Bleak House
hard, to old Mr. Turveydrop deporting himself so beautifully, when
the latter came ambling up to me and entered into conversation.
He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a charm and a
distinction on London by residing in it? I did not think it necessary
to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that, in any
case, but merely told him where I did reside.
“A lady so graceful and accomplished,” he said, kissing his
right glove and afterwards extending it towards the pupils,
“will look leniently on the deficiencies here. We do our best to
polish—polish—polish!”
He sat down beside me, taking some pains to sit on the form, I
thought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on the
sofa. And really he did look very like it.
“To polish—polish—polish!” he repeated, taking a pinch of snuff and
gently fluttering his fingers. “But we are not, if I may say so to
one formed to be graceful both by Nature and Art—” with the
high-shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible for him to make
without lifting up his eyebrows and shutting his eyes “—we are not
what we used to be in point of deportment.”
“Are we not, sir?” said I.
“We have degenerated,” he returned, shaking his head, which he could
do to a very limited extent in his cravat. “A levelling age is not
favourable to deportment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps I speak with
some little partiality. It may not be for me to say that I have been
called, for some years now, Gentleman Turveydrop, or that his Royal
Highness the Prince Regent did me the honour to inquire, on my
removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion at Brighton (that
fine building), ‘Who is he? Who the devil is he? Why don’t I know
him? Why hasn’t he thirty thousand a year?’ But these are little
matters of anecdote—the general property, ma’am—still repeated
occasionally among the upper classes.”
“Indeed?” said I.
He replied with the high-shouldered bow. “Where what is left among us
of deportment,” he added, “still lingers. England—alas, my
country!—has degenerated very much, and is degenerating every day.
She has not many gentlemen left. We are few. I see nothing to succeed
us but a race of weavers.”
“One might hope that the race of gentlemen would be perpetuated
here,” said I.
“You are very good.” He smiled with a high-shouldered bow again. “You
flatter me. But, no—no! I have never been able to imbue my poor boy
with that part of his art. Heaven forbid that I should disparage my
dear child, but he has—no deportment.”
“He appears to be an excellent master,” I observed.
“Understand me, my dear madam, he IS an excellent master. All that
can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be imparted, he can
impart. But there ARE things—” He took another pinch of snuff and
made the bow again, as if to add, “This kind of thing, for instance.”
I glanced towards the centre of the room, where Miss Jellyby’s lover,
now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greater drudgery than
ever.
“My amiable child,” murmured Mr. Turveydrop, adjusting his cravat.
“Your son is indefatigable,” said I.
“It is my reward,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “to hear you say so. In some
respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother. She was a
devoted creature. But wooman, lovely wooman,” said Mr. Turveydrop
with very disagreeable gallantry, “what a sex you are!”
I rose and joined Miss Jellyby, who was by this time putting on her
bonnet. The time allotted to a lesson having fully elapsed, there was
a general putting on of bonnets. When Miss Jellyby and the
unfortunate Prince found an opportunity to become betrothed I don’t
know, but they certainly found none on this occasion to exchange a
dozen words.
“My dear,” said Mr. Turveydrop benignly to his son, “do you know the
hour?”
“No, father.” The son had no watch. The father had a handsome gold
one, which he pulled out with an air that was an example to mankind.
“My son,” said he, “it’s two o’clock. Recollect your school at
Kensington at three.”
“That’s time enough for me, father,” said Prince. “I can take a
morsel of dinner standing and be off.”
“My dear boy,” returned his father, “you must be very quick. You will
find the cold mutton on the table.”
“Thank you, father. Are YOU off now, father?”
“Yes, my dear. I suppose,” said Mr. Turveydrop, shutting his eyes and
lifting up his shoulders with modest consciousness, “that I must show
myself, as usual, about town.”
“You had better dine out comfortably somewhere,” said his son.
“My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, I think, at
the French house, in the Opera Colonnade.”
“That’s right. Good-bye, father!” said Prince, shaking hands.
“Good-bye, my son. Bless you!”
Mr. Turveydrop said this in quite a pious manner, and it seemed to do
his son good, who, in parting from him, was so pleased with him, so
dutiful to him, and so proud of him that I almost felt as if it were
an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believe implicitly
in the elder. The few moments that were occupied by Prince in taking
leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as I saw, being in the
secret), enhanced my favourable impression of his almost childish
character. I felt a liking for him and a compassion for him as he put
his little kit in his pocket—and with it his desire to stay a little
while with Caddy—and went away good-humouredly to his cold mutton
and his school at Kensington, that made me scarcely less irate with
his father than the censorious old lady.
The father opened the room door for us and bowed us out in a manner,
I must acknowledge, worthy of his shining original. In the same style
he presently passed us on the other side of the street, on his way to
the aristocratic part of the town, where he was going to show himself
among the few other gentlemen left. For some moments, I was so lost
in reconsidering what I had heard and seen in Newman Street that I
was quite unable to talk to Caddy or even to fix my attention on what
she said to me, especially when I began to inquire in my mind whether
there were, or ever had been, any other gentlemen, not in the dancing
profession, who lived and founded a reputation entirely on their
deportment. This became so bewildering and suggested the possibility
of so many Mr. Turveydrops that I said, “Esther, you must make up
your mind to abandon this subject altogether and attend to Caddy.” I
accordingly did so, and we chatted all the rest of the way to
Lincoln’s Inn.
Caddy told me that her lover’s education had been so neglected that
it was not always easy to read his notes. She said if he were not so
anxious about his spelling and took less pains to make it clear, he
would do better; but he put so many unnecessary letters into short
words that they sometimes quite lost their English appearance. “He
does it with the best intention,” observed Caddy, “but it hasn’t the
effect he means, poor fellow!” Caddy then went on to reason, how
could he be expected to be a scholar when he had passed his whole
life in the dancing-school and had done nothing but teach and fag,
fag and teach, morning, noon, and night! And what did it matter? She
could write letters enough for both, as she knew to her cost, and it
was far better for him to be amiable than learned. “Besides, it’s not
as if I was an accomplished girl who had any right to give herself
airs,” said Caddy. “I know little enough, I am sure, thanks to Ma!”
“There’s another thing I want to tell you, now we are alone,”
continued Caddy, “which I should not have liked to mention unless you
had seen Prince, Miss Summerson. You know what a house ours is. It’s
of no use my trying to learn anything that it would be useful for
Prince’s wife to know in OUR house. We live in such a state of muddle
that it’s impossible, and I have only been more disheartened whenever
I have tried. So I get a little practice with—who do you think? Poor
Miss Flite! Early in the morning I help her to tidy her room and
clean her birds, and I make her cup of coffee for her (of course she
taught me), and I have learnt to make it so well that Prince says
it’s the very best coffee he ever tasted, and would quite delight old
Mr. Turveydrop, who is very particular indeed about his coffee. I can
make little puddings too; and I know how to buy neck of mutton, and
tea, and sugar, and butter, and a good many housekeeping things. I am
not clever at my needle, yet,” said Caddy, glancing at the repairs on
Peepy’s frock, “but perhaps I shall improve, and since I have been
engaged to Prince and have been doing all this, I have felt
better-tempered, I hope, and more forgiving to Ma. It rather put me
out at first this morning to see you and Miss Clare looking so neat
and pretty and to feel ashamed of Peepy and myself too, but on the
whole I hope I am better-tempered than I was and more forgiving to
Ma.”
The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, and touched
mine. “Caddy, my love,” I replied, “I begin to have a great affection
for you, and I hope we shall become friends.”
“Oh, do you?” cried Caddy. “How happy that would make me!”
“My dear Caddy,” said I, “let us be friends from this time, and let
us often have a chat about these matters and try to find the right
way through them.” Caddy was overjoyed. I said everything I could in
my old-fashioned way to comfort and encourage her, and I would not
have objected to old Mr. Turveydrop that day for any smaller
consideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law.
By this time we were come to Mr. Krook’s, whose private door stood
open. There was a bill, pasted on the door-post, announcing a room to
let on the second floor. It reminded Caddy to tell me as we proceeded
upstairs that there had been a sudden death there and an inquest and
that our little friend had been ill of the fright. The door and
window of the vacant room being open, we looked in. It was the room
with the dark door to which Miss Flite had secretly directed my
attention when I was last in the house. A sad and desolate place it
was, a gloomy, sorrowful place that gave me a strange sensation of
mournfulness and even dread. “You look pale,” said Caddy when we came
out, “and cold!” I felt as if the room had chilled me.
We had walked slowly while we were talking, and my guardian and Ada
were here before us. We found them in Miss Flite’s garret. They were
looking at the birds, while a medical gentleman who was so good as to
attend Miss Flite with much solicitude and compassion spoke with her
cheerfully by the fire.
“I have finished my professional visit,” he said, coming forward.
“Miss Flite is much better and may appear in court (as her mind is
set upon it) to-morrow. She has been greatly missed there, I
understand.”
Miss Flite received the compliment with complacency and dropped a
general curtsy to us.
“Honoured, indeed,” said she, “by another visit from the wards in
Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy to receive Jarndyce of Bleak House beneath my
humble roof!” with a special curtsy. “Fitz-Jarndyce, my dear”—she
had bestowed that name on Caddy, it appeared, and always called her
by it—“a double welcome!”
“Has she been very ill?” asked Mr. Jarndyce of the gentleman whom we
had found in attendance on her. She answered for herself directly,
though he had put the question in a whisper.
“Oh, decidedly unwell! Oh, very unwell indeed,” she said
confidentially. “Not pain, you know—trouble. Not bodily so much as
nervous, nervous! The truth is,” in a subdued voice and trembling,
“we have had death here. There was poison in the house. I am very
susceptible to such horrid things. It frightened me. Only Mr.
Woodcourt knows how much. My physician, Mr. Woodcourt!” with
great stateliness. “The wards in Jarndyce—Jarndyce of Bleak
House—Fitz-Jarndyce!”