bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第104节
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some undefinable manner to lurk and lounge； also； that whenever
he is going to turn to the right or left； he pretends to have a fixed
purpose in his mind of going straight ahead； and wheels off；
sharply； at the very last moment。 Now and then； when they pass a
police constable on his beat； Mr Snagsby notices that both the
constable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come
towards each other； and appear entirely to overlook each other
and to gaze into space。 In a few instances； Mr Bucket； coming
behind some undersized young man with a shining hat on； and his
sleek hair twisted into one flat curl on each side of his head； almost
without glancing at him touches him with his stick； upon which
the young man； looking round； instantly evaporates。 For the most
part Mr Bucket notices things in general with a face as
unchanging as the great mourning ring on his little finger； or the
brooch； composed of not much diamond and a good deal of setting；
which he wears in his shirt。
When they came at last to Tom…all…Alone’s； Mr Bucket stops for
a moment at the corner； and takes a lighted bull’s…eye from the
constable on duty there； who then accompanies him with his own
particular bull’s…eye at his waist。 Between his two conductors Mr
Snagsby passes along the middle of a villanous street； undrained；
unventilated； deep in black mud and corrupt water—though the
roads are dry elsewhere—and reeking with such smells and sights
that he； who has lived in London all his life； can scarce believe his
senses。 Branching from this street and its heap of ruins； are other
streets and courts so infamous that Mr Snagsby sickens in body
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and mind； and feels as if he were going； every moment deeper
down； into the infernal gulf。
“Draw off a bit here； Mr Snagsby；” says Bucket； as a kind of
shabby palanquin is borne towards them； surrounded by a noisy
crowd。 “Here’s the fever coming up the street！”
As the unseen wretch goes by； the crowd； leaving that object of
attraction； hovers round the three visitors； like a dream of horrible
faces； and fades away up alleys and into ruins； and behind walls；
and with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning；
thenceforth flits about them until they leave the place。
“Are those the fever…houses； Darby？” Mr Bucket coolly asks； as
he turns his bull’s…eye on a line of stinking ruins。
Darby replies that “all them are；” and further that in all； for
months and months； the people “have been down by dozens；” and
have been carried out； dead and dying “like sheep with the rot。”
Bucket observing to Mr Snagsby as they go on again； that he looks
a little poorly； Mr Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn’t
breathe the dreadful air。
There is inquiry made at various houses； for a boy named Jo。 As
few people are known in Tom…all…Alone’s by any Christian sign；
there is much reference to Snagsby whether he means Carrots； or
the Colonel； or Gallows； or Young Chisel； or Terrier Tip； or Lanky；
or the Brick。 Mr Snagsby describes over and over again。 There are
conflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture。 Some
think it must be Carrots； some say the Brick。 The Colonel is
produced； but is not at all near the thing。 Whenever Mr Snagsby
and his conductors are stationary； the crowd flows round； and
from its squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to Mr Bucket。
Whenever they move； and the angry bull’s eyes glare； it fades
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away； and flits about them up the alleys； and in the ruins； and
behind the walls； as before。
At last there is a lair found out where Toughy； or the Tough
Subject lays him down at night； and it is thought that the Tough
Subject may be Jo。 Comparison of notes between Mr Snagsby and
the proprietress of the house—a drunken face tied up in a black
bundle； and flaring out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog…
hutch which is her private apartment—leads to the establishment
of this conclusion。 Toughy has gone to the Doctor’s to get a bottle
of stuff for a sick woman； but will be here anon。
“And who have we got here tonight？” says Mr Bucket； opening
another door and glaring in with his bull’s…eye。 “Two drunken
men； eh？ And two women？ The men are sound enough；” turning
back each sleeper’s arm from his face to look at him。 “Are these
your good men； my dears？”
“Yes； sir；” returns one of the women。 “They are our husbands。”
“Brickmakers； eh？”
“Yes； sir。”
“What are you doing here？ You don’t belong to London？”
“No； sir。 We belong to Hertfordshire。”
“Whereabouts in Hertfordshire？”
“Saint Albans。”
“Come up on the tramp？”
“We walked up yesterday。 There’s no work down with us at
present； but we have done no good by coming here； and shall do
none； I expect。”
“That’s not the way to do much good；” says Mr Bucket； turning
his head in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground。
“It an’t indeed；” replies the woman with a sigh。 “Jenny and me
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knows it full well。”
The room； though two or three feet higher than the door； is so
low that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the
blackened ceiling if he stood upright。 It is offensive to every sense；
even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the polluted air。
There are a couple of benches； and a higher bench by way of table。
The men lie asleep where they stumbled down； but the women sit
by the candle。 Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken； is
a very young child。
“Why； what age do you call that little creature？” says Bucket。
“It looks as if it was born yesterday。” He is not at all rough about
it； and as he turns his light gently on the infant； Mr Snagsby is
strangely reminded of another infant； encircled with light； that he
has seen in pictures。
“He is not three weeks old yet； sir；” says the woman。
“Is he your child？”
“Mine。”
The other woman； who was bending over it when they came in；
stoops down again； and kisses it as it lies asleep。
“You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself；”
says Mr Bucket。
“I was the mother of one like it； master； and it died。”
“Ah Jenny； Jenny！” says the other woman to her； “better so。
Much better to think of dead than alive； Jenny！ Much better。”
“Why； you an’t such an unnatural woman； I hope；” returns
Bucket； sternly； “as to wish your own child dead？”
“God knows you are right； master；” she returns。 “I am not。 I’d
stand between it and death； with my own life if I could； as true as
any pretty lady。”
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“Then don’t talk in that wrong manner；” says Mr Bucket；
mollified again。 “Why do you do it？”
“It’s brought into my head； master；” returns the woman； her
eyes filling with tears； “when I look down at the child lying so。 If it
was never to wake no more； you’d think me mad； I should take on
so。 I know that very well。 I was with Jenny when she lost hers—
warn’t I； Jenny？—and I know how she grieved。 But look around
you； at this place。 Look at them；” glancing at the sleepers on the
ground。 “Look at the boy you’re waiting for； who’s gone out to do
me a good turn。 Think of the children that your business lays with
often and often； and that you see grow
