Dombey and Son. Чарльз Диккенс
to ask a question about articles in Solomon’s way of business; and Walter knew him sufficiently to give him good day when they met in the street. But as that was the extent of the broker’s acquaintance with Solomon Gills also, Walter was not a little surprised when he came back in the course of the forenoon, agreeably to his promise, to find Mr Brogley sitting in the back parlour with his hands in his pockets, and his hat hanging up behind the door.
‘Well, Uncle Sol!’ said Walter. The old man was sitting ruefully on the opposite side of the table, with his spectacles over his eyes, for a wonder, instead of on his forehead. ‘How are you now?’
Solomon shook his head, and waved one hand towards the broker, as introducing him.
‘Is there anything the matter?’ asked Walter, with a catching in his breath.
‘No, no. There’s nothing the matter, said Mr Brogley. ‘Don’t let it put you out of the way.’
Walter looked from the broker to his Uncle in mute amazement.
‘The fact is,’ said Mr Brogley, ‘there’s a little payment on a bond debt – three hundred and seventy odd, overdue: and I’m in possession.’
‘In possession!’ cried Walter, looking round at the shop.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Brogley, in confidential assent, and nodding his head as if he would urge the advisability of their all being comfortable together. ‘It’s an execution. That’s what it is. Don’t let it put you out of the way. I come myself, because of keeping it quiet and sociable. You know me. It’s quite private.’
‘Uncle Sol!’ faltered Walter.
‘Wally, my boy,’ returned his uncle. ‘It’s the first time. Such a calamity never happened to me before. I’m an old man to begin.’ Pushing up his spectacles again (for they were useless any longer to conceal his emotion), he covered his face with his hand, and sobbed aloud, and his tears fell down upon his coffee-coloured waistcoat.
‘Uncle Sol! Pray! oh don’t!’ exclaimed Walter, who really felt a thrill of terror in seeing the old man weep. ‘For God’s sake don’t do that. Mr Brogley, what shall I do?’
‘I should recommend you looking up a friend or so,’ said Mr Brogley, ‘and talking it over.’
‘To be sure!’ cried Walter, catching at anything. ‘Certainly! Thankee. Captain Cuttle’s the man, Uncle. Wait till I run to Captain Cuttle. Keep your eye upon my Uncle, will you, Mr Brogley, and make him as comfortable as you can while I am gone? Don’t despair, Uncle Sol. Try and keep a good heart, there’s a dear fellow!’
Saying this with great fervour, and disregarding the old man’s broken remonstrances, Walter dashed out of the shop again as hard as he could go; and, having hurried round to the office to excuse himself on the plea of his Uncle’s sudden illness, set off, full speed, for Captain Cuttle’s residence.
Everything seemed altered as he ran along the streets. There were the usual entanglement and noise of carts, drays, omnibuses, waggons, and foot passengers, but the misfortune that had fallen on the wooden Midshipman made it strange and new. Houses and shops were different from what they used to be, and bore Mr Brogley’s warrant on their fronts in large characters. The broker seemed to have got hold of the very churches; for their spires rose into the sky with an unwonted air. Even the sky itself was changed, and had an execution in it plainly.
Captain Cuttle lived on the brink of a little canal near the India Docks, where there was a swivel bridge which opened now and then to let some wandering monster of a ship come roaming up the street like a stranded leviathan. The gradual change from land to water, on the approach to Captain Cuttle’s lodgings, was curious. It began with the erection of flagstaffs, as appurtenances to public-houses; then came slop-sellers’ shops, with Guernsey shirts, sou’wester hats, and canvas pantaloons, at once the tightest and the loosest of their order, hanging up outside. These were succeeded by anchor and chain-cable forges, where sledgehammers were dinging upon iron all day long. Then came rows of houses, with little vane-surmounted masts uprearing themselves from among the scarlet beans. Then, ditches. Then, pollard willows. Then, more ditches. Then, unaccountable patches of dirty water, hardly to be descried, for the ships that covered them. Then, the air was perfumed with chips; and all other trades were swallowed up in mast, oar, and block-making, and boatbuilding. Then, the ground grew marshy and unsettled. Then, there was nothing to be smelt but rum and sugar. Then, Captain Cuttle’s lodgings – at once a first floor and a top storey, in Brig Place – were close before you.
The Captain was one of those timber-looking men, suits of oak as well as hearts, whom it is almost impossible for the liveliest imagination to separate from any part of their dress, however insignificant. Accordingly, when Walter knocked at the door, and the Captain instantly poked his head out of one of his little front windows, and hailed him, with the hard glared hat already on it, and the shirt-collar like a sail, and the wide suit of blue, all standing as usual, Walter was as fully persuaded that he was always in that state, as if the Captain had been a bird and those had been his feathers.
‘Wal’r, my lad!’ said Captain Cuttle. ‘Stand by and knock again. Hard! It’s washing day.’
Walter, in his impatience, gave a prodigious thump with the knocker.
‘Hard it is!’ said Captain Cuttle, and immediately drew in his head, as if he expected a squall.
Nor was he mistaken: for a widow lady, with her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, and her arms frothy with soap-suds and smoking with hot water, replied to the summons with startling rapidity. Before she looked at Walter she looked at the knocker, and then, measuring him with her eyes from head to foot, said she wondered he had left any of it.
‘Captain Cuttle’s at home, I know,’ said Walter with a conciliatory smile.
‘Is he?’ replied the widow lady. ‘In-deed!’
‘He has just been speaking to me,’ said Walter, in breathless explanation.
‘Has he?’ replied the widow lady. ‘Then p’raps you’ll give him Mrs MacStinger’s respects, and say that the next time he lowers himself and his lodgings by talking out of the winder she’ll thank him to come down and open the door too.’ Mrs MacStinger spoke loud, and listened for any observations that might be offered from the first floor.
‘I’ll mention it,’ said Walter, ‘if you’ll have the goodness to let me in, Ma’am.’
For he was repelled by a wooden fortification extending across the doorway, and put there to prevent the little MacStingers in their moments of recreation from tumbling down the steps.
‘A boy that can knock my door down,’ said Mrs MacStinger, contemptuously, ‘can get over that, I should hope!’ But Walter, taking this as a permission to enter, and getting over it, Mrs MacStinger immediately demanded whether an Englishwoman’s house was her castle or not; and whether she was to be broke in upon by ‘raff.’ On these subjects her thirst for information was still very importunate, when Walter, having made his way up the little staircase through an artificial fog occasioned by the washing, which covered the banisters with a clammy perspiration, entered Captain Cuttle’s room, and found that gentleman in ambush behind the door.
‘Never owed her a penny, Wal’r,’ said Captain Cuttle, in a low voice, and with visible marks of trepidation on his countenance. ‘Done her a world of good turns, and the children too. Vixen at times, though. Whew!’
‘I should go away, Captain Cuttle,’ said Walter.
‘Dursn’t do it, Wal’r,’ returned the Captain. ‘She’d find me out, wherever I went. Sit down. How’s Gills?’
The Captain was dining (in his hat) off cold loin of mutton, porter, and some smoking hot potatoes, which he had cooked himself, and took out of a little saucepan before the fire as he wanted them. He unscrewed his hook at dinner-time, and screwed a knife into its wooden socket instead, with which he had already begun to peel one of these potatoes for Walter. His rooms were very small, and strongly impregnated with tobacco-smoke, but snug enough: everything being stowed away, as if there were an earthquake regularly every half-hour.
‘How’s