bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第148节
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now； coming round by the Sol’s Arms with the intention of passing
down the court； and out at the Chancery Lane end； and so
terminating his unpremeditated after…supper stroll of ten minutes
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long from his own door and back again； Mr Snagsby approaches。
“What； Mr Weevle？” says the stationer； stopping to speak。 “Are
you there？”
“Ay！” says Weevle。 “Here I am； Mr Snagsby。”
“Airing yourself； as I am doing； before you go to bed？” the
stationer inquires。
“Why； there’s not much air to be got here； and what there is； is
not very freshening；” Weevle answers； glancing up and down the
court。
“Very true； sir。 Don’t you observe；” says Mr Snagsby； pausing
to sniff and taste the air a little； “don’t you observe； Mr Weevle；
that you’re—not to put too fine a point upon it—that you’re rather
greasy here； sir？”
“Why； I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavour
in the place tonight；” Mr Weevle rejoins。 “I suppose it’s chops at
the Sol’s Arms。”
“Chops； do you think？ Oh！—Chops； eh？” Mr Snagsby sniffs and
tastes again。 “Well； sir； I suppose it is。 But I should say their cook
at the Sol wanted a little looking after。 She has been burning ’em；
sir！ And I don’t think；” Mr Snagsby sniffs and tastes again； and
then spits and wipes his mouth； “I don’t think—not to put too fine
a point upon it—that they were quite fresh； when they were shown
the gridiron。”
“That’s very likely。 It’s a tainting sort of weather。”
“It is a tainting sort of weather；” says Mr Snagsby； “and I find it
sinking to the spirits。”
“By George！ I find it gives me the horrors；” returns Mr Weevle。
“Then； you see； you live in a lonesome way； and in a lonesome
room； with a black circumstance hanging over it；” says Mr
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Snagsby； looking in past the other’s shoulder along the dark
passage； and then falling back a step to look up at the house。 “I
couldn’t live in that room alone； as you do； sir。 I should get so
fidgetty and worried of an evening； sometimes； that I should be
driven to come to the door； and stand here； sooner than sit there。
But then it’s very true that you didn’t see； in your room； what I
saw there。 That makes a difference。”
“I know quite enough about it；” returns Tony。
“It’s not agreeable； is it？” pursues Mr Snagsby； coughing his
cough of mild persuasion behind his hand。 “Mr Krook ought to
consider it in the rent。 I hope he does； I am sure。”
“I hope he does；” says Tony。 “But I doubt it！”
“You find the rent high； do you； sir；” returns the stationer。
“Rents are high about here。 I don’t know how it is exactly； but the
law seems to put things up in price。 Not；” adds Mr Snagsby； with
his apologetic cough； “that I mean to say a word against the
profession I get my living by。”
Mr Weevle again glances up and down the court； and then looks
at the stationer。 Mr Snagsby； blankly catching his eye； looks
upward for a star or so； and coughs a cough expressive of not
exactly seeing his way out of this conversation。
“It’s a curious fact； sir；” he observes； slowly rubbing his hands；
“that he should have been—”
“Who’s he？” interrupts Mr Weevle。
“The deceased； you know；” says Mr Snagsby； twitching his
head and right eyebrow towards the staircase； and tapping his
acquaintance on the button。
“Ah to be sure！” returns the other； as if he were not overfond of
the subject。 “I thought we had done with him。”
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“I was only going to say； it’s a curious fact； sir； that he should
have come and lived here； and been one of my writers； and then
that you should come and live here； and be one of my writers； too。
Which there is nothing derogatory； but far from it in the
appellation；” says Mr Snagsby； breaking off with a mistrust that he
may have unpolitely asserted a kind of proprietorship in Mr
Weevle； “because I have known writers that have gone into
Brewers’ houses and done really very respectable indeed。
Eminently respectable； sir；” adds Mr Snagsby； with a misgiving
that he had not improved the matter。
“It’s a curious coincidence； as you say；” answers Weevle； once
more glancing up and down the court。
“Seems a Fate in it； don’t there？” suggests the stationer。
“There does。”
“Just so；” observes the stationer； with his confirmatory cough。
“Quite a Fate in it。 Quite a Fate。 Well； Mr Weevle； I am afraid I
must bid you good night；” Mr Snagsby speaks as if it made him
desolate to go； though he has been casting about for any means of
escape ever since he stopped to speak； “my little woman will be
looking for me； else。 Good night； sir！”
If Mr Snagsby hastens home to save his little woman the
trouble of looking for him； he might set his mind at rest on that
score。 His little woman has had her eye upon him round the Sol’s
Arms all this time； and now glides after him with a pocket
handkerchief wrapped over her head； honouring Mr Weevle and
his doorway with a very searching glance as she goes past。
“You’ll know me again； ma’am； at all events；” says Mr Weevle to
himself； “and I can’t compliment you on your appearance；
whoever you are； with your head tied up in a bundle。 Is this fellow
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never coming！”
This fellow approaches as he speaks。 Mr Weevle softly holds up
his finger； and draws him into the passage； and closes the street
door。 Then； they go upstairs； Mr Weevle heavily； and Mr Guppy
（for it is he） very lightly indeed。 When they are shut into the back
room； they speak low。
“I thought you had gone to Jericho at least； instead of coming
here；” says Tony。
“Why； I said about ten。”
“You said about ten；” Tony repeats。 “Yes； so you did say about
ten。 But； according to my count； it’s ten times ten—it’s a hundred
o’clock。 I never had such a night in my life！”
“What has been the matter？”
“That’s it！” says Tony。 “Nothing has been the matter。 But； here
have I been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib； till I have had
the horrors falling on me as thick as hail。 There’s a blessed looking
candle！” says Tony； pointing to the heavily burning taper on his
table with a great cabbage head and a long winding…sheet。
“That’s easily improved；” Mr Guppy observes； as he takes the
snuffers in hand。
“Is it？” returned his friend。 “Not so easily as you think。 It has
been smouldering like that； ever since it was lighted。”
“Why； what’s the matter with you； Tony？” inquires Mr Guppy；
looking at him； snuffers in hand； as he sits down with his elbow on
the table。
“William Guppy；” replies the other； “I am in the Downs。 It’s this
unbearably dull； suicidal room—and old Boguey downstairs； I
suppose。” Mr Weevle moodily pushes the snuffers…tray from him
with his elbow； leans his head on his hand； puts his feet on the
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fender； and looks at the fire。 Mr Guppy； observing him； slightly
tosses hi
