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Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow-Part1_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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drank them neat for six consecutive days, and they nearly killed me;



but after then I adopted the plan of taking a stiff glass of

brandy-and-water immediately on the top of them, and found much relief



thereby. I have been informed since, by various eminent medical

gentlemen, that the alcohol must have entirely counteracted the



effects of the chalybeate properties contained in the water. I am

glad I was lucky enough to hit upon the right thing.



But "drinking the waters" was only a small portion of the torture I

experienced during that memorable month--a month which was, without



exception, the most miserable I have ever spent. During the best part

of it I religiously followed the doctor's mandate and did nothing



whatever, except moon about the house and garden and go out for two

hours a day in a Bath chair. That did break the monotony to a certain



extent. There is more excitement about Bath-chairing--especially if

you are not used to the exhilarating exercise--than might appear to



the casualobserver. A sense of danger, such as a mere outsider might

not understand, is ever present to the mind of the occupant. He feels



convinced every minute that the whole concern is going over, a

conviction which becomes especially livelywhenever a ditch or a



stretch of newly macadamized road comes in sight. Every vehicle that

passes he expects is going to run into him; and he never finds himself



ascending or descending a hill without immediately beginning to

speculate upon his chances, supposing--as seems extremely



probable--that the weak-kneed controller of his destiny should let go.

But even this diversion failed to enliven after awhile, and the



_ennui_ became perfectlyunbearable. I felt my mind giving way under

it. It is not a strong mind, and I thought it would be unwise to tax



it too far. So somewhere about the twentieth morning I got up early,

had a good breakfast, and walked straight off to Hayfield, at the foot



of the Kinder Scout--a pleasant, busy little town, reached through a

lovely valley, and with two sweetly pretty women in it. At least they



were sweetly pretty then; one passed me on the bridge and, I think,

smiled; and the other was standing at an open door, making an



unremunerative investment of kisses upon a red-faced baby. But it is

years ago, and I dare say they have both grown stout and snappish



since that time. Coming back, I saw an old man breaking stones, and

it roused such strong longing in me to use my arms that I offered him



a drink to let me take his place. He was a kindly old man and he

humored me. I went for those stones with the accumulated energy of



three weeks, and did more work in half an hour than he had done all

day. But it did not make him jealous.



Having taken the plunge, I went further and further into dissipation,

going out for a long walk every morning and listening to the band in



the pavilion every evening. But the days still passed slowly

notwithstanding, and I was heartily glad when the last one came and I



was being whirled away from gouty, consumptive Buxton to London with

its stern work and life. I looked out of the carriage as we rushed



through Hendon in the evening. The lurid glare overhanging the mighty

city seemed to warm my heart, and when, later on, my cab rattled out



of St. Pancras' station, the old familiar roar that came swelling up

around me sounded the sweetest music I had heard for many a long day.



I certainly did not enjoy that month's idling. I like idling when I

ought not to be idling; not when it is the only thing I have to do.



That is my pig-headed nature. The time when I like best to stand with

my back to the fire, calculating how much I owe, is when my desk is



heaped highest with letters that must be answered by the next post.

When I like to dawdle longest over my dinner is when I have a heavy



evening's work before me. And if, for some urgent reason, I ought to

be up particularly early in the morning, it is then, more than at any



other time, that I love to lie an extra half-hour in bed.

Ah! how delicious it is to turn over and go to sleep again: "just for



five minutes." Is there any human being, I wonder, besides the hero

of a Sunday-school "tale for boys," who ever gets up willingly? There



are some men to whom getting up at the proper time is an utter

impossibility. If eight o'clock happens to be the time that they



should turn out, then they lie till half-past. If circumstances

change and half-past eight becomes early enough for them, then it is



nine before they can rise. They are like the statesman of whom it was

said that he was always punctually half an hour late. They try all



manner of schemes. They buy alarm-clocks (artful contrivances that go

off at the wrong time and alarm the wrong people). They tell Sarah






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