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Jerome K. Jerome Útrakészen MOBI kétnyelvű e-könyv

Jerome K. Jerome Útrakészen MOBI kétnyelvű e-könyv

Jerome K. Jerome (sz. 1859.) az angol irodalom Karinthyja, a humoros karcolat és elmefuttatás nagymestere. Volt vasutas, színész, újságíró, tanár, gyorsíró és ügyvédbojtár. Színészkorából több sikerült vígjátéka maradt, melyek közül a Miss Hobs-ot nálunk is adták. Humoros kötetei közül a legnevezetesebbek: Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow (Egy rest ember rest gondolatai) és Three Men in a Boat (Hárman egy csónakban). Az itt közölt karcolat a Diary of a Pilgrimage (Zarándoknapló) c. művéből való.

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    My friend B. called on me this morning and asked me if I would go to a theatre with him on Monday next.
    «Oh, yes! certainly, old man,» I replied. «Have you got an order, then?»
    He said:
    «No; they don’t give orders. We shall have to pay.»
    «Pay! Pay to go into a theatre!» I answered, in astonishment. «Oh, nonsense! You are joking.*
    «My dear fellow,» he rejoined, «do you think I should suggest paying if it were possible to get in by any other means? But the people who run this theatre would not even understand what was meant by a «free list», the uncivilised barbarians! It is of no use pretending to them that you are on the Press, because they don’t want the Press; they don’t think anything of the Press. It is no good writing to the acting manager, because there is no acting manager. It would be a waste of time offering to exhibit bills, because they don’t have any bills - not of that sort. If you want to go in to see the show, you’ve got to pay. If you don’t pay, you stop outside; that’s their brutal rule.»
    «Dear me,» I said, «what a very unpleasant arrangement! And whereabouts is this extraordinary theatre? I don’t think I can ever have been inside it.»
    «I don’t think you have,» he replied; «it is at Ober-Ammergau - first turning on the left after you leave Ober railway-station, fifty miles from Munich.»
    «Um! rather out of the way for a theatre,» I said. «I should not have thought an outlying house like that could have afforded to give itself airs.»
    «The house holds seven thousand people,» answered my friend B., «and money is turned away at each performance. The first production is on Monday next. Will you come?»
    I pondered for a moment, looked at my diary, and saw that Aunt Emma was comling to spend Saturday to Wednesday next with us, calculated that if I went I should miss her, and might not see her again for years, and decided that I would go.
    To tell the truth, it was the journey more than the play that tempted me. To be a great traveller has always been one of my cherished ambitions. I yearn to be able to write in this sort of strain:
    «I have smoked my fragrant Havanna in the sunny streets of old Madrid, and I have puffed the rude and not sweet-smelling calumet of peace in the draughty wigwam of the Wild West; I have sipped my evening coffee in the silent tent, while the tethered camel browsed without upon the desert grass, and I have quaffed the fiery brandy of the North while the rein-deer munched his fodder beside me in the hut, and the pale light of the midnight sun threw the shadows of the pines across the snow.»
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