bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第235节
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Chapter 53
The Track
r Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation
together under existing circumstances。 When Mr
M
Bucket has a matter of this pressing interest under his
consideration； the fat forefinger seems to rise to the dignity of a
familiar demon。 He puts it to his ears； and it whispers information；
he puts it to his lips； and it enjoins him to secrecy； he rubs it over
his nose； and it sharpens his scent； he shakes it before a guilty
man； and it charms him to his destruction。 The Augurs of the
Detective Temple invariably； predict； that when Mr Bucket and
that finger are much in conference； a terrible avenger will be
heard of before long。
Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature；
on the whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe
upon the follies of mankind； Mr Bucket pervades a vast number of
houses； and strolls about an infinity of streets； to outward
appearance rather languishing for want of an object。 He is in the
friendliest condition towards his species； and will drink with most
of them。 He is free with his money； affable in his manners；
innocent in his conversation—but； through the placid stream of
his life； there glides an undercurrent of forefinger。
Time and place cannot bind Mr Bucket。 Like man in the
abstract； he is here today and gone tomorrow—but； very unlike
man indeed； he is here again the next day。 This evening he will be
casually looking into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir
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Leicester Dedlock’s house in town； and tomorrow morning he will
be walking on the leads at Chesney Wold； where erst the old man
walked whose ghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas。
Drawers； desks； pockets； all things belonging to him； Mr Bucket
examines。 A few hours afterwards； he and the Roman will be alone
together； comparing forefingers。
It is likely that these occupations are irreconcileable with home
enjoyment； but it is certain that Mr Bucket at present does not go
home。 Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs
Bucket—a lady of a natural detective genius； which if it had been
improved by professional exercise might have done great things；
but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur—he holds
himself aloof from that dear solace。 Mrs Bucket is dependent on
their lodger （fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an
interest） for companionship and conversation。
A great crowd assembles in Lincoln’s Inn Fields on the day of
the funeral。 Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the ceremony in person；
strictly speaking； there are only three other human followers； that
is to say； Lord Doodle； William Buffy； and the debilitated cousin
（thrown in as a make…weight）； but the amount of inconsolable
carriages is immense。 The Peerage contributes more four…wheeled
affliction than has ever been seen in that neighbourhood。 Such is
the assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels； that the
Heralds’ College might be supposed to have lost its father and
mother at a blow。 The Duke of Foodle sends a splendid pile of dust
and ashes； with silver wheel…boxes； patent axles； all the last
improvements； and three bereaved worms； six feet high； holding
on behind； in a bunch of woe。 All the state coachmen in London
seem plunged into mourning； and if that dead old man of the rusty
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garb； be not beyond a taste in horseflesh （which appears
impossible）； it must be highly gratified this day。
Quiet among the undertakers； and the equipages； and the
calves of so many legs all steeped in grief； Mr Bucket sits
concealed in one of the inconsolable carriages； and at his ease
surveys the crowd through the lattice blinds。 He has a keen eye for
a crowd—as for what not？—and looking here and there； now from
this side of the carriage； now from the other； now up at the house
windows； now along the people’s heads； nothing escapes him。
“And there you are； my partner； eh？” says Mr Bucket to
himself； apostrophising Mrs Bucket； stationed； by his favour； on
the steps of the deceased’s house。
“And so you are。 And so you are！ And very well indeed you are
looking； Mrs Bucket！”
The procession has not started yet； but is waiting for the cause
of its assemblage to be brought out。 Mr Bucket； in the foremost
emblazoned carriage； uses his two fat forefingers to hold the
lattice a hair’s breadth open while he looks。
And it says a great deal for his attachment； as a husband； that
he is still occupied with Mrs B。 “There you are； my partner； eh？”
he murmuringly repeats。 “And our lodger with you。 I’m taking
notice of you； Mrs Bucket； I hope you’re all right in your health；
my dear！”
Not another word does Mr Bucket say； but sits with most
attentive eyes； until the sacked depository of noble secrets is
brought down—Where are all those secrets now？ Does he keep
them yet？ Did they fly with him on that sudden journey？—and
until the procession moves； and Mr Bucket’s view is changed。
After which； he composes himself for an easy ride； and takes note
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of the fittings of the carriage； in case he should ever find such
knowledge useful。
Contrast enough between Mr Tulkinghorn shut up in his dark
carriage； and Mr Bucket shut up in his。 Between the
immeasurable track of space beyond the little wound that has
thrown the one into the fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the
stones of the streets； and the narrow track of blood which keeps
the other in the watchful state expressed in every hair of his head！
But it is all one to both； neither is troubled about that。
Mr Bucket sits out the procession； in his own easy manner； and
glides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with
himself arrives。 He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock’s； which is at
present a sort of home to him； where he comes and goes as he
likes at all hours； where he is always welcome and made much of；
where he knows the whole establishment； and walks in an
atmosphere of mysterious greatness。
No knocking or ringing for Mr Bucket。 He has caused himself to
be provided with a key； and can pass in at his pleasure。 As he is
crossing the hall； Mercury informs him； “Here’s another letter for；
you； Mr Bucket； come by post；” and gives it him。
“Another one； eh？” says Mr Bucket。
If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering
curiosity as to Mr Bucket’s letters； that wary person is not the man
to gratify it。 Mr Bucket looks at him； as if his face were a vista of
some miles in length； and he were leisurely contemplating the
same。
“Do you happen to carry a box？” says Mr Bucket。
Unfortunately Mercury is no snuff…taker。
“Could you fetch me a pinch from anywheres？” says Mr
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Bucket。 “Thankee。 It don’t matter what it is； I’m not particular as
to the kind。 Thankee！”
Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed from
somebody downstairs f
