BLEAK HOUSE

Inapoi la Sumar

CHAPTER XLII  

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Chambers 

From the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the Dedlock  property, Mr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat and  dust of London.  His manner of coming and going between the two  places is one of his impenetrabilities.  He walks into Chesney Wold  as if it were next door to his chambers and returns to his chambers  as if he had never been out of Lincoln's Inn Fields.  He neither  changes his dress before the journey nor talks of it afterwards.   

He melted out of his turret-room this morning, just as now, in the  late twilight, he melts into his own square.  Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these pleasant  fields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the goats into  wigs, and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer, smoke-dried and  faded, dwelling among mankind but not consorting with them, aged  without experience of genial youth, and so long used to make his  cramped nest in holes and corners of human nature that he has  forgotten its broader and better range, comes sauntering home.  In  the oven made by the hot pavements and hot buildings, he has baked  himself dryer than usual; and he has in his thirsty mind his  mellowed port-wine half a century old.  The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr.  Tulkinghorn's side of the Fields when that high-priest of noble  mysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard.  He ascends the door- steps and is gliding into the dusky hall when he encounters, on the  top step, a bowing and propitiatory little man. 

"Is that Snagsby?" 

"Yes, sir.  I hope you are well, sir.  I was just giving you up,  sir, and going home." 

"Aye?  What is it?  What do you want with me?" 

"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his  head in his deference towards his best customer, "I was wishful to  say a word to you, sir." 

"Can you say it here?" 

"Perfectly, sir." 

"Say it then." 

The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron  railing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter  lighting the court-yard. 

"It is relating," says Mr. Snagsby in a mysterious low voice, "it  is relating--not to put too fine a point upon it--to the foreigner,  sir!"  Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. 

"What foreigner?" 

"The foreign female, sir.  French, if I don't mistake?  I am not  acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from her  manners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainly  foreign.  Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me had  the honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night." 

"Oh! Yes, yes.  Mademoiselle Hortense." 

"Indeed, sir?" Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission behind  his hat. 

"I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners  in general, but I have no doubt it WOULD be that." 

Mr. Snagsby  appears to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of  repeating the name, but on reflection coughs again to excuse  himself. 

"And what can you have to say, Snagsby," demands Mr. Tulkinghorn,  "about her?" 

"Well, sir," returns the stationer, shading his communication with  his hat, "it falls a little hard upon me.  My domestic happiness is  very great--at least, it's as great as can be expected, I'm sure-- but my little woman is rather given to jealousy. 

Not to put too  fine a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy.  And you  see, a foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the  shop, and hovering--I should be the last to make use of a strong  expression if I could avoid it, but hovering, sir--in the court-- you know it is--now ain't it?  I only put it to yourself, sir.  Mr. Snagsby, having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws in  a cough of general application to fill up all the blanks. 

"Why, what do you mean?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn. 

"Just so, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby; "I was sure you would feel it  yourself and would excuse the reasonableness of MY feelings when  coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman.  You see,  the foreign female--which you mentioned her name just now, with  quite a native sound I am sure--caught up the word Snagsby that  night, being uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and got the  direction and come at dinner-time.  Now Guster, our young woman, is  timid and has fits, and she, taking fright at the foreigner's  looks--which are fierce--and at a grinding manner that she has of  speaking--which is calculated to alarm a weak mind--gave way to it,  instead of bearing up against it, and tumbled down the kitchen  stairs out of one into another, such fits as I do sometimes think  are never gone into, or come out of, in any house but ours.   

Consequently there was by good fortune ample occupation for my  little woman, and only me to answer the shop.  When she DID say  that Mr. Tulkinghorn, being always denied to her by his employer  (which I had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of viewing a  clerk), she would do herself the pleasure of continually calling at  my place until she was let in here.  Since then she has been, as I  began by saying, hovering, hovering, sir"--Mr. Snagsby repeats the  word with pathetic emphasis--"in the court.  The effects of which  movement it is impossible to calculate.  I shouldn't wonder if it  might have already given rise to the painfullest mistakes even in  the neighbours' minds, not mentioning (if such a thing was  possible) my little woman.  Whereas, goodness knows," says Mr.  Snagsby, shaking his head, "I never had an idea of a foreign  female, except as being formerly connected with a bunch of brooms  and a baby, or at the present time with a tambourine and earrings.   

I never had, I do assure you, sir!"  Mr. Tulkinghorn had listened gravely to this complaint and inquires  when the stationer has finished, "And that's all, is it, Snagsby?" 

"Why yes, sir, that's all," says Mr. Snagsby, ending with a cough  that plainly adds, "and it's enough too--for me." 

"I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean, unless  she is mad," says the lawyer.  "Even if she was, you know, sir," Mr. Snagsby pleads, "it wouldn't  be a consolation to have some weapon or another in the form of a  foreign dagger planted in the family." 

"No," says the other. 

"Well, well!  This shall be stopped.  I am  sorry you have been inconvenienced.  If she comes again, send her  here."  Mr. Snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing, takes  his leave, lightened in heart.  Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs,  saying to himself, "These women were created to give trouble the  whole earth over.  The mistress not being enough to deal with,  here's the maid now!  But I will be short with THIS jade at least!" 

So saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murky  rooms, lights his candles, and looks about him.  It is too dark to  see much of the Allegory over-head there, but that importunate  Roman, who is for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, is  at his old work pretty distinctly.  Not honouring him with much  attention, Mr. Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket,  unlocks a drawer in which there is another key, which unlocks a  chest in which there is another, and so comes to the cellar-key,  with which he prepares to descend to the regions of old wine.  He  is going towards the door with a candle in his hand when a knock  comes. 

"Who's this?  Aye, aye, mistress, it's you, is it?  You appear at a  good time.  I have just been hearing of you.  Now! What do you  want?" 

He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk's hall and  taps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words of  welcome to Mademoiselle Hortense.  That feline personage, with her  lips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softly  closes the door before replying. 

"I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir." 

"HAVE you!" 

"I have been here very often, sir.  It has always been said to me,  he is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not for  you." 

"Quite right, and quite true." 

"Not true.  Lies!"  At times there is a suddenness in the manner of Mademoiselle  Hortense so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it that such  subject involuntarily starts and fails back.  It is Mr.  Tulkinghorn's case at present, though Mademoiselle Hortense, with  her eyes almost shut up (but still looking out sideways), is only  smiling contemptuously and shaking her head. 

"Now, mistress," says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon the  chimney-piece. 

"If you have anything to say, say it, say it." 

"Sir, you have not use me well.  You have been mean and shabby." 

"Mean and shabby, eh?" returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose with  the key. 

"Yes.  What is it that I tell you?  You know you have.  You have  attrapped me--catched me--to give you information; you have asked  me to show you the dress of mine my Lady must have wore that night,  you have prayed me to come in it here to meet that boy.  Say! Is it  not?"  Mademoiselle Hortense makes another spring. 

"You are a vixen, a vixen!"  Mr. Tulkinghorn seems to meditate as  he looks distrustfully at her, then he replies, "Well, wench, well.   I paid you." 

"You paid me!" she repeats with fierce disdain. 

"Two sovereign!  I  have not change them, I re-fuse them, I des-pise them, I throw them  from me!"  Which she literally does, taking them out of her bosom  as she speaks and flinging them with such violence on the floor  that they jerk up again into the light before they roll away into  corners and slowly settle down there after spinning vehemently. 

"Now!" says Mademoiselle Hortense, darkening her large eyes again. 

"You have paid me?  Eh, my God, oh yes!" 

Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key while she entertains  herself with a sarcastic laugh. 

"You must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes, "to  throw money about in that way!"  "I AM rich," she returns. 

"I am very rich in hate.  I hate my  Lady, of all my heart.  You know that." 

"Know it?  How should I know it?" 

"Because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to give  you that information.  Because you have known perfectly that I was  en-r-r-r-raged!"  It appears impossible for mademoiselle to roll  the letter "r" sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that she  assists her energetic delivery by clenching both her hands and  setting all her teeth. 

"Oh! I knew that, did I?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, examining the wards  of the key. 

"Yes, without doubt.  I am not blind.  You have made sure of me  because you knew that.  You had reason!  I det-est her."   Mademoiselle folds her arms and throws this last remark at him over  one of her shoulders. 

"Having said this, have you anything else to say, mademoiselle?" 

"I am not yet placed.  Place me well.  Find me a good condition!   If you cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pursue  her, to chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her.  I will help  you well, and with a good will.  It is what YOU do.  Do I not know  that?" 

"You appear to know a good deal," Mr. Tulkinghorn retorts. 

"Do I not?  Is it that I am so weak as to believe, like a child,  that I come here in that dress to rec-cive that boy only to decide  a little bet, a wager?  Eh, my God, oh yes!"  In this reply, down  to the word "wager" inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironically  polite and tender, then as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and  most defiant scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment  very nearly shut and staringly wide open. 

"Now, let us see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the  key and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter stands." 

"Ah! Let us see," mademoiselle assents, with many angry and tight  nods of her head. 

"You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which you have  just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come again." 

"And again," says mademoiselle with more tight and angry nods.   

"And yet again.  And yet again.  And many times again.  In effect,  for ever!" 

"And not only here, but you will go to Mr, Snagsby's too, perhaps?   That visit not succeeding either, you will go again perhaps?" 

"And again," repeats mademoiselle, cataleptic with determination.   

"And yet again.  And yet again.  And many times again.  In effect,  for ever!" 

"Very well.  Now, Mademoiselle Hortense, let me recommend you to  take the candle and pick up that money of yours.  I think you will  find it behind the clerk's partition in the corner yonder." 

She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder and stands her ground  with folded arms. 

"You will not, eh?" 

"No, I will not!" 

"So much the poorer you; so much the richer I!  Look, mistress,  this is the key of my wine-cellar.  It is a large key, but the keys  of prisons are larger.  In this city there are houses of correction  (where the treadmills are, for women), the gates of which are very  strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too.  I am afraid a lady of  your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have one  of those keys turned upon her for any length of time.  What do you  think?" 

"I think," mademoiselle replies without any action and in a clear,  obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wretch." 

"Probably," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose.   

"But I don't ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think of  the prison." 

"Nothing.  What does it matter to me?" 

"Why, it matters this much, mistress," says the lawyer,  deliberately putting away his handkerchief and adjusting his frill;  "the law is so despotic here that it interferes to prevent any of  our good English citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's  visits against his desire.  And on his complaining that he is so  troubled, it takes hold of the troublesome lady and shuts her up in  prison under hard discipline.  Turns the key upon her, mistress."   Illustrating with the cellar-key. 

"Truly?" returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. 

"That is  droll!  But--my faith! --still what does it matter to me?" 

"My fair friend," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "make another visit here,  or at Mr. Snagsby's, and you shall learn." 

"In that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?" 

"Perhaps." 

It would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle's state of  agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish  expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would  make her do it. 

"In a word, mistress," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "I am sorry to be  unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here--or  there--again, I will give you over to the police.  Their gallantry  is great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets in  an ignominious manner, strapped down on a board, my good wench." 

"I will prove you," whispers mademoiselle, stretching out her hand,  "I will try if you dare to do it!" 

"And if," pursues the lawyer without minding her, "I place you in  that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some  time before you find yourself at liberty again." 

"I will prove you," repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper. 

"And now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, "you had  better go.  Think twice before you come here again." 

"Think you," she answers, "twice two hundred times!" 

"You were dismissed by your lady, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn  observes, following her out upon the staircase, "as the most  implacable and unmanageable of women. 

Now turn over a new leaf and  take warning by what I say to you.  For what I say, I mean; and  what I threaten, I will do, mistress."  She goes down without answering or looking behind her.  When she is  gone, he goes down too, and returning with his cobweb-covered  bottle, devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents,  now and then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catching  sight of the pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling.

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