The Uncommercial Traveller. Чарльз Диккенс

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      ‘Ain’t got no one here, Mr. Sharpeye,’ rejoin the woman and my good man together, ‘but our own family.’

      ‘How many are you in family?’

      The woman takes time to count, under pretence of coughing, and adds, as one scant of breath, ‘Seven, sir.’

      But she has missed one, so Sharpeye, who knows all about it, says:

      ‘Here’s a young man here makes eight, who ain’t of your family?’

      ‘No, Mr. Sharpeye, he’s a weekly lodger.’

      ‘What does he do for a living?’

      The young man here, takes the reply upon himself, and shortly answers, ‘Ain’t got nothing to do.’

      The young man here, is modestly brooding behind a damp apron pendent from a clothes-line. As I glance at him I become – but I don’t know why – vaguely reminded of Woolwich, Chatham, Portsmouth, and Dover. When we get out, my respected fellow-constable Sharpeye, addressing Mr. Superintendent, says:

      ‘You noticed that young man, sir, in at Darby’s?’

      ‘Yes. What is he?’

      ‘Deserter, sir.’

      Mr. Sharpeye further intimates that when we have done with his services, he will step back and take that young man. Which in course of time he does: feeling at perfect ease about finding him, and knowing for a moral certainty that nobody in that region will be gone to bed.

      Later still in the night, we came to another parlour up a step or two from the street, which was very cleanly, neatly, even tastefully, kept, and in which, set forth on a draped chest of drawers masking the staircase, was such a profusion of ornamental crockery, that it would have furnished forth a handsome sale-booth at a fair. It backed up a stout old lady – Hogarth drew her exact likeness more than once – and a boy who was carefully writing a copy in a copy-book.

      ‘Well, ma’am, how do you do?’

      Sweetly, she can assure the dear gentlemen, sweetly. Charmingly, charmingly. And overjoyed to see us!

      ‘Why, this is a strange time for this boy to be writing his copy. In the middle of the night!’

      ‘So it is, dear gentlemen, Heaven bless your welcome faces and send ye prosperous, but he has been to the Play with a young friend for his diversion, and he combinates his improvement with entertainment, by doing his school-writing afterwards, God be good to ye!’

      The copy admonished human nature to subjugate the fire of every fierce desire. One might have thought it recommended stirring the fire, the old lady so approved it. There she sat, rosily beaming at the copy-book and the boy, and invoking showers of blessings on our heads, when we left her in the middle of the night, waiting for Jack.

      Later still in the night, we came to a nauseous room with an earth floor, into which the refuse scum of an alley trickled. The stench of this habitation was abominable; the seeming poverty of it, diseased and dire. Yet, here again, was visitor or lodger – a man sitting before the fire, like the rest of them elsewhere, and apparently not distasteful to the mistress’s niece, who was also before the fire. The mistress herself had the misfortune of being in jail.

      Three weird old women of transcendent ghastliness, were at needlework at a table in this room. Says Trampfoot to First Witch, ‘What are you making?’ Says she, ‘Money-bags.’

      ‘What are you making?’ retorts Trampfoot, a little off his balance.

      ‘Bags to hold your money,’ says the witch, shaking her head, and setting her teeth; ‘you as has got it.’

      She holds up a common cash-bag, and on the table is a heap of such bags. Witch Two laughs at us. Witch Three scowls at us. Witch sisterhood all, stitch, stitch. First Witch has a circle round each eye. I fancy it like the beginning of the development of a perverted diabolical halo, and that when it spreads all round her head, she will die in the odour of devilry.

      Trampfoot wishes to be informed what First Witch has got behind the table, down by the side of her, there? Witches Two and Three croak angrily, ‘Show him the child!’

      She drags out a skinny little arm from a brown dustheap on the ground. Adjured not to disturb the child, she lets it drop again. Thus we find at last that there is one child in the world of Entries who goes to bed – if this be bed.

      Mr. Superintendent asks how long are they going to work at those bags?

      How long? First Witch repeats. Going to have supper presently. See the cups and saucers, and the plates.

      ‘Late? Ay! But we has to ’arn our supper afore we eats it!’ Both the other witches repeat this after First Witch, and take the Uncommercial measurement with their eyes, as for a charmed winding-sheet. Some grim discourse ensues, referring to the mistress of the cave, who will be released from jail to-morrow. Witches pronounce Trampfoot ‘right there,’ when he deems it a trying distance for the old lady to walk; she shall be fetched by niece in a spring-cart.

      As I took a parting look at First Witch in turning away, the red marks round her eyes seemed to have already grown larger, and she hungrily and thirstily looked out beyond me into the dark doorway, to see if Jack was there. For, Jack came even here, and the mistress had got into jail through deluding Jack.

      When I at last ended this night of travel and got to bed, I failed to keep my mind on comfortable thoughts of Seaman’s Homes (not overdone with strictness), and improved dock regulations giving Jack greater benefit of fire and candle aboard ship, through my mind’s wandering among the vermin I had seen. Afterwards the same vermin ran all over my sleep. Evermore, when on a breezy day I see Poor Mercantile Jack running into port with a fair wind under all sail, I shall think of the unsleeping host of devourers who never go to bed, and are always in their set traps waiting for him.

      VI

      REFRESHMENTS FOR TRAVELLERS

      In the late high winds I was blown to a great many places – and indeed, wind or no wind, I generally have extensive transactions on hand in the article of Air – but I have not been blown to any English place lately, and I very seldom have blown to any English place in my life, where I could get anything good to eat and drink in five minutes, or where, if I sought it, I was received with a welcome.

      This is a curious thing to consider. But before (stimulated by my own experiences and the representations of many fellow-travellers of every uncommercial and commercial degree) I consider it further, I must utter a passing word of wonder concerning high winds.

      I wonder why metropolitan gales always blow so hard at Walworth. I cannot imagine what Walworth has done, to bring such windy punishment upon itself, as I never fail to find recorded in the newspapers when the wind has blown at all hard. Brixton seems to have something on its conscience; Peckham suffers more than a virtuous Peckham might be supposed to deserve; the howling neighbourhood of Deptford figures largely in the accounts of the ingenious gentlemen who are out in every wind that blows, and to whom it is an ill high wind that blows no good; but, there can hardly be any Walworth left by this time. It must surely be blown away. I have read of more chimney-stacks and house-copings coming down with terrific smashes at Walworth, and of more sacred edifices being nearly (not quite) blown out to sea from the same accursed locality, than I have read of practised thieves with the appearance and manners of СКАЧАТЬ