little dorrit-信丽(英文版)-第37章

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inquiry　and　research；　Arthur　Clennam　became　convinced　that　the　case　of
the　Father　of　the　Marshalsea　was　indeed　a　hopeless　one；　and　sorrowfully
resigned　the　idea　of　helping　him　to　freedom　again。　He　had　no　hopeful
inquiry　to　make　at　present；　concerning　Little　Dorrit　either；　but　he
argued　with　himself　that　it　might……for　anything　he　knew……it　might　be
serviceable　to　the　poor　child；　if　he　renewed　this　acquaintance。　It　is
hardly　necessary　to　add　that　beyond　all　doubt　he　would　have　presented
himself　at　Mr　Casby's　door；　if　there　had　been　no　Little　Dorrit　in
existence；　for　we　all　know　how　we　all　deceive　ourselves……that　is　to
say；　how　people　in　general；　our　profounder　selves　excepted；　deceive
themselves……as　to　motives　of　action。

With　a　fortable　impression　upon　him；　and　quite　an　honest　one　in　its
way；　that　he　was　still　patronising　Little　Dorrit　in　doing　what　had　no
reference　to　her；　he　found　himself　one　afternoon　at　the　corner　of　Mr
Casby's　street。　Mr　Casby　lived　in　a　street　in　the　Gray's　Inn　Road；　which
had　set　off　from　that　thoroughfare　with　the　intention　of　running　at　one
heat　down　into　the　valley；　and　up　again　to　the　top　of　Pentonville　Hill；
but　which　had　run　itself　out　of　breath　in　twenty　yards；　and　had　stood
still　ever　since。　There　is　no　such　place　in　that　part　now；　but　it
remained　there　for　many　years；　looking　with　a　baulked　countenance　at
the　wilderness　patched　with　unfruitful　gardens　and　pimpled　with　eruptive
summerhouses；　that　it　had　meant　to　run　over　in　no　time。

'The　house；'　thought　Clennam；　as　he　crossed　to　the　door；　'is　as　little
changed　as　my　mother's；　and　looks　almost　as　gloomy。　But　the　likeness
ends　outside。　I　know　its　staid　repose　within。　The　smell　of　its　jars　of
old　rose…leaves　and　lavender　seems　to　e　upon　me　even　here。'

When　his　knock　at　the　bright　brass　knocker　of　obsolete　shape　brought　a
woman…servant　to　the　door；　those　faded　scents　in　truth　saluted　him　like
wintry　breath　that　had　a　faint　remembrance　in　it　of　the　bygone　spring。
He　stepped　into　the　sober；　silent；　air…tight　house……one　might　have
fancied　it　to　have　been　stifled　by　Mutes　in　the　Eastern　manner……and　the
door；　closing　again；　seemed　to　shut　out　sound　and　motion。　The
furniture　was　formal；　grave；　and　quaker…like；　but　well…kept；　and　had　as
prepossessing　an　aspect　as　anything；　from　a　human　creature　to　a　wooden
stool；　that　is　meant　for　much　use　and　is　preserved　for　little；　can　ever
wear。　There　was　a　grave　clock；　ticking　somewhere　up　the　staircase；　and
there　was　a　songless　bird　in　the　same　direction；　pecking　at　his　cage；　as
if　he　were　ticking　too。　The　parlour…fire　ticked　in　the　grate。　There　was
only　one　person　on　the　parlour…hearth；　and　the　loud　watch　in　his　pocket
ticked　audibly。

The　servant…maid　had　ticked　the　two　words　'Mr　Clennam'　so　softly　that
she　had　not　been　heard；　and　he　consequently　stood；　within　the　door
she　had　closed；　unnoticed。　The　figure　of　a　man　advanced　in　life；　whose
smooth　grey　eyebrows　seemed　to　move　to　the　ticking　as　the　fire…light
flickered　on　them；　sat　in　an　arm…chair；　with　his　list　shoes　on　the
rug；　and　his　thumbs　slowly　revolving　over　one　another。　This　was　old
Christopher　Casby……recognisable　at　a　glance……as　unchanged　in　twenty
years　and　upward　as　his　own　solid　furniture……as　little　touched　by　the
influence　of　the　varying　seasons　as　the　old　rose…leaves　and　old　lavender
in　his　porcelain　jars。

Perhaps　there　never　was　a　man；　in　this　troublesome　world；　so　troublesome
for　the　imagination　to　picture　as　a　boy。　And　yet　he　had　changed　very
little　in　his　progress　through　life。　Confronting　him；　in　the　room　in
which　he　sat；　was　a　boy's　portrait；　which　anybody　seeing　him　would　have
identified　as　Master　Christopher　Casby；　aged　ten：　though　disguised　with
a　haymaking　rake；　for　which　he　had　had；　at　any　time；　as　much　taste　or
use　as　for　a　diving…bell；　and　sitting　（on　one　of　his　own　legs）　upon　a
bank　of　violets；　moved　to　precocious　contemplation　by　the　spire　of　a
village　church。　There　was　the　same　smooth　face　and　forehead；　the　same
calm　blue　eye；　the　same　placid　air。　The　shining　bald　head；　which　looked
so　very　large　because　it　shone　so　much；　and　the　long　grey　hair　at　its
sides　and　back；　like　floss　silk　or　spun　glass；　which　looked　so　very
benevolent　because　it　was　never　cut；　were　not；　of　course；　to　be　seen　in
the　boy　as　in　the　old　man。　Nevertheless；　in　the　Seraphic　creature　with
the　haymaking　rake；　were　clearly　to　be　discerned　the　rudiments　of　the
Patriarch　with　the　list　shoes。

Patriarch　was　the　name　which　many　people　delighted　to　give　him。
Various　old　ladies　in　the　neighbourhood　spoke　of　him　as　The　Last　of　the
Patriarchs。　So　grey；　so　slopassionate；　so　very　bumpy
in　the　head；　Patriarch　was　the　word　for　him。　He　had　been　accosted　in　the
streets；　and　respectfully　solicited　to　bee　a　Patriarch　for　painters
and　for　sculptors；　with　so　much　importunity；　in　sooth；　that　it　would
appear　to　be　beyond　the　Fine　Arts　to　remember　the　points　of　a　Patriarch；
or　to　invent　one。　Philanthropists　of　both　sexes　had　asked　who　he　was；
and　on　being　informed；　'Old　Christopher　Casby；　formerly　Town…agent　to
Lord　Decimus　Tite　Barnacle；'　had　cried　in　a　rapture　of　disappointment；
'Oh！　why；　with　that　head；　is　he　not　a　benefactor　to　his　species！　Oh！
why；　with　that　head；　is　he　not　a　father　to　the　orphan　and　a　friend　to
the　friendless！'　With　that　head；　however；　he　remained　old　Christopher
Casby；　proclaimed　by　mon　report　rich　in　house　property；　and　with　that
head；　he　now　sat　in　his　silent　parlour。　Indeed　it　would　be　the　height　of
unreason　to　expect　him　to　be　sitting　there　without　that　head。

Arthur　Clennam　moved　to　attract　his　attention；　and　the　grey　eyebrows
turned　towards　him。

'I　beg　your　pardon；'　said　Clennam；　'I　fear　you　did　not　hear　me
announced？'

'No；　sir；　I　did　not。　Did　you　wish　to　see　me；　sir？'

'I　wished　to　pay　my　respects。'

Mr　Casby　seemed　a　feather's　weight　disappointed　by　the　last　words；
having　perhaps　prepared　himself　for　the　visitor's　wishing　to　pay
something　else。　'Have　I　the　pleasure；　sir；'　he　proceeded……'take　a　chair；
if　you　please……have　I　the　pleasure　of　knowing……？　Ah！　truly；　yes；　I　think
I　have！　I　believe　I　am　not　mistaken　in　supposing　that　I　am　acquainted
with　those　features？　I　think　I　address　a　gentleman　of　whose　return　to
this　country　I　was　informed　by　Mr　Flintwinch？'

'That　is　your　present　visitor。'

'Really！　Mr　Clennam？'

'No　other；　Mr　Casby。'

'Mr　Clennam；　I　am　glad　to　see　you。　How　have　you　been　since　we　met？'

Without　thinking　it　worth　while　to　explain　that　in　the　course　of　some
quarter　of　a　century　he　had　experienced　occasional　slight　fluctuations
in　his　health　and　spirits；　Clennam　answered　generally　that　he　had　never
been　better；　or　something　equally　to　the　purpose；　and　shook　hands　with
the　possessor　of　'that　head'　as　it　shed　its　patriarchal　light　upon　him。

'We　are　older；　Mr　Clennam；'　said　Christopher　Casby。

'We　are……not　younger；'　said　Clennam。　After　this　wise　remark　he　felt　that
he　was　scarcely　shining　with　brilliancy；　and　became　aware　that　he　was
nervous。

'And　your　respected　father；'　said　Mr　Casby；　'is　no　more！　I　was　grieved
to　hear　it；　Mr　Clennam；　I　was　grieved。'

Arthur　replied　in　the　usual　way　that　he　felt　infinitely　obliged　to　him。

'There　was　a　time；'　said　Mr　Casby；　'when　your　parents　and　myself　were
not　on　friendly　terms。　There　was　a　little　family　misunderstanding　among
us。　Your　respected　mother　was　rather　jealous　of　her　son；　maybe；　when　I
say　her　son；　I　mean　your　worthy　self；　your　worthy　self。'

His　smooth　face　had　a　bloom　upon　it　like　ripe　wall…fruit。　What　with
his　blooming　face；　and　that　head；　and　his　blue　eyes；　he　seemed　to　be
delivering　sentiments　of　rare　wisdom　and　virtue。　In　like　manner；　his
physiognomical　expression　seemed　to　teem　with　benignity。　Nobody　could
have　said　where　the　wisdom　was；　or　where　the　virtue　was；　or　where　the
benignity　was；　but　they　all　seemed　to　be　somewhere　about　him。　'Those
times；　however；'　pursued　Mr　Casby；　'are　past　and　gone；　past　and　gone。
I　do　myself　the　pleasure　of　making　a　visit　to　your　respected　mother
occasionally；　and　of　admiring　the　fortitude　and　strength　of　mind　with
which　she　bears　her　trials；　bears　her　trials。'　When　he　made　one　of　these
little　repetitions；　sitting　with　his　hands　crossed　before　him；　he　did　it
with　his　head　on　one　side；　and　a　gentle　smile；　as　if　he　had　something　in
his　thoughts　too　sweetly　profound　to　be　put　into　words。　As　if　he　denied
himself　the　pleasure　of　uttering　it；　lest　he　should　soar　too　high；　and
his　meekness　therefore　preferred　to　be　unmeaning。

'I　have　heard　that　you　were　kind　enough　on　one　of　those　occasions；'　said
Arthur；　catching　at　the　opportunity　as　it　drifted　past　him；　'to　mention
Little　Dorrit　to　my　mother。'

'Little……Dorrit？　That's　the　seamstress　who　was　mentioned　to　me　by　a
small　tenant　of　mine？　Yes；　yes。　Dorrit？　That's　the　name。　Ah；　yes；　yes！
You　call　her　Little　Dorrit？'

No　road　in　that　direction。　Nothing　came　of　the　cross…cut。　It　led　no
further。

'My　daughter　Flora；'　said　Mr　Casby；　'as　you　may　have　heard　probably；　Mr
Clennam；　was　married　and　established　in　life；　several　years　ago。　She
had　the　misfortune　to　lose　her　husband　when　she　had　been　married　a　few
months。　She　resides　with　me　again。　She　will　be　glad　to　see　you；　if