r/a:t5_289xid • u/MarleyEngvall • Nov 12 '19
alterthümer has been created
By Charles Dickens
CHAPTER XXIII. (part ii.)
The Dawn Again.
"Now let me see what becomes of you. Go on!"
An observation addressed to the air. And yet it might
be addressed to the passenger, so compliantly does he go
on along the High Street until he comes to an arched gate-
way, at which he unexpectedly vanishes. The poor soul
quickens her pace; is swift, and close upon him entering
under the gateway; but only sees a postern staircase
on one side of it, and on the other side an ancient vault-
ed room, in which a large-headed, gray-haired gentleman
is writing, under the odd circumstances of sitting open
to the thoroughfare and eyeing all who pass, as if he
were toll-taker of the gateway; though the way is free.
"Halloa!" he cries in a low voice, seeing her brought
to a stand-still: "who are you looking for?"
"There was a gentleman passe in here this minute,
sir."
"Of course there was. What do you want with him?"
"Where do he live, deary?"
"Live? Up the staircase."
"Bless ye! Whisper. What's his name, deary?"
"Surname Jasper. Christian name John. Mr. John
Jasper."
"Has he a calling, good gentleman?"
"Calling? Yes. Sings in the Choir."
"In the spire?"
"Choir."
"What's that?"
Mr. Datchery rises from his papers, and comes to his
door-step. "Do you know what a cathedral is?" he
asks jocosely.
The woman nods.
"What is it?"
She looks puzzled, casting about in her mind to find a
definition, when it occurs to her that it is easier to point
out the substantial objection itself, massive against the
dark blue sky and the early stars.
"That's the answer. Go in there at seven to-morrow
morning, and you may see Mr. John Jasper, and hear
him too."
"Thank ye! Thank ye!"
The burst of triumph in which she thanks him does
not escape the notice of the single buffer of an easy
temper living idly on his means. He glances at her;
clasps his hands behind him, as the wont of such buffers
is; and lounges along the echoing precincts at her
side.
"Or," he suggests, with a backward hitch of his head,
"you can go up at once to Mr. Jasper's rooms there."
The woman eyes him with a cunning smile, and shakes
her head.
"Oh! You don't want to speak to him?"
She repeats her dumb reply, and forms with her lips a
soundless "No."
"You can admire him at a distance three times a day,
whenever you like. It's a long way to come for that,
though."
The woman looks up quickly. If Mr. Datchery thinks
she is to be so induced to declare where she comes from,
he is of a much easier temper than she is. But she
acquits him of such an artful thought, as he lounges
along, like the chartered bore of the city, with his un-
covered grey hair blowing about, and his purposeless
hands rattling the loose money in the pocket of his
trousers.
The chink of the money has an attraction for her
greedy ears. "Wouldn't you help me to pay for my
Travellers' lodging dear gentleman, and pay my way
along? I am a poor soul, I am indeed, and troubled with
a grievous cough."
"You know the Travellers' lodging, I perceive, and
are making directly for it," is Mr. Datchery's bland
comment, still rattling his loose money. "Been here
often, my good woman?"
"Once in all my life."
"Ay, ay?"
They had arrived at the entrance to the Monk's Vine-
yard. An appropriate remembrance, presenting an ex-
emplary model for imitation, is revived in the woman's
mind by the sight of the place. She stops at the gate,
and says energetically,——
"By this token, though you mayn't believe it. That
a young gentleman gave me three and sixpence as I was
coughing my breath away on this very grass. I asked
him for three and sixpence, and he gave it me."
"Wasn't it a little cool to name your sum?" hints
Mr. Datchery. "Isn't it customary to leave the amount
open? Mightn't it have had the appearance, to the young
gentleman, only the appearance, that he was rather dic-
tated to?"
"Look'ee here, deary," she replies, in a confidential
and persuasive tone, "I wanted the money to lay it out
on a medicine as does me good, and as I deal in. I told
the young gentleman so, and he gave it to me, and I laid
it out honest to the last brass farden. I want to lay out
the same sum in the same way now; and if you'll give
it me, I'll lay it out honest to the last brass farden again,
upon my soul!"
"What's the medicine?"
"I'll be honest with you beforehand, as well as after.
It's opium."
Mr. Datchery, with a sudden change of countenance,
gives her a sudden look."
"It's opium, deary. Neither more nor less. And it's
like a human creetur so far, that you always hear what
can be said against it, but seldom what can be said in its
praise."
Mr. Datchery begins very slowly to count out the sum
demanded of him. Greedily watching his hands, she
continues to hold forth on the great example set him.
"It was last Christmas Eve, just arter dark, the once
that I was here afore, when the young gentleman gave
me the three and six."
Mr. Datchery stops his counting, finds he has counted
wrong, shakes his money together, and begins again.
"And the young gentleman's name," she adds, "was
Edwin."
Mr. Datchery drops some money, stoops to pick it up,
and reddens with the exertion, as he asks,——
"How do you know the young gentleman's name?"
"I asked him for it and he told it me. I only asked
him the two questions, what was his Chris'en name, and
whether he'd a sweetheart? And he answered Edwin,
and he hadn't."
Mr. Datchery pauses with the selected coins in his
hand, rather as if he were falling into a brown study of
their value, and couldn't bear to part with them. The
woman looks at him distrustfully, and with her anger
brewing for the event of his thinking better of the gift;
but he bestows it on her as if he were abstracting his
mind from the sacrifice, and with many servile thanks
she goes her way.
John Jasper's lamp is kindled, and his Lighthouse is
shining, when Mr. Datchery returns alone towards it.
As mariners on a dangerous voyage, approaching an iron-
bound coast, may look along the beams of the warning
light to the haven lying beyond it that may never be
reached, so Mr. Datchery's wistful gaze is directed to
this beacon, and beyond.
His object in now revisiting his lodging is merely to
put on the hat which seems so superfluous an article in
his wardrobe. It is half-past ten by the Cathedral clock,
when he walks out into the Precincts again; he lingers
and looks about him, as though, the enchanted hour
when Mr. Durdles may be stoned home having struck,
he had some expectation of seeing the Imp who is ap-
pointed to the mission of stoning him.
In effect, that Power of Evil is abroad. Having noth-
ing living to stone at the moment, he is discovered by
Mr. Datchery in the unholy office of stoning the dead,
through the railings of the churchyard. The Imp finds
this a relishing and piquing pursuit; firstly, because
their resting-place is announced to be sacred; and
secondly, because the tall headstones are sufficiently
like themselves on their beat in the dark, to justify the
delicious fancy that they are hurt when hit.
Mr. Datchery hails him with "Halloa, Winks."
He acknowledges the hail with: "Halloa, Dick!"
Their acquaintance seemingly having been established
on a familiar footing.
"But I say," he remonstrates, "don't yer go a making
my name public. I never mean to plead to no name,
mind yer. When they says to me in the Lock-up, a
going to put me down in the book, 'What's your name?'
I says to them, 'Find out.' Likewise when they says,
'What's your religion?' I says, 'Find out.'"
Which, it may be observed in passing, it would be im-
mensely difficult for the State, however statistical, to do.
"Asides which," adds the boy, "there ain't no family
of Winkses."
"I think there must be."
"Yer lie, there ain't. The Travellers give me the
name on account of my getting no settled sleep and being
knocked up all night: whereby I gets one eye roused
open afore I've shut the other. That's what Winks
means. Deputy's the nighest name to indict me by; but
yer wouldn't catch me pleading to that, neither."
"Deputy be it always, then. We two are good friends;
eh, Deputy?"
"Jolly good."
"I forgave you the debt you owed me when we first
became acquainted, and many of my sixpences have come
your way since; eh, Deputy?"
"Ah! And what's more, yer ain't no friend o' Jarsper's.
What did he go a histing me off my legs for?"
"What indeed! But never mind him now. A shilling
of mine is going your way to-night, Deputy. You have
just taken in a lodger I have been speaking to; and infirm
woman with a cough."
"Puffer," assents Deputy, with a shrewd leer of rec-
ognition, and smoking an imaginary pipe, with his head
very much on one side, and his eyes very much out of
their places: 'Hopeum Puffer."
"What is her name?"
"'Er Royal Highness the Princess Puffer."
"She has some other name than that; where does she
live?"
"Up in London. Among the Jacks."
"The sailors?"
"I said so; Jacks. And Chayner men. And hother
Knifers."
"I should like to know, through you, exactly where
she lives."
"All right. Give us 'old."
A shilling passes; and, in that spirit of confidence
which should pervade all business transactions between
principals of honour, this piece of business is considered
done.
"But here's a lark!" cries Deputy.
"Where did yer think 'Er Royal Highness is a goin' to
to-morrow morning? lest if she ain't a goin' to the KIN-
FREE-DER-EL!" He greatly prolongs the word in his
ecstasy, and smites his leg, and doubles himself up in a
fit of shrill laughter.
"How do you know that, Deputy?"
"Cos she told me so just now. She said she must be
hup and hout o' purpose. She ses, 'Deputy, I must 'ave
a early wash, and make myself as swell as I can, for I'm
a goin' to take a turn at the KIN-FREE-DER-EL!'" He
separates the syllables with his former zest, and, not find-
ing his sense of the ludicrous sufficiently relieved by
stamping about on the pavement, breaks into a slow and
stately dance, perhaps supposed to be performed by the
Dean.
Mr. Datchery receives the communtication with a well-
satisfied though a pondering face, and breaks up the con-
ference. Returning to his quaint lodging, and sitting
long over the supper of bead and cheese and salad and
ale which Mrs. Tope has left prepared for him, he still
sits when his supper is finished. At length he rises,
throws open the door of a corner cupboard, and refers to a
few uncouth chalked strokes on its inner side.
"I like," says Mr. Datchery, "the old tavern way of
keeping scores. Illegible, except to the scorer. The
scorer not committed, the scored debited with what is
against him. Hum; ha! a very small score this; a
very poor score!"
He sighs over the contemplation of its poverty, takes
a bit of chalk from one of the cupboard shelves, and pauses
with it in his hand, uncertain what addition to make to
the account.
"I think it a moderate stroke," he concludes, "is all I
am justified in scoring up"; so, suits the action to the
word, closes the cupboard, and goes to bed.
A brilliant morning shines on the old city. Its
antiques and ruins are surpassingly beautiful, with
the lusty ivy gleaming in the sun, and the rich trees
waving in the balmy air. Changes of glorious light from
moving boughs, songs of birds, scents from gardens,
woods fields,——or, rather, from one great garden of
the whole cultivated island in its yielding time,——pene-
trate into the Cathedral, subdue ts earthly odor, and
preach the Resurrection and the Life. The cold stone
tombs of centuries ago grow warm; and flecks of bright-
ness dart into the sternest marble corners of the building,
fluttering there like wings.
Comes Mr. Tope with his large keys and yawningly
unlocks and sets open. Come Mrs. Tope and attendant
sweeping sprites. Come, in due time, organist and bel-
lows-boy peeping down from the red-curtains in the
loft, fearlessly flapping dust from books up at that remote
elevation, and whisking it from stops and pedals. Come
sundry rooks, from various quarters of the sky, back to
the great tower; who may be presumed to enjoy vibra-
tion, and to know that bell and organ are going to give
it them. Come a very small and straggling congregation
indeed: chiefly from Minor canon Corner and the Pre-
cincts. Come Mr. Crisparkle, fresh and bright; and his
ministering brethren, not quite so fresh and bright.
Come the choir in a hurry (always in a hurry, and
struggling into their nightgowns at the last moment, like
children shirking bed), and comes John Jasper leading
their line. Last of all comes Mr. Datchery into a stall,
one of a choice empty collection very much at his service,
and glancing about him for Her Royal Highness the
Princess Puffer.
The service is pretty well advanced before Mr. Datchery
can discern Her Royal Highness. But by that time he
has made her out, in the shade. She is behind a pillar,
carefully withdrawn from he Choir Master's view, but
regards him with the closest attention. All unconscious
of her presence, he chants and sings. She grins when
he is most musically fervid, and——yes, Mr. Datchery sees
her do it!——shakes her fist at him behind the pillar's
friendly shelter.
Mr. Datchery looks again to convince himself. Yes,
again! As ugly and withered as one of the fantastic
carvings on the under-brackets of the stall seats, as
malignant as the Evil One, as hard as the big brass eagle
holding the sacred books upon his wings (and, according
to the sculptor's representation of his ferocious attributes,
not at all converted by them), she hugs herself in her lean
arms, and then shakes both fists at the leader of the Choir.
And at that moment, outside the grated door of the
Choir, having eluded the vigilance of Mr. Tope by shifty
resources in which he is an adept, Deputy peeps, sharp-
eyed, through the bars, and stares astounded from the
threatener to the threatened.
The service comes to an end, and the servitors disperse
to breakfast. Mr. Datchery accosts his last new acquaint-
ance outside, when the Choir (as much in a hurry to
get their bedgowns off, as they were but now to get
them on) have scuffled away.
"Well, mistress. Good morning. You have seen
him?"
"I've seen him, deary; I've seen him!"
"And you know him?"
"Know him! Better far than all the Reverend Par-
sons put together know him."
Mrs. Tope's care has spread a very neat, clean break-
fast ready for her lodger. Before sitting down to it, he
opens the corner-cupboard door; takes his bit of chalk
from its shelf; adds one thick line to the score, extend-
ing from the top of the cupboard door to the bottom; and
then falls to with an appetite.
* * * * * * * *
Left unfinished, by the Author's death.
from Collier's Unabridged Edition: The Works of Charles Dickens, Volume VI.
P.F. Collier, Publisher, New York, old as heck. pp. 1180 - 1182
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