The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Чарльз Диккенс
nine, and one to finish with, and all that, understood. Hooray, hooray, hooray!—And now, Jack, let’s have a little talk about Pussy. Two pairs of nut-crackers? Pass me one, and take the other.’ Crack. ‘How’s Pussy getting on Jack?’
‘With her music? Fairly.’
‘What a dreadfully conscientious fellow you are, Jack! But I know, Lord bless you! Inattentive, isn’t she?’
‘She can learn anything, if she will.’
‘If she will! Egad, that’s it. But if she won’t?’
Crack!—on Mr. Jasper’s part.
‘How’s she looking, Jack?’
Mr. Jasper’s concentrated face again includes the portrait as he returns: ‘Very like your sketch indeed.’
‘I am a little proud of it,’ says the young fellow, glancing up at the sketch with complacency, and then shutting one eye, and taking a corrected prospect of it over a level bridge of nut-crackers in the air: ‘Not badly hit off from memory. But I ought to have caught that expression pretty well, for I have seen it often enough.’
Crack!—on Edwin Drood’s part.
Crack!—on Mr. Jasper’s part.
‘In point of fact,’ the former resumes, after some silent dipping among his fragments of walnut with an air of pique, ‘I see it whenever I go to see Pussy. If I don’t find it on her face, I leave it there.—You know I do, Miss Scornful Pert. Booh!’ With a twirl of the nut-crackers at the portrait.
Crack! crack! crack. Slowly, on Mr. Jasper’s part.
Crack. Sharply on the part of Edwin Drood.
Silence on both sides.
‘Have you lost your tongue, Jack?’
‘Have you found yours, Ned?’
‘No, but really;—isn’t it, you know, after all—’
Mr. Jasper lifts his dark eyebrows inquiringly.
‘Isn’t it unsatisfactory to be cut off from choice in such a matter? There, Jack! I tell you! If I could choose, I would choose Pussy from all the pretty girls in the world.’
‘But you have not got to choose.’
‘That’s what I complain of. My dead and gone father and Pussy’s dead and gone father must needs marry us together by anticipation. Why the—Devil, I was going to say, if it had been respectful to their memory—couldn’t they leave us alone?’
‘Tut, tut, dear boy,’ Mr. Jasper remonstrates, in a tone of gentle deprecation.
‘Tut, tut? Yes, Jack, it’s all very well for you. You can take it easily. Your life is not laid down to scale, and lined and dotted out for you, like a surveyor’s plan. You have no uncomfortable suspicion that you are forced upon anybody, nor has anybody an uncomfortable suspicion that she is forced upon you, or that you are forced upon her. You can choose for yourself. Life, for you, is a plum with the natural bloom on; it hasn’t been over-carefully wiped off for you—’
‘Don’t stop, dear fellow. Go on.’
‘Can I anyhow have hurt your feelings, Jack?’
‘How can you have hurt my feelings?’
‘Good Heaven, Jack, you look frightfully ill! There’s a strange film come over your eyes.’
Mr. Jasper, with a forced smile, stretches out his right hand, as if at once to disarm apprehension and gain time to get better. After a while he says faintly:
‘I have been taking opium for a pain—an agony—that sometimes overcomes me. The effects of the medicine steal over me like a blight or a cloud, and pass. You see them in the act of passing; they will be gone directly. Look away from me. They will go all the sooner.’
With a scared face the younger man complies by casting his eyes downward at the ashes on the hearth. Not relaxing his own gaze on the fire, but rather strengthening it with a fierce, firm grip upon his elbow-chair, the elder sits for a few moments rigid, and then, with thick drops standing on his forehead, and a sharp catch of his breath, becomes as he was before. On his so subsiding in his chair, his nephew gently and assiduously tends him while he quite recovers. When Jasper is restored, he lays a tender hand upon his nephew’s shoulder, and, in a tone of voice less troubled than the purport of his words—indeed with something of raillery or banter in it—thus addresses him:
‘There is said to be a hidden skeleton in every house; but you thought there was none in mine, dear Ned.’
‘Upon my life, Jack, I did think so. However, when I come to consider that even in Pussy’s house—if she had one—and in mine—if I had one—’
‘You were going to say (but that I interrupted you in spite of myself) what a quiet life mine is. No whirl and uproar around me, no distracting commerce or calculation, no risk, no change of place, myself devoted to the art I pursue, my business my pleasure.’
‘I really was going to say something of the kind, Jack; but you see, you, speaking of yourself, almost necessarily leave out much that I should have put in. For instance: I should have put in the foreground your being so much respected as Lay Precentor, or Lay Clerk, or whatever you call it, of this Cathedral; your enjoying the reputation of having done such wonders with the choir; your choosing your society, and holding such an independent position in this queer old place; your gift of teaching (why, even Pussy, who don’t like being taught, says there never was such a Master as you are!), and your connexion.’
‘Yes; I saw what you were tending to. I hate it.’
‘Hate it, Jack?’ (Much bewildered.)
‘I hate it. The cramped monotony of my existence grinds me away by the grain. How does our service sound to you?’
‘Beautiful! Quite celestial!’
‘It often sounds to me quite devilish. I am so weary of it. The echoes of my own voice among the arches seem to mock me with my daily drudging round. No wretched monk who droned his life away in that gloomy place, before me, can have been more tired of it than I am. He could take for relief (and did take) to carving demons out of the stalls and seats and desks. What shall I do? Must I take to carving them out of my heart?’
‘I thought you had so exactly found your niche in life, Jack,’ Edwin Drood returns, astonished, bending forward in his chair to lay a sympathetic hand on Jasper’s knee, and looking at him with an anxious face.
‘I know you thought so. They all think so.’
‘Well, I suppose they do,’ says Edwin, meditating aloud. ‘Pussy thinks so.’
‘When did she tell you that?’
‘The last time I was here. You remember when. Three months ago.’
‘How did she phrase it?’
‘O, she only said that she had become your pupil, and that you were made for your vocation.’
The younger man glances at the portrait. The elder sees it in him.
‘Anyhow, my dear Ned,’ Jasper resumes, as he shakes his head with a grave cheerfulness, ‘I must subdue myself to my vocation: which is much the same thing outwardly. It’s too late to find another now. This is a confidence between us.’
‘It shall be sacredly preserved, Jack.’
‘I have reposed it in you, because—’
‘I feel it, I assure you. Because we are fast friends, and because you love and trust me, as I love and trust you. Both hands, Jack.’
As each stands looking into the other’s eyes, and as the uncle holds the nephew’s