bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第45节
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meadows—gets such a flavour of the country out of this； that he
never wants to go there。
The day is closing in and the gas is lighted； but it is not yet fully
effective； for it is not quite dark。 Mr Snagsby standing at his shop…
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door looking up at the clouds； sees a crow； who is out late； skim
westward over the leaden slice of sky belonging to Cook’s Court。
The crow flies straight across Chancery Lane and Lincoln’s Inn
Garden； into Lincoln’s Inn Fields。
Here； in a large house； formerly a house of state； lives Mr
Tulkinghorn。 It is let off in sets of chambers now； and in those
shrunken fragments of its greatness； lawyers lie like maggots in
nuts。 But its roomy staircases； passages； and antechambers； still
remain； and even its painted ceilings； where Allegory； in Roman
helmet； and celestial linen； sprawls among balustrades and pillars；
flowers； clouds； and big…legged boys； and makes the head ache—as
would seem to be Allegory’s object always； more or less。 Here；
among his many boxes labelled with transcendant names； lives Mr
Tulkinghorn； when not speechlessly at home in country…houses
where the great ones of the earth are bored to death。 Here he is
today； quiet at his table。 An Oyster of the old school； whom nobody
can open。
Like as he is to look at； so is his apartment in the dusk of the
present afternoon。 Rusty； out of date； withdrawing from attention；
able to afford it。 Heavy broad…backed old…fashioned mahogany and
horse…hair chairs； not easily lifted； obsolete tables with spindle…
legs and dusty baize covers； presentation prints of the holders of
great titles in the last generation； or the last but one； environ him。
A thick and dingy Turkey…carpet muffles the floor where he sits；
attended by two candles in old…fashioned silver candlesticks； that
give a very insufficient light to his large room。 The titles on the
backs of his books have retired into the binding； everything that
can have a lock has got one； no key is visible。 Very few loose
papers are about。 He has some manuscript near him； but is not
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referring to it。 With the round top of an inkstand； and two broken
bits of sealing…wax； he is silently and slowly working out whatever
train of indecision is in his mind。 Now； the inkstand top is in the
middle： now； the red bit of sealing…wax； now； the black bit。 That’s
not it。 Mr Tulkinghorn must gather them all up； and begin again。
Here； beneath the painted ceiling； with foreshortened Allegory
staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him； and
he cutting it dead； Mr Tulkinghorn has at once his house and
office。 He keeps no staff； only one middle…aged man； usually a little
out at elbows； who sits in a high Pew in the hall； and is rarely
overburdened with business。 Mr Tulkinghorn is not in a common
way。 He wants no clerks。 He is a great reservoir of confidences； not
to be so tapped。 His clients want him； he is all in all。 Drafts that he
requires to be drawn are drawn by special…pleaders in the Temple
on mysterious instructions； fair copies that he requires to be made；
are made at the stationers； expense being no consideration。 The
middle…aged man in the Pew； knows scarcely more of the affairs of
the Peerage； than any crossing…sweeper in Holborn。
The red bit； the black bit； the inkstand top； the other inkstand
top； the little sand…box。 So！ You to the middle； you to the right； you
to the left。 This train of indecision must surely be worked out now
or never。—Now！ Mr Tulkinghorn gets up； adjusts his spectacles；
puts on his hat； puts the manuscript in his pocket； goes out； tells
the middle…aged man out at elbows； “I shall be back presently。”
Very rarely tells him anything more explicit。
Mr Tulkinghorn goes； as the crow came—not quite so straight；
but nearly—to Cook’s Court； Cursitor street。 To Snagsby’s Law
Stationer’s； Deeds engrossed and copied； Law…Writing executed in
all its branches； etc。； etc。； etc。
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It is somewhere about five or six o’clock in the afternoon； and a
balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook’s Court。 It hovers
about Snagsby’s door。 The hours are early there； dinner at half…
past one； and supper at half…past nine。 Mr Snagsby was about to
descend into the subterranean regions to take tea； when he looked
out of his door just now； and saw the crow who was out late。
“Master at home？”
Guster is minding the shop； for the ’prentices take tea in the
kitchen； with Mr and Mrs Snagsby； consequently； the robemaker’s
two daughters； combing their curls at the two glasses in the two
second…floor windows of the opposite house； are not driving the
two ’prentices to distraction； as they fondly suppose； but are
merely awakening the unprofitable admiration of Guster； whose
hair won’t grow； and never would； and； it is confidently thought；
never will。
“Master at home？” says Mr Tulkinghorn。
Master is at home； and Guster will fetch him。 Guster
disappears； glad to get out of the shop； which she regards with
mingled dread and veneration； as a store house of awful
implements of the great torture of the law： a place not to be
entered after the gas is turned off。
Mr Snagsby appears： greasy； warm； herbaceous； and chewing。
Bolts a bit of bread and butter。 Says； “Bless my soul； sir！ Mr
Tulkinghorn！”
“I want half a word with you； Snagsby。”
“Certainly； sir！ Dear me； sir； why didn’t you send your young
man round for me？ Pray walk into the back shop； sir。” Snagsby
has brightened in a moment。
The confined room； strong of parchment grease； is warehouse；
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counting…house； and copying…office。 Mr Tulkinghorn sits； facing
round； on a stool at the desk。
“Jarndyce and Jarndyce； Snagsby。”
“Yes； sir。” Mr Snagsby turns up the gas； and coughs behind his
hand； modestly anticipating profit。 Mr Snagsby； as a timid man； is
accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions； and so to save
words。
“You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately。”
“Yes； sir； we did。”
“There was one of them；” says Mr Tulkinghorn； carelessly
feeling—tight； unopenable Oyster of the old school！—in the wrong
coat pocket； “the handwriting of which is peculiar； and I rather
like。 As I happened to be passing； and thought I had it about me； I
looked in to ask you—but I haven’t got it。 No matter； any other
time will do—Ah！ here it is！—I looked in to ask you who copied
this？”
“Who copied this； sir？” says Mr Snagsby； taking it； laying it flat
on the desk； and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and
a twist of the left hand peculiar to law…stationers。 “We gave this
out； sir。 We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at
that time。 I can tell you in a moment who copied it； sir； by
referring to my Book。”
Mr Snagsby takes his Book down from the safe； makes another
bolt of the bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped
short； eyes the affidavit aside； and brings his right forefinger
travelling down a page of the Book。 “Jewby—Packer—Jarndyce。”
“Jarndyce！ Here we are； sir；” says Mr S
