Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Bleak House by Charles Dickens (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖
- Author: Charles Dickens
- Performer: 0141439726
Book online «Bleak House by Charles Dickens (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖». Author Charles Dickens
“Mr. Tulkinghorn,” returns Sir Leicester, “there can be no minor
point between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go farther, and observe
that I cannot readily conceive how ANY right of mine can be a minor
point, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual
as in reference to the family position I have it in charge to
maintain.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. “I have now my
instructions,” he says. “Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal of
trouble—”
“It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn,” Sir Leicester
interrupts him, “TO give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned,
levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would probably
have been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and
severely punished—if not,” adds Sir Leicester after a moment’s
pause, “if not hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden in
passing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactory
thing to having the sentence executed.
“But night is coming on,” says he, “and my Lady will take cold. My
dear, let us go in.”
As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addresses Mr.
Tulkinghorn for the first time.
“You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I
happened to inquire about. It was like you to remember the
circumstance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of
it again. I can’t imagine what association I had with a hand like
that, but I surely had some.”
“You had some?” Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.
“Oh, yes!” returns my Lady carelessly. “I think I must have had
some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of
that actual thing—what is it!—affidavit?”
“Yes.”
“How very odd!”
They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lighted
in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glows
brightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where,
through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape
shudders in the wind and a grey mist creeps along, the only
traveller besides the waste of clouds.
My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and Sir
Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands
before the fire with his hand out at arm’s length, shading his face.
He looks across his arm at my Lady.
“Yes,” he says, “I inquired about the man, and found him. And, what
is very strange, I found him—”
“Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!” Lady Dedlock
languidly anticipates.
“I found him dead.”
“Oh, dear me!” remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked by
the fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned.
“I was directed to his lodging—a miserable, poverty-stricken place
—and I found him dead.”
“You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn,” observes Sir Leicester. “I
think the less said—”
“Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out” (it is my Lady
speaking). “It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking!
Dead?”
Mr. Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head.
“Whether by his own hand—”
“Upon my honour!” cries Sir Leicester. “Really!”
“Do let me hear the story!” says my Lady.
“Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say—”
“No, you mustn’t say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn.”
Sir Leicester’s gallantry concedes the point, though he still feels
that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is
really—really—
“I was about to say,” resumes the lawyer with undisturbed calmness,
“that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my
power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying
that he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether by
his own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly be
known. The coroner’s jury found that he took the poison
accidentally.”
“And what kind of man,” my Lady asks, “was this deplorable
creature?”
“Very difficult to say,” returns the lawyer, shaking his head. “He
had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colour
and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered him
the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had
once been something better, both in appearance and condition.”
“What did they call the wretched being?”
“They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his
name.”
“Not even any one who had attended on him?”
“No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I found
him.”
“Without any clue to anything more?”
“Without any; there was,” says the lawyer meditatively, “an old
portmanteau, but—No, there were no papers.”
During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, Lady
Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their
customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another—as
was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject.
Sir Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of
the Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews his
stately protest, saying that as it is quite clear that no
association in my Lady’s mind can possibly be traceable to this poor
wretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no
more about a subject so far removed from my Lady’s station.
“Certainly, a collection of horrors,” says my Lady, gathering up her
mantles and furs, “but they interest one for the moment! Have the
kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while she
passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner
and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner—again, next day—
again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the same
exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to
be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. Mr.
Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble
confidences, so oddly but of place and yet so perfectly at home.
They appear to take as little note of one another as any two people
enclosed within the same walls could. But whether each evermore
watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great
reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the
other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know
how much the other knows—all this is hidden, for the time, in their
own hearts.
Esther’s Narrative
We held many consultations about what Richard was to be, first
without Mr. Jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterwards with him,
but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. Richard
said he was ready for anything. When Mr. Jarndyce doubted whether
he might not already be too old to enter the Navy, Richard said he
had thought of that, and perhaps he was. When Mr. Jarndyce asked
him what he thought of the Army, Richard said he had thought of
that, too, and it wasn’t a bad idea. When Mr. Jarndyce advised him
to try and decide within himself whether his old preference for the
sea was an ordinary boyish inclination or a strong impulse, Richard
answered, Well he really HAD tried very often, and he couldn’t make
out.
“How much of this indecision of character,” Mr. Jarndyce said to me,
“is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty and
procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I don’t
pretend to say; but that Chancery, among its other sins, is
responsible for some of it, I can plainly see. It has engendered or
confirmed in him a habit of putting off—and trusting to this, that,
and the other chance, without knowing what chance—and dismissing
everything as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The character of
much older and steadier people may be even changed by the
circumstances surrounding them. It would be too much to expect that
a boy’s, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences
and escape them.”
I felt this to be true; though if I may venture to mention what I
thought besides, I thought it much to be regretted that Richard’s
education had not counteracted those influences or directed his
character. He had been eight years at a public school and had
learnt, I understood, to make Latin verses of several sorts in the
most admirable manner. But I never heard that it had been anybody’s
business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his
failings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to HIM. HE had been
adapted to the verses and had learnt the art of making them to such
perfection that if he had remained at school until he was of age, I
suppose he could only have gone on making them over and over again
unless he had enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it.
Still, although I had no doubt that they were very beautiful, and
very improving, and very sufficient for a great many purposes of
life, and always remembered all through life, I did doubt whether
Richard would not have profited by some one studying him a little,
instead of his studying them quite so much.
To be sure, I knew nothing of the subject and do not even now know
whether the young gentlemen of classic Rome or Greece made verses to
the same extent—or whether the young gentlemen of any country ever
did.
“I haven’t the least idea,” said Richard, musing, “what I had better
be. Except that I am quite sure I don’t want to go into the Church,
it’s a toss-up.”
“You have no inclination in Mr. Kenge’s way?” suggested Mr.
Jarndyce.
“I don’t know that, sir!” replied Richard. “I am fond of boating.
Articled clerks go a good deal on the water. It’s a capital
profession!”
“Surgeon—” suggested Mr. Jarndyce.
“That’s the thing, sir!” cried Richard.
I doubt if he had ever once thought of it before.
“That’s the thing, sir,” repeated Richard with the greatest
enthusiasm. “We have got it at last. M.R.C.S.!”
He was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it
heartily. He said he had chosen his profession, and the more he
thought of it, the more he felt that his destiny was clear; the art
of healing was the art of all others for him. Mistrusting that he
only came to this conclusion because, having never had much chance
of finding out for himself what he was fitted for and having never
been guided to the discovery, he was taken by the newest idea and
was glad to get rid of the trouble of consideration, I wondered
whether the Latin verses often ended in this or whether Richard’s
was a solitary case.
Mr. Jarndyce took great pains to talk with him seriously and to put
it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a
matter. Richard was a little grave after these interviews, but
invariably told Ada and me that it was all right, and then began to
talk about something else.
“By heaven!” cried Mr. Boythorn, who interested himself strongly in
the subject—though I need not say that, for he could do nothing
weakly; “I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantry
devoting himself to that noble profession! The more spirit there is
in it, the better for mankind and the worse for those mercenary
task-masters and
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