Kabanata Kabanata 56 · 第56章

A day or two after the Quilp tea-party at the Wilderness, Mr Swiveller

walked into Sampson Brass’s office at the usual hour, and being alone

in that Temple of Probity, placed his hat upon the desk, and taking

from his pocket a small parcel of black crape, applied himself to

folding and pinning the same upon it, after the manner of a hatband.

Having completed the construction of this appendage, he surveyed his

work with great complacency, and put his hat on again--very much over

one eye, to increase the mournfulness of the effect. These

arrangements perfected to his entire satisfaction, he thrust his hands

into his pockets, and walked up and down the office with measured steps.

‘It has always been the same with me,’ said Mr Swiveller, ‘always.

‘Twas ever thus--from childhood’s hour I’ve seen my fondest hopes

decay, I never loved a tree or flower but ‘twas the first to fade away;

I never nursed a dear Gazelle, to glad me with its soft black eye, but

when it came to know me well, and love me, it was sure to marry a

market-gardener.’

Overpowered by these reflections, Mr Swiveller stopped short at the

clients’ chair, and flung himself into its open arms.

‘And this,’ said Mr Swiveller, with a kind of bantering composure, ‘is

life, I believe. Oh, certainly. Why not! I’m quite satisfied. I

shall wear,’ added Richard, taking off his hat again and looking hard

at it, as if he were only deterred by pecuniary considerations from

spurning it with his foot, ‘I shall wear this emblem of woman’s

perfidy, in remembrance of her with whom I shall never again thread the

windings of the mazy; whom I shall never more pledge in the rosy; who,

during the short remainder of my existence, will murder the balmy. Ha,

ha, ha!’

It may be necessary to observe, lest there should appear any

incongruity in the close of this soliloquy, that Mr Swiveller did not

wind up with a cheerful hilarious laugh, which would have been

undoubtedly at variance with his solemn reflections, but that, being in

a theatrical mood, he merely achieved that performance which is

designated in melodramas ‘laughing like a fiend,’--for it seems that

your fiends always laugh in syllables, and always in three syllables,

never more nor less, which is a remarkable property in such gentry, and

one worthy of remembrance.

The baleful sounds had hardly died away, and Mr Swiveller was still

sitting in a very grim state in the clients’ chair, when there came a

ring--or, if we may adapt the sound to his then humour, a knell--at

the office bell. Opening the door with all speed, he beheld the

expressive countenance of Mr Chuckster, between whom and himself a

fraternal greeting ensued.

‘You’re devilish early at this pestiferous old slaughter-house,’ said

that gentleman, poising himself on one leg, and shaking the other in an

easy manner.

‘Rather,’ returned Dick.

‘Rather!’ retorted Mr Chuckster, with that air of graceful trifling

which so well became him. ‘I should think so. Why, my good feller, do

you know what o’clock it is--half-past nine a.m. in the morning?’

‘Won’t you come in?’ said Dick. ‘All alone. Swiveller solus. “‘Tis

now the witching--“’

‘“Hour of night!”’

‘“When churchyards yawn,”’

‘“And graves give up their dead.”’

At the end of this quotation in dialogue, each gentleman struck an

attitude, and immediately subsiding into prose walked into the office.

Such morsels of enthusiasm are common among the Glorious Apollos, and

were indeed the links that bound them together, and raised them above

the cold dull earth.

‘Well, and how are you my buck?’ said Mr Chuckster, taking a stool. ‘I

was forced to come into the City upon some little private matters of my

own, and couldn’t pass the corner of the street without looking in, but

upon my soul I didn’t expect to find you. It is so everlastingly

early.’

Mr Swiveller expressed his acknowledgments; and it appearing on further

conversation that he was in good health, and that Mr Chuckster was in

the like enviable condition, both gentlemen, in compliance with a

solemn custom of the ancient Brotherhood to which they belonged, joined

in a fragment of the popular duet of ‘All’s Well,’ with a long shake

at the end.

‘And what’s the news?’ said Richard.

‘The town’s as flat, my dear feller,’ replied Mr Chuckster, ‘as the

surface of a Dutch oven. There’s no news. By-the-bye, that lodger of

yours is a most extraordinary person. He quite eludes the most

vigorous comprehension, you know. Never was such a feller!’

‘What has he been doing now?’ said Dick.

‘By Jove, Sir,’ returned Mr Chuckster, taking out an oblong snuff-box,

the lid whereof was ornamented with a fox’s head curiously carved in

brass, ‘that man is an unfathomable. Sir, that man has made friends

with our articled clerk. There’s no harm in him, but he is so

amazingly slow and soft. Now, if he wanted a friend, why couldn’t he

have one that knew a thing or two, and could do him some good by his

manners and conversation. I have my faults, sir,’ said Mr Chuckster--

‘No, no,’ interposed Mr Swiveller.

‘Oh yes I have, I have my faults, no man knows his faults better than I

know mine. But,’ said Mr Chuckster, ‘I’m not meek. My worst

enemies--every man has his enemies, Sir, and I have mine--never

accused me of being meek. And I tell you what, Sir, if I hadn’t more

of these qualities that commonly endear man to man, than our articled

clerk has, I’d steal a Cheshire cheese, tie it round my neck, and drown

myself. I’d die degraded, as I had lived. I would upon my honour.’

Mr Chuckster paused, rapped the fox’s head exactly on the nose with the

knuckle of the fore-finger, took a pinch of snuff, and looked steadily

at Mr Swiveller, as much as to say that if he thought he was going to

sneeze, he would find himself mistaken.

‘Not contented, Sir,’ said Mr Chuckster, ‘with making friends with

Abel, he has cultivated the acquaintance of his father and mother.

Since he came home from that wild-goose chase, he has been there--

actually been there. He patronises young Snobby besides; you’ll find,

Sir, that he’ll be constantly coming backwards and forwards to this

place: yet I don’t suppose that beyond the common forms of civility, he

has ever exchanged half-a-dozen words with me. Now, upon my soul, you

know,’ said Mr Chuckster, shaking his head gravely, as men are wont to

do when they consider things are going a little too far, ‘this is

altogether such a low-minded affair, that if I didn’t feel for the

governor, and know that he could never get on without me, I should be

obliged to cut the connection. I should have no alternative.’

Mr Swiveller, who sat on another stool opposite to his friend, stirred

the fire in an excess of sympathy, but said nothing.

‘As to young Snob, sir,’ pursued Mr Chuckster with a prophetic look,

‘you’ll find he’ll turn out bad. In our profession we know something

of human nature, and take my word for it, that the feller that came

back to work out that shilling, will show himself one of these days in

his true colours. He’s a low thief, sir. He must be.’

Mr Chuckster being roused, would probably have pursued this subject

further, and in more emphatic language, but for a tap at the door,

which seeming to announce the arrival of somebody on business, caused

him to assume a greater appearance of meekness than was perhaps quite

consistent with his late declaration. Mr Swiveller, hearing the same

sound, caused his stool to revolve rapidly on one leg until it brought

him to his desk, into which, having forgotten in the sudden flurry of

his spirits to part with the poker, he thrust it as he cried ‘Come in!’

Who should present himself but that very Kit who had been the theme of

Mr Chuckster’s wrath! Never did man pluck up his courage so quickly,

or look so fierce, as Mr Chuckster when he found it was he. Mr

Swiveller stared at him for a moment, and then leaping from his stool,

and drawing out the poker from its place of concealment, performed the

broad-sword exercise with all the cuts and guards complete, in a

species of frenzy.

‘Is the gentleman at home?’ said Kit, rather astonished by this

uncommon reception.

Before Mr Swiveller could make any reply, Mr Chuckster took occasion to

enter his indignant protest against this form of inquiry; which he held

to be of a disrespectful and snobbish tendency, inasmuch as the

inquirer, seeing two gentlemen then and there present, should have

spoken of the other gentleman; or rather (for it was not impossible

that the object of his search might be of inferior quality) should have

mentioned his name, leaving it to his hearers to determine his degree

as they thought proper. Mr Chuckster likewise remarked, that he had

some reason to believe this form of address was personal to himself,

and that he was not a man to be trifled with--as certain snobs (whom he

did not more particularly mention or describe) might find to their cost.

‘I mean the gentleman up-stairs,’ said Kit, turning to Richard

Swiveller. ‘Is he at home?’

‘Why?’ rejoined Dick.

‘Because if he is, I have a letter for him.’

‘From whom?’ said Dick.

‘From Mr Garland.’

‘Oh!’ said Dick, with extreme politeness. ‘Then you may hand it over,

Sir. And if you’re to wait for an answer, Sir, you may wait in the

passage, Sir, which is an airy and well-ventilated apartment, sir.’

‘Thank you,’ returned Kit. ‘But I am to give it to himself, if you

please.’

The excessive audacity of this retort so overpowered Mr Chuckster, and

so moved his tender regard for his friend’s honour, that he declared,

if he were not restrained by official considerations, he must certainly

have annihilated Kit upon the spot; a resentment of the affront which

he did consider, under the extraordinary circumstances of aggravation

attending it, could but have met with the proper sanction and approval

of a jury of Englishmen, who, he had no doubt, would have returned a

verdict of justifiable Homicide, coupled with a high testimony to the

morals and character of the Avenger. Mr Swiveller, without being quite

so hot upon the matter, was rather shamed by his friend’s excitement,

and not a little puzzled how to act (Kit being quite cool and

good-humoured), when the single gentleman was heard to call violently

down the stairs.

‘Didn’t I see somebody for me, come in?’ cried the lodger.

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Dick. ‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘Then where is he?’ roared the single gentleman.

‘He’s here, sir,’ rejoined Mr Swiveller. ‘Now young man, don’t you

hear you’re to go up-stairs? Are you deaf?’

Kit did not appear to think it worth his while to enter into any

altercation, but hurried off and left the Glorious Apollos gazing at

each other in silence.

‘Didn’t I tell you so?’ said Mr Chuckster. ‘What do you think of that?’

Mr Swiveller being in the main a good-natured fellow, and not

perceiving in the conduct of Kit any villany of enormous magnitude,

scarcely knew what answer to return. He was relieved from his

perplexity, however, by the entrance of Mr Sampson and his sister,

Sally, at sight of whom Mr Chuckster precipitately retired.

Mr Brass and his lovely companion appeared to have been holding a

consultation over their temperate breakfast, upon some matter of great

interest and importance. On the occasion of such conferences, they

generally appeared in the office some half an hour after their usual

time, and in a very smiling state, as though their late plots and

designs had tranquillised their minds and shed a light upon their

toilsome way. In the present instance, they seemed particularly gay;

Miss Sally’s aspect being of a most oily kind, and Mr Brass rubbing his

hands in an exceedingly jocose and light-hearted manner.

‘Well, Mr Richard,’ said Brass. ‘How are we this morning? Are we

pretty fresh and cheerful sir--eh, Mr Richard?’

‘Pretty well, sir,’ replied Dick.

‘That’s well,’ said Brass. ‘Ha ha! We should be as gay as larks, Mr

Richard--why not? It’s a pleasant world we live in sir, a very

pleasant world. There are bad people in it, Mr Richard, but if there

were no bad people, there would be no good lawyers. Ha ha! Any

letters by the post this morning, Mr Richard?’

Mr Swiveller answered in the negative.

‘Ha!’ said Brass, ‘no matter. If there’s little business to-day,

there’ll be more to-morrow. A contented spirit, Mr Richard, is the

sweetness of existence. Anybody been here, sir?’

‘Only my friend’--replied Dick. ‘May we ne’er want a--’

‘Friend,’ Brass chimed in quickly, ‘or a bottle to give him. Ha ha!

That’s the way the song runs, isn’t it? A very good song, Mr Richard,

very good. I like the sentiment of it. Ha ha! Your friend’s the

young man from Witherden’s office I think--yes--May we ne’er want a--

Nobody else at all, been, Mr Richard?’

‘Only somebody to the lodger,’ replied Mr Swiveller.

‘Oh indeed!’ cried Brass. ‘Somebody to the lodger eh? Ha ha! May we

ne’er want a friend, or a---- Somebody to the lodger, eh, Mr Richard?’

‘Yes,’ said Dick, a little disconcerted by the excessive buoyancy of

spirits which his employer displayed. ‘With him now.’

‘With him now!’ cried Brass; ‘Ha ha! There let ‘em be, merry and free,

toor rul lol le. Eh, Mr Richard? Ha ha!’

‘Oh certainly,’ replied Dick.

‘And who,’ said Brass, shuffling among his papers, ‘who is the lodger’s

visitor--not a lady visitor, I hope, eh, Mr Richard? The morals of the

Marks you know, sir--“when lovely women stoops to folly”--and all

that--eh, Mr Richard?’

‘Another young man, who belongs to Witherden’s too, or half belongs

there,’ returned Richard. ‘Kit, they call him.’

‘Kit, eh!’ said Brass. ‘Strange name--name of a dancing-master’s

fiddle, eh, Mr Richard? Ha ha! Kit’s there, is he? Oh!’

Dick looked at Miss Sally, wondering that she didn’t check this

uncommon exuberance on the part of Mr Sampson; but as she made no

attempt to do so, and rather appeared to exhibit a tacit acquiescence

in it, he concluded that they had just been cheating somebody, and

receiving the bill.

‘Will you have the goodness, Mr Richard,’ said Brass, taking a letter

from his desk, ‘just to step over to Peckham Rye with that? There’s no

answer, but it’s rather particular and should go by hand. Charge the

office with your coach-hire back, you know; don’t spare the office; get

as much out of it as you can--clerk’s motto--Eh, Mr Richard? Ha ha!’

Mr Swiveller solemnly doffed the aquatic jacket, put on his coat, took

down his hat from its peg, pocketed the letter, and departed. As soon

as he was gone, up rose Miss Sally Brass, and smiling sweetly at her

brother (who nodded and smote his nose in return) withdrew also.

Sampson Brass was no sooner left alone, than he set the office-door

wide open, and establishing himself at his desk directly opposite, so

that he could not fail to see anybody who came down-stairs and passed

out at the street door, began to write with extreme cheerfulness and

assiduity; humming as he did so, in a voice that was anything but

musical, certain vocal snatches which appeared to have reference to the

union between Church and State, inasmuch as they were compounded of the

Evening Hymn and God save the King.

Thus, the attorney of Bevis Marks sat, and wrote, and hummed, for a

long time, except when he stopped to listen with a very cunning face,

and hearing nothing, went on humming louder, and writing slower than

ever. At length, in one of these pauses, he heard his lodger’s door

opened and shut, and footsteps coming down the stairs. Then, Mr Brass

left off writing entirely, and, with his pen in his hand, hummed his

very loudest; shaking his head meanwhile from side to side, like a man

whose whole soul was in the music, and smiling in a manner quite

seraphic.

It was towards this moving spectacle that the staircase and the sweet

sounds guided Kit; on whose arrival before his door, Mr Brass stopped

his singing, but not his smiling, and nodded affably: at the same time

beckoning to him with his pen.

‘Kit,’ said Mr Brass, in the pleasantest way imaginable, ‘how do you

do?’

Kit, being rather shy of his friend, made a suitable reply, and had his

hand upon the lock of the street door when Mr Brass called him softly

back.

‘You are not to go, if you please, Kit,’ said the attorney in a

mysterious and yet business-like way. ‘You are to step in here, if you

please. Dear me, dear me! When I look at you,’ said the lawyer,

quitting his stool, and standing before the fire with his back towards

it, ‘I am reminded of the sweetest little face that ever my eyes

beheld. I remember your coming there, twice or thrice, when we were in

possession. Ah Kit, my dear fellow, gentleman in my profession have

such painful duties to perform sometimes, that you needn’t envy us--you

needn’t indeed!’

‘I don’t, sir,’ said Kit, ‘though it isn’t for the like of me to judge.’

‘Our only consolation, Kit,’ pursued the lawyer, looking at him in a

sort of pensive abstraction, ‘is, that although we cannot turn away the

wind, we can soften it; we can temper it, if I may say so, to the shorn

lambs.’

‘Shorn indeed!’ thought Kit. ‘Pretty close!’ But he didn’t say _so_.

‘On that occasion, Kit,’ said Mr Brass, ‘on that occasion that I have

just alluded to, I had a hard battle with Mr Quilp (for Mr Quilp is a

very hard man) to obtain them the indulgence they had. It might have

cost me a client. But suffering virtue inspired me, and I prevailed.’

‘He’s not so bad after all,’ thought honest Kit, as the attorney pursed

up his lips and looked like a man who was struggling with his better

feelings.

‘I respect you, Kit,’ said Brass with emotion. ‘I saw enough of your

conduct, at that time, to respect you, though your station is humble,

and your fortune lowly. It isn’t the waistcoat that I look at. It is

the heart. The checks in the waistcoat are but the wires of the cage.

But the heart is the bird. Ah! How many sich birds are perpetually

moulting, and putting their beaks through the wires to peck at all

mankind!’

This poetic figure, which Kit took to be in a special allusion to his

own checked waistcoat, quite overcame him; Mr Brass’s voice and manner

added not a little to its effect, for he discoursed with all the mild

austerity of a hermit, and wanted but a cord round the waist of his

rusty surtout, and a skull on the chimney-piece, to be completely set

up in that line of business.

‘Well, well,’ said Sampson, smiling as good men smile when they

compassionate their own weakness or that of their fellow-creatures,

‘this is wide of the bull’s-eye. You’re to take that, if you please.’

As he spoke, he pointed to a couple of half-crowns on the desk.

Kit looked at the coins, and then at Sampson, and hesitated.

‘For yourself,’ said Brass. ‘From--’

‘No matter about the person they came from,’ replied the lawyer. ‘Say

me, if you like. We have eccentric friends overhead, Kit, and we

mustn’t ask questions or talk too much--you understand? You’re to take

them, that’s all; and between you and me, I don’t think they’ll be the

last you’ll have to take from the same place. I hope not. Good bye,

Kit. Good bye!’

With many thanks, and many more self-reproaches for having on such

slight grounds suspected one who in their very first conversation

turned out such a different man from what he had supposed, Kit took the

money and made the best of his way home. Mr Brass remained airing

himself at the fire, and resumed his vocal exercise, and his seraphic

smile, simultaneously.

‘May I come in?’ said Miss Sally, peeping.

‘Oh yes, you may come in,’ returned her brother.

‘Ahem!’ coughed Miss Brass interrogatively.

‘Why, yes,’ returned Sampson, ‘I should say as good as done.’