Bleak House
Recording Angel?
Two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after him, as,
biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square and is swallowed
up by the shadow of the southern gateway. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Weevle
are the possessors of those eyes, and they have been leaning in
conversation against the low stone parapet under the trees. He passes
close by them, seeing nothing but the ground.
“William,” says Mr. Weevle, adjusting his whiskers, “there’s
combustion going on there! It’s not a case of spontaneous, but it’s
smouldering combustion it is.”
“Ah!” says Mr. Guppy. “He wouldn’t keep out of Jarndyce, and I
suppose he’s over head and ears in debt. I never knew much of him. He
was as high as the monument when he was on trial at our place. A good
riddance to me, whether as clerk or client! Well, Tony, that as I was
mentioning is what they’re up to.”
Mr. Guppy, refolding his arms, resettles himself against the parapet,
as resuming a conversation of interest.
“They are still up to it, sir,” says Mr. Guppy, “still taking stock,
still examining papers, still going over the heaps and heaps of
rubbish. At this rate they’ll be at it these seven years.”
“And Small is helping?”
“Small left us at a week’s notice. Told Kenge his grandfather’s
business was too much for the old gentleman and he could better
himself by undertaking it. There had been a coolness between myself
and Small on account of his being so close. But he said you and I
began it, and as he had me there—for we did—I put our acquaintance
on the old footing. That’s how I come to know what they’re up to.”
“You haven’t looked in at all?”
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy, a little disconcerted, “to be unreserved with
you, I don’t greatly relish the house, except in your company, and
therefore I have not; and therefore I proposed this little
appointment for our fetching away your things. There goes the hour by
the clock! Tony”—Mr. Guppy becomes mysteriously and tenderly
eloquent—“it is necessary that I should impress upon your mind once
more that circumstances over which I have no control have made a
melancholy alteration in my most cherished plans and in that
unrequited image which I formerly mentioned to you as a friend. That
image is shattered, and that idol is laid low. My only wish now in
connexion with the objects which I had an idea of carrying out in the
court with your aid as a friend is to let ’em alone and bury ’em in
oblivion. Do you think it possible, do you think it at all likely (I
put it to you, Tony, as a friend), from your knowledge of that
capricious and deep old character who fell a prey to the—spontaneous
element, do you, Tony, think it at all likely that on second thoughts
he put those letters away anywhere, after you saw him alive, and that
they were not destroyed that night?”
Mr. Weevle reflects for some time. Shakes his head. Decidedly thinks
not.
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy as they walk towards the court, “once again
understand me, as a friend. Without entering into further
explanations, I may repeat that the idol is down. I have no purpose
to serve now but burial in oblivion. To that I have pledged myself. I
owe it to myself, and I owe it to the shattered image, as also to the
circumstances over which I have no control. If you was to express to
me by a gesture, by a wink, that you saw lying anywhere in your late
lodgings any papers that so much as looked like the papers in
question, I would pitch them into the fire, sir, on my own
responsibility.”
Mr. Weevle nods. Mr. Guppy, much elevated in his own opinion by
having delivered these observations, with an air in part forensic and
in part romantic—this gentleman having a passion for conducting
anything in the form of an examination, or delivering anything in the
form of a summing up or a speech—accompanies his friend with dignity
to the court.
Never since it has been a court has it had such a Fortunatus’ purse
of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop.
Regularly, every morning at eight, is the elder Mr. Smallweed brought
down to the corner and carried in, accompanied by Mrs. Smallweed,
Judy, and Bart; and regularly, all day, do they all remain there
until nine at night, solaced by gipsy dinners, not abundant in
quantity, from the cook’s shop, rummaging and searching, digging,
delving, and diving among the treasures of the late lamented. What
those treasures are they keep so secret that the court is maddened.
In its delirium it imagines guineas pouring out of tea-pots,
crown-pieces overflowing punch-bowls, old chairs and mattresses
stuffed with Bank of England notes. It possesses itself of the
sixpenny history (with highly coloured folding frontispiece) of Mr.
Daniel Dancer and his sister, and also of Mr. Elwes, of Suffolk, and
transfers all the facts from those authentic narratives to Mr. Krook.
Twice when the dustman is called in to carry off a cartload of old
paper, ashes, and broken bottles, the whole court assembles and pries
into the baskets as they come forth. Many times the two gentlemen who
write with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper are seen
prowling in the neighbourhood—shy of each other, their late
partnership being dissolved. The Sol skilfully carries a vein of the
prevailing interest through the Harmonic nights. Little Swills, in
what are professionally known as “patter” allusions to the subject,
is received with loud applause; and the same vocalist “gags” in the
regular business like a man inspired. Even Miss M. Melvilleson, in
the revived Caledonian melody of “We’re a-Nodding,” points the
sentiment that “the dogs love broo” (whatever the nature of that
refreshment may be) with such archness and such a turn of the head
towards next door that she is immediately understood to mean Mr.
Smallweed loves to find money, and is nightly honoured with a double
encore. For all this, the court discovers nothing; and as Mrs. Piper
and Mrs. Perkins now communicate to the late lodger whose appearance
is the signal for a general rally, it is in one continual ferment to
discover everything, and more.
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, with every eye in the court’s head upon
them, knock at the closed door of the late lamented’s house, in a
high state of popularity. But being contrary to the court’s
expectation admitted, they immediately become unpopular and are
considered to mean no good.
The shutters are more or less closed all over the house, and the
ground-floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. Introduced into
the back shop by Mr. Smallweed the younger, they, fresh from the
sunlight, can at first see nothing save darkness and shadows; but
they gradually discern the elder Mr. Smallweed seated in his chair
upon the brink of a well or grave of waste-paper, the virtuous Judy
groping therein like a female sexton, and Mrs. Smallweed on the level
ground in the vicinity snowed up in a heap of paper fragments, print,
and manuscript which would appear to be the accumulated compliments
that have been sent flying at her in the course of the day. The whole
party, Small included, are blackened with dust and dirt and present a
fiendish appearance not relieved by the general aspect of the room.
There is more litter and lumber in it than of old, and it is dirtier
if possible; likewise, it is ghostly with traces of its dead
inhabitant and even with his chalked writing on the wall.
On the entrance of visitors, Mr. Smallweed and Judy simultaneously
fold their arms and stop in their researches.
“Aha!” croaks the old gentleman. “How de do, gentlemen, how de do!
Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle? That’s well, that’s well.
Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you up, sir, to pay your
warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. You feel quite at
home here again, I dare say? Glad to see you, glad to see you!”
Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Guppy’s eye follows
Mr. Weevle’s eye. Mr. Weevle’s eye comes back without any new
intelligence in it. Mr. Guppy’s eye comes back and meets Mr.
Smallweed’s eye. That engaging old gentleman is still murmuring, like
some wound-up instrument running down, “How de do, sir—how
de—how—” And then having run down, he lapses into grinning silence,
as Mr. Guppy starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing in the
darkness opposite with his hands behind him.
“Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor,” says Grandfather
Smallweed. “I am not the sort of client for a gentleman of such note,
but he is so good!”
Mr. Guppy, slightly nudging his friend to take another look, makes a
shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with an easy nod.
Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing else to do and
were rather amused by the novelty.
“A good deal of property here, sir, I should say,” Mr. Guppy observes
to Mr. Smallweed.
“Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! Rags and rubbish! Me
and Bart and my granddaughter Judy are endeavouring to make out an
inventory of what’s worth anything to sell. But we haven’t come to
much as yet; we—haven’t—come—to—hah!”
Mr. Smallweed has run down again, while Mr. Weevle’s eye, attended by
Mr. Guppy’s eye, has again gone round the room and come back.
“Well, sir,” says Mr. Weevle. “We won’t intrude any longer if you’ll
allow us to go upstairs.”
“Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You’re at home. Make yourself so,
pray!”
As they go upstairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and
looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old room very dull
and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was burning on that
memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. They have a great
disinclination to touch any object, and carefully blow the dust from
it first. Nor are they desirous to prolong their visit, packing the
few movables with all possible speed and never speaking above a
whisper.
“Look here,” says Tony, recoiling. “Here’s that horrible cat coming
in!”
Mr. Guppy retreats behind a chair. “Small told me of her. She went
leaping and bounding and tearing about that night like a dragon, and
got out on the house-top, and roamed about up there for a fortnight,
and then came tumbling down the chimney very thin. Did you ever see
such a brute? Looks as if she knew all about it, don’t she? Almost
looks as if she was Krook. Shoohoo! Get out, you goblin!”
Lady Jane, in the doorway, with her tiger snarl from ear to ear and
her club of a tail, shows no intention of obeying; but Mr.
Tulkinghorn stumbling over her, she spits at his rusty legs, and
swearing wrathfully, takes her arched back upstairs. Possibly to roam
the house-tops again and return by the chimney.
“Mr. Guppy,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “could I have a word with you?”
Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of British
Beauty from the wall and depositing those works of art in their old
ignoble band-box. “Sir,” he returns, reddening, “I wish to act with
courtesy towards every member of the profession, and especially, I am
sure, towards a member of it so well known as yourself—I will truly
add, sir, so distinguished as yourself. Still, Mr. Tulkinghorn, sir,
I must stipulate that if you have any word with me, that word is
spoken in the presence of my friend.”
“Oh, indeed?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
“Yes, sir. My reasons are not of a personal nature at all, but they
are amply sufficient for myself.”
“No doubt, no doubt.” Mr. Tulkinghorn is as imperturbable as the
hearthstone to which he has quietly walked. “The matter is not of
that consequence that I need put you to the trouble of making any
conditions, Mr. Guppy.” He pauses here to smile, and his smile is as
dull and rusty as his pantaloons. “You are to be congratulated, Mr.
Guppy; you are a fortunate young man, sir.”
“Pretty well so, Mr. Tulkinghorn; I don’t complain.”