bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第83章
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Bleak House 419
and poor。 I laid this hand upon him； after he had run through
everything and broken down everything beneath him—when he
held a pistol to his head。”
“I wish he had let it off！” says the benevolent old man； “and
blown his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds！”
“That would have been a smash indeed；” returns the trooper
coolly； “any way； he had been young； hopeful； and handsome in
the days gone by； and I am glad I never found him； when he was
neither； to lead to a result so much to his advantage。 That’s reason
number one。”
“I hope number two’s as good？” snarls the old man。
“Why； no。 It’s more of a selfish reason。 If I had found him； I
must have gone to the other world to look。 He was there。”
“How do you know he was there？”
“He wasn’t here。”
“How do you know he wasn’t here？”
“Don’t lose your temper as well as your money；” says Mr
George； calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe。 “He was
drowned long before。 I am convinced of it。 He went over a ship’s
side。 Whether intentionally or accidentally； I don’t know。 Perhaps
your friend in the city does。—Do you know what that tune is； Mr
Smallweed？” he adds； after breaking off to whistle one；
accompanied on the table with the empty pipe。
“Tune！” replies the old man。 “No。 We never have tunes here。”
“That’s the Dead March in Saul。 They bury soldiers to it； so it’s
the natural end of the subject。 Now； if your pretty grand…
daughter—excuse me； miss—will condescend to take care of this
pipe for two months； we shall save the cost of one next time。 Good
evening； Mr Smallweed！”
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“My dear friend！” The old man gives him both his hands。
“So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me； if I
fail in a payment？” says the trooper； looking down upon him like a
giant。
“My dear friend； I am afraid he will；” returns the old man；
looking up at him like a pigmy。
Mr George laughs； and with a glance at Mr Smallweed； and a
parting salutation to the scornful Judy； strides out of the parlour；
clashing imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he
goes。
“You’re a damned rogue；” says the old gentleman； making a
hideous grimace at the door as shuts it。 “But I’ll lime you； you dog；
I’ll lime you！”
After this amiable remark； his spirit soars into those enchanting
regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened
to it； and again he and Mrs Smallweed wile away the rosy hours；
two unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the Black
Serjeant。
While the twain are faithful to their post； Mr George strides
through the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave…
enough face。 It is eight o’clock now； and the day is fast drawing in。
He stops hard by Waterloo Bridge； and reads a play…bill； decides to
go to Astley’s Theatre。 Being there； is much delighted with the
horses and the feats of strength； looks at the weapons with a
critical eye； disapproves of the combats； as giving evidences of
unskillful swordsmanship； but is touched home by the sentiments。
In the last scene； when the Emperor of Tartary gets up into a cart
and condescends to bless the united lovers by hovering over them
with the Union Jack； his eyelashes are moistened with emotion。
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The theatre over； Mr George comes across the water again； and
makes his way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket
and Leicester Square； which is a centre of attraction to indifferent
foreign hotels and indifferent foreigners； racket…courts； fighting…
men； swordsmen； footguards； old china； gaming houses；
exhibitions； and a large medley of shabbiness and shrinking out of
sight。 Penetrating to the heart of this region； he arrives； by a court
and a long whitewashed passage； at a great brick building；
composed of bare walls； floors； roof…rafters； and skylights； on the
front of which； if it can be said to have any front； is painted
GEORGE’S SHOOTING GALLERY； etc。
Into George’s Shooting Gallery； etc。； he goes； and in it there are
gaslights （partly turned off now）； and two whitened targets for
rifle…shooting； and archery accommodation； and fencing
appliances； and all necessaries for the British art of boxing。 None
of these sports or exercises are being pursued in George’s
Shooting Gallery tonight； which is so devoid of company； that a
little grotesque man； with a large head； has it all to himself； and
lies asleep upon the floor。
The little man is dressed something like a gunsmith； in a green
baize apron and cap； and his face and hands are dirty with
gunpowder； and begrimed with the loading of guns。 As he lies in
the light； before a glaring white target； the black upon him shines
again。 Not far off； is the strong； rough； primitive table； with a vice
upon it； at which he has been working。 He is a little man with a
face all crushed together； who appears； from a certain blue and
speckled appearance that one of his cheeks presents； to have been
blown up； in the way of business； at some odd time or times。
“Phil！” says the trooper； in a quiet voice。
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“All right！” cries Phil； scrambling to his feet。
“Anything been doing！”
“Flat as ever so much swipes；” says Phil。 “Five dozen rifle and a
dozen pistol。 As to aim！” Phil gives a howl at the recollection。
“Shut up shop； Phil！”
As Phil moves about to execute this order； it appears that he is
lame； though able to move very quickly。 On the speckled side of
his face he has no eyebrow； and on the other side he has a bushy
black one； which want of uniformity gives him a very singular and
rather sinister appearance。 Everything seems to have happened to
his hands that could possibly take place； consistently with the
retention of all the fingers； for they are notched； and seamed； and
crumpled all over。 He appears to be very strong； and lifts heavy
benches about as if he had no idea what weight was。 He has a
curious way of limping round the gallery with his shoulder against
the wall； and tacking off at objects he wants to lay hold of； instead
of going straight to them； which has left a smear all round the four
walls； conventionally called “Phil’s mark。”
This custodian of George’s Gallery in George’s absence
concludes his proceedings； when he has locked the great doors；
and turned out all the lights but one； which he leaves to glimmer；
by dragging out from a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses
and bedding。 These being drawn to opposite ends of the gallery；
the trooper makes his own bed； and Phil makes his。
“Phil！” says the master； walking towards him without his coat
and waistcoat； and looking more soldierly than ever in his braces。
“You were found in a doorway； weren’t you？”
“Gutter；” says Phil。 “Watchman tumbled over me。”
“Then； vagabondising came natural to you； from the
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Bleak House 423
beginning。”
“As nat’ral as possible；” says Phil。
“Good…night！”
“Good…night； guv’ner。”
Phil cannot even go straight to bed； but finds it necessary to
shoulder round two sides of the gallery； and then tack off at his
mattress。 The trooper； after taking a turn or two in the rifle…
distance； and looking up at the moon now shining through the
skylights； strides to his own mattress by a shorter route； and goes
to bed too。
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Chapter 22
Mr Bucket
llegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln’s Inn Fields； though
Athe evening is hot； for； both Mr Tulkinghorn’s windows
are wide open； and the room is lofty； gusty； and gloomy。
These may not be desirable characteristics when November comes
with fog and sleet； or January with ice and snow； but they have
their merits in the sultry long vacation weather。 They enable
Allegory； though it has cheeks like peaches； and knees like
bunches of blossoms； and rosy swellings for calves to its legs and
muscles to its arms； to look tolerably cool tonight。
Plenty of dust comes in at Mr Tulkinghorn’s windows； and
plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers。 It lies
thick everywhere。 When a breeze from the country that has lost its
way； takes fright； and makes a blind hurry to rush out again； it
flings as much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law—or Mr
Tulkinghorn； one of its trustiest representatives—may scatter； on
occasion； in the eyes of the laity。
In his lowering magazine of dust； the universal article into
which his papers and himsel
