Three Men in a Boat Page #6

Did he invent agricultural implements

or did he murder his family?

He's very rare. He had 197 children.

Well, you'll find

very much better at Oxford

- if you put your back into it.

- What?

We are sick to death

of walking around obscure tombs

- of uninteresting people.

- You're sick to death? What do I...

And although it had been agreed that

I would take the boat up past Reading,

and here we were at Abingdon...

...for this stop.

I want to see something else.

After a short discussion

with Harris and George,

I took up the sculls for a while.

And then they pulled us up

the last stretch to Oxford.

Which is, on the whole,

more attractive than Cambridge

to the ordinary visitor.

And the traveller is therefore

recommended to visit Cambridge first

or omit it altogether

if he cannot visit both.

(LAUGHING)

The Baedeker guide is quite right.

I am an Oxford man, too.

I mean, in spirit.

But for circumstance, I...

Now, the architecture of Oxford...

Another thing about Oxford

is that it offers

a judicious proportion of congeniality,

cultural tradition

and cloistered contemplation,

which sustains many people at Oxford

for as much as three years

and prepares them for the harsh

realities of the outside world.

(SPEAKING IN FRENCH)

- Voltaire was quite right.

- Hmm?

Voltaire. What he said

about the perfect Englishman.

Aimlessly voyaging.

And of course...

"Ignotis errare locis. "

No, no, Voltaire was a froggy.

That's Latin.

Ovid. "The delight of wandering

in unknown places."

Good day.

Tu quoque.

(CLEARING THROAT)

(THUNDER ROLLING)

What did I tell you?

(SPEAKING IN LATIN)

What did he say?

I said, "Jove cannot please everyone

"either by making it rain

or stopping it."

(THUNDER CLAPPING)

And Matthew Arnold's

sweet city with her dreaming spires

became decidedly wet.

More like streaming spires.

Matthew Arnold is dead.

It was in the paper.

I never read him.

- But we got to Oxford.

- Absolutely.

- Why did we?

- Can we go now?

- Downhill all the way now.

- I don't mind a bit of rain.

I like to see the river

under all its different aspects.

Can't expect sunshine

all the time, you know.

Nature is beautiful even in her tears,

eh, George?

(LAUGHING)

Sandford lock is the deepest

on the river.

Here's one for you, Harris.

Sandford lock.

Two men drowned this year.

Without leaving their boat.

The veal pie's a bit wet.

The veal pie's a bit wet?

Here you are, Montmorency.

Oh, you see? Even a dog knows

when he's had enough.

(CHUCKLING)

When I get back to London,

I'm going to have some whitebait,

a cutlet, a piece of Stilton...

No, no, no. I'm going to have some pate.

No, no, no. No, I'll have

some sole with white sauce...

I'll row!

(THUNDER CLAPPING)

One thing we all agreed upon

from the beginning

was that we would

go through with the job.

It's not a job, it's a holiday.

And we agreed that

we would go through with it.

No, I'll start again.

First smoked trout.

- Followed by mutton with capers...

- Shut up!

I knew a man

who came upriver two years ago,

slept out in a damp boat

on just such a day as this,

and it gave him rheumatic fever.

Ten days later he died in agony!

Yes. I had a friend once

who'd been in the Volunteers.

He spent a wet night under canvas

down at Aldershot.

When he woke up in the morning

he was a cripple for life.

(LAUGHING)

Pull over.

There's something in the water.

It was the dead body of a woman.

It lay lightly on the water.

And the face was sweet and calm.

Of course, it was the old, old,

vulgar tragedy.

She had loved and been deceived.

Or deceived herself.

She had wandered about the woods

by the river's bank

and finally stretched out her arms

to the silent stream

that had known her sorrow and her joy.

And the old river had taken her

into its gentle arms

and had laid her weary head

upon its bosom,

and had hushed away the pain.

God help her

and all other sinners,

if any more there be.

(BANJO PLAYING)

# Only for telling

# A man he was wrong

# Two lovely black

# Eyes #

The second day

was exactly as cheerful as the first.

You know, it's almost a pity

we've made up our minds

to contract our certain deaths

in this floating coffin.

Well, there are only two days more,

and we're young and strong.

We may get over it all right.

You know, there's a train that leaves

Pangbourne Station every hour,

which would get us home comfortably

in time for a chop.

And then on to

the Alhambra, Leicester Square.

Well, J?

Well, that reminds me of a very funny

story that happened to a friend of mine.

- Right, George.

- I'll get the bag out.

Just a moment.

- Did he say the Alhambra?

- We did.

Preceded by a little

French dinner somewhere?

HARRIS:
Just so.

With a, perhaps a bottle or two

of Burgundy?

Undoubtedly.

Well, why didn't you say so?

Now, George, I'll do the packing...

You sort out when we can leave.

And so I brought our expedition

safely home.

Or near enough.

We deceived the boatman at Pangbourne.

We left the boat and what it contained

in his charge

with instructions that it was to be

ready for us at nine in the morning.

Lf, um... If anything unforeseen

should happen to prevent our return,

we will write to the hotel

with instructions.

Thank you very much.

Come, Monty.

Why, it's turned out nice, after all.

- I said we should stick it out.

- Should we go back, then?

Keep going, George.

Goodbye, Thames.

Yes, it's not a bad old river.

Come on, Montmorency.

Three Men in a Boat

(To Say Nothing of the Dog)

First appeared as a serial in the

magazine Home Chimes in 1889.

I intended there to be

some humorous relief,

but the book was to be

the story of the Thames,

with its scenery and history.

I decided to write

the humorous relief first,

but it seemed to be all humorous relief.

And most of the serious stuff

which I had managed to get done

was promptly thrown out by the editor.

I did not have to imagine or invent.

Boating up and down the Thames

had been my favourite sport

ever since I could afford it.

I just put down

the things that happened.

Harris was Carl Hentschel.

I met him first outside a theatre,

at the door to the pit.

We thought he was going to end up

as Lord Mayor,

but the great war brought him low.

He was accused of being a German.

In fact, he was a Pole.

George was George Wingrave,

who subsequently became a bank manager.

I met him when lodging in Newman Street.

And afterwards we shared

in Tavistock Place,

handy for the British Museum

Reading Room.

I wrote the book at Chelsea Gardens.

I was just back from my honeymoon

and had the feeling

that all the world's troubles were over.

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