The Mystery of Edwin Drood - Чарльз Диккенс 5 стр.

Really? A very remarkable way, Mr. Sapsea, of acquiring a knowledge of men and things.

I mention it, sir, Mr. Sapsea rejoins, with unspeakable complacency, because, as I say, it dont do to boast of what you are; but show how you came to be it, and then you prove it.

Most interesting. We were to speak of the late Mrs. Sapsea.

We were, sir. Mr. Sapsea fills both glasses, and takes the decanter into safe keeping again. Before I consult your opinion as a man of taste on this little trifle holding it up which is but a trifle, and still has required some thought, sir, some little fever of the brow, I ought perhaps to describe the character of the late Mrs. Sapsea, now dead three quarters of a year.

Mr. Jasper, in the act of yawning behind his wineglass, puts down that screen and calls up a look of interest. It is a little impaired in its expressiveness by his having a shut-up gape still to dispose of, with watering eyes.

Half a dozen years ago, or so, Mr. Sapsea proceeds, when I had enlarged my mind up to I will not say to what it now is, for that might seem to aim at too much, but up to the pitch of wanting another mind to be absorbed in it I cast my eye about me for a nuptial partner. Because, as I say, it is not good for man to be alone.

Mr. Jasper appears to commit this original idea to memory.

Miss Brobity at that time kept, I will not call it the rival establishment to the establishment at the Nuns House opposite, but I will call it the other parallel establishment down town. The world did have it that she showed a passion for attending my sales, when they took place on half holidays, or in vacation time. The world did put it about, that she admired my style. The world did notice that as time flowed by, my style became traceable in the dictation-exercises of Miss Brobitys pupils. Young man, a whisper even sprang up in obscure malignity, that one ignorant and besotted Churl (a parent) so committed himself as to object to it by name. But I do not believe this. For is it likely that any human creature in his right senses would so lay himself open to be pointed at, by what I call the finger of scorn?

Mr. Jasper shakes his head. Not in the least likely. Mr. Sapsea, in a grandiloquent state of absence of mind, seems to refill his visitors glass, which is full already; and does really refill his own, which is empty.

Miss Brobitys Being, young man, was deeply imbued with homage to Mind. She revered Mind, when launched, or, as I say, precipitated, on an extensive knowledge of the world. When I made my proposal, she did me the honour to be so overshadowed with a species of Awe, as to be able to articulate only the two words, O Thou! meaning myself. Her limpid blue eyes were fixed upon me, her semi-transparent hands were clasped together, pallor overspread her aquiline features, and, though encouraged to proceed, she never did proceed a word further. I disposed of the parallel establishment by private contract, and we became as nearly one as could be expected under the circumstances. But she never could, and she never did, find a phrase satisfactory to her perhaps-too-favourable estimate of my intellect. To the very last (feeble action of liver), she addressed me in the same unfinished terms.

Mr. Jasper has closed his eyes as the auctioneer has deepened his voice. He now abruptly opens them, and says, in unison with the deepened voice Ah! rather as if stopping himself on the extreme verge of adding men!

I have been since, says Mr. Sapsea, with his legs stretched out, and solemnly enjoying himself with the wine and the fire, what you behold me; I have been since a solitary mourner; I have been since, as I say, wasting my evening conversation on the desert air. I will not say that I have reproached myself; but there have been times when I have asked myself the question: What if her husband had been nearer on a level with her? If she had not had to look up quite so high, what might the stimulating action have been upon the liver?

Mr. Jasper says, with an appearance of having fallen into dreadfully low spirits, that he supposes it was to be.

We can only suppose so, sir, Mr. Sapsea coincides. As I say, Man proposes, Heaven disposes. It may or may not be putting the same thought in another form; but that is the way I put it.

Mr. Jasper murmurs assent.

And now, Mr. Jasper, resumes the auctioneer, producing his scrap of manuscript, Mrs. Sapseas monument having had full time to settle and dry, let me take your opinion, as a man of taste, on the inscription I have (as I before remarked, not without some little fever of the brow) drawn out for it. Take it in your own hand. The setting out of the lines requires to be followed with the eye, as well as the contents with the mind.

Mr. Jasper complying, sees and reads as follows:

Mr. Sapsea having risen and stationed himself with his back to the fire, for the purpose of observing the effect of these lines on the countenance of a man of taste, consequently has his face towards the door, when his serving-maid, again appearing, announces, Durdles is come, sir! He promptly draws forth and fills the third wineglass, as being now claimed, and replies, Show Durdles in.

Admirable! quoth Mr. Jasper, handing back the paper.

You approve, sir?

Impossible not to approve. Striking, characteristic, and complete.

The auctioneer inclines his head, as one accepting his due and giving a receipt; and invites the entering Durdles to take off that glass of wine (handing the same), for it will warm him.

Durdles is a stonemason; chiefly in the gravestone, tomb, and monument way, and wholly of their colour from head to foot. No man is better known in Cloisterham. He is the chartered libertine of the place. Fame trumpets him a wonderful workman which, for aught that anybody knows, he may be (as he never works); and a wonderful sot which everybody knows he is. With the Cathedral crypt he is better acquainted than any living authority; it may even be than any dead one. It is said that the intimacy of this acquaintance began in his habitually resorting to that secret place, to lock-out the Cloisterham boy-populace, and sleep off fumes of liquor: he having ready access to the Cathedral, as contractor for rough repairs. Be this as it may, he does know much about it, and, in the demolition of impedimental fragments of wall, buttress, and pavement, has seen strange sights. He often speaks of himself in the third person; perhaps, being a little misty as to his own identity, when he narrates; perhaps impartially adopting the Cloisterham nomenclature in reference to a character of acknowledged distinction. Thus he will say, touching his strange sights: Durdles come upon the old chap, in reference to a buried magnate of ancient time and high degree, by striking right into the coffin with his pick. The old chap gave Durdles a look with his open eyes, as much as to say, Is your name Durdles? Why, my man, Ive been waiting for you a devil of a time! And then he turned to powder. With a two-foot rule always in his pocket, and a masons hammer all but always in his hand, Durdles goes continually sounding and tapping all about and about the Cathedral; and whenever he says to Tope: Tope, heres another old un in here! Tope announces it to the Dean as an established discovery.

In a suit of coarse flannel with horn buttons, a yellow neckerchief with draggled ends, an old hat more russet-coloured than black, and laced boots of the hue of his stony calling, Durdles leads a hazy, gipsy sort of life, carrying his dinner about with him in a small bundle, and sitting on all manner of tombstones to dine. This dinner of Durdless has become quite a Cloisterham institution: not only because of his never appearing in public without it, but because of its having been, on certain renowned occasions, taken into custody along with Durdles (as drunk and incapable), and exhibited before the Bench of justices at the townhall. These occasions, however, have been few and far apart: Durdles being as seldom drunk as sober. For the rest, he is an old bachelor, and he lives in a little antiquated hole of a house that was never finished: supposed to be built, so far, of stones stolen from the city wall. To this abode there is an approach, ankle-deep in stone chips, resembling a petrified grove of tombstones, urns, draperies, and broken columns, in all stages of sculpture. Herein two journeymen incessantly chip, while other two journeymen, who face each other, incessantly saw stone; dipping as regularly in and out of their sheltering sentry-boxes, as if they were mechanical figures emblematical of Time and Death.

To Durdles, when he had consumed his glass of port, Mr. Sapsea intrusts that precious effort of his Muse. Durdles unfeelingly takes out his two-foot rule, and measures the lines calmly, alloying them with stone-grit.

This is for the monument, is it, Mr. Sapsea?

The Inscription. Yes. Mr. Sapsea waits for its effect on a common mind.

Itll come in to a eighth of a inch, says Durdles. Your servant, Mr. Jasper. Hope I see you well.

How are you Durdles?

Ive got a touch of the Tombatism on me, Mr. Jasper, but that I must expect.

You mean the Rheumatism, says Sapsea, in a sharp tone. (He is nettled by having his composition so mechanically received.)

No, I dont. I mean, Mr. Sapsea, the Tombatism. Its another sort from Rheumatism. Mr. Jasper knows what Durdles means. You get among them Tombs afore its well light on a winter morning, and keep on, as the Catechism says, a-walking in the same all the days of your life, and youll know what Durdles means.

It is a bitter cold place, Mr. Jasper assents, with an antipathetic shiver.

And if its bitter cold for you, up in the chancel, with a lot of live breath smoking out about you, what the bitterness is to Durdles, down in the crypt among the earthy damps there, and the dead breath of the old uns, returns that individual, Durdles leaves you to judge.  Is this to be put in hand at once, Mr. Sapsea?

Mr. Sapsea, with an Authors anxiety to rush into publication, replies that it cannot be out of hand too soon.

You had better let me have the key then, says Durdles.

Why, man, it is not to be put inside the monument!

Durdles knows where its to be put, Mr. Sapsea; no man better. Ask ere a man in Cloisterham whether Durdles knows his work.

Mr. Sapsea rises, takes a key from a drawer, unlocks an iron safe let into the wall, and takes from it another key.

When Durdles puts a touch or a finish upon his work, no matter where, inside or outside, Durdles likes to look at his work all round, and see that his work is a-doing him credit, Durdles explains, doggedly.

The key proffered him by the bereaved widower being a large one, he slips his two-foot rule into a side-pocket of his flannel trousers made for it, and deliberately opens his flannel coat, and opens the mouth of a large breast-pocket within it before taking the key to place it in that repository.

Why, Durdles! exclaims Jasper, looking on amused, you are undermined with pockets!

And I carries weight in em too, Mr. Jasper. Feel those! producing two other large keys.

Hand me Mr. Sapseas likewise. Surely this is the heaviest of the three.

Youll find em much of a muchness, I expect, says Durdles. They all belong to monuments. They all open Durdless work. Durdles keeps the keys of his work mostly. Not that theyre much used.

By the bye, it comes into Jaspers mind to say, as he idly examines the keys, I have been going to ask you, many a day, and have always forgotten. You know they sometimes call you Stony Durdles, dont you?

Cloisterham knows me as Durdles, Mr. Jasper.

I am aware of that, of course. But the boys sometimes

O! if you mind them young imps of boys Durdles gruffly interrupts.

I dont mind them any more than you do. But there was a discussion the other day among the Choir, whether Stony stood for Tony; clinking one key against another.

(Take care of the wards, Mr. Jasper.)

Or whether Stony stood for Stephen; clinking with a change of keys.

(You cant make a pitch pipe of em, Mr. Jasper.)

Or whether the name comes from your trade. How stands the fact?

Mr. Jasper weighs the three keys in his hand, lifts his head from his idly stooping attitude over the fire, and delivers the keys to Durdles with an ingenuous and friendly face.

But the stony one is a gruff one likewise, and that hazy state of his is always an uncertain state, highly conscious of its dignity, and prone to take offence. He drops his two keys back into his pocket one by one, and buttons them up; he takes his dinner-bundle from the chair-back on which he hung it when he came in; he distributes the weight he carries, by tying the third key up in it, as though he were an Ostrich, and liked to dine off cold iron; and he gets out of the room, deigning no word of answer.

Mr. Sapsea then proposes a hit at backgammon, which, seasoned with his own improving conversation, and terminating in a supper of cold roast beef and salad, beguiles the golden evening until pretty late. Mr. Sapseas wisdom being, in its delivery to mortals, rather of the diffuse than the epigrammatic order, is by no means expended even then; but his visitor intimates that he will come back for more of the precious commodity on future occasions, and Mr. Sapsea lets him off for the present, to ponder on the instalment he carries away.

CHAPTER V MR. DURDLES AND FRIEND

John Jasper, on his way home through the Close, is brought to a stand-still by the spectacle of Stony Durdles, dinner-bundle and all, leaning his back against the iron railing of the burial-ground enclosing it from the old cloister-arches; and a hideous small boy in rags flinging stones at him as a well-defined mark in the moonlight. Sometimes the stones hit him, and sometimes they miss him, but Durdles seems indifferent to either fortune. The hideous small boy, on the contrary, whenever he hits Durdles, blows a whistle of triumph through a jagged gap, convenient for the purpose, in the front of his mouth, where half his teeth are wanting; and whenever he misses him, yelps out Mulled agin! and tries to atone for the failure by taking a more correct and vicious aim.

What are you doing to the man? demands Jasper, stepping out into the moonlight from the shade.

Making a cock-shy of him, replies the hideous small boy.

Give me those stones in your hand.

Yes, Ill give em you down your throat, if you come a-ketching hold of me, says the small boy, shaking himself loose, and backing. Ill smash your eye, if you dont look out!

Baby-Devil that you are, what has the man done to you?

He wont go home.

What is that to you?