bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第222节
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under your roof。”
“I helped him so far； but that’s little。 I mean； Mrs Bagnet； there
he was； dying without ever having been taught much more than to
know his right hand from his left。 And he was too far gone to be
helped out of that。”
“Ah； poor creetur！” says Mrs Bagnet。
“Then；” says the trooper； not yet lighting his pipe； and passing
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Bleak House 923
his heavy hand over his hair； “that brought up Gridley in a man’s
mind。 His was a bad case too； in a different way。 Then the two got
mixed up in a man’s mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do
with both。 And to think of that rusty carbine； stock and barrel；
standing up on end in his corner； hard； indifferent； taking
everything so evenly—it made flesh and blood tingle； I do assure
you。”
“My advice to you；” returns Mrs Bagnet； “is to light your pipe；
and tingle that way。 It’s wholesomer and comfortabler； and better
for the health altogether。”
“You’re right；” says the trooper； “and I’ll do it！”
So； he does it： though still with an indignant gravity that
impresses the young Bagnets； and even causes Mr Bagnet to defer
the ceremony of drinking Mrs Bagnet’s health； always given by
himself； on these occasions； in a speech of exemplary terseness。
But the young ladies having composed what Mr Bagnet is in the
habit of calling “the mixtur；” and George’s pipe being now in a
glow； Mr Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the
evening。 He addresses the assembled company in the following
terms。
“George。 Woolwich。 Quebec。 Malta。 This is her birthday。 Take a
day’s march。 And you won’t find such another。 Here’s towards
her！”
The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm； Mrs Bagnet
returns thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity。 This
model composition is limited to the three words “And wishing
yours！” which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in
succession； and a well…regulated swig of the mixture。 This she
again follows up； on the present occasion； by the wholly
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Bleak House 924
unexpected exclamation； “Here’s a man！”
Here is a man； much to the astonishment of the little company；
looking in at the parlour door。 He is a sharp…eyed man—a quick
keen man—and he takes in everybody’s look at him； all at once；
individually and collectively； in a manner that stamps him a
remarkable man。
“George；” says the man； nodding； “how do you find yourself？”
“Why； it’s Bucket！” cries Mr George。
“Yes；” says the man； coming in and closing the door。 “I was
going down the street here； when I happened to stop and look in at
the musical instruments in the shop window—a friend of mine is
in wants of a second…hand wiolinceller； of a good tone—and I saw
a party enjoying themselves； and I thought it was you in the
corner； I thought I couldn’t be mistaken。 How goes the world with
you； George； at the present moment？ Pretty smooth？ And with
you； ma’am？ And with you； governor？ And Lord！” says Mr
Bucket； opening his arms； “here’s children too！ You may do
anything with me； if you only show me children。 Give us a kiss； my
pets。 No occasion to inquire who your father and mother is。 Never
saw such a likeness in my life！”
Mr Bucket； not unwelcome； has sat himself down next to Mr
George； and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees。 “You pretty
dears；” says Mr Bucket； “give us another kiss； it’s the only thing
I’m greedy in。 Lord bless you； how healthy you look！ And what
may be the ages of these two； ma’am？ I should put ’em down at
the figures of about eight and ten。”
“You’re very near； sir；” says Mrs Bagnet。 “I generally am near；”
returns Mr Bucket； “being so fond of children。 A friend of mine
has had nineteen of ’em； ma’am； all by one mother； and she’s still
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Bleak House 925
as fresh and rosy as the morning。 Not so much so as yourself； but；
upon my soul； she comes near you！ And what do you call these； my
darling？” pursues Mr Bucket； pinching Malta’s cheek。 “These are
peaches； these are。 Bless your heart！ And what do you think about
father？ Do you think father could recommend a second…hand
wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr Bucket’s friend； my dear？ My
name’s Bucket。 Ain’t that a funny name？”
These blandishments have entirely won the family heart。 Mrs
Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for
Mr Bucket； and waiting upon him hospitably。 She would be glad
to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances； but
she tells him that as a friend of George’s she is particularly glad to
see him this evening； for George has not been in his usual spirits。
“Not in his usual spirits？” exclaims Mr Bucket。 “Why； I never
heard of such a thing！ What’s the matter； George？ You don’t
intend to tell me you’ve been out of spirits。 What should you be out
of spirits for？ You haven’t got anything on your mind； you know？”
“Nothing particular；” returns the trooper。
“I should think not；” rejoins Mr Bucket。 “What could you have
on your mind； you know！ And have these pets got anything on
their minds； eh？ Not they； but they’ll be upon the minds of some of
the young fellows； some of these days； and make ’em precious low…
spirited。 I ain’t much of a prophet； but I can tell you that； ma’am。”
Mrs Bagnet； quite charmed； hopes Mr Bucket has a family of
his own。
“There； ma’am；” says Mr Bucket。 “Would you believe it？ No； I
haven’t。 My wife； and a lodger； constitute my family。 Mrs Bucket is
as fond of children as myself； and as wishful to have ’em； but no。
So it is。 Worldly goods are divided unequally； and man must not
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repine。 What a very nice back…yard； ma’am！ Any way out of that
yard； now？”
There is no way out of that yard。
“Ain’t there really？” says Mr Bucket。 “I should have thought
there might have been。 Well； I don’t know as I ever saw a back
yard that took my fancy more。 Would you allow me to look at it？
Thank you。 No； I see there’s no way out。 But what a very good…
proportioned yard it is！”
Having cast his sharp eye all about it； Mr Bucket returns to his
chair next his friend Mr George； and pats Mr George affectionately
on the shoulder。
“How are your spirits； now； George？”
“All right now；” returns the trooper。
“That’s your sort！” says Mr Bucket。 “Why should you ever have
been otherwise？ A man of your fine figure and constitution has no
right to be out of spirits。 That ain’t a chest to be out of spirits； is it；
ma’am？ And you haven’t got anything on your mind； you know；
George； what could you have on your mind！”
Somewhat harping on this phrase； considering the extent and
variety of his conversational powers； Mr Bucket twice or thrice
repeats it to the pipe he lights； and with a listening face that is
particularly his own。 But the sun of his sociality soon recovers
from this brief eclipse； and shines again。
“And this is brother； is it； my dears？” says Mr Bucket； referring
to Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of young
Woolwich。 “And a nice brother he is—half broth
