bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第99节
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the bread and butter together； and launching two or three dirty
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teacups into the ebb…tide of the basin of tea； as a hint that she
considers the eating and drinking terminated。
“Now！ Who is it； and what’s wanted？” says the snappish Judy。
It is one “Mr George；” it appears。 Without other announcement
or ceremony； Mr George walks in。
“Whew！” says Mr George。 “You are hot here。 Always a fire； eh？
Well！ Perhaps you do right to get used to one。” Mr George makes
the latter remark to himself； as he nods to Grandfather
Smallweed。
“Ho！ It’s you！” cries the old gentleman。 “How de do？ How de
do？”
“Middling；” replies Mr George； taking a chair。 “Your grand…
daughter I have had the honour of seeing before： my service to
you； miss。”
“This is my grandson；” says Grandfather Smallweed。 “You
ha’n’t seen him before。 He is in the law； and not much at home。”
“My service to him； too！ He is like his sister。 He is very like his
sister。 He is devilish like his sister；” says Mr George； laying a great
and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective。
“And how does the world use you； Mr George？” Grandfather
Smallweed inquires； slowly rubbing his legs。
“Pretty much as usual。 Like a football。”
He is a swarthy browned man of fifty； well made； and good…
looking； with crisp dark hair； bright eyes； and a broad chest。 His
sinewy and powerful hands； as sunburnt as his face； have
evidently been used to a pretty rough life。 What is curious about
him is； that he sits forward on his chair as if he were； from long
habit； allowing space for some dress or accoutrements that he has
altogether laid aside。 His step too is measured and heavy； and
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would go well with a weighty clash and jingle of spurs。 He is close…
shaved now； but his mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for
years familiar with a great moustache； and his manner of
occasionally laying the open palm of his broad brown hand upon
it； is to the same effect。 Altogether； one might guess Mr George to
have been a trooper once upon a time。
A special contrast Mr George makes to the Smallweed family。
Trooper was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him。
It is a broadsword to an oyster knife。 His developed figure； and
their stunted forms； his large manner； filling any amount of room；
and their little narrow pinched ways； his sounding voice； and their
sharp spare tones； are in the strongest and the strangest
opposition。 As he sits in the middle of the grim parlour； leaning a
little forward； with his hands upon his thighs； and his elbows
squared； he looks as though； if remained there long； he would
absorb into himself the whole family and the whole four…roomed
house； extra little back…kitchen and all。
“Do you rub your legs to rub life into ’em？” he asks of
Grandfather Swallweed； after looking round the room。
“Why； it’s partly a habit； Mr George； and—yes—it partly helps
the circulation；” he replies。
“The cir…cu…la…tion！” repeats Mr George； folding his arms upon
his chest； and seeming to become two sizes larger。 “Not much of
that； I should think。”
“Truly I’m old； Mr George；” says Grandfather Smallweed。 “But
I can carry my years。 I’m older than her；” nodding at his wife； “and
see what she is！—You’re a brimstone chatterer！” with a sudden
revival of his late hostility。
“Unlucky old soul！” says Mr George； turning his head in that
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direction。 “Don’t scold the old lady。 Look at her here； with her
poor cap half off her head； and her poor chair all in a muddle。
Hold up； ma’am。 That’s better。 There we are！ Think of your
mother； Mr Smallweed；” says Mr George； coming back to his seat
from assisting her； “if your wife an’t enough。”
“I suppose you were an excellent son； Mr George；” the old man
hints； with a leer。
The colour of Mr George’s face rather deepens； as he replies；
“Why no。 I wasn’t。”
“I am astonished at it。”
“So am I。 I ought to have been a good son； and I think I meant
to have been one。 But I wasn’t。 I was a thundering bad son； that’s
the long and the short of it； and never was a credit to anybody。”
“Surprising！” cries the old man。
“However；” Mr George resumes； “the less said about it the
better now。 Come！ You know the agreement。 Always a pipe out of
the two months’ interest！ （Bosh！ It’s all correct。 You needn’t be
afraid to order the pipe。 Here’s the new bill； and here’s the two
months’ interest…money； and a devil…and…all of a scrape it is to get
it together in my business）。”
Mr George sits； with his arms folded； consuming the family and
the parlour； while Grandfather Smallweed is assisted by Judy to
two black leathern cases out of a locked bureau； in one of which he
secures the document he has just received； and from the other
takes another similar document which he hands to Mr George；
who twists it up for a pipe…light。 As the old man inspects； through
his glasses； every up…stroke and downstroke of both documents；
before he releases them from their leathern prison； and as he
counts the money three times over； and requires Judy to say every
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word she utters at least twice； and is as tremulously slow of speech
and action as it is possible to be； this business is a long time in
progress。 When it is quite concluded； and not before； he
disengages his ravenous eyes and fingers from it； and answers Mr
George’s last remark by saying； “Afraid to order the pipe？ We are
not so mercenary as that； sir。 Judy； see directly to the pipe and the
glass of cold brandy and water for Mr George。”
The sportive twins； who have been looking straight before them
all this time； except when they have been engrossed by the
leathern cases； retire together； generally disdainful of the visitor；
but leaving him to the old man； as two young cubs might leave a
traveller to the parental bear。
“And there you sit； I suppose； all the day long； eh！” says Mr
George； with folded arms。
“Just so； just so；” the old man nods。
“And don’t you occupy yourself at all？”
“I watch the fire—and the boiling and the roasting—”
“When there is any；” says Mr George； with great expression。
“Just so。 When there is any。”
“Don’t you read； and get read to？”
The old man shakes his head with sharp sly triumph。 “No； no。
We have never been readers in our family。 It don’t pay。 Stuff。
Idleness。 Folly。 No； no！”
“There’s not much to choose between your two states；” says the
visitor； in a key too low for the old man’s dull hearing； as he looks
from him to the old woman and back again。 “I say！” in a louder
voice。
“I hear you。”
“You’ll sell me up at last I suppose； when I am a day in arrear。”
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“My dear friend！” cries Grandfather Smallweed； stretching out
both hands to embrace him。 “Never！ Never； my dear friend！ But
my friend in the city that I
