Great Expectations. Чарльз Диккенс

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СКАЧАТЬ “but once and away, and on a Saturday night too. Come! Put a name to it, Mr. Gargery.”

      “I wouldn’t wish to be stiff company,” said Joe. “Rum.”

      “Rum,” repeated the stranger. “And will the other gentleman originate a sentiment?”

      “Rum,” said Mr. Wopsle.

      “Three Rums!” cried the stranger, calling to the landlord. “Glasses round!”

      “This other gentleman,” observed Joe, by way of introducing Mr. Wopsle, “is a gentleman that you would like to hear give it out. Our clerk at church.”

      “Aha!” said the stranger, quickly, and cocking his eye at me. “The lonely church, right out on the marshes, with the graves round it!”

      “That’s it,” said Joe.

      The stranger, with a comfortable kind of grunt over his pipe, put his legs up on the settle that he had to himself. He wore a flapping broad-brimmed traveller’s hat, and under it a handkerchief tied over his head in the manner of a cap: so that he showed no hair. As he looked at the fire, I thought I saw a cunning expression, followed by a half laugh, come into his face.

      “I am not acquainted with this country, gentlemen, but it seems a solitary country towards the river.”

      “Most meshes is solitary,” said Joe.

      “No doubt, no doubt. Do you find any gipsies, now, or tramps, or vagrants of any sort, out there?”

      “No,” said Joe; “none but a runaway convict now and then. And we don’t find them, easy. Eh, Mr. Wopsle?”

      Mr. Wopsle, with a majestic remembrance of old discomfiture, assented; but not warmly.

      “Seems you have been out after such?” asked the stranger.

      “Once,” returned Joe. “Not that we wanted to take them, you understand; we went out as lookers on; me, and Mr. Wopsle, and Pip. Didn’t us, Pip?”

      “Yes, Joe.”

      The stranger looked at me again – still cocking his eye, as if he were expressly taking aim at me with his invisible gun – and said, “He’s a likely young parcel of bones that. What is it you call him?”

      “Pip,” said Joe.

      “Christened Pip?”

      “No, not christened Pip.”

      “Surname Pip?”

      “No,” said Joe, “it’s a kind of a family name what he gave himself when a infant, and is called by.”

      “Son of yours?”

      “Well,” said Joe, meditatively – not, of course, that it could be in any wise necessary to consider about it, but because it was the way at the Jolly Bargemen to seem to consider deeply about everything that was discussed over pipes; “well – no. No, he ain’t.”

      “Nevvy?” said the strange man.

      “Well,” said Joe, with the same appearance of profound cogitation, “he is not – no, not to deceive you, he is not – my nevvy.”

      “What the Blue Blazes is he?” asked the stranger. Which appeared to me to be an inquiry of unnecessary strength.

      Mr. Wopsle struck in upon that; as one who knew all about relationships, having professional occasion to bear in mind what female relations a man might not marry; and expounded the ties between me and Joe. Having his hand in, Mr. Wopsle finished off with a most terrifically snarling passage from Richard the Third, and seemed to think he had done quite enough to account for it when he added, “– as the poet says.”

      And here I may remark that when Mr. Wopsle referred to me, he considered it a necessary part of such reference to rumple my hair and poke it into my eyes. I cannot conceive why everybody of his standing who visited at our house should always have put me through the same inflammatory process under similar circumstances. Yet I do not call to mind that I was ever in my earlier youth the subject of remark in our social family circle, but some large-handed person took some such ophthalmic steps to patronise me.

      All this while, the strange man looked at nobody but me, and looked at me as if he were determined to have a shot at me at last, and bring me down. But he said nothing after offering his Blue Blazes observation, until the glasses of rum-and-water were brought; and then he made his shot, and a most extraordinary shot it was.

      It was not a verbal remark, but a proceeding in a dumb-show, and was pointedly addressed to me. He stirred his rum-and-water pointedly at me, and he tasted his rum-and-water pointedly at me. And he stirred and he tasted it: not with a spoon that was brought to him, but with a file.

      He did this so that nobody but I saw the file; and when he had done it he wiped the file and put it in a breast-pocket. I knew it to be Joe’s file, and I knew that he knew my convict, the moment I saw the instrument. I sat gazing at him, spell-bound. But he now reclined on his settle, taking very little notice of me, and talking principally about turnips.

      There was a delicious sense of cleaning-up and making a quiet pause before going on in life afresh, in our village on Saturday nights, which stimulated Joe to dare to stay out half an hour longer on Saturdays than at other times. The half-hour and the rum-and-water running out together, Joe got up to go, and took me by the hand.

      “Stop half a moment, Mr. Gargery,” said the strange man. “I think I’ve got a bright new shilling somewhere in my pocket, and if I have, the boy shall have it.”

      He looked it out from a handful of small change, folded it in some crumpled paper, and gave it to me. “Yours!” said he. “Mind! Your own.”

      I thanked him, staring at him far beyond the bounds of good manners, and holding tight to Joe. He gave Joe good-night, and he gave Mr. Wopsle good-night (who went out with us), and he gave me only a look with his aiming eye – no, not a look, for he shut it up, but wonders may be done with an eye by hiding it.

      On the way home, if I had been in a humour for talking, the talk must have been all on my side, for Mr. Wopsle parted from us at the door of the Jolly Bargemen, and Joe went all the way home with his mouth wide open, to rinse the rum out with as much air as possible. But I was in a manner stupified by this turning up of my old misdeed and old acquaintance, and could think of nothing else.

      My sister was not in a very bad temper when we presented ourselves in the kitchen, and Joe was encouraged by that unusual circumstance to tell her about the bright shilling. “A bad un, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs. Joe, triumphantly, “or he wouldn’t have given it to the boy! Let’s look at it.”

      I took it out of the paper, and it proved to be a good one. “But what’s this?” said Mrs. Joe, throwing down the shilling and catching up the paper. “Two One-Pound notes?”

      Nothing less than two fat sweltering one-pound notes that seemed to have been on terms of the warmest intimacy with all the cattle markets in the county. Joe caught up his hat again, and ran with them to the Jolly Bargemen to restore them to their owner. While he was gone, I sat down on my usual stool and looked vacantly at my sister, feeling pretty sure that the man would not be there.

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