for some three orfour hours. After which, we managed to get some fitful slumber untilfive a.m., when we all got up and had breakfast.The second day was exactly like the first. The rain continued to pourdown, and we sat, wrapped up in our mackintoshes, underneath the canvas,and drifted slowly down.One of us - I forget which one now, but I rather think it was myself -made a few feeble attempts during the course of the morning to work upthe old gipsy foolishness about being children of Nature and enjoying thewet; but it did not go down well at all. That -"I care not for the rain, not I!"was so painfully evident, as expressing the sentiments of each of us,that to sing it seemed unnecessary.On one point we were all agreed, and that was that, come what might, wewould go through with this job to the bitter end. We had come out for afortnight's enjoyment on the river, and a fortnight's enjoyment on theriver we meant to have. If it killed us! well, that would be a sad thingfor our friends and relations, but it could not be helped. We felt thatto give in to the weather in a climate such as ours would be a mostdisastrous precedent."It's only two days more," said Harris, "and we are young and strong. Wemay get over it all right, after all."At about four o'clock we began to discuss our arrangements for theevening. We were a little past Goring then, and we decided to paddle onto Pangbourne, and put up there for the night."Another jolly evening!" murmured George.We sat and mused on the prospect. We should be in at Pangbourne by five.We should finish dinner at, say, half-past six. After that we could walkabout the village in the pouring rain until bed-time; or we could sit ina dimly-lit bar-parlour and read the almanac."Why, the Alhambra would be almost more lively," said Harris, venturinghis head outside the cover for a moment and taking a survey of the sky."With a little supper at the - * to follow," I added, half unconsciously.* A capital little out-of-the-way restaurant, in the neighbourhood of - ,where you can get one of the best-cooked and cheapest little Frenchdinners or suppers that I know of, with an excellent bottle of Beaune,for three-and-six; and which I am not going to be idiot enough toadvertise."Yes it's almost a pity we've made up our minds to stick to this boat,"answered Harris; and then there was silence for a while."If we HADN'T made up our minds to contract our certain deaths in thisbally old coffin," observed George, casting a glance of intensemalevolence over the boat, "it might be worth while to mention thatthere's a train leaves Pangbourne, I know, soon after five, which wouldjust land us in town in comfortable time to get a chop, and then go on tothe place you mentioned afterwards."Nobody spoke. We looked at one another, and each one seemed to see hisown mean and guilty thoughts reflected in the faces of the others. Insilence, we dragged out and overhauled the Gladstone. We looked up theriver and down the river; not a soul was in sight!Twenty minutes later, three figures, followed by a shamed-looking dog,might have been seen creeping stealthily from the boat-house at the"Swan" towards the railway station, dressed in the following neither neatnor gaudy costume:Black leather shoes, dirty; suit of boating flannels, very dirty; brownfelt hat, much battered; mackintosh, very wet; umbrella.We had deceived the boatman at Pangbourne. We had not had the face totell him that we were running away from the rain. We had left the boat,and all it contained, in his charge, with instructions that it was to beready for us at nine the next morning. If, we said - IF anythingunforeseen should happen, preventing our return, we would write to him.We reached Paddington at seven, and drove direct to the restaurant I havebefore described, where we partook of a light meal, left Montmorency,together with suggestions for a supper to be ready at half-past ten, andthen continued our way to Leicester Square.We attracted a good deal of attention at the Alhambra. On our presentingourselves at the paybox we were gruffly directed to go round to CastleStreet, and were informed that we were half-an-hour behind our time.We convinced the man, with some difficulty, that we were NOT "the world-renowned contortionists from the Himalaya Mountains," and he took ourmoney and let us pass.Inside we were a still greater success. Our fine bronzed countenancesand picturesque clothes were followed round the place with admiring gaze.We were the cynosure of every eye.It was a proud moment for us all.We adjourned soon after the first ballet, and wended our way back to therestaurant, where supper was already awaiting us.I must confess to enjoying that supper. For about ten days we seemed tohave been living, more or less, on nothing but cold meat, cake, and breadand jam. It had been a simple, a nutritious diet; but there had beennothing exciting about it, and the odour of Burgundy, and the smell ofFrench sauces, and the sight of clean napkins and long loaves, knocked asa very welcome visitor at the door of our inner man.We pegged and quaffed away in silence for a while, until the time camewhen, instead of sitting bolt upright, and grasping the knife and forkfirmly, we leant back in our chairs and worked slowly and carelessly -when we stretched out our legs beneath the table, let our napkins fall,unheeded, to the floor, and found time to more critically examine thesmoky ceiling than we had hitherto been able to do - when we rested ourglasses at arm's-length upon the table, and felt good, and thoughtful,and forgiving.Then Harris, who was sitting next the window, drew aside the curtain andlooked out upon the street.It glistened darkly in the wet, the dim lamps flickered with each gust,the rain splashed steadily into the puddles and trickled down the water-spouts into the running gutters. A few soaked wayfarers hurried past,crouching beneath their dripping umbrellas, the women holding up theirskirts."Well," said Harris, reaching his hand out for his glass, "we have had apleasant trip, and my hearty thanks for it to old Father Thames - but Ithink we did well to chuck it when we did. Here's to Three Men well outof a Boat!"And Montmorency, standing on his hind legs, before the window, peeringout into the night, gave a short bark of decided concurrence with thetoast.