little dorrit-信丽(英文版)-第41章

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his　sentence　after　two　efforts；　Mr　Plornish　wisely　dropped　it。　He　took
Clennam's　card　and　appropriate　pecuniary　pliment。

He　was　earnest　to　finish　his　mission　at　once；　and　his　Principal
was　in　the　same　mind。　So　his　Principal　offered　to　set　him　down　at　the
Marshalsea　Gate；　and　they　drove　in　that　direction　over　Blackfriars
Bridge。　On　the　way；　Arthur　elicited　from　his　new　friend　a　confused
summary　of　the　interior　life　of　Bleeding　Heart　Yard。　They　was　all　hard
up　there；　Mr　Plornish　said；　unmon　hard　up；　to　be　sure。　Well；　he
couldn't　say　how　it　was；　he　didn't　know　as　anybody　could　say　how　it　was；
all　he　know'd　was；　that　so　it　was。

When　a　man　felt；　on　his　own　back　and　in　his　own　belly；　that　poor　he　was；
that　man　（Mr　Plornish　gave　it　as　his　decided　belief）　know'd　well　that
he　was　poor　somehow　or　another；　and　you　couldn't　talk　it　out　of　him；　no
more　than　you　could　talk　Beef　into　him。　Then　you　see；　some　people　as　was
better　off　said；　and　a　good　many　such　people　lived　pretty　close　up
to　the　mark　themselves　if　not　beyond　it　so　he'd　heerd；　that　they　was
'improvident'　（that　was　the　favourite　word）　down　the　Yard。　For　instance；
if　they　see　a　man　with　his　wife　and　children　going　to　Hampton　Court　in　a
Wan；　perhaps　once　in　a　year；　they　says；　'Hallo！　I　thought　you　was　poor；
my　improvident　friend！'　Why；　Lord；　how　hard　it　was　upon　a　man！　What　was
a　man　to　do？　He　couldn't　go　mollancholy　mad；　and　even　if　he　did；　you
wouldn't　be　the　better　for　it。　In　Mr　Plornish's　judgment　you　would　be
the　worse　for　it。　Yet　you　seemed　to　want　to　make　a　man　mollancholy　mad。
You　was　always　at　it……if　not　with　your　right　hand；　with　your　left。　What
was　they　a　doing　in　the　Yard？　Why；　take　a　look　at　'em　and　see。　There
was　the　girls　and　their　mothers　a　working　at　their　sewing；　or　their
shoe…binding；　or　their　trimming；　or　their　waistcoat　making；　day　and
night　and　night　and　day；　and　not　more　than　able　to　keep　body　and　soul
together　after　all……often　not　so　much。　There　was　people　of　pretty　well
all　sorts　of　trades　you　could　name；　all　wanting　to　work；　and　yet　not
able　to　get　it。　There　was　old　people；　after　working　all　their　lives；
going　and　being　shut　up　in　the　workhouse；　much　worse　fed　and　lodged　and
treated　altogether；　than……Mr　Plornish　said　manufacturers；　but　appeared
to　mean　malefactors。　Why；　a　man　didn't　know　where　to　turn　himself　for　a
crumb　of　fort。　As　to　who　was　to　blame　for　it；　Mr　Plornish　didn't　know
who　was　to　blame　for　it。　He　could　tell　you　who　suffered；　but　he　couldn't
tell　you　whose　fault　it　was。　It　wasn't　HIS　place　to　find　out；　and　who'd
mind　what　he　said；　if　he　did　find　out？　He　only　know'd　that　it　wasn't　put
right　by　them　what　undertook　that　line　of　business；　and　that　it　didn't
e　right　of　itself。　And；　in　brief；　his　illogical　opinion　was；　that　if
you　couldn't　do　nothing　for　him；　you　had　better　take　nothing　from　him
for　doing　of　it；　so　far　as　he　could　make　out；　that　was　about　what　it
e　to。　Thus；　in　a　prolix；　gently…growling；　foolish　way；　did　Plornish
turn　the　tangled　skein　of　his　estate　about　and　about；　like　a　blind　man
who　was　trying　to　find　some　beginning　or　end　to　it；　until　they　reached
the　prison　gate。　There；　he　left　his　Principal　alone；　to　wonder；　as　he
rode　away；　how　many　thousand　Plornishes　there　might　be　within　a　day
or　two's　journey　of　the　Circumlocution　Office；　playing　sundry　curious
variations　on　the　same　tune；　which　were　not　known　by　ear　in　that
glorious　institution。



CHAPTER　13。　Patriarchal


The　mention　of　Mr　Casby　again　revived　in　Clennam's　memory　the
smouldering　embers　of　curiosity　and　interest　which　Mrs　Flintwinch　had
fanned　on　the　night　of　his　arrival。　Flora　Casby　had　been　the　beloved　of
his　boyhood；　and　Flora　was　the　daughter　and　only　child　of　wooden…headed
old　Christopher　（so　he　was　still　occasionally　spoken　of　by　some
irreverent　spirits　who　had　had　dealings　with　him；　and　in　whom
familiarity　had　bred　its　proverbial　result　perhaps）；　who　was　reputed　to
be　rich　in　weekly　tenants；　and　to　get　a　good　quantity　of　blood　out　of
the　stones　of　several　unpromising　courts　and　alleys。　After　some　days　of
inquiry　and　research；　Arthur　Clennam　became　convinced　that　the　case　of
the　Father　of　the　Marshalsea　was　indeed　a　hopeless　one；　and　sorrowfully
resigned　the　idea　of　helping　him　to　freedom　again。　He　had　no　hopeful
inquiry　to　make　at　present；　concerning　Little　Dorrit　either；　but　he
argued　with　himself　that　it　might……for　anything　he　knew……it　might　be
serviceable　to　the　poor　child；　if　he　renewed　this　acquaintance。　It　is
hardly　necessary　to　add　that　beyond　all　doubt　he　would　have　presented
himself　at　Mr　Casby's　door；　if　there　had　been　no　Little　Dorrit　in
existence；　for　we　all　know　how　we　all　deceive　ourselves……that　is　to
say；　how　people　in　general；　our　profounder　selves　excepted；　deceive
themselves……as　to　motives　of　action。

With　a　fortable　impression　upon　him；　and　quite　an　honest　one　in　its
way；　that　he　was　still　patronising　Little　Dorrit　in　doing　what　had　no
reference　to　her；　he　found　himself　one　afternoon　at　the　corner　of　Mr
Casby's　street。　Mr　Casby　lived　in　a　street　in　the　Gray's　Inn　Road；　which
had　set　off　from　that　thoroughfare　with　the　intention　of　running　at　one
heat　down　into　the　valley；　and　up　again　to　the　top　of　Pentonville　Hill；
but　which　had　run　itself　out　of　breath　in　twenty　yards；　and　had　stood
still　ever　since。　There　is　no　such　place　in　that　part　now；　but　it
remained　there　for　many　years；　looking　with　a　baulked　countenance　at
the　wilderness　patched　with　unfruitful　gardens　and　pimpled　with　eruptive
summerhouses；　that　it　had　meant　to　run　over　in　no　time。

'The　house；'　thought　Clennam；　as　he　crossed　to　the　door；　'is　as　little
changed　as　my　mother's；　and　looks　almost　as　gloomy。　But　the　likeness
ends　outside。　I　know　its　staid　repose　within。　The　smell　of　its　jars　of
old　rose…leaves　and　lavender　seems　to　e　upon　me　even　here。'

When　his　knock　at　the　bright　brass　knocker　of　obsolete　shape　brought　a
woman…servant　to　the　door；　those　faded　scents　in　truth　saluted　him　like
wintry　breath　that　had　a　faint　remembrance　in　it　of　the　bygone　spring。
He　stepped　into　the　sober；　silent；　air…tight　house……one　might　have
fancied　it　to　have　been　stifled　by　Mutes　in　the　Eastern　manner……and　the
door；　closing　again；　seemed　to　shut　out　sound　and　motion。　The
furniture　was　formal；　grave；　and　quaker…like；　but　well…kept；　and　had　as
prepossessing　an　aspect　as　anything；　from　a　human　creature　to　a　wooden
stool；　that　is　meant　for　much　use　and　is　preserved　for　little；　can　ever
wear。　There　was　a　grave　clock；　ticking　somewhere　up　the　staircase；　and
there　was　a　songless　bird　in　the　same　direction；　pecking　at　his　cage；　as
if　he　were　ticking　too。　The　parlour…fire　ticked　in　the　grate。　There　was
only　one　person　on　the　parlour…hearth；　and　the　loud　watch　in　his　pocket
ticked　audibly。

The　servant…maid　had　ticked　the　two　words　'Mr　Clennam'　so　softly　that
she　had　not　been　heard；　and　he　consequently　stood；　within　the　door
she　had　closed；　unnoticed。　The　figure　of　a　man　advanced　in　life；　whose
smooth　grey　eyebrows　seemed　to　move　to　the　ticking　as　the　fire…light
flickered　on　them；　sat　in　an　arm…chair；　with　his　list　shoes　on　the
rug；　and　his　thumbs　slowly　revolving　over　one　another。　This　was　old
Christopher　Casby……recognisable　at　a　glance……as　unchanged　in　twenty
years　and　upward　as　his　own　solid　furniture……as　little　touched　by　the
influence　of　the　varying　seasons　as　the　old　rose…leaves　and　old　lavender
in　his　porcelain　jars。

Perhaps　there　never　was　a　man；　in　this　troublesome　world；　so　troublesome
for　the　imagination　to　picture　as　a　boy。　And　yet　he　had　changed　very
little　in　his　progress　through　life。　Confronting　him；　in　the　room　in
which　he　sat；　was　a　boy's　portrait；　which　anybody　seeing　him　would　have
identified　as　Master　Christopher　Casby；　aged　ten：　though　disguised　with
a　haymaking　rake；　for　which　he　had　had；　at　any　time；　as　much　taste　or
use　as　for　a　diving…bell；　and　sitting　（on　one　of　his　own　legs）　upon　a
bank　of　violets；　moved　to　precocious　contemplation　by　the　spire　of　a
village　church。　There　was　the　same　smooth　face　and　forehead；　the　same
calm　blue　eye；　the　same　placid　air。　The　shining　bald　head；　which　looked
so　very　large　because　it　shone　so　much；　and　the　long　grey　hair　at