Bleak House Charles Dickens (classic books to read .TXT) đ
- Author: Charles Dickens
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To Cookâs Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind his counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture of several skins which has just come in from the engrosserâs, an immense desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a resting-place of a few large letters to break the awful monotony and save the traveller from despair. Mr. Snagsby puts up at one of these inky wells and greets the stranger with his cough of general preparation for business.
âYou donât remember me, Mr. Snagsby?â
The stationerâs heart begins to thump heavily, for his old apprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do to answer, âNo, sir, I canât say I do. I should have consideredâ ânot to put too fine a point upon itâ âthat I never saw you before, sir.â
âTwice before,â says Allan Woodcourt. âOnce at a poor bedside, and onceâ ââ
âItâs come at last!â thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection breaks upon him. âItâs got to a head now and is going to burst!â But he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into the little countinghouse and to shut the door.
âAre you a married man, sir?â
âNo, I am not.â
âWould you make the attempt, though single,â says Mr. Snagsby in a melancholy whisper, âto speak as low as you can? For my little woman is a-listening somewheres, or Iâll forfeit the business and five hundred pound!â
In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his back against his desk, protesting, âI never had a secret of my own, sir. I canât charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceive my little woman on my own account since she named the day. I wouldnât have done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I couldnât have done it, I dursnât have done it. Whereas, and nevertheless, I find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my life is a burden to me.â
His visitor professes his regret to hear it and asks him does he remember Jo. Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh, donât he!
âYou couldnât name an individual human beingâ âexcept myselfâ âthat my little woman is more set and determined against than Jo,â says Mr. Snagsby.
Allan asks why.
âWhy?â repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at the clump of hair at the back of his bald head. âHow should I know why? But you are a single person, sir, and may you long be spared to ask a married person such a question!â
With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismal resignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to communicate.
âThere again!â says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness of his feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discoloured in the face. âAt it again, in a new direction! A certain person charges me, in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to anyone, even my little woman. Then comes another certain person, in the person of yourself, and charges me, in an equally solemn way, not to mention Jo to that other certain person above all other persons. Why, this is a private asylum! Why, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is Bedlam, sir!â says Mr. Snagsby.
But it is better than he expected after all, being no explosion of the mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he has fallen. And being tenderhearted and affected by the account he hears of Joâs condition, he readily engages to âlook roundâ as early in the evening as he can manage it quietly. He looks round very quietly when the evening comes, but it may turn out that Mrs. Snagsby is as quiet a manager as he.
Jo is very glad to see his old friend and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half a crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds.
âAnd how do you find yourself, my poor lad?â inquires the stationer with his cough of sympathy.
âI am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am,â returns Jo, âand donât want for nothink. Iâm more cumfbler nor you canât think. Mr. Sangsby! Iâm wery sorry that I done it, but I didnât go fur to do it, sir.â
The stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him what it is that he is sorry for having done.
âMr. Sangsby,â says Jo, âI went and giv a illness to the lady as wos and yit as warnât the tâother lady, and none of âem never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good and my having been sâunfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yesday, and she ses, âAh, Jo!â she ses. âWe thought weâd lost you, Jo!â she ses. And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and donât pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she donât, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a-forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot heâs allus a-doinâ on day and night, and wen he come a-bending over me and a-speakin up so bold, I see his tears a-fallin, Mr. Sangsby.â
The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings.
âWot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby,â proceeds Jo, âwos, as you wos able to write wery large, pâraps?â
âYes, Jo, please God,â returns the stationer.
âUncommon precious large, pâraps?â says Jo with eagerness.
âYes, my poor boy.â
Jo laughs with pleasure. âWot I wos a-thinking on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go and couldnât be moved no furder, whether
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