Mr. Tangle,


Mlud,


Have you nearly concluded your argument?


Mlud, no—variety of points—feel it my duty tsubmit—ludship,


Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe? We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday fortnight,


My lord!


In reference, to the young girl—


Begludship’s pardon—boy,


In reference, to the young girl and boy, the two young people whom I directed to be in attendance to-day and who are now in my private room, I will see them and satisfy myself as to the expediency of making the order for their residing with their uncle.


Begludship’s pardon—dead.


With their grandfather.


Begludship’s pardon—victim of rash action—brains.


Will your lordship allow me? I appear for him. He is a cousin, several times removed. I am not at the moment prepared to inform the court in what exact remove he is a cousin, but he IS a cousin.


I will speak with both the young people, and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with their cousin. I will mention the matter to-morrow morning when I take my seat.


bored to death.


the most is made, of all her points.


If you want to address our people, sir, you must remember that you are not dealing with the general public; you must hit our people in their weakest place, and their weakest place is such a place.


To make this article go down, gentlemen, you must come to us, because we know where to have the fashionable people, and we can make it fashionable.


If you want to get this print upon the tables of my high connexion, sir, or if you want to get this dwarf or giant into the houses of my high connexion, sir, or if you want to secure to this entertainment the patronage of my high connexion, sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me, for I have been accustomed to study the leaders of my high connexion, sir, and I may tell you without vanity that I can turn them round my finger


My Lady’s cause has been again before the Chancellor, has it, Mr. Tulkinghorn?


Yes. It has been on again to-day,


It would be useless to ask, whether anything has been done.


Nothing that YOU would call anything has been done to-day,


Nor ever will be,


As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file, and as they are short, and as I proceed upon the troublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients with any new proceedings in a cause and further, as I see you are going to Paris, I have brought them in my pocket. In Chancery. Between John Jarndyce—


Who copied that? Is it what you people call law-hand?


Not quite. Probably the legal character which it has was acquired after the original hand was formed. Why do you ask?


Anything to vary this detestable monotony. Oh, go on, do!


Eh? What do you say?


I say I am afraid, that Lady Dedlock is ill.


Faint, only that; but it is like the faintness of death. Don’t speak to me. Ring, and take me to my room!


Better now. I have been quite alarmed. I never knew my Lady swoon before. But the weather is extremely trying, and she really has been bored to death down at our place in Lincolnshire.


Now, Dolly, I am not clever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a dear!


Oh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be expecting me!


Esther, good night!


It would have been far better, little Esther, that you had had no birthday, that you had never been born!


Oh, dear godmother, tell me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?


No. Ask me no more, child!


Oh, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, dear godmother, if you please! What did I do to her? How did I lose her? Why am I so different from other children, and why is it my fault, dear godmother? No, no, no, don’t go away. Oh, speak to me!


Let me go! Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. The time will come—and soon enough—when you will understand this better and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can. I have forgiven her the wrong she did to me, and I say no more of it, though it was greater than you will ever know—than any one will ever know but I, the sufferer. For yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned and degraded from the first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your head, according to what is written. Forget your mother and leave all other people to forget her who will do her unhappy child that greatest kindness. Now, go! Submission, self-denial, diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with such a shadow on it. You are different from other children, Esther, because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness and wrath. You are set apart.


I knew that I had brought no joy at any time to anybody’s heart and that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly was to me. I hope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it. I am very thankful, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite help their coming to my eyes. There! I have wiped them away now and can go on again properly.


This, is the child. This is Esther, sir.


Come here, my dear! Ah! Yes!


You may go upstairs, Esther!


So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said unto them, ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her!’


Watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. And what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!


My name is Kenge, you may remember it, my child; Kenge and Carboy, Lincoln’s Inn. Pray be seated—here near me. Don’t distress yourself; it’s of no use. Mrs. Rachael, I needn’t inform you who were acquainted with the late Miss Barbary’s affairs, that her means die with her and that this young lady, now her aunt is dead—


My aunt, sir!


It is really of no use carrying on a deception when no object is to be gained by it. Aunt in fact, though not in law. Don’t distress yourself! Don’t weep! Don’t tremble! Mrs. Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of—the—a—Jarndyce and Jarndyce.


Never,


Is it possible, that our young friend—I BEG you won’t distress yourself!—never heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce? Not of one of the greatest Chancery suits known? Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce—the—a—in itself a monument of Chancery practice. In which (I would say) every difficulty, every contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of procedure known in that court, is represented over and over again? It is a cause that could not exist out of this free and great country. I should say that the aggregate of costs in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mrs. Rachael amounts at the present hour to from SIX-ty to SEVEN-ty THOUSAND POUNDS! And she really never heard of the cause! Surprising!


Miss Barbary, sir, who is now among the Seraphim—


I hope so, I am sure,


—Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable to her. And she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more.


Well! Upon the whole, very proper. Now to the point. Miss Barbary, your sole relation (in fact that is, for I am bound to observe that in law you had none) being deceased and it naturally not being to be expected that Mrs. Rachael—


Oh, dear no!


Quite so, —that Mrs. Rachael should charge herself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won’t distress yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer which I was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years ago and which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewable under the lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. Now, if I avow that I represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce and otherwise, a highly humane, but at the same time singular, man, shall I compromise myself by any stretch of my professional caution?


Mr. Jarndyce, being aware of the—I would say, desolate—position of our young friend, offers to place her at a first-rate establishment where her education shall be completed, where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants shall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to discharge her duty in that station of life unto which it has pleased—shall I say Providence?—to call her. Mr. Jarndyce, makes no condition beyond expressing his expectation that our young friend will not at any time remove herself from the establishment in question without his knowledge and concurrence. That she will faithfully apply herself to the acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which she will be ultimately dependent. That she will tread in the paths of virtue and honour, and—the—a——so forth. Now, what does our young friend say? Take time, take time! I pause for her reply. But take time!


No, Esther! It is your misfortune!


What the de-vil are you crying for?


Me, sir?


Yes, you,


I didn’t know I was crying, sir,


But you are! Look here! There! Now you know you are. Don’t you?


Yes, sir,


And what are you crying for? Don’t you want to go there?


Where, sir?


Where? Why, wherever you are going,


I am very glad to go there, sir,


Well, then! Look glad! Confound Mrs. Rachael! Let her fly away in a high wind on a broomstick! Now, look here! In this paper, is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for money—sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton chops. Here’s a little pie (a gem this is, both for size and quality), made in France. And what do you suppose it’s made of? Livers of fat geese. There’s a pie! Now let’s see you eat ’em.


Thank you, sir, thank you very much indeed, but I hope you won’t be offended—they are too rich for me.


Floored again!


Miss Donny.


No, ma’am, Esther Summerson.


That is quite right. Miss Donny. Everything is ready for you, Esther, and the scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with the wishes of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce.


Of—did you say, ma’am?


Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce,


Do you know my—guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma’am?


Not personally, Esther, merely through his solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. A very superior gentleman, Mr. Kenge. Truly eloquent indeed. Some of his periods quite majestic!


We note the contents thereof, which shall be duly communicated to our client.


Esther, dear, say good-bye to me here at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!


With Esther’s love,


What shall we do when dear, dear Esther’s gone!


Bless you, miss, wherever you go!


I had been the light of his eyes


Good-bye, Esther. May you be very happy!


Oh, I am so thankful, I am so thankful! Esther, now you really must! This WILL NOT do!


I am from Kenge and Carboy’s, miss, of Lincoln’s Inn.


If you please, sir,


Oh, dear no, miss. This is a London particular. A fog, miss,


Oh, indeed!


In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the journey, as you’re going before the Chancellor. Not that it’s requisite, I am sure,


Going before the Chancellor?


Only a matter of form, miss. Mr. Kenge is in court now. He left his compliments, and would you partake of some refreshment and look over the paper,


As you are going to be the companion of the young lady who is now in the Chancellor’s private room, Miss Summerson, we thought it well that you should be in attendance also. You will not be discomposed by the Lord Chancellor, I dare say?


No, sir. I don’t think I shall,


Miss Ada, this is Miss Summerson.


Miss Clare. Miss Ada Clare? The Jarndyce in question, is Jarndyce of Bleak House.


Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord,


A dreary name,


But not a dreary place at present, my lord,


And Bleak House, is in—


Hertfordshire, my lord.


Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married?


He is not, my lord,


Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present? Hum!


Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord, if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides a suitable companion for—


For Mr. Richard Carstone?


For Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady. Miss Summerson.


Miss Summerson is not related to any party in the cause, I think?


No, my lord.


Very well! I shall make the order. Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge, a very good companion for the young lady, and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which the circumstances admit.


Well! THAT’S over! And where do we go next, Miss Summerson?


Don’t you know?


Not in the least,


And don’t YOU know, my love?


No! Don’t you?


Not at all!


Oh! The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure, to have the honour! It is a good omen for youth, and hope, and beauty when they find themselves in this place, and don’t know what’s to come of it.


Mad!


Right! Mad, young gentleman. I was a ward myself. I was not mad at that time. I had youth and hope. I believe, beauty. It matters very little now. Neither of the three served or saved me. I have the honour to attend court regularly. With my documents. I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. I have discovered that the sixth seal mentioned in the Revelations is the Great Seal. It has been open a long time! Pray accept my blessing.


that we were much obliged to her.


Ye-es! I imagine so. And here is Conversation Kenge. With HIS documents! How does your honourable worship do?


Quite well, quite well! Now don’t be troublesome, that’s a good soul!


By no means. Anything but troublesome. I shall confer estates on both—which is not being troublesome, I trust? I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. This is a good omen for you. Accept my blessing! Youth. And hope. And beauty. And Chancery. And Conversation Kenge! Ha! Pray accept my blessing!


I really don’t, sir. Perhaps Mr. Carstone—or Miss Clare—


In-deed! Mrs. Jellyby, is a lady of very remarkable strength of character who devotes herself entirely to the public. She has devoted herself to an extensive variety of public subjects at various times and is at present (until something else attracts her) devoted to the subject of Africa, with a view to the general cultivation of the coffee berry—AND the natives—and the happy settlement, on the banks of the African rivers, of our superabundant home population. Mr. Jarndyce, who is desirous to aid any work that is considered likely to be a good work and who is much sought after by philanthropists, has, I believe, a very high opinion of Mrs. Jellyby.


Ah! Mr. Jellyby,


I don’t say that,


Then it only remains,


Where IS ‘there,’ Mr. Guppy? No distance,


I can’t say I know where it is, for I come from Winchester and am strange in London.


Only round the corner. This is about a London particular NOW, ain’t it, miss?


The fog is very dense indeed!


Not that it affects you, though, I’m sure,


Oh, poor child, let me out, if you please!


Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are always up to something,


after pacifying him that he was a little boy with a naturally large head, thought that perhaps where his head could go, his body could follow, and mentioned that the best mode of extrication might be to push him forward.


Them two young ladies, Missis Jellyby!


I am very glad indeed, to have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect for Mr. Jarndyce, and no one in whom he is interested can be an object of indifference to me.


you find me, my dears, as usual, very busy; but that you will excuse. The African project at present employs my whole time. It involves me in correspondence with public bodies and with private individuals anxious for the welfare of their species all over the country. I am happy to say it is advancing. We hope by this time next year to have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy families cultivating coffee and educating the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger. It IS gratifying. It involves the devotion of all my energies, such as they are; but that is nothing, so that it succeeds; and I am more confident of success every day. Do you know, Miss Summerson, I almost wonder that YOU never turned your thoughts to Africa. The finest climate in the world!


Indeed, ma’am?


Certainly. With precaution. You may go into Holborn, without precaution, and be run over. You may go into Holborn, with precaution, and never be run over. Just so with Africa.


No doubt.


If you would like, to look over some remarks on that head, and on the general subject, which have been extensively circulated, while I finish a letter I am now dictating to my eldest daughter, who is my amanuensis— —I shall then have finished for the present, though my work is never done. Where are you, Caddy?


'Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, and begs—'


'And begs,' to inform him, in reference to his letter of inquiry on the African project—' No, Peepy! Not on my account! Go along, you naughty Peepy!


Six o’clock! And our dinner hour is nominally (for we dine at all hours) five! Caddy, show Miss Clare and Miss Summerson their rooms. You will like to make some change, perhaps? You will excuse me, I know, being so much occupied. Oh, that very bad child! Pray put him down, Miss Summerson!


You would like some hot water, wouldn’t you?


If it is not being troublesome,


Oh, it’s not the trouble, the question is, if there IS any.


What a strange house! How curious of my cousin Jarndyce to send us here!


My love, it quite confuses me. I want to understand it, and I can’t understand it at all.


What?


All this, my dear. It MUST be very good of Mrs. Jellyby to take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of natives—and yet—Peepy and the housekeeping!


You are so thoughtful, Esther, and yet so cheerful! And you do so much, so unpretendingly! You would make a home out of even this house.


May I ask you a question?


Five hundred,


Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him. Would you mind describing him to me?


Esther!


My dear!


You want a description of my cousin Jarndyce?


My dear, I never saw him.


And I never saw him!


Good night!


May I come in?


Certainly,


Don’t wake Miss Clare.


I wish Africa was dead! I do! Don’t talk to me, Miss Summerson. I hate it and detest it. It’s a beast! She is very pretty! An orphan. Ain’t she?


Yes.


But knows a quantity, I suppose? Can dance, and play music, and sing? She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, and globes, and needlework, and everything?


No doubt,


I can’t. I can’t do anything hardly, except write. I’m always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were not ashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon and see me able to do nothing else. It was like your ill nature. Yet you think yourselves very fine, I dare say! It’s disgraceful. You know it is. The whole house is disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. I’M disgraceful. Pa’s miserable, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks—she’s always drinking. It’s a great shame and a great story of you if you say you didn’t smell her to-day. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner; you know it was!


My dear, I don’t know it,


You do. You shan’t say you don’t. You do!


Oh, my dear! If you won’t let me speak—


You’re speaking now. You know you are. Don’t tell stories, Miss Summerson.


My dear, as long as you won’t hear me out—


I don’t want to hear you out.


Oh, yes, I think you do, because that would be so very unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me because the servant did not come near me at dinner; but I don’t doubt what you tell me, and I am sorry to hear it.


You needn’t make a merit of that,


No, my dear. That would be very foolish.


I wish I was dead! I wish we were all dead. It would be a great deal better for us. You used to teach girls. If you could only have taught me, I could have learnt from you! I am so very miserable, and I like you so much!


Ma won’t be down for ever so long, and then it’s a chance if breakfast’s ready for an hour afterwards, they dawdle so. As to Pa, he gets what he can and goes to the office. He never has what you would call a regular breakfast. Priscilla leaves him out the loaf and some milk, when there is any, overnight. Sometimes there isn’t any milk, and sometimes the cat drinks it. But I’m afraid you must be tired, Miss Summerson, and perhaps you would rather go to bed.


I am not at all tired, my dear, and would much prefer to go out.


If you’re sure you would. I’ll get my things on.


Where would you wish to go?


Anywhere, my dear,


Anywhere’s nowhere,


Let us go somewhere at any rate,


I don’t care! Now, you are my witness, Miss Summerson, I say I don’t care—but if he was to come to our house with his great, shining, lumpy forehead night after night till he was as old as Methuselah, I wouldn’t have anything to say to him. Such ASSES as he and Ma make of themselves!


My dear!


Oh! Don’t talk of duty as a child, Miss Summerson; where’s Ma’s duty as a parent? All made over to the public and Africa, I suppose! Then let the public and Africa show duty as a child; it’s much more their affair than mine. You are shocked, I dare say! Very well, so am I shocked too; so we are both shocked, and there’s an end of it! But for all that, I say again, he may come, and come, and come, and I won’t have anything to say to him. I can’t bear him. If there’s any stuff in the world that I hate and detest, it’s the stuff he and Ma talk. I wonder the very paving-stones opposite our house can have the patience to stay there and be a witness of such inconsistencies and contradictions as all that sounding nonsense, and Ma’s management!


We are never to get out of Chancery! We have come by another way to our place of meeting yesterday, and—by the Great Seal, here’s the old lady again!


The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!


You are out early, ma’am,


Ye-es! I usually walk here early. Before the court sits. It’s retired. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day. The business of the day requires a great deal of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to follow.


Who’s this, Miss Summerson?


A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to attend court regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure of addressing another of the youthful parties in Jarndyce? She does not expect a judgment? She will still grow old. But not so old. Oh, dear, no! This is the garden of Lincoln’s Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bower in the summer-time. Where the birds sing melodiously. I pass the greater part of the long vacation here. In contemplation. You find the long vacation exceedingly long, don’t you? When the leaves are falling from the trees and there are no more flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the Lord Chancellor’s court, the vacation is fulfilled and the sixth seal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray come and see my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. Youth, and hope, and beauty are very seldom there. It is a long, long time since I had a visit from either.


This is my lodging. Pray walk up!


Hi, hi! Have you anything to sell?


That’ll do, my good friend! You can admire as the rest of us do without taking that liberty.


That will do, Krook. You mean well, but are tiresome. My young friends are pressed for time. I have none to spare myself, having to attend court very soon. My young friends are the wards in Jarndyce.


Jarndyce! Think of it!


Why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about the causes before your noble and learned brother, the other Chancellor!


Yes. Sure! YOUR name now will be— Richard Carstone. Carstone,


He knows as much of the cause as the real salaried Chancellor!


Aye! Yes! Tom Jarndyce—you’ll excuse me, being related; but he was never known about court by any other name, and was as well known there as—she is now. For, says he, it’s being ground to bits in a slow mill; it’s being roasted at a slow fire; it’s being stung to death by single bees; it’s being drowned by drops; it’s going mad by grains. He come in at the door. For, says he, Krook, I am much depressed; my cause is on again, and I think I’m nearer judgment than I ever was. Tom Jarndyce!


We were right, I needn’t tell the present hearers. Hi! To be sure, how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while the cause was on! How my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of ’em, grubbed and muddled away as usual and tried to look as if they hadn’t heard a word of the last fact in the case or as if they had—Oh, dear me!—nothing at all to do with it if they had heard of it by any chance!


Extremely honoured, I am sure, by this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. And very much indebted for the omen. It is a retired situation. Considering. I am limited as to situation. In consequence of the necessity of attending on the Chancellor. I have lived here many years. I pass my days in court, my evenings and my nights here. I find the nights long, for I sleep but little and think much. That is, of course, unavoidable, being in Chancery. I am sorry I cannot offer chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly and shall then place my establishment on a superior footing. At present, I don’t mind confessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidence) that I sometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. I have felt the cold here. I have felt something sharper than cold. It matters very little. Pray excuse the introduction of such mean topics. I began to keep the little creatures, with an object that the wards will readily comprehend. With the intention of restoring them to liberty. When my judgment should be given. Ye-es! They die in prison, though. Their lives, poor silly things, are so short in comparison with Chancery proceedings that, one by one, the whole collection has died over and over again. I doubt, do you know, whether one of these, though they are all young, will live to be free! Ve-ry mortifying, is it not? Indeed. I positively doubt sometimes, I do assure you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth or Great Seal still prevails, I may not one day be found lying stark and senseless here, as I have found so many birds! I can’t allow them to sing much, for (you’ll think this curious) I find my mind confused by the idea that they are singing while I am following the arguments in court. And my mind requires to be so very clear, you know! Another time, I’ll tell you their names. Not at present. On a day of such good omen, they shall sing as much as they like. In honour of youth, hope, and beauty. There! We’ll let in the full light. I cannot admit the air freely, because the cat you saw downstairs, called Lady Jane, is greedy for their lives. She crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours. I have discovered, that her natural cruelty is sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. In consequence of the judgment I expect being shortly given. She is sly and full of malice. I half believe, sometimes, that she is no cat, but the wolf of the old saying. It is so very difficult to keep her from the door. With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I should be there before the Chancellor comes in, for he might mention my case the first thing. I have a presentiment that he WILL mention it the first thing this morning. The only other lodger, a law-writer. The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to the devil. I don’t know what he can have done with the money. Hush!


Can you read it? What is it? What’s that? What does that spell? Hi! I have a turn for copying from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read nor write.


Miss Summerson, I hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair. Don’t be tempted. Three sacks below are quite enough for Mr. Krook!


Quite an adventure for a morning in London! Ah, cousin, cousin, it’s a weary word this Chancery!


I am grieved that I should be the enemy—as I suppose I am—of a great number of relations and others, and that they should be my enemies—as I suppose they are—and that we should all be ruining one another without knowing how or why and be in constant doubt and discord all our lives. It seems very strange, as there must be right somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest has not been able to find out through all these years where it is.


Ah, cousin! Strange, indeed! All this wasteful, wanton chess-playing IS very strange. To see that composed court yesterday jogging on so serenely and to think of the wretchedness of the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartache both together. My head ached with wondering how it happened, if men were neither fools nor rascals; and my heart ached to think they could possibly be either. But at all events, Ada—I may call you Ada?


Of course you may, cousin Richard.


At all events, Chancery will work none of its bad influences on US. We have happily been brought together, thanks to our good kinsman, and it can’t divide us now!


Never, I hope, cousin Richard!


The whole road has been reminding me of my namesake Whittington, and that waggon is the finishing touch. Halloa! What’s the matter? He has got your name, Ada, in his hat!


I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily and without constraint on either side. I therefore have to propose that we meet as old friends and take the past for granted. It will be a relief to you possibly, and to me certainly, and so my love to you.


That’s Bleak House!


Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. I rejoice to see you! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at present, I would give it you! Now, Rick! I have a hand at liberty. A word in earnest is as good as a speech. I am heartily glad to see you. You are at home. Warm yourself!


You are very kind, sir! We are very much obliged to you!


And how did you like the ride? And how did you like Mrs. Jellyby, my dear?


She exerts herself very much for Africa, sir,


Nobly! But you answer like Ada. You all think something else, I see.


We rather thought, that perhaps she was a little unmindful of her home.


Floored! Well! I want to know your real thoughts, my dear. I may have sent you there on purpose.


We thought that, perhaps, it is right to begin with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, while those are overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be substituted for them.


The little Jellybys, are really—I can’t help expressing myself strongly, sir—in a devil of a state.


She means well. The wind’s in the east.


It was in the north, sir, as we came down,


My dear Rick. I’ll take an oath it’s either in the east or going to be. I am always conscious of an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in the east.


Rheumatism, sir?


I dare say it is, Rick. I believe it is. And so the little Jell—I had my doubts about ’em—are in a—oh, Lord, yes, it’s easterly! Those little Jellybys. Couldn’t you—didn’t you—now, if it had rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or anything of that sort!


Oh, cousin—


Good, my pretty pet. I like cousin. Cousin John, perhaps, is better.


Then, cousin John—


Ha, ha! Very good indeed! Sounds uncommonly natural. Yes, my dear?


It did better than that. It rained Esther.


Aye? What did Esther do?


Why, cousin John. Esther was their friend directly. Esther nursed them, coaxed them to sleep, washed and dressed them, told them stories, kept them quiet, bought them keepsakes and, cousin John, she softened poor Caroline, the eldest one, so much and was so thoughtful for me and so amiable! No, no, I won’t be contradicted, Esther dear! You know, you know, it’s true! At all events, cousin John, I WILL thank you for the companion you have given me.


Where did you say the wind was, Rick?


In the north as we came down, sir.


You are right. There’s no east in it. A mistake of mine. Come, girls, come and see your home!


Hold up


Get over,


I am glad you like it. It makes no pretensions, but it is a comfortable little place, I hope, and will be more so with such bright young looks in it. You have barely half an hour before dinner. There’s no one here but the finest creature upon earth—a child.


More children, Esther!


I don’t mean literally a child, not a child in years. He is grown up—he is at least as old as I am—but in simplicity, and freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine guileless inaptitude for all worldly affairs, he is a perfect child. He knows Mrs. Jellyby. He is a musical man, an amateur, but might have been a professional. He is an artist too, an amateur, but might have been a professional. He is a man of attainments and of captivating manners. He has been unfortunate in his affairs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and unfortunate in his family; but he don’t care—he’s a child!


Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir?


Yes, Rick! Half-a-dozen. More! Nearer a dozen, I should think. But he has never looked after them. How could he? He wanted somebody to look after HIM. He is a child, you know!


And have the children looked after themselves at all, sir?


Why, just as you may suppose. It is said that the children of the very poor are not brought up, but dragged up. Harold Skimpole’s children have tumbled up somehow or other. The wind’s getting round again, I am afraid. I feel it rather! It IS exposed. No doubt that’s the cause. Bleak House has an exposed sound. But you are coming my way. Come along!


For you, miss, if you please,


For me?


The housekeeping keys, miss. I was told to bring them as soon as you was alone, miss. Miss Summerson, if I don’t deceive myself?


Yes. That is my name.


The large bunch is the housekeeping, and the little bunch is the cellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint to-morrow morning, I was to show you the presses and things they belong to.


football.


in which, he was perfectly right, nothing to live upon but love, fell in love, and married, and surrounded himself with rosy cheeks.


Go your several ways in peace! Wear red coats, blue coats, lawn sleeves; put pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer; only—let Harold Skimpole live!


I covet nothing. Possession is nothing to me. Here is my friend Jarndyce’s excellent house. I feel obliged to him for possessing it. I can sketch it and alter it. I can set it to music. When I am here, I have sufficient possession of it and have neither trouble, cost, nor responsibility. My steward’s name, in short, is Jarndyce, and he can’t cheat me. We have been mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is a bright-eyed woman, of a strong will and immense power of business detail, who throws herself into objects with surprising ardour! I don’t regret that I have not a strong will and an immense power of business detail to throw myself into objects with surprising ardour. I can admire her without envy. I can sympathize with the objects. I can dream of them. I can lie down on the grass—in fine weather—and float along an African river, embracing all the natives I meet, as sensible of the deep silence and sketching the dense overhanging tropical growth as accurately as if I were there. I don’t know that it’s of any direct use my doing so, but it’s all I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for heaven’s sake, having Harold Skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the world, an agglomeration of practical people of business habits, to let him live and admire the human family, do it somehow or other, like good souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking-horse! It’s only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy. I envy you your power of doing what you do. It is what I should revel in myself. I don’t feel any vulgar gratitude to you. I almost feel as if YOU ought to be grateful to ME for giving you the opportunity of enjoying the luxury of generosity. I know you like it. For anything I can tell, I may have come into the world expressly for the purpose of increasing your stock of happiness. I may have been born to be a benefactor to you by sometimes giving you an opportunity of assisting me in my little perplexities. Why should I regret my incapacity for details and worldly affairs when it leads to such pleasant consequences? I don’t regret it therefore.


She is like the morning. With that golden hair, those blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the summer morning. The birds here will mistake her for it. We will not call such a lovely young creature as that, who is a joy to all mankind, an orphan. She is the child of the universe.


The universe, makes rather an indifferent parent, I am afraid.


Oh! I don’t know!


I think I do know,


Well! You know the world (which in your sense is the universe), and I know nothing of it, so you shall have your way. But if I had mine, there should be no brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that. It should be strewn with roses; it should lie through bowers, where there was no spring, autumn, nor winter, but perpetual summer. Age or change should never wither it. The base word money should never be breathed near it!


Took?


I am glad you are come. You will be able to advise us. Our friend Mr. Skimpole—don’t be alarmed!—is arrested for debt. I never was in a situation in which that excellent sense and quiet habit of method and usefulness, which anybody must observe in you who has the happiness of being a quarter of an hour in your society, was more needed. My dear Miss Summerson,


Though I forgot how much it was and when it was. Jarndyce would readily do it again, but I have the epicure-like feeling that I would prefer a novelty in help, that I would rather, develop generosity in a new soil and in a new form of flower. What do you think will be best, Miss Summerson?


Jail,


Or Coavinses.


Coavinses?


A ’ouse.


I thought, that being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) a large amount of property, Mr. Richard or his beautiful cousin, or both, could sign something, or make over something, or give some sort of undertaking, or pledge, or bond? I don’t know what the business name of it may be, but I suppose there is some instrument within their power that would settle this?


Not a bit on it,


Really?


Odd or even,


I tell you, not a bit on it!


Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper! Don’t be ruffled by your occupation. We can separate you from your office; we can separate the individual from the pursuit. We are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in private life you are otherwise than a very estimable man, with a great deal of poetry in your nature, of which you may not be conscious. Now, my dear Miss Summerson, and my dear Mr. Richard, here you see me utterly incapable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Harold Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies!


My dear Miss Summerson,


I should like to ask you something, without offence. Did you know this morning, now, that you were coming out on this errand?


Know’d it yes’day aft’noon at tea-time,


It didn’t affect your appetite? Didn’t make you at all uneasy?


Not a bit. I know’d if you wos missed to-day, you wouldn’t be missed to-morrow. A day makes no such odds.


But when you came down here. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the lights and shadows were passing across the fields, the birds were singing.


Nobody said they warn’t, in MY hearing,


No. But what did you think upon the road?


Wot do you mean? Think! I’ve got enough to do, and little enough to get for it without thinking. Thinking!


Then you didn’t think, at all events, to this effect: ‘Harold Skimpole loves to see the sun shine, loves to hear the wind blow, loves to watch the changing lights and shadows, loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature’s great cathedral. And does it seem to me that I am about to deprive Harold Skimpole of his share in such possessions, which are his only birthright!’ You thought nothing to that effect?


I—certainly—did—NOT,


Very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men of business! Thank you, my friend. Good night.


Oh, dear me, what’s this, what’s this! What’s this they tell me? Rick, my boy, Esther, my dear, what have you been doing? Why did you do it? How could you do it? How much apiece was it? The wind’s round again. I feel it all over me! Come, Rick, come! I must settle this before I sleep. How much are you out of pocket? You two made the money up, you know! Why did you? How could you? Oh, Lord, yes, it’s due east—must be!


Really, sir. I don’t think it would be honourable in me to tell you. Mr. Skimpole relied upon us—


Lord bless you, my dear boy! He relies upon everybody!


Indeed, sir?


Everybody! And he’ll be in the same scrape again next week! On Tuesday last, at her residence in Botheration Buildings, Mrs. Skimpole of a son in difficulties.


Still, sir, I don’t want to shake his confidence or to break his confidence, and if I submit to your better knowledge again, that I ought to keep his secret, I hope you will consider before you press me any more. Of course, if you do press me, sir, I shall know I am wrong and will tell you.


Well! I—here! Take it away, my dear. I don’t know what I am about with it; it’s all the wind—invariably has that effect—I won’t press you, Rick; you may be right. But really—to get hold of you and Esther—and to squeeze you like a couple of tender young Saint Michael’s oranges! It’ll blow a gale in the course of the night! Eh, my dear?


Being quite a child, sir, and so different from other people—


You are right! Your woman’s wit hits the mark. He is a child—an absolute child. I told you he was a child, you know, when I first mentioned him. And he IS a child. Now, isn’t he? When you come to think of it, it’s the height of childishness in you—I mean me— to regard him for a moment as a man. You can’t make HIM responsible. The idea of Harold Skimpole with designs or plans, or knowledge of consequences! Ha, ha, ha! Why, what a cod’s head and shoulders I am, to require reminding of it! The whole business shows the child from beginning to end. Nobody but a child would have thought of singling YOU two out for parties in the affair! Nobody but a child would have thought of YOUR having the money! If it had been a thousand pounds, it would have been just the same! To be sure, to be sure! However, Rick, Esther, and you too, Ada, for I don’t know that even your little purse is safe from his inexperience—I must have a promise all round that nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No advances! Not even sixpences. As to Skimpole, a habitable doll’s house with good board and a few tin people to get into debt with and borrow money of would set the boy up in life. He is in a child’s sleep by this time, I suppose; it’s time I should take my craftier head to my more worldly pillow. Good night, my dears. God bless you! Oh! I have been looking at the weather-cock. I find it was a false alarm about the wind. It’s in the south!


Esther, Esther, Esther! Duty, my dear!


Woa grey, then, steady! Noabody wants you to-day!


Rain, rain, rain! Nothing but rain—and no family here!


is what she looks at.


fifty year, three months, and a fortnight, by the blessing of heaven, if I live till Tuesday.


Leave me, and send Mrs. Rouncewell here!


Mrs. Rouncewell. I can never consent to argue, as you know, with any one on any subject. You had better get rid of your boy; you had better get him into some Works. The iron country farther north is, I suppose, the congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies.


And, again and again, I am glad to see you, Watt! And, once again, I am glad to see you, Watt! You are a fine young fellow. You are like your poor uncle George. Ah!


They say I am like my father, grandmother.


Like him, also, my dear—but most like your poor uncle George! And your dear father. He is well?


Thriving, grandmother, in every way.


I am thankful! He is quite happy?


Quite.


I am thankful! So he has brought you up to follow in his ways and has sent you into foreign countries and the like? Well, he knows best. There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that I don’t understand. Though I am not young, either. And I have seen a quantity of good company too!


Grandmother, what a very pretty girl that was I found with you just now. You called her Rosa?


Yes, child. She is daughter of a widow in the village. Maids are so hard to teach, now-a-days, that I have put her about me young. She’s an apt scholar and will do well. She shows the house already, very pretty. She lives with me at my table here.


I hope I have not driven her away?


She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say. She is very modest. It is a fine quality in a young woman. And scarcer,


than it formerly was! Wheels! What wheels on such a day as this, for gracious sake? Come in! What company is this, Rosa?


It’s two young men in a gig, ma’am, who want to see the house—yes, and if you please, I told them so! I went to the hall-door and told them it was the wrong day and the wrong hour, but the young man who was driving took off his hat in the wet and begged me to bring this card to you.


Read it, my dear Watt,


Mr. Guppy


Guppy! MR. Guppy! Nonsense, I never heard of him!


If you please, he told ME that! But he said that he and the other young gentleman came from London only last night by the mail, on business at the magistrates’ meeting, ten miles off, this morning, and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and really didn’t know what to do with themselves, they had come through the wet to see it. They are lawyers. He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn’s office, but he is sure he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s name if necessary.


Much obliged to you, ma’am! Us London lawyers don’t often get an out, and when we do, we like to make the most of it, you know.


Dear me! Who’s that?


The picture over the fire-place, is the portrait of the present Lady Dedlock. It is considered a perfect likeness, and the best work of the master.


Blest, if I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her! Has the picture been engraved, miss?


The picture has never been engraved. Sir Leicester has always refused permission.


Well! I’ll be shot if it ain’t very curious how well I know that picture! So that’s Lady Dedlock, is it!


The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester Dedlock. The picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Leicester.


It’s unaccountable to me, how well I know that picture! I’m dashed, if I don’t think I must have had a dream of that picture, you know!


The terrace below is much admired. It is called, from an old story in the family, the Ghost’s Walk.


No? What’s the story, miss? Is it anything about a picture?


Pray tell us the story,


I don’t know it, sir.


It is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten. It has never been more than a family anecdote.


You’ll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a picture, ma’am, because I do assure you that the more I think of that picture the better I know it, without knowing how I know it!


In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles the First—I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who leagued themselves against that excellent king—Sir Morbury Dedlock was the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any account of a ghost in the family before those days, I can’t say. I should think it very likely indeed. Sir Morbury Dedlock, was, I have no occasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. But it IS supposed that his Lady, who had none of the family blood in her veins, favoured the bad cause. It is said that she had relations among King Charles’s enemies, that she was in correspondence with them, and that she gave them information. When any of the country gentlemen who followed his Majesty’s cause met here, it is said that my Lady was always nearer to the door of their council-room than they supposed. Do you hear a sound like a footstep passing along the terrace, Watt?


I hear the rain-drip on the stones, and I hear a curious echo—I suppose an echo—which is very like a halting step.


Partly on account of this division between them, and partly on other accounts, Sir Morbury and his Lady led a troubled life. She was a lady of a haughty temper. They were not well suited to each other in age or character, and they had no children to moderate between them. After her favourite brother, a young gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by Sir Morbury’s near kinsman), her feeling was so violent that she hated the race into which she had married. When the Dedlocks were about to ride out from Chesney Wold in the king’s cause, she is supposed to have more than once stolen down into the stables in the dead of night and lamed their horses; and the story is that once at such an hour, her husband saw her gliding down the stairs and followed her into the stall where his own favourite horse stood. There he seized her by the wrist, and in a struggle or in a fall or through the horse being frightened and lashing out, she was lamed in the hip and from that hour began to pine away.


I will die here where I have walked. And I will walk here, though I am in my grave. I will walk here until the pride of this house is humbled. And when calamity or when disgrace is coming to it, let the Dedlocks listen for my step!


There and then she died. And from those days, the name has come down—the Ghost’s Walk. If the tread is an echo, it is an echo that is only heard after dark, and is often unheard for a long while together. But it comes back from time to time; and so sure as there is sickness or death in the family, it will be heard then.


And disgrace, grandmother—


Disgrace never comes to Chesney Wold,


True. True.


That is the story. Whatever the sound is, it is a worrying sound, and what is to be noticed in it is that it MUST BE HEARD. My Lady, who is afraid of nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard. You cannot shut it out. Watt, there is a tall French clock behind you (placed there, ’a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is in motion and can play music. You understand how those things are managed?


Pretty well, grandmother, I think.


Set it a-going. Now, come hither. Hither, child, towards my Lady’s pillow. I am not sure that it is dark enough yet, but listen! Can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through the music, and the beat, and everything?


I certainly can!


So my Lady says.


You will excuse me; I really cannot attend to the shop! I find myself in a world in which there is so much to see and so short a time to see it in that I must take the liberty of looking about me and begging to be provided for by somebody who doesn’t want to look about him.


Sit down, my dear. This, you must know, is the growlery. When I am out of humour, I come and growl here.


You must be here very seldom, sir,


Oh, you don’t know me! When I am deceived or disappointed in—the wind, and it’s easterly, I take refuge here. The growlery is the best-used room in the house. You are not aware of half my humours yet. My dear, how you are trembling! There! There! That’s over. Pooh! Don’t be foolish.


It shall not happen again, sir, but at first it is difficult—


Nonsense! It’s easy, easy. Why not? I hear of a good little orphan girl without a protector, and I take it into my head to be that protector. She grows up, and more than justifies my good opinion, and I remain her guardian and her friend. What is there in all this? So, so! Now, we have cleared off old scores, and I have before me thy pleasant, trusting, trusty face again. Of course, Esther, you don’t understand this Chancery business? I don’t know who does. The lawyers have twisted it into such a state of bedevilment that the original merits of the case have long disappeared from the face of the earth. It’s about a will and the trusts under a will—or it was once. It’s about nothing but costs now. We are always appearing, and disappearing, and swearing, and interrogating, and filing, and cross-filing, and arguing, and sealing, and motioning, and referring, and reporting, and revolving about the Lord Chancellor and all his satellites, and equitably waltzing ourselves off to dusty death, about costs. That’s the great question. All the rest, by some extraordinary means, has melted away.


But it was, sir, about a will?


Why, yes, it was about a will when it was about anything. A certain Jarndyce, in an evil hour, made a great fortune, and made a great will. In the question how the trusts under that will are to be administered, the fortune left by the will is squandered away; the legatees under the will are reduced to such a miserable condition that they would be sufficiently punished if they had committed an enormous crime in having money left them, and the will itself is made a dead letter. All through the deplorable cause, everything that everybody in it, except one man, knows already is referred to that only one man who don’t know, it to find out—all through the deplorable cause, everybody must have copies, over and over again, of everything that has accumulated about it in the way of cartloads of papers (or must pay for them without having them, which is the usual course, for nobody wants them) and must go down the middle and up again through such an infernal country-dance of costs and fees and nonsense and corruption as was never dreamed of in the wildest visions of a witch’s Sabbath. Equity sends questions to law, law sends questions back to equity; law finds it can’t do this, equity finds it can’t do that; neither can so much as say it can’t do anything, without this solicitor instructing and this counsel appearing for A, and that solicitor instructing and that counsel appearing for B; and so on through the whole alphabet, like the history of the apple pie. And thus, through years and years, and lives and lives, everything goes on, constantly beginning over and over again, and nothing ever ends. And we can’t get out of the suit on any terms, for we are made parties to it, and MUST BE parties to it, whether we like it or not. But it won’t do to think of it! When my great uncle, poor Tom Jarndyce, began to think of it, it was the beginning of the end!


The Mr. Jarndyce, sir, whose story I have heard?


I was his heir, and this was his house, Esther. When I came here, it was bleak indeed. He had left the signs of his misery upon it.


How changed it must be now!


It had been called, before his time, the Peaks. He gave it its present name and lived here shut up, day and night poring over the wicked heaps of papers in the suit and hoping against hope to disentangle it from its mystification and bring it to a close. In the meantime, the place became dilapidated, the wind whistled through the cracked walls, the rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds choked the passage to the rotting door. When I brought what remained of him home here, the brains seemed to me to have been blown out of the house too, it was so shattered and ruined. I told you this was the growlery, my dear. Where was I? Bleak House; true. There is, in that city of London there, some property of ours which is much at this day what Bleak House was then; I say property of ours, meaning of the suit’s, but I ought to call it the property of costs, for costs is the only power on earth that will ever get anything out of it now or will ever know it for anything but an eyesore and a heartsore. It is a street of perishing blind houses, with their eyes stoned out, without a pane of glass, without so much as a window-frame, with the bare blank shutters tumbling from their hinges and falling asunder, the iron rails peeling away in flakes of rust, the chimneys sinking in, the stone steps to every door (and every door might be death’s door) turning stagnant green, the very crutches on which the ruins are propped decaying. Although Bleak House was not in Chancery, its master was, and it was stamped with the same seal. These are the Great Seal’s impressions, my dear, all over England—the children know them!


How changed it is!


Why, so it is, and it is wisdom in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture. These are things I never talk about or even think about, excepting in the growlery here. If you consider it right to mention them to Rick and Ada, looking seriously at me, you can. I leave it to your discretion, Esther.


I hope, sir—


I think you had better call me guardian, my dear.


I hope, guardian, that you may not trust too much to my discretion. I hope you may not mistake me. I am afraid it will be a disappointment to you to know that I am not clever, but it really is the truth, and you would soon find it out if I had not the honesty to confess it.


I know me very well indeed and that I was quite clever enough for him.


I hope I may turn out so, but I am much afraid of it, guardian.


You are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives here, my dear, the little old woman of the child’s (I don’t mean Skimpole’s) rhyme: Little old woman, and whither so high? To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky. You will sweep them so neatly out of OUR sky in the course of your housekeeping, Esther, that one of these days we shall have to abandon the growlery and nail up the door. However, to return to our gossip. Here’s Rick, a fine young fellow full of promise. What’s to be done with him? Here he is, Esther. He must have a profession; he must make some choice for himself. There will be a world more wiglomeration about it, I suppose, but it must be done.


More what, guardian?


More wiglomeration. It’s the only name I know for the thing. He is a ward in Chancery, my dear. Kenge and Carboy will have something to say about it; Master Somebody—a sort of ridiculous sexton, digging graves for the merits of causes in a back room at the end of Quality Court, Chancery Lane—will have something to say about it; counsel will have something to say about it; the Chancellor will have something to say about it; the satellites will have something to say about it; they will all have to be handsomely fee’d, all round, about it; the whole thing will be vastly ceremonious, wordy, unsatisfactory, and expensive, and I call it, in general, wiglomeration. How mankind ever came to be afflicted with Wiglomeration, or for whose sins these young people ever fell into a pit of it, I don’t know; so it is. Perhaps it would be best, first of all,


to ask Mr. Richard what he inclines to himself.


Exactly so. That’s what I mean! You know, just accustom yourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your quiet way, with him and Ada, and see what you all make of it. We are sure to come at the heart of the matter by your means, little woman.


I really was frightened at the thought of the importance I was attaining and the number of things that were being confided to me. I had not meant this at all; I had meant that he should speak to Richard. But of course I said nothing in reply except that I would do my best, though I feared (I really felt it necessary to repeat this) that he thought me much more sagacious than I was.


Come! I think we may have done with the growlery for one day! Only a concluding word. Esther, my dear, do you wish to ask me anything?


About myself, sir?


Yes.


Guardian, nothing! I am quite sure that if there were anything I ought to know or had any need to know, I should not have to ask you to tell it to me. If my whole reliance and confidence were not placed in you, I must have a hard heart indeed. I have nothing to ask you, nothing in the world.


We lived, at first, rather a busy life at Bleak House, for we had to become acquainted with many residents in and out of the neighbourhood who knew Mr. Jarndyce. It seemed to Ada and me that everybody knew him who wanted to do anything with anybody else’s money. It amazed us when we began to sort his letters and to answer some of them for him in the growlery of a morning to find how the great object of the lives of nearly all his correspondents appeared to be to form themselves into committees for getting in and laying out money. The ladies were as desperate as the gentlemen; indeed, I think they were even more so. They threw themselves into committees in the most impassioned manner and collected subscriptions with a vehemence quite extraordinary. It appeared to us that some of them must pass their whole lives in dealing out subscription-cards to the whole post-office directory—shilling cards, half-crown cards, half-sovereign cards, penny cards. They wanted everything. They wanted wearing apparel, they wanted linen rags, they wanted money, they wanted coals, they wanted soup, they wanted interest, they wanted autographs, they wanted flannel, they wanted whatever Mr. Jarndyce had—or had not. Their objects were as various as their demands. They were going to raise new buildings, they were going to pay off debts on old buildings, they were going to establish in a picturesque building (engraving of proposed west elevation attached) the Sisterhood of Mediaeval Marys, they were going to give a testimonial to Mrs. Jellyby, they were going to have their secretary’s portrait painted and presented to his mother-in-law, whose deep devotion to him was well known, they were going to get up everything, I really believe, from five hundred thousand tracts to an annuity and from a marble monument to a silver tea-pot. They took a multitude of titles. They were the Women of England, the Daughters of Britain, the Sisters of all the cardinal virtues separately, the Females of America, the Ladies of a hundred denominations. They appeared to be always excited about canvassing and electing. They seemed to our poor wits, and according to their own accounts, to be constantly polling people by tens of thousands, yet never bringing their candidates in for anything. It made our heads ache to think, on the whole, what feverish lives they must lead. Among the ladies who were most distinguished for this rapacious benevolence (if I may use the expression) was a Mrs. Pardiggle, who seemed, as I judged from the number of her letters to Mr. Jarndyce, to be almost as powerful a correspondent as Mrs. Jellyby herself. We observed that the wind always changed when Mrs. Pardiggle became the subject of conversation and that it invariably interrupted Mr. Jarndyce and prevented his going any farther, when he had remarked that there were two classes of charitable people; one, the people who did a little and made a great deal of noise; the other, the people who did a great deal and made no noise at all. We were therefore curious to see Mrs. Pardiggle, suspecting her to be a type of the former class, and were glad when she called one day with her five young sons.


These, young ladies, are my five boys. You may have seen their names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one) in the possession of our esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce. Egbert, my eldest (twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket-money, to the amount of five and threepence, to the Tockahoopo Indians. Oswald, my second (ten and a half), is the child who contributed two and nine-pence to the Great National Smithers Testimonial. Francis, my third (nine), one and sixpence halfpenny; Felix, my fourth (seven), eightpence to the Superannuated Widows; Alfred, my youngest (five), has voluntarily enrolled himself in the Infant Bonds of Joy, and is pledged never, through life, to use tobacco in any form.


You have been visiting, I understand, at Mrs. Jellyby’s? Mrs. Jellyby. Mrs. Jellyby is a benefactor to society and deserves a helping hand. My boys have contributed to the African project—Egbert, one and six, being the entire allowance of nine weeks; Oswald, one and a penny halfpenny, being the same; the rest, according to their little means. Nevertheless, I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in all things. I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in her treatment of her young family. It has been noticed. It has been observed that her young family are excluded from participation in the objects to which she is devoted. She may be right, she may be wrong; but, right or wrong, this is not my course with MY young family. I take them everywhere. They attend matins with me (very prettily done) at half-past six o’clock in the morning all the year round, including of course the depth of winter, and they are with me during the revolving duties of the day. I am a School lady, I am a Visiting lady, I am a Reading lady, I am a Distributing lady; I am on the local Linen Box Committee and many general committees; and my canvassing alone is very extensive—perhaps no one’s more so. But they are my companions everywhere; and by these means they acquire that knowledge of the poor, and that capacity of doing charitable business in general—in short, that taste for the sort of thing—which will render them in after life a service to their neighbours and a satisfaction to themselves. My young family are not frivolous; they expend the entire amount of their allowance in subscriptions, under my direction; and they have attended as many public meetings and listened to as many lectures, orations, and discussions as generally fall to the lot of few grown people. Alfred (five), who, as I mentioned, has of his own election joined the Infant Bonds of Joy, was one of the very few children who manifested consciousness on that occasion after a fervid address of two hours from the chairman of the evening. You may have observed, Miss Summerson, in some of the lists to which I have referred, in the possession of our esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce, that the names of my young family are concluded with the name of O. A. Pardiggle, F.R.S., one pound. That is their father. We usually observe the same routine. I put down my mite first; then my young family enrol their contributions, according to their ages and their little means; and then Mr. Pardiggle brings up the rear. Mr. Pardiggle is happy to throw in his limited donation, under my direction; and thus things are made not only pleasant to ourselves, but, we trust, improving to others. You are very pleasantly situated here! You know Mr. Gusher? The loss is yours, I assure you. He is a very fervid, impassioned speaker—full of fire! Stationed in a waggon on this lawn, now, which, from the shape of the land, is naturally adapted to a public meeting, he would improve almost any occasion you could mention for hours and hours! By this time, young ladies, by this time you have found me out, I dare say? Found out, I mean, the prominent point in my character. I am aware that it is so prominent as to be discoverable immediately. I lay myself open to detection, I know. Well! I freely admit, I am a woman of business. I love hard work; I enjoy hard work. The excitement does me good. I am so accustomed and inured to hard work that I don’t know what fatigue is. I do not understand what it is to be tired; you cannot tire me if you try! The quantity of exertion (which is no exertion to me), the amount of business (which I regard as nothing), that I go through sometimes astonishes myself. I have seen my young family, and Mr. Pardiggle, quite worn out with witnessing it, when I may truly say I have been as fresh as a lark! This gives me a great advantage when I am making my rounds. If I find a person unwilling to hear what I have to say, I tell that person directly, ‘I am incapable of fatigue, my good friend, I am never tired, and I mean to go on until I have done.’ It answers admirably! Miss Summerson, I hope I shall have your assistance in my visiting rounds immediately, and Miss Clare’s very soon.


You are wrong, Miss Summerson, but perhaps you are not equal to hard work or the excitement of it, and that makes a vast difference. If you would like to see how I go through my work, I am now about—with my young family—to visit a brickmaker in the neighbourhood (a very bad character) and shall be glad to take you with me. Miss Clare also, if she will do me the favour.


boned By her! Oh, then! Now! Who are you! YOU wouldn’t like it, I think? What does she make a sham for, and pretend to give me money, and take it away again? Why do you call it my allowance, and never let me spend it?


Well, my friends. How do you do, all of you? I am here again. I told you, you couldn’t tire me, you know. I am fond of hard work, and am true to my word.


any more on you to come in, is there?


No, my friend. We are all here.


Because I thought there warn’t enough of you, perhaps?


You can’t tire me, good people. I enjoy hard work, and the harder you make mine, the better I like it.


Then make it easy for her! I wants it done, and over. I wants a end of these liberties took with my place. I wants an end of being drawed like a badger. Now you’re a-going to poll-pry and question according to custom—I know what you’re a-going to be up to. Well! You haven’t got no occasion to be up to it. I’ll save you the trouble. Is my daughter a-washin? Yes, she IS a-washin. Look at the water. Smell it! That’s wot we drinks. How do you like it, and what do you think of gin instead! An’t my place dirty? Yes, it is dirty—it’s nat’rally dirty, and it’s nat’rally onwholesome; and we’ve had five dirty and onwholesome children, as is all dead infants, and so much the better for them, and for us besides. Have I read the little book wot you left? No, I an’t read the little book wot you left. There an’t nobody here as knows how to read it; and if there wos, it wouldn’t be suitable to me. It’s a book fit for a babby, and I’m not a babby. If you was to leave me a doll, I shouldn’t nuss it. How have I been conducting of myself? Why, I’ve been drunk for three days; and I’da been drunk four if I’da had the money. Don’t I never mean for to go to church? No, I don’t never mean for to go to church. I shouldn’t be expected there, if I did; the beadle’s too gen-teel for me. And how did my wife get that black eye? Why, I give it her; and if she says I didn’t, she’s a Lie!


Well! You’ve done, have you?


For to-day, I have, my friend. But I am never fatigued. I shall come to you again in your regular order,


So long as you goes now,


you may do wot you like!


Oh, Esther! Look here! Oh, Esther, my love, the little thing! The suffering, quiet, pretty little thing! I am so sorry for it. I am so sorry for the mother. I never saw a sight so pitiful as this before! Oh, baby, baby!


Jenny! Jenny!


It’s you, young ladies, is it?


I’m a-watching for my master. My heart’s in my mouth. If he was to catch me away from home, he’d pretty near murder me.


Do you mean your husband?


Yes, miss, my master. Jenny’s asleep, quite worn out. She’s scarcely had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven days and nights, except when I’ve been able to take it for a minute or two.


May heaven reward you! You are a good woman.


Me, young ladies?


Hush! Jenny, Jenny!


Dear, dear, you tiresome little creature, I wish you wouldn’t!


Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman, that I can’t get on without her. Before I begin my harum-scarum day—grinding away at those books and instruments and then galloping up hill and down dale, all the country round, like a highwayman—it does me so much good to come and have a steady walk with our comfortable friend, that here I am again!


You know, Dame Durden, dear. I don’t want to talk when we come upstairs here. Only to sit a little while thinking, with your dear face for company, and to hear the wind and remember the poor sailors at sea—


So I apprehend it’s pretty clear, that I shall have to work my own way. Never mind! Plenty of people have had to do that before now, and have done it. I only wish I had the command of a clipping privateer to begin with and could carry off the Chancellor and keep him on short allowance until he gave judgment in our cause. He’d find himself growing thin, if he didn’t look sharp!


My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not? I made ten pounds, clear, out of Coavinses’ business.


How was that?


Why, I got rid of ten pounds which I was quite content to get rid of and never expected to see any more. You don’t deny that?


No,


Very well! Then I came into possession of ten pounds—


The same ten pounds,


That has nothing to do with it! I have got ten pounds more than I expected to have, and consequently I can afford to spend it without being particular. Let me see! I saved five pounds out of the brickmaker’s affair, so if I have a good rattle to London and back in a post-chaise and put that down at four pounds, I shall have saved one. And it’s a very good thing to save one, let me tell you: a penny saved is a penny got!


From Boythorn? Aye, aye! coming down I went to school with this fellow, Lawrence Boythorn, more than five and forty years ago. He was then the most impetuous boy in the world, and he is now the most impetuous man. He was then the loudest boy in the world, and he is now the loudest man. He was then the heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is now the heartiest and sturdiest man. He is a tremendous fellow.


In stature, sir?


Pretty well, Rick, in that respect, being some ten years older than I and a couple of inches taller, with his head thrown back like an old soldier, his stalwart chest squared, his hands like a clean blacksmith’s, and his lungs! There’s no simile for his lungs. Talking, laughing, or snoring, they make the beams of the house shake. But it’s the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, the passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man, Rick—and Ada, and little Cobweb too, for you are all interested in a visitor—that I speak of. His language is as sounding as his voice. He is always in extremes, perpetually in the superlative degree. In his condemnation he is all ferocity. You might suppose him to be an ogre from what he says, and I believe he has the reputation of one with some people. There! I tell you no more of him beforehand. You must not be surprised to see him take me under his protection, for he has never forgotten that I was a low boy at school and that our friendship began in his knocking two of my head tyrant’s teeth out (he says six) before breakfast. Boythorn and his man, will be here this afternoon, my dear.


We have been misdirected, Jarndyce, by a most abandoned ruffian, who told us to take the turning to the right instead of to the left. He is the most intolerable scoundrel on the face of the earth. His father must have been a most consummate villain, ever to have such a son. I would have had that fellow shot without the least remorse!


Did he do it on purpose?


I have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed his whole existence in misdirecting travellers! By my soul, I thought him the worst-looking dog I had ever beheld when he was telling me to take the turning to the right. And yet I stood before that fellow face to face and didn’t knock his brains out!


Teeth, you mean?


Ha, ha, ha! What, you have not forgotten it yet! Ha, ha, ha! And that was another most consummate vagabond! By my soul, the countenance of that fellow when he was a boy was the blackest image of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set up as a scarecrow in a field of scoundrels. If I were to meet that most unparalleled despot in the streets to-morrow, I would fell him like a rotten tree!


I have no doubt of it. Now, will you come upstairs?


By my soul, Jarndyce, if you had been married, I would have turned back at the garden-gate and gone away to the remotest summits of the Himalaya Mountains sooner than I would have presented myself at this unseasonable hour.


Not quite so far, I hope?


By my life and honour, yes! I wouldn’t be guilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the house waiting all this time for any earthly consideration. I would infinitely rather destroy myself—infinitely rather!


You have brought your bird with you, I suppose?


By heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in Europe!


He IS the most wonderful creature! I wouldn’t take ten thousand guineas for that bird. I have left an annuity for his sole support in case he should outlive me. He is, in sense and attachment, a phenomenon. And his father before him was one of the most astonishing birds that ever lived!


By my soul, Jarndyce,


if I were in your place I would seize every master in Chancery by the throat to-morrow morning and shake him until his money rolled out of his pockets and his bones rattled in his skin. I would have a settlement out of somebody, by fair means or by foul. If you would empower me to do it, I would do it for you with the greatest satisfaction!


I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point at present, that it would be greatly advanced even by the legal process of shaking the bench and the whole bar.


There never was such an infernal cauldron as that Chancery on the face of the earth!


Nothing but a mine below it on a busy day in term time, with all its records, rules, and precedents collected in it and every functionary belonging to it also, high and low, upward and downward, from its son the Accountant-General to its father the Devil, and the whole blown to atoms with ten thousand hundredweight of gunpowder, would reform it in the least!


You are not free from the toils of the law yourself!


The fellow has brought actions against ME for trespass, and I have brought actions against HIM for trespass,


By heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing. It is morally impossible that his name can be Sir Leicester. It must be Sir Lucifer.


I would beg Miss Clare’s pardon and Mr. Carstone’s pardon,


if I were not reassured by seeing in the fair face of the lady and the smile of the gentleman that it is quite unnecessary and that they keep their distant relation at a comfortable distance.


Or he keeps us,


By my soul,


that fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfather was, the most stiff-necked, arrogant imbecile, pig-headed numskull, ever, by some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born in any station of life but a walking-stick’s!


The whole of that family are the most solemnly conceited and consummate blockheads!


But it’s no matter; he should not shut up my path if he were fifty baronets melted into one and living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one within another, like the ivory balls in a Chinese carving.


The fellow, by his agent, or secretary, or somebody, writes to me ‘Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, presents his compliments to Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, and has to call his attention to the fact that the green pathway by the old parsonage-house, now the property of Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, is Sir Leicester’s right of way, being in fact a portion of the park of Chesney Wold, and that Sir Leicester finds it convenient to close up the same.’


I write to the fellow, ‘Mr. Lawrence Boythorn presents his compliments to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and has to call HIS attention to the fact that he totally denies the whole of Sir Leicester Dedlock’s positions on every possible subject and has to add, in reference to closing up the pathway, that he will be glad to see the man who may undertake to do it.’


The fellow sends a most abandoned villain with one eye to construct a gateway.


I play upon that execrable scoundrel with a fire-engine until the breath is nearly driven out of his body.


The fellow erects a gate in the night.


I chop it down and burn it in the morning.


He sends his myrmidons to come over the fence and pass and repass.


I catch them in humane man traps, fire split peas at their legs, play upon them with the engine—resolve to free mankind from the insupportable burden of the existence of those lurking ruffians.


He brings actions for trespass;


I bring actions for trespass.


He brings actions for assault and battery;


I defend them and continue to assault and batter. Ha, ha, ha!


No, no,


no closing up of my paths by any Dedlock! Though I willingly confess,


that Lady Dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom I would do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with a head seven hundred years thick, may. A man who joined his regiment at twenty and within a week challenged the most imperious and presumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew the breath of life through a tight waist—and got broke for it—is not the man to be walked over by all the Sir Lucifers, dead or alive, locked or unlocked. Ha, ha, ha!


Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over either?


Most assuredly not!


He will stand by the low boy, always. Jarndyce, you may rely upon him! But speaking of this trespass—with apologies to Miss Clare and Miss Summerson for the length at which I have pursued so dry a subject—is there nothing for me from your men Kenge and Carboy?


I think not, Esther?


Nothing, guardian.


Much obliged!


Had no need to ask, after even my slight experience of Miss Summerson’s forethought for every one about her.


I inquired because, coming from Lincolnshire, I of course have not yet been in town, and I thought some letters might have been sent down here. I dare say they will report progress to-morrow morning.


No. No.


But he meant to be!


How did you find out that?


there is something so tender in his manner, after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle to us, and—


You are right, little woman. He was all but married once. Long ago. And once.


Did the lady die?


No—but she died to him. That time has had its influence on all his later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart full of romance yet?


I think, guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy to say that when you have told me so.


He has never since been what he might have been, and now you see him in his age with no one near him but his servant and his little yellow friend. It’s your throw, my dear!


Shall I have the honour of finding you here, miss?


I should be there;


My eye, miss, he’s a Tartar!


Pray take some refreshment, sir,


What follows is without prejudice, miss?


I don’t understand what you mean, to imagine what you can have to communicate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen but once; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury.


Thank you, miss. I’m sure of it—that’s quite sufficient. If you would excuse my taking another glass of wine, miss, I think it might assist me in getting on without a continual choke that cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant. You wouldn’t allow me to offer you one, would you miss?


Not any,


Not half a glass? Quarter? No! Then, to proceed. My present salary, Miss Summerson, at Kenge and Carboy’s, is two pound a week. When I first had the happiness of looking upon you, it was one fifteen, and had stood at that figure for a lengthened period. A rise of five has since taken place, and a further rise of five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term not exceeding twelve months from the present date. My mother has a little property, which takes the form of a small life annuity, upon which she lives in an independent though unassuming manner in the Old Street Road. She is eminently calculated for a mother-in-law. She never interferes, is all for peace, and her disposition easy. She has her failings—as who has not?—but I never knew her do it when company was present, at which time you may freely trust her with wines, spirits, or malt liquors. My own abode is lodgings at Penton Place, Pentonville. It is lowly, but airy, open at the back, and considered one of the ’ealthiest outlets. Miss Summerson! In the mildest language, I adore you. Would you be so kind as to allow me (as I may say) to file a declaration—to make an offer!


Get up from that ridiculous position immediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied promise and ring the bell!


Hear me out, miss!


I cannot consent to hear another word, sir. Unless you get up from the carpet directly and go and sit down at the table as you ought to do if you have any sense at all.


Yet what a mockery it is, miss, to be stationed behind food at such a moment. The soul recoils from food at such a moment, miss.


I beg you to conclude, you have asked me to hear you out, and I beg you to conclude.


I will, miss. As I love and honour, so likewise I obey. Would that I could make thee the subject of that vow before the shrine!


That is quite impossible, and entirely out of the question.


I am aware. I am aware that in a worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is a poor one. But, Miss Summerson! Angel! No, don’t ring—I have been brought up in a sharp school and am accustomed to a variety of general practice. Though a young man, I have ferreted out evidence, got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest with your hand, what means might I not find of advancing your interests and pushing your fortunes! What might I not get to know, nearly concerning you? I know nothing now, certainly; but what MIGHT I not if I had your confidence, and you set me on? Cruel miss, hear but another word! I think you must have seen that I was struck with those charms on the day when I waited at the Whytorseller. I think you must have remarked that I could not forbear a tribute to those charms when I put up the steps of the ’ackney-coach. It was a feeble tribute to thee, but it was well meant. Thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast. I have walked up and down of an evening opposite Jellyby’s house only to look upon the bricks that once contained thee. This out of to-day, quite an unnecessary out so far as the attendance, which was its pretended object, went, was planned by me alone for thee alone. If I speak of interest, it is only to recommend myself and my respectful wretchedness. Love was before it, and is before it.


I should be pained, Mr. Guppy, to do you or any one who was sincere the injustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably expressed. If you have really meant to give me a proof of your good opinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, I feel that I ought to thank you. I have very little reason to be proud, and I am not proud. I hope, that you will now go away as if you had never been so exceedingly foolish and attend to Messrs. Kenge and Carboy’s business.


Half a minute, miss! This has been without prejudice?


I will never mention it, unless you should give me future occasion to do so.


A quarter of a minute, miss! In case you should think better at any time, however distant—THAT’S no consequence, for my feelings can never alter—of anything I have said, particularly what might I not do, Mr. William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton Place, or if removed, or dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care of Mrs. Guppy, three hundred and two, Old Street Road, will be sufficient.


I think my little woman is a-giving it to Guster!


I shall be back presently.


Master at home? Master at home?


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.


Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby.


Yes, sir.


You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately.


Yes, sir, we did.


There was one of them, 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? 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. Jarndyce! Here we are, sir. To be sure! I might have remembered it. This was given out, sir, to a writer who lodges just over on the opposite side of the lane.


WHAT do you call him? Nemo?


Nemo, sir. Here it is. Forty-two folio. Given out on the Wednesday night at eight o’clock, brought in on the Thursday morning at half after nine.


Nemo! Nemo is Latin for no one.


It must be English for some one, sir, I think. It is a person’s name. Here it is, you see, sir! Forty-two folio. Given out Wednesday night, eight o’clock; brought in Thursday morning, half after nine. My dear, a customer! Half after nine, sir. Our law-writers, who live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but it’s the name he goes by. I remember now, sir, that he gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule Office, and the King’s Bench Office, and the Judges’ Chambers, and so forth. You know the kind of document, sir—wanting employ? Tul-king-horn—rich—in-flu-en-tial!


Have you given this man work before?


Oh, dear, yes, sir! Work of yours.


Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you said he lived?


Across the lane, sir. In fact, he lodges at a— —at a rag and bottle shop.


Can you show me the place as I go back?


With the greatest pleasure, sir! Oh! Here is my little woman! My dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads to look after the shop while I step across the lane with Mr. Tulkinghorn? Mrs. Snagsby, sir—I shan’t be two minutes, my love! You will find that the place is rough, sir, and the party is very rough. But they’re a wild lot in general, sir. The advantage of this particular man is that he never wants sleep. He’ll go at it right on end if you want him to, as long as ever you like.


This is where he lives, sir,


This is where he lives, is it? Thank you.


Are you not going in, sir?


No, thank you, no; I am going on to the Fields at present. Good evening. Thank you! Pray is your lodger within?


Male or female, sir?


Male. The person who does copying.


Did you wish to see him, sir?


Yes.


It’s what I seldom do myself. Shall I call him down? But it’s a weak chance if he’d come, sir!


I’ll go up to him, then,


Second floor, sir. Take the candle. Up there! Hi-hi! Order, Lady Jane! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady! You know what they say of my lodger?


What do they say of him?


They say he has sold himself to the enemy, but you and I know better—he don’t buy. I’ll tell you what, though; my lodger is so black-humoured and gloomy that I believe he’d as soon make that bargain as any other. Don’t put him out, sir. That’s my advice!


Hallo, my friend! Hallo, my friend! Hallo! Hallo! What’s that?


It’s me. Can’t you wake him?


No.


What have you done with your candle?


It’s gone out. Here it is.


Does the man generally sleep like this?


Hi! I don’t know. I know next to nothing of his habits except that he keeps himself very close.


God save us! He is dead!


Send for some doctor! Call for Miss Flite up the stairs, sir. Here’s poison by the bed! Call out for Flite, will you?


Miss Flite! Flite! Make haste, here, whoever you are! Flite!


Run, Flite, run! The nearest doctor! Run!


Ey! Bless the hearts o’ ye. He’s just as dead as Phairy! Any time, sir? It’s probable he wull have been dead aboot three hours.


About that time, I should say,


Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir? Then I’ll just tak’ my depairture, for I’m nae gude here!


I knew this person by sight very well. He has purchased opium of me for the last year and a half. Was anybody present related to him?


I was his landlord. He told me once I was the nearest relation he had.


He has died, of an over-dose of opium, there is no doubt. The room is strongly flavoured with it. There is enough here now, to kill a dozen people.


Do you think he did it on purpose?


Took the over-dose?


Yes!


I can’t say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit of taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, I suppose?


I suppose he was. His room—don’t look rich. But I have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to name his circumstances to me.


Did he owe you any rent?


Six weeks.


He will never pay it! It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as Pharaoh; and to judge from his appearance and condition, I should think it a happy release. Yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and I dare say, good-looking. I recollect once thinking there was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. Was that so?


You might as well ask me to describe the ladies whose heads of hair I have got in sacks downstairs. Than that he was my lodger for a year and a half and lived—or didn’t live—by law-writing, I know no more of him.


I looked in here, just before you, with the intention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some employment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my stationer—Snagsby of Cook’s Court. Since no one here knows anything about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah! Suppose you do!


Dear me, dear me, and it has come to this, has it! Bless my soul!


Can you give the person of the house any information about this unfortunate creature, Snagsby? He was in arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, you know.


Well, sir. I really don’t know what advice I could offer, except sending for the beadle.


I don’t speak of advice. I could advise—


No one better, sir, I am sure,


I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he came from, or to anything concerning him.


I assure you, sir, that I no more know where he came from than I know—


Where he has gone to, perhaps,


As to his connexions, sir, if a person was to say to me, ‘Snagsby, here’s twenty thousand pound down, ready for you in the Bank of England if you’ll only name one of ’em,’ I couldn’t do it, sir! About a year and a half ago—to the best of my belief, at the time when he first came to lodge at the present rag and bottle shop—


That was the time!


About a year and a half ago, he came into our place one morning after breakfast, and finding my little woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation) in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and gave her to understand that he was in want of copying work to do and was, not to put too fine a point upon it, hard up! My little woman is not in general partial to strangers, particular—not to put too fine a point upon it—when they want anything. But she was rather took by something about this person, whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies’ reasons, I leave you to judge; and she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address. My little woman hasn’t a good ear for names, and she considered Nemo equally the same as Nimrod. Mr. Snagsby, you haven’t found Nimrod any work yet! Mr. Snagsby, why didn’t you give that eight and thirty Chancery folio in Jarndyce to Nimrod? And that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our place; and that is the most I know of him except that he was a quick hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work, and that if you gave him out, say, five and forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have it brought in on the Thursday morning. All of which—


Hadn’t you better see, whether he had any papers that may enlighten you? There will be an inquest, and you will be asked the question. You can read?


No, I can’t,


Snagsby, look over the room for him. He will get into some trouble or difficulty otherwise. Being here, I’ll wait if you make haste, and then I can testify on his behalf, if it should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If you will hold the candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he’ll soon see whether there is anything to help you.


In the first place, here’s an old portmanteau, sir,


Don’t leave the cat there! that won’t do!


Good night!


Well, gentlemen—


Silence there, will you!


Well, gentlemen. You are impanelled here to inquire into the death of a certain man. Evidence will be given before you as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will give your verdict according to the—skittles; they must be stopped, you know, beadle!—evidence, and not according to anything else. The first thing to be done is to view the body.


Make way there!


A very eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen, who, I am informed, was accidentally present when discovery of the death was made, but he could only repeat the evidence you have already heard from the surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the law-stationer, and it is not necessary to trouble him. Is anybody in attendance who knows anything more?


Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. Married woman. Now, Mrs. Piper, what have you got to say about this?


is that boy here?


no, sir, he is not here.


go and fetch him then.


Oh! Here’s the boy, gentlemen! Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, boy! But stop a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a few preliminary paces.


Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don’t know that everybody has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don’t know that Jo is short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for HIM. HE don’t find no fault with it. Spell it? No. HE can’t spell it. No father, no mother, no friends. Never been to school. What’s home? Knows a broom’s a broom, and knows it’s wicked to tell a lie. Don’t recollect who told him about the broom or about the lie, but knows both. Can’t exactly say what’ll be done to him arter he’s dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it’ll be something wery bad to punish him, and serve him right—and so he’ll tell the truth.


This won’t do, gentlemen!


Don’t you think you can receive his evidence, sir?


Out of the question. You have heard the boy. ‘Can’t exactly say’ won’t do, you know. We can’t take THAT in a court of justice, gentlemen. It’s terrible depravity. Put the boy aside.


Neither have I. Not one! I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,


He was wery good to me. Wen I see him a-layin’ so stritched out just now, I wished he could have heerd me tell him so. He wos wery good to me, he wos!


If you ever see me coming past your crossing with my little woman—I mean a lady— don’t allude to it!


a rummy start.


Gentlemen, if you’ll permit me, I’ll attempt a short description of a scene of real life that came off here to-day.


I thought you was dead, I am sure!


He wos wery good to me, he wos!


You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?


Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever.


I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s long effusions, I think?


You see everything,


Ha! He is the most tiresome of men!


He sends—I really beg your pardon—he sends, a message to you. Our stopping to change horses as I came to his postscript drove it out of my memory. I beg you’ll excuse me. He says— He says ‘In the matter of the right of way—’ I beg your pardon, that’s not the place. He says—yes! Here I have it! He says, ‘I beg my respectful compliments to my Lady, who, I hope, has benefited by the change. Will you do me the favour to mention (as it may interest her) that I have something to tell her on her return in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have seen him.’ That’s the message,


I should like to walk a little,


Walk?


I should like to walk a little. Please to stop the carriage.


Though my Lord IS a little aged for my Lady,


How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell? I am glad to see you.


I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good health, Sir Leicester?


In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell.


My Lady is looking charmingly well,


as wearily well as she can hope to be. Who is that girl?


A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa.


Come here, Rosa! Why, do you know how pretty you are, child?


No, if you please, my Lady!


How old are you?


Nineteen, my Lady.


Nineteen. Take care they don’t spoil you by flattery.


Yes, my Lady.


a little more free, ’Tis almost a pity, that my Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter now, a grown young lady, to interest her, I think she would have had the only kind of excellence she wants.