bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第102节
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“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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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 himself； and all his clients； and all things of
earth； animate and inanimate； are resolving； Mr Tulkinghorn sits
at one of the open windows； enjoying a bottle of old port。 Though a
hard…grained man； close； dry； and silent； he can enjoy old wine
with the best。 He has a priceless binn of port in some artful cellar
under the Fields； which is one of his many secrets。 When he dines
alone in chambers； as he has dined today； and has his bit of fish
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and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee…house； he
descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted
mansion； and； heralded by a remote reverberation of thundering
doors； comes gravely back； encircled by an earthy atmosphere；
and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar； two
score and ten years old； that blushes in the glass to find itself so
famous； and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern
grapes。
Mr Tulkinghorn； sitting in the twilight by the open window；
enjoys his wine。 As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence
and seclusion； it shuts him up the closer。 More impenetrable than
ever； he sits； and drinks； and mellows as it were in secrecy；
pondering； at that twilight hour； on all the mysteries he knows；
associated with darkening woods in the country； and vast blank
shut…up houses in town； and perhaps sparing a thought or two for
himself； and his family history； and his money； and his will—all a
mystery to everyone—and that one bachelor friend of his； a man of
the same mould and a lawyer too； who lived the same kind of life
until he was seventy…five years old； and then； suddenly conceiving
（as it is supposed） an impression that it was too monotonous； gave
his gold watch to his hair…dresser one summer evening； and
walked leisurely home to the Temple； and hanged himself。
But； Mr Tulkinghorn is not alone tonight； to ponder at his usual
length。 Seated at the same table； though with his chair modestly
and uncomfortably drawn a little way from it； sits a bald； mild；
shining man； who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the
lawyer bids him fill his glass。
“Now； Snagsby；” says Mr Tulkinghorn； “to go over this odd
story again。”
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“If you please； sir。”
“You told me when you were so good as to step round here； last
night—”
“For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty； sir；
but I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that
person； and I thought it possible that you might…just…wish…to…” Mr
Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion； or to
admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself。 So Mr
Snagsby trails off into saying； with an awkward cough； “I must ask
you to excuse the liberty； sir； I am sure。”
“Not at all；” says Mr Tulkinghorn。 “You told me； Snagsby； that
you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your
intention to your wife。 That was prudent I think； because it’s not a
matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned。”
“Well； sir；” returns Mr Snagsby； “you see my little woman is—
not to put too fine a point upon it—inquisitive。 She’s inquisitive。
Poor little thing； she’s liable to spasms； and it’s good for her to
have her mind employed。 In consequence of which； she employs
it—I should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of；
whether it concerns her or not—especially not。 My little woman
has a very active mind； sir。”
Mr Snagsby drinks； and murmurs； with an admiring cough
behind his hand。 “Dear me； very fine wine indeed！”
“Therefore you kept your visit to yourself； last night？” says Mr
Tulkinghorn。 “And tonight； too？”
“Yes； sir； and tonight； too。 My little woman is at present in—not
to put too fine a point on it—in a pious state； or in what she
considers such； and attends the Evening Exertions （which
