Bleak House
throttled coming along, “how de do? You’re surprised to see me, my
dear friend.”
“I should hardly have been more surprised to have seen your friend in
the city,” returns Mr. George.
“I am very seldom out,” pants Mr. Smallweed. “I haven’t been out for
many months. It’s inconvenient—and it comes expensive. But I longed
so much to see you, my dear Mr. George. How de do, sir?”
“I am well enough,” says Mr. George. “I hope you are the same.”
“You can’t be too well, my dear friend.” Mr. Smallweed takes him by
both hands. “I have brought my granddaughter Judy. I couldn’t keep
her away. She longed so much to see you.”
“Hum! She bears it calmly!” mutters Mr. George.
“So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just round the
corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, and carried
me here that I might see my dear friend in his own establishment!
This,” says Grandfather Smallweed, alluding to the bearer, who has
been in danger of strangulation and who withdraws adjusting his
windpipe, “is the driver of the cab. He has nothing extra. It is by
agreement included in his fare. This person,” the other bearer, “we
engaged in the street outside for a pint of beer. Which is twopence.
Judy, give the person twopence. I was not sure you had a workman of
your own here, my dear friend, or we needn’t have employed this
person.”
Grandfather Smallweed refers to Phil with a glance of considerable
terror and a half-subdued “O Lord! Oh, dear me!” Nor in his
apprehension, on the surface of things, without some reason, for
Phil, who has never beheld the apparition in the black-velvet cap
before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand with much of the air
of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off as an ugly old
bird of the crow species.
“Judy, my child,” says Grandfather Smallweed, “give the person his
twopence. It’s a great deal for what he has done.”
The person, who is one of those extraordinary specimens of human
fungus that spring up spontaneously in the western streets of London,
ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a “mission” for holding
horses and calling coaches, received his twopence with anything but
transport, tosses the money into the air, catches it over-handed, and
retires.
“My dear Mr. George,” says Grandfather Smallweed, “would you be so
kind as help to carry me to the fire? I am accustomed to a fire, and
I am an old man, and I soon chill. Oh, dear me!”
His closing exclamation is jerked out of the venerable gentleman by
the suddenness with which Mr. Squod, like a genie, catches him up,
chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth-stone.
“O Lord!” says Mr. Smallweed, panting. “Oh, dear me! Oh, my stars! My
dear friend, your workman is very strong—and very prompt. O Lord, he
is very prompt! Judy, draw me back a little. I’m being scorched in
the legs,” which indeed is testified to the noses of all present by
the smell of his worsted stockings.
The gentle Judy, having backed her grandfather a little way from the
fire, and having shaken him up as usual, and having released his
overshadowed eye from its black-velvet extinguisher, Mr. Smallweed
again says, “Oh, dear me! O Lord!” and looking about and meeting Mr.
George’s glance, again stretches out both hands.
“My dear friend! So happy in this meeting! And this is your
establishment? It’s a delightful place. It’s a picture! You never
find that anything goes off here accidentally, do you, my dear
friend?” adds Grandfather Smallweed, very ill at ease.
“No, no. No fear of that.”
“And your workman. He—Oh, dear me!—he never lets anything off
without meaning it, does he, my dear friend?”
“He has never hurt anybody but himself,” says Mr. George, smiling.
“But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself a good deal,
and he might hurt somebody else,” the old gentleman returns. “He
mightn’t mean it—or he even might. Mr. George, will you order him to
leave his infernal fire-arms alone and go away?”
Obedient to a nod from the trooper, Phil retires, empty-handed, to
the other end of the gallery. Mr. Smallweed, reassured, falls to
rubbing his legs.
“And you’re doing well, Mr. George?” he says to the trooper, squarely
standing faced about towards him with his broadsword in his hand.
“You are prospering, please the Powers?”
Mr. George answers with a cool nod, adding, “Go on. You have not come
to say that, I know.”
“You are so sprightly, Mr. George,” returns the venerable
grandfather. “You are such good company.”
“Ha ha! Go on!” says Mr. George.
“My dear friend! But that sword looks awful gleaming and sharp. It
might cut somebody, by accident. It makes me shiver, Mr. George.
Curse him!” says the excellent old gentleman apart to Judy as the
trooper takes a step or two away to lay it aside. “He owes me money,
and might think of paying off old scores in this murdering place. I
wish your brimstone grandmother was here, and he’d shave her head
off.”
Mr. George, returning, folds his arms, and looking down at the old
man, sliding every moment lower and lower in his chair, says quietly,
“Now for it!”
“Ho!” cries Mr. Smallweed, rubbing his hands with an artful chuckle.
“Yes. Now for it. Now for what, my dear friend?”
“For a pipe,” says Mr. George, who with great composure sets his
chair in the chimney-corner, takes his pipe from the grate, fills it
and lights it, and falls to smoking peacefully.
This tends to the discomfiture of Mr. Smallweed, who finds it so
difficult to resume his object, whatever it may be, that he becomes
exasperated and secretly claws the air with an impotent
vindictiveness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend the
visage of Mr. George. As the excellent old gentleman’s nails are long
and leaden, and his hands lean and veinous, and his eyes green and
watery; and, over and above this, as he continues, while he claws, to
slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapeless bundle, he
becomes such a ghastly spectacle, even in the accustomed eyes of
Judy, that that young virgin pounces at him with something more than
the ardour of affection and so shakes him up and pats and pokes him
in divers parts of his body, but particularly in that part which the
science of self-defence would call his wind, that in his grievous
distress he utters enforced sounds like a paviour’s rammer.
When Judy has by these means set him up again in his chair, with a
white face and a frosty nose (but still clawing), she stretches out
her weazen forefinger and gives Mr. George one poke in the back. The
trooper raising his head, she makes another poke at her esteemed
grandfather, and having thus brought them together, stares rigidly at
the fire.
“Aye, aye! Ho, ho! U—u—u—ugh!” chatters Grandfather Smallweed,
swallowing his rage. “My dear friend!” (still clawing).
“I tell you what,” says Mr. George. “If you want to converse with me,
you must speak out. I am one of the roughs, and I can’t go about and
about. I haven’t the art to do it. I am not clever enough. It don’t
suit me. When you go winding round and round me,” says the trooper,
putting his pipe between his lips again, “damme, if I don’t feel as
if I was being smothered!”
And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent as if to assure
himself that he is not smothered yet.
“If you have come to give me a friendly call,” continues Mr. George,
“I am obliged to you; how are you? If you have come to see whether
there’s any property on the premises, look about you; you are
welcome. If you want to out with something, out with it!”
The blooming Judy, without removing her gaze from the fire, gives her
grandfather one ghostly poke.
“You see! It’s her opinion too. And why the devil that young woman
won’t sit down like a Christian,” says Mr. George with his eyes
musingly fixed on Judy, “I can’t comprehend.”
“She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir,” says Grandfather
Smallweed. “I am an old man, my dear Mr. George, and I need some
attention. I can carry my years; I am not a brimstone poll-parrot”
(snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion), “but I need
attention, my dear friend.”
“Well!” returns the trooper, wheeling his chair to face the old man.
“Now then?”
“My friend in the city, Mr. George, has done a little business with a
pupil of yours.”
“Has he?” says Mr. George. “I am sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, sir.” Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs. “He is a fine young
soldier now, Mr. George, by the name of Carstone. Friends came
forward and paid it all up, honourable.”
“Did they?” returns Mr. George. “Do you think your friend in the city
would like a piece of advice?”
“I think he would, my dear friend. From you.”
“I advise him, then, to do no more business in that quarter. There’s
no more to be got by it. The young gentleman, to my knowledge, is
brought to a dead halt.”
“No, no, my dear friend. No, no, Mr. George. No, no, no, sir,”
remonstrates Grandfather Smallweed, cunningly rubbing his spare legs.
“Not quite a dead halt, I think. He has good friends, and he is good
for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of his commission,
and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit, and he is good for his
chance in a wife, and—oh, do you know, Mr. George, I think my friend
would consider the young gentleman good for something yet?” says
Grandfather Smallweed, turning up his velvet cap and scratching his
ear like a monkey.
Mr. George, who has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on his
chair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot as if he
were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation has
taken.
“But to pass from one subject to another,” resumes Mr. Smallweed.
“‘To promote the conversation,’ as a joker might say. To pass, Mr.
George, from the ensign to the captain.”
“What are you up to, now?” asks Mr. George, pausing with a frown in
stroking the recollection of his moustache. “What captain?”
“Our captain. The captain we know of. Captain Hawdon.”
“Oh! That’s it, is it?” says Mr. George with a low whistle as he sees
both grandfather and granddaughter looking hard at him. “You are
there! Well? What about it? Come, I won’t be smothered any more.
Speak!”
“My dear friend,” returns the old man, “I was applied—Judy, shake me
up a little!—I was applied to yesterday about the captain, and my
opinion still is that the captain is not dead.”
“Bosh!” observes Mr. George.
“What was your remark, my dear friend?” inquires the old man with his
hand to his ear.
“Bosh!”
“Ho!” says Grandfather Smallweed. “Mr. George, of my opinion you can
judge for yourself according to the questions asked of me and the
reasons given for asking ’em. Now, what do you think the lawyer
making the inquiries wants?”
“A job,” says Mr. George.
“Nothing of the kind!”
“Can’t be a lawyer, then,” says Mr. George, folding his arms with an
air of confirmed resolution.
“My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He wants to see
some fragment in Captain Hawdon’s writing. He don’t want to keep it.
He only wants to see it and compare it with a writing in his
possession.”
“Well?”
“Well, Mr. George. Happening to remember the advertisement concerning
Captain Hawdon and any information that could be given respecting
him, he looked it up and came to me—just as you did, my dear friend.
WILL you shake hands? So glad you came that day! I should have missed
forming such a friendship if you hadn’t come!”
“Well, Mr. Smallweed?” says Mr. George again after going through the
ceremony with some stiffness.
“I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. Plague
pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon him,” says
the old man, making a curse out of one of his few remembrances of a
prayer and squeezing up his velvet cap between his angry hands, “I