bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第101节
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“And what two reasons； Mr George？ In the name of the—”
“Of our friend in the city？” suggests Mr George； composedly
drinking。
“Ay； if you like。 What two reasons？”
“In the first place；” returns Mr George； but still looking at Judy；
as if； she being so old and so like her grandfather； it is indifferent
which of the two he addresses； “you gentlemen took me in。 You
advertised that Mr Hawdon （Captain Hawdon； if you hold to the
saying； Once a captain always a captain） was to hear of something
of his advantage。”
“Well？” returns the old man； shrilly and sharply。
“Well！” says Mr George； smoking on。 “It wouldn’t have been
much to his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the
whole bill and judgment trade of London。”
“How do you know that？ Some of his rich relations might have
paid his debts； or compounded for ’em。 Besides； he had taken us
in。 He owed us immense sums； all round。 I would sooner have
strangled him than had no return。 If I sit here thinking of him；”
snarls the old man； holding up his impotent ten fingers； “I want to
strangle him now。” And in a sudden access of fury； he throws the
cushion at the unoffending Mrs Smallweed； but it passes
harmlessly on one side of her chair。
“I don’t need to be told；” returns the trooper； taking his pipe
from his lips for a moment； and carrying his eyes back from
following the progress of the cushion； to the pipe…bowl which is
burning low； “that he carried on heavily and went to ruin。 I have
been at his right hand many a day； when he was charging upon
ruin full…gallop。 I was with him； when he was sick and well； rich
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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 i
