第7章

Clearlytheycouldwantnothingbutastringentpoliceman。

MrArthurClennamsatinthewindowofthecoffee-houseonLudgateHill，countingoneoftheneighbouringbells，makingsentencesandburdensofsongsoutofitinspiteofhimself，andwonderinghowmanysickpeopleitmightbethedeathofinthecourseoftheyear。Asthehourapproached，itschangesofmeasuremadeitmoreandmoreexasperating。Atthequarter，itwentoffintoaconditionofdeadly-livelyimportunity，urgingthepopulaceinavolublemannertoCometochurch，Cometochurch，Cometochurch!

Atthetenminutes，itbecameawarethatthecongregationwouldbescanty，andslowlyhammeredoutinlowspirits，TheyWON’Tcome，theyWON’Tcome，theyWON’Tcome!Atthefiveminutes，itabandonedhope，andshookeveryhouseintheneighbourhoodforthreehundredseconds，withonedismalswingpersecond，asagroanofdespair。

’ThankHeaven!’saidClennam，whenthehourstruck，andthebellstopped。

ButitssoundhadrevivedalongtrainofmiserableSundays，andtheprocessionwouldnotstopwiththebell，butcontinuedtomarchon。’Heavenforgiveme，’saidhe，’andthosewhotrainedme。HowIhavehatedthisday!’

TherewasthedrearySundayofhischildhood，whenhesatwithhishandsbeforehim，scaredoutofhissensesbyahorribletractwhichcommencedbusinesswiththepoorchildbyaskinghiminitstitle，whyhewasgoingtoPerdition？——apieceofcuriositythathereally，inafrockanddrawers，wasnotinaconditiontosatisfy——

andwhich，forthefurtherattractionofhisinfantmind，hadaparenthesisineveryotherlinewithsomesuchhiccuppingreferenceas2Ep。Thess。c。iii，v。6&7。TherewasthesleepySundayofhisboyhood，when，likeamilitarydeserter，hewasmarchedtochapelbyapicquetofteachersthreetimesaday，morallyhandcuffedtoanotherboy；andwhenhewouldwillinglyhavebarteredtwomealsofindigestiblesermonforanotherounceortwoofinferiormuttonathisscantydinnerintheflesh。TherewastheinterminableSundayofhisnonage；whenhismother，sternoffaceandunrelentingofheart，wouldsitalldaybehindaBible——

bound，likeherownconstructionofit，inthehardest，barest，andstraitestboards，withonedintedornamentonthecoverlikethedragofachain，andawrathfulsprinklingofredupontheedgesoftheleaves——asifit，ofallbooks!wereafortificationagainstsweetnessoftemper，naturalaffection，andgentleintercourse。

TherewastheresentfulSundayofalittlelater，whenhesatdowngloweringandgloomingthroughthetardylengthoftheday，withasullensenseofinjuryinhisheart，andnomorerealknowledgeofthebeneficenthistoryoftheNewTestamentthanifhehadbeenbredamongidolaters。TherewasalegionofSundays，alldaysofunserviceablebitternessandmortification，slowlypassingbeforehim。

’Begpardon，sir，’saidabriskwaiter，rubbingthetable。’Wishseebed-room？’

’Yes。Ihavejustmadeupmymindtodoit。’

’Chaymaid!’criedthewaiter。’Gelenboxnumsevenwishseeroom!’

’Stay!’saidClennam，rousinghimself。’IwasnotthinkingofwhatIsaid；Iansweredmechanically。Iamnotgoingtosleephere。I

amgoinghome。’

’Deed，sir？Chaymaid!Gelenboxnumseven，notgosleephere，gome。’

Hesatinthesameplaceasthedaydied，lookingatthedullhousesopposite，andthinking，ifthedisembodiedspiritsofformerinhabitantswereeverconsciousofthem，howtheymustpitythemselvesfortheiroldplacesofimprisonment。Sometimesafacewouldappearbehindthedingyglassofawindow，andwouldfadeawayintothegloomasifithadseenenoughoflifeandhadvanishedoutofit。Presentlytherainbegantofallinslantinglinesbetweenhimandthosehouses，andpeoplebegantocollectundercoverofthepublicpassageopposite，andtolookouthopelesslyattheskyastheraindroppedthickerandfaster。Thenwetumbrellasbegantoappear，draggledskirts，andmud。Whatthemudhadbeendoingwithitself，orwhereitcamefrom，whocouldsay？Butitseemedtocollectinamoment，asacrowdwill，andinfiveminutestohavesplashedallthesonsanddaughtersofAdam。

Thelamplighterwasgoinghisroundsnow；andasthefieryjetssprangupunderhistouch，onemighthavefanciedthemastonishedatbeingsufferedtointroduceanyshowofbrightnessintosuchadismalscene。

MrArthurClennamtookuphishatandbuttonedhiscoat，andwalkedout。Inthecountry，therainwouldhavedevelopedathousandfreshscents，andeverydropwouldhavehaditsbrightassociationwithsomebeautifulformofgrowthorlife。Inthecity，itdevelopedonlyfoulstalesmells，andwasasickly，lukewarm，dirt-

stained，wretchedadditiontothegutters。

HecrossedbyStPaul’sandwentdown，atalongangle，almosttothewater’sedge，throughsomeofthecrookedanddescendingstreetswhichlie(andlaymorecrookedlyandcloselythen)betweentheriverandCheapside。Passing，nowthemouldyhallofsomeobsoleteWorshipfulCompany，nowtheilluminatedwindowsofaCongregationlessChurchthatseemedtobewaitingforsomeadventurousBelzonitodigitoutanddiscoveritshistory；passingsilentwarehousesandwharves，andhereandthereanarrowalleyleadingtotheriver，whereawretchedlittlebill，FOUNDDROWNED，wasweepingonthewetwall；hecameatlasttothehousehesought。Anoldbrickhouse，sodingyastobeallbutblack，standingbyitselfwithinagateway。Beforeit，asquarecourt-yardwhereashrubortwoandapatchofgrasswereasrank(whichissayingmuch)astheironrailingsenclosingthemwererusty；behindit，ajumbleofroots。Itwasadoublehouse，withlong，narrow，heavily-framedwindows。Manyyearsago，ithadhaditinitsmindtoslidedownsideways；ithadbeenproppedup，however，andwasleaningonsomehalf-dozengiganticcrutches：

whichgymnasiumfortheneighbouringcats，weather-stained，smoke-

blackened，andovergrownwithweeds，appearedintheselatterdaystobenoverysurereliance。

’Nothingchanged，’saidthetraveller，stoppingtolookround。

’Darkandmiserableasever。Alightinmymother’swindow，whichseemsnevertohavebeenextinguishedsinceIcamehometwiceayearfromschool，anddraggedmyboxoverthispavement。Well，well，well!’

Hewentuptothedoor，whichhadaprojectingcanopyincarvedworkoffestoonedjack-towelsandchildren’sheadswithwateronthebrain，designedafteraonce-popularmonumentalpattern，andknocked。Ashufflingstepwassoonheardonthestonefloorofthehall，andthedoorwasopenedbyanoldman，bentanddried，butwithkeeneyes。

Hehadacandleinhishand，andhehelditupforamomenttoassisthiskeeneyes。’Ah，MrArthur？’hesaid，withoutanyemotion，’youarecomeatlast？Stepin。’

MrArthursteppedinandshutthedoor。

’Yourfigureisfilledout，andset，’saidtheoldman，turningtolookathimwiththelightraisedagain，andshakinghishead；’butyoudon’tcomeuptoyourfatherinmyopinion。Noryetyourmother。’

’Howismymother？’

’Sheisasshealwaysisnow。Keepsherroomwhennotactuallybedridden，andhasn’tbeenoutofitfifteentimesinasmanyyears，Arthur。’Theyhadwalkedintoaspare，meagredining-room。

Theoldmanhadputthecandlestickuponthetable，and，supportinghisrightelbowwithhislefthand，wassmoothinghisleathernjawswhilehelookedatthevisitor。Thevisitorofferedhishand。Theoldmantookitcoldlyenough，andseemedtopreferhisjaws，towhichhereturnedassoonashecould。

’IdoubtifyourmotherwillapproveofyourcominghomeontheSabbath，Arthur，’hesaid，shakinghisheadwarily。

’Youwouldn’thavemegoawayagain？’

’Oh!I？I？Iamnotthemaster。It’snotwhat_I_wouldhave。

Ihavestoodbetweenyourfatherandmotherforanumberofyears。

Idon’tpretendtostandbetweenyourmotherandyou。’

’WillyoutellherthatIhavecomehome？’

’Yes，Arthur，yes。Oh，tobesure!I’lltellherthatyouhavecomehome。Pleasetowaithere。Youwon’tfindtheroomchanged。’

Hetookanothercandlefromacupboard，lightedit，leftthefirstonthetable，andwentuponhiserrand。Hewasashort，baldoldman，inahigh-shoulderedblackcoatandwaistcoat，drabbreeches，andlongdrabgaiters。Hemight，fromhisdress，havebeeneitherclerkorservant，andinfacthadlongbeenboth。Therewasnothingabouthiminthewayofdecorationbutawatch，whichwasloweredintothedepthsofitsproperpocketbyanoldblackribbon，andhadatarnishedcopperkeymooredaboveit，toshowwhereitwassunk。Hisheadwasawry，andhehadaone-sided，crab-likewaywithhim，asifhisfoundationshadyieldedataboutthesametimeasthoseofthehouse，andheoughttohavebeenproppedupinasimilarmanner。

’HowweakamI，’saidArthurClennam，whenhewasgone，’thatI

couldshedtearsatthisreception!I，whohaveneverexperiencedanythingelse；whohaveneverexpectedanythingelse。’Henotonlycould，butdid。Itwasthemomentaryyieldingofanaturethathadbeendisappointedfromthedawnofitsperceptions，buthadnotquitegivenupallitshopefulyearningsyet。Hesubduedit，tookupthecandle，andexaminedtheroom。Theoldarticlesoffurniturewereintheiroldplaces；thePlaguesofEgypt，muchthedimmerfortheflyandsmokeplaguesofLondon，wereframedandglazeduponthewalls。Therewastheoldcellaretwithnothinginit，linedwithlead，likeasortofcoffinincompartments；therewastheolddarkcloset，alsowithnothinginit，ofwhichhehadbeenmanyatimethesolecontents，indaysofpunishment，whenhehadregardeditastheveritableentrancetothatbournetowhichthetracthadfoundhimgalloping。Therewasthelarge，hard-

featuredclockonthesideboard，whichheusedtoseebendingitsfiguredbrowsuponhimwithasavagejoywhenhewasbehind-handwithhislessons，andwhich，whenitwaswounduponceaweekwithanironhandle，usedtosoundasifitweregrowlinginferociousanticipationofthemiseriesintowhichitwouldbringhim。Butherewastheoldmancomeback，saying，’Arthur，I’llgobeforeandlightyou。’

Arthurfollowedhimupthestaircase，whichwaspanelledoffintospaceslikesomanymourningtablets，intoadimbed-chamber，thefloorofwhichhadgraduallysosunkandsettled，thatthefire-

placewasinadell。Onablackbier-likesofainthishollow，proppedupbehindwithonegreatangularblackbolsterliketheblockatastateexecutioninthegoodoldtimes，sathismotherinawidow’sdress。

Sheandhisfatherhadbeenatvariancefromhisearliestremembrance。Tositspeechlesshimselfinthemidstofrigidsilence，glancingindreadfromtheoneavertedfacetotheother，hadbeenthepeacefullestoccupationofhischildhood。Shegavehimoneglassykiss，andfourstifffingersmuffledinworsted。

Thisembraceconcluded，hesatdownontheoppositesideofherlittletable。Therewasafireinthegrate，astherehadbeennightanddayforfifteenyears。Therewasakettleonthehob，astherehadbeennightanddayforfifteenyears。Therewasalittlemoundofdampedashesonthetopofthefire，andanotherlittlemoundswepttogetherunderthegrate，astherehadbeennightanddayforfifteenyears。Therewasasmellofblackdyeintheairlessroom，whichthefirehadbeendrawingoutofthecrapeandstuffofthewidow’sdressforfifteenmonths，andoutofthebier-

likesofaforfifteenyears。

’Mother，thisisachangefromyouroldactivehabits。’

’Theworldhasnarrowedtothesedimensions，Arthur，’shereplied，glancingroundtheroom。’ItiswellformethatIneversetmyheartuponitshollowvanities。’

Theoldinfluenceofherpresenceandhersternstrongvoice，sogatheredaboutherson，thathefeltconsciousofarenewalofthetimidchillandreserveofhischildhood。