Oversættelsen nu - kapitel 1

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Første bog: Ingen kender dagen

Kapitel 1: På udkig

På en efterårsaften i vore tider (det nøjagtige årstal er der ingen grund til at komme nærmere ind på), kom der i mørkningen en snavset og usselt udseende båd med to skikkelser i glidende på Themsen mellem Southwark Bridge som er af jern, og London Bridge som er af sten.

Skikkelserne i båden tilhørte en solid mand med tjavset, gråsprængt hår og vejrbidt ansigt, og en mørk pige på nitten eller tyve, så tilpas lig ham at hun måtte være hans datter. Pigen roede og håndterede årerne med lethed. Manden, der holdt rorlinerne slæk i hænderne og hænderne løst i bæltet, spejdede uophørligt ud over floden. Han havde hverken net eller krog eller snøre og kunne ikke være fisker. Færgemand kunne han heller ikke være, for hans båd havde hverken pude til passagerer eller bemaling eller skilt eller grej ud over et reb og en rusten bådshage. Hans båd var for lille og sølle til fragt af varer, og han kunne ikke være lægtermand eller pramskipper. Det var umuligt at sige hvad det var han kiggede efter, men noget var det, og hans blik var ufravendt og søgende. Tidevandet, som var vendt en time forinden, var på vej ud, og hans blik fulgte hver eneste lille hvirvel og strømning i den brede flade, mens båden arbejdede sig møjsommeligt mod strømmen eller strøg af sted udad med agterenden forrest, alt efter hvad hans kast med hovedet dikterede datteren. Hun granskede hans ansigt lige så nøje som han granskede floden, men i hendes årvågne blik sås et strejf af frygt eller rædsel.

Båden – der var tættere knyttet til flodens bund end til dens overflade at dømme efter alt det slam og dynd den var gennemsivet med – og de to skikkelser i den var tydeligvis i færd med noget de ofte foretog sig, og søgte noget de ofte søgte. Skønt manden så næsten vild ud med sit utildækkede, pjuskede hoved, de brune arme, der var blottet til midt mellem albue og skulder, den løse halskluds endnu løsere knude, der daskede mod det halvnøgne bryst i et vildnis af utæmmet skæg, og de sparsomme klæder, der kunne være gjort af samme mudder som båden var sjasket ind i, var der dog noget vant og metodisk over hans årvågne blik. Det samme gjaldt pigens smidige bevægelser, hvert tag hun tog med årerne, og måske først og fremmest dette udtryk af frygt eller rædsel i hendes ansigt – de var vante foreteelser.

"Hold hende midtløbs, Lizzie. Strømmen er stærk her. Hold hende fri."

Han brugte ikke roret, men forlod sig fuldstændig på pigens færdigheder og betragtede opslugt det urolige vand, mens pigen fortsat vogtede på ham. I det samme strejfede en skrå stråle fra den synkende sol bådens bund, og en frønnet plamage hvis omrids kunne minde om en tilhyllet menneskeskikkelse, fik et øjeblik farve som vandet blod. Det fangede pigens opmærksomhed, og hun gøs.

"Hvad er der med dig?" spurgte manden, der straks bemærkede det trods sit blik på vandmassernes fremfærd. "Jeg ser ingenting i overfladen."

Det røde lys var borte, kuldegysningen borte, og hans blik, der for en stund var vendt tilbage til båden, gled atter bort. Overalt hvor den stærke tidevandsstrøm mødte en forhindring, dvælede hans lysende blik et kort sekund. Så for det atter sultent hen over ankertov og kæder på hver enkelt stilleliggende båd eller pram der kløvede strømmen i en bred pilespids, over bropillernes udløbere på Southwark Bridge, over floddampernes skovlhjul der klaskede i det skidne vand, og over tømmerstokkene der lå surret sammen langs visse kajer. Efter en times tid i det tiltagende mørke strammedes rorlinerne pludselig i hans greb, og han styrede skarpt mod Surrey-siden af floden.

Pigen, der ikke havde taget blikket fra hans ansigt, reagerede prompte med sine årer. Straks svingede båden omkring, det dirrede i den som ved et pludseligt ryk, og så hang manden med overkroppen ud over stævnen.

Pigen trak hætten på det slag hun bar, op over hovedet og frem over ansigtet, og sørgede, mens hun hele tiden så sig tilbage så hættens kantfolder pegede ned ad floden, for at båden fulgte tidevandets retning. Hidtil havde den knap flyttet sig af pletten, men var forblevet på nogenlunde samme sted. Nu skiftede bredderne imidlertid rask, de mørknende skygger og nytændte gaslygter på London Bridge gled forbi, og rækkerne af fortøjede skibe rejste sig til begge sider.

Først nu vendte mandens overkrop tilbage til båden. Hans arme var våde og snavsede, og han stak dem ud over rælingen for at skylle dem. Han havde noget i højre hånd, og også det skyllede han i floden. Det var penge. Han klirrede kort med dem, og han pustede på dem, og han spyttede på dem – "for at bringe lykke," sagde han hæst – inden han stak dem i lommen.

"Lizzie!"

Pigen drejede med et sæt ansigtet imod ham og roede tavs videre. Hendes ansigt var meget blegt. Hans næse var krum, og den gav ham, sammen med de glitrende øjne og det uglede hoved, en vis lighed med en tirret rovfugl.

"Få den tingest væk fra ansigtet."

Hun slog hætten ned.

"Og giv mig så årerne, jeg tager det sidste stræk."

"Nej, nej, far! Nej! Jeg kan virkelig ikke. Far! Jeg kan ikke sidde det så nær!"

Han stod parat til at bytte plads med hende, men hendes rædselsslagne udbrud standsede ham, og han satte sig atter på sin tofte.

"Hvad fortræd skulle det kunne gøre?"

"Ingen, ingen. Men jeg holder det ikke ud."

"Jeg tror sågu du hader det blotte syn af den flod."

"Jeg … jeg bryder mig ikke om den, far."

"Som om det ikke var den du levede af! Som om den ikke gav dig dit daglige brød!"

Ved disse sidste ord gøs pigen atter og lod et øjeblik årerne hvile, dødsensbleg som var hun en besvimelse nær. Det lagde han ikke mærke til, for han havde vendt blikket agterud efter noget båden havde på slæb.

"Hvordan kan du være din bedste ven så utaknemmelig, Lizzie? Den ild der varmede dig da du var spæd, blev jo fisket op af floden langs kulprammene. Den kurv du sov i, havde strømmen jo skyllet i land. De gænger jeg satte på for at gøre en vugge af den, snittede jeg jo af en planke der kom drivende fra et eller andet skib."

Lizzie slap den ene åre, førte højre hånd til sine læber og rakte den et øjeblik kærligt ud imod ham. Så vendte hun, uden at sige noget, tilbage til sin roning, netop som en anden båd af tilsvarende udseende om end i noget bedre stand dukkede frem fra et mørkt sted og dæmpet gled op på siden af dem.

"Heldig igen, Gaffer?" spurgte manden ved årerne, en enlig personage med et slesk og sammenknebent blik. "Da du kom sejlende, ku' jeg straks se på dit kølvand at du havde været heldig igen."

"Aha!" svarede den anden tørt. "Så du er på færde, hva'?"

"Det er jeg, makker."

Der lå nu et mildt gult måneskin over floden, og den nytilkomne, som holdt sig en halv bådslængde agten for den anden båd, stirrede stift på dens bølgespor.

"Jeg sagde til mig selv," fortsatte han, "hør, sagde jeg, så snart du kom i sigte, der kommer Gaffer, og pokkerme om han ikke har været heldig igen! Så så, små slag, makker – der er ingen grund til tage sådan på vej, jeg rørte ham jo ikke. Det sidste var svar på en brat, utålmodig bevægelse fra Gaffer, og samtidig trak den talende åren ind i den side, lagde hånden på rælingen af den Gaffers båd og holdt fast.

"Han er blevet rørt rigeligt ved, så vidt jeg kan se, Gaffer! Ja, han er da vist tumlet ind og ud med tidevandet mere end én gang, hvabehar? Jeg har som sædvanlig ikke lykken med mig! Han må være drevet lige forbi mig da han sidst kom op ad floden, for jeg sad og spejdede under broen derhenne. Jeg tror såmænd du er som gribbene, makker, og kan lugte dig frem til dem."

Han talte dæmpet og skævede mere end én gang til Lizzie, der havde trukket slagets hætte op igen. Begge mænd så derpå med sælsom, ugudelig interesse ned på kølvandet efter Gaffers båd.

"Nu vi er to, er det ingen sag! Skal jeg hale ham ombord, makker?"

"Nej," sagde den anden, i så gnaven en tone at manden, efter et udtryksløst blik, tog til genmæle:

­"– Du skulle vel aldrig have spist noget der ikke bekom dig, makker?"

"Jo, det har jeg faktisk," sagde Gaffer. "Jeg har måttet æde for meget af det ord: makker. Jeg er ikke din makker."

"Siden hvornår er du ikke min makker, højtærede hr. Gaffer Hexam?"

"Siden du blev beskyldt for at bestjæle en mand. Beskyldt for at bestjæle en levende mand!" sagde Gaffer, med stor harme.

"Og hvad hvis jeg var blevet beskyldt for at bestjæle en død mand, Gaffer?"

"Det kan man ikke."

"Kan man ikke, Gaffer?"

"Nej. Har en død mand måske brug for penge? Er det muligt for en død mand at have penge? Hvor hører en død mand hjemme? I den anden verden. Hvor hører penge hjemme? I denne verden. Hvordan skulle penge kunne tilhøre et lig? Kan et lig eje dem, ønske dem, bruge dem, kræve dem, savne dem? Du skal ikke tro du kan vende op og ned på rigtigt og forkert. Men hvor det dog ligner en lusket rad der går og stjæler fra levende mænd."

"Nu skal jeg sige dig –"

"Nej, du skal ikke. Nu skal jeg sige dig noget: Du slap billigt fra at stikke hånden i lommen på en sømand, en levende sømand. Vær du glad for det, ja, pris dig lykkelig, men du skal ikke komme her og kalde mig makker oven på den historie. Vi har arbejdet sammen før, men vi kommer ikke til at arbejde sammen igen, hverken nu eller senere. Slip så. Kast los!

"Gaffer! Hvis du tror du kan slippe af med mig på den facon –"

"Hvis jeg ikke slipper af med dig på den facon, forsøger jeg mig med en anden og giver dig et hug over fingrene med spændholtet eller et stik i fjæset med bådshagen. Kast los! Ro, Lizzie. Ro hjem når du nu ikke vil lade din far ro."

Lizzie skød af sted, og den anden båd blev sejlet agterud. Lizzies far tændte en pibe, med uforstyrret mine som hos den der har forsvaret moralens højeste principper og indtaget et uangribeligt standpunkt, og satte sig og røg mens han betragtede det han havde på slæb. Det han havde på slæb, kastede sig af og til imod ham på det frygteligste når båden blev bremset, og forsøgte af og til at vride sig løs, skønt det for det meste fulgte føjeligt med. En novice ville måske have bildt sig ind at krusningerne der gled over det, mindede gruopvækkende om svage udtryksskift i et blindt stirrende ansigt – men Gaffer var ingen novice og bildte sig ikke noget ind.

Kapitel 2

MANDEN FRA HVOR VAR DET NU

Hr. og fru Veneering var helt nye indvånere i et helt nyt hus i et helt nyt kvarter i London. Alt ved parret Veneering var funklende nyt. Alle deres møbler var nye, alle deres venner var nye, alle deres tjenestefolk var nye, deres sølvtøj var nyt, deres vogn var ny, deres seletøj var nyt, deres heste var nye, deres billeder var nye, de selv var nye, de var så nygifte som legitimt foreneligt var med deres helt nye barn, og hvis de havde anskaffet sig en bedstefar, var han sikkert blevet leveret fra Pantechnicon, svøbt i klæde, blankpoleret fra isse til fod og uden den mindste skramme.

For i det Veneeringske hjem var alting, fra hallstolene med det nye våbenskjold til det store pianoforte med den nye mekanik og videre ovenpå til den nye brandtrappe, pudset op til det skinnede. Og det var med hr. og fru Veneering som det var med deres bohave: Overfladen lugtede altid en tand for frisk af fernis og var lettere klæbrig.

Der var et uskyldigt stykke spisestueinventar, som nemt lod sig flytte rundt og blev opbevaret over en lejestald i Duke Street, Saint James's, når det ikke var i brug, for hvem parret Veneering var en kilde til evig forvirring. Dette møbels navn var Twemlow. Han var fætter til lord Snigsworth og dermed overmåde efterspurgt, og i mange hjem repræsenterede han så at sige spisebordet i dets grundtilstand. For eksempel lagde hr. og fru Veneering altid ud med Twemlow når de skulle holde middagsselskab, og satte så udtræksplader i ham, eller føjede gæster til ham. Sommetider bestod bordet af Twemlow og et halvt dusin plader; sommetider af Twemlow og et helt dusin plader ; sommetider blev Twemlow trukket ud i sin fulde længde på tyve plader. Ved højtidelige lejligheder sad hr. og fru Veneering over for hinanden midtfor, og dermed holdt parallellen stadig – for det var altid sådan at jo længere Twemlow blev trukket ud, jo længere kom han fra midten, og jo nærmere anretterbordet i den ene ende af stuen eller vinduets gardiner i den anden.

Men det var ikke det der druknede Twemlows stakkels sjæl i forvirring. Den slags var han vant til, og dets dybder kunne han kunne lodde. Nej, den afgrund han ikke kunne finde bund i, og som gav ham evigt voksende hovedpine, var det uløselige spørgsmål om hvorvidt han var Veneerings ældste ven eller nyeste ven. Den harmløse herre havde brugt mange ængstelige timer på at endevende dette problem, både i sit logi over lejestalden og i sin herreklub på Saint James's Square, hvis kolde, dunkle værelser var så velegnede til grublerier. Twemlow havde i sin tid lært Veneering at kende netop der, hvor Veneering dengang ikke kendte nogen på nær den mand som havde præsenteret dem for hinanden, og som lod til at være den mest fortrolige ven han havde i verden – det ubrydelige bånd deres sjæle imellem var blevet knyttet to dage forinden takket være en fælles fortørnelse over bestyrelsens forbryderiske syn på tilberedningen af kalvefilet. Straks efter modtog Twemlow en invitation til at spise middag med Veneering, og også manden var en del af selskabet. Straks efter det modtog Twemlow en invitation til at spise middag med manden, og også Veneering var en del af selskabet. Mandens gæster talte desuden et parlamentsmedlem, en ingeniør, en fortaler for afvikling af statsgælden, et digt om Shakespeare, et klagemål og et offentligt embede, der alle lod til at være vildfremmede for Veneering. Ikke desto mindre modtog Twemlow straks derefter en invitation til middag hos Veneering, udtrykkeligt for at møde parlamentsmedlemmet, ingeniøren, statsgældsafvikleren, shakespearehyldesten, klagemålet og embedet, og opdagede, under middagen, at de alle var Veneerings allernærmeste venner, og at deres hustruer (som også var til stede alle sammen) nød fru Veneerings mest hengivne opmærksomhed og inderlige fortrolighed.

Det var årsagen til at hr. Twemlow, i sit logi og med hånden for panden, sagde til sig selv: "Jeg må lade være med at tænke over det. Det kan jo få enhver til at gå fra forstanden," – og dog tænkte han over det uafbrudt, uden nogensinde at nå til nogen konklusion.

Tak til Hans-Jørgen Birkmose, Louise Juhl Dalsgaard, Morten Hansen, Paul Hawes, Dorte Hummelshøj Jacobsen, Sidse Laugesen, Nanna Lund, Dorthe Møller, Claus Ib Olsen, Marianne Rosenkvist og Trine Søndergaard

This evening the Veneerings give a banquet. Eleven leaves in the Twemlow; fourteen in company all told. Four pigeon-breasted retainers in plain clothes stand in line in the hall. A fifth retainer, proceeding up the staircase with a mournful air—as who should say, 'Here is another wretched creature come to dinner; such is life!'—announces, 'Mis-ter Twemlow!'

Mrs Veneering welcomes her sweet Mr Twemlow. Mr Veneering welcomes his dear Twemlow. Mrs Veneering does not expect that Mr Twemlow can in nature care much for such insipid things as babies, but so old a friend must please to look at baby. 'Ah! You will know the friend of your family better, Tootleums,' says Mr Veneering, nodding emotionally at that new article, 'when you begin to take notice.' He then begs to make his dear Twemlow known to his two friends, Mr Boots and Mr Brewer—and clearly has no distinct idea which is which.

But now a fearful circumstance occurs.

'Mis-ter and Mis-sus Podsnap!'

'My dear,' says Mr Veneering to Mrs Veneering, with an air of much friendly interest, while the door stands open, 'the Podsnaps.'

A too, too smiling large man, with a fatal freshness on him, appearing with his wife, instantly deserts his wife and darts at Twemlow with:

'How do you do? So glad to know you. Charming house you have here. I hope we are not late. So glad of the opportunity, I am sure!'

When the first shock fell upon him, Twemlow twice skipped back in his neat little shoes and his neat little silk stockings of a bygone fashion, as if impelled to leap over a sofa behind him; but the large man closed with him and proved too strong.

'Let me,' says the large man, trying to attract the attention of his wife in the distance, 'have the pleasure of presenting Mrs Podsnap to her host. She will be,' in his fatal freshness he seems to find perpetual verdure and eternal youth in the phrase, 'she will be so glad of the opportunity, I am sure!'

In the meantime, Mrs Podsnap, unable to originate a mistake on her own account, because Mrs Veneering is the only other lady there, does her best in the way of handsomely supporting her husband's, by looking towards Mr Twemlow with a plaintive countenance and remarking to Mrs Veneering in a feeling manner, firstly, that she fears he has been rather bilious of late, and, secondly, that the baby is already very like him.

It is questionable whether any man quite relishes being mistaken for any other man; but, Mr Veneering having this very evening set up the shirt-front of the young Antinous in new worked cambric just come home, is not at all complimented by being supposed to be Twemlow, who is dry and weazen and some thirty years older. Mrs Veneering equally resents the imputation of being the wife of Twemlow. As to Twemlow, he is so sensible of being a much better bred man than Veneering, that he considers the large man an offensive ass.

In this complicated dilemma, Mr Veneering approaches the large man with extended hand and, smilingly assures that incorrigible personage that he is delighted to see him: who in his fatal freshness instantly replies:

'Thank you. I am ashamed to say that I cannot at this moment recall where we met, but I am so glad of this opportunity, I am sure!'

Then pouncing upon Twemlow, who holds back with all his feeble might, he is haling him off to present him, as Veneering, to Mrs Podsnap, when the arrival of more guests unravels the mistake. Whereupon, having re-shaken hands with Veneering as Veneering, he re-shakes hands with Twemlow as Twemlow, and winds it all up to his own perfect satisfaction by saying to the last-named, 'Ridiculous opportunity—but so glad of it, I am sure!'

Now, Twemlow having undergone this terrific experience, having likewise noted the fusion of Boots in Brewer and Brewer in Boots, and having further observed that of the remaining seven guests four discrete characters enter with wandering eyes and wholly declined to commit themselves as to which is Veneering, until Veneering has them in his grasp;—Twemlow having profited by these studies, finds his brain wholesomely hardening as he approaches the conclusion that he really is Veneering's oldest friend, when his brain softens again and all is lost, through his eyes encountering Veneering and the large man linked together as twin brothers in the back drawing-room near the conservatory door, and through his ears informing him in the tones of Mrs Veneering that the same large man is to be baby's godfather.

'Dinner is on the table!'

Thus the melancholy retainer, as who should say, 'Come down and be poisoned, ye unhappy children of men!'

Twemlow, having no lady assigned him, goes down in the rear, with his hand to his forehead. Boots and Brewer, thinking him indisposed, whisper, 'Man faint. Had no lunch.' But he is only stunned by the unvanquishable difficulty of his existence.

Revived by soup, Twemlow discourses mildly of the Court Circular with Boots and Brewer. Is appealed to, at the fish stage of the banquet, by Veneering, on the disputed question whether his cousin Lord Snigsworth is in or out of town? Gives it that his cousin is out of town. 'At Snigsworthy Park?' Veneering inquires. 'At Snigsworthy,' Twemlow rejoins. Boots and Brewer regard this as a man to be cultivated; and Veneering is clear that he is a remunerative article. Meantime the retainer goes round, like a gloomy Analytical Chemist: always seeming to say, after 'Chablis, sir?'—'You wouldn't if you knew what it's made of.'

The great looking-glass above the sideboard, reflects the table and the company. Reflects the new Veneering crest, in gold and eke in silver, frosted and also thawed, a camel of all work. The Heralds' College found out a Crusading ancestor for Veneering who bore a camel on his shield (or might have done it if he had thought of it), and a caravan of camels take charge of the fruits and flowers and candles, and kneel down to be loaded with the salt. Reflects Veneering; forty, wavy-haired, dark, tending to corpulence, sly, mysterious, filmy—a kind of sufficiently well-looking veiled-prophet, not prophesying. Reflects Mrs Veneering; fair, aquiline-nosed and fingered, not so much light hair as she might have, gorgeous in raiment and jewels, enthusiastic, propitiatory, conscious that a corner of her husband's veil is over herself. Reflects Podsnap; prosperously feeding, two little light-coloured wiry wings, one on either side of his else bald head, looking as like his hairbrushes as his hair, dissolving view of red beads on his forehead, large allowance of crumpled shirt-collar up behind. Reflects Mrs Podsnap; fine woman for Professor Owen, quantity of bone, neck and nostrils like a rocking-horse, hard features, majestic head-dress in which Podsnap has hung golden offerings. Reflects Twemlow; grey, dry, polite, susceptible to east wind, First-Gentleman-in-Europe collar and cravat, cheeks drawn in as if he had made a great effort to retire into himself some years ago, and had got so far and had never got any farther. Reflects mature young lady; raven locks, and complexion that lights up well when well powdered—as it is—carrying on considerably in the captivation of mature young gentleman; with too much nose in his face, too much ginger in his whiskers, too much torso in his waistcoat, too much sparkle in his studs, his eyes, his buttons, his talk, and his teeth. Reflects charming old Lady Tippins on Veneering's right; with an immense obtuse drab oblong face, like a face in a tablespoon, and a dyed Long Walk up the top of her head, as a convenient public approach to the bunch of false hair behind, pleased to patronize Mrs Veneering opposite, who is pleased to be patronized. Reflects a certain 'Mortimer', another of Veneering's oldest friends; who never was in the house before, and appears not to want to come again, who sits disconsolate on Mrs Veneering's left, and who was inveigled by Lady Tippins (a friend of his boyhood) to come to these people's and talk, and who won't talk. Reflects Eugene, friend of Mortimer; buried alive in the back of his chair, behind a shoulder—with a powder-epaulette on it—of the mature young lady, and gloomily resorting to the champagne chalice whenever proffered by the Analytical Chemist. Lastly, the looking-glass reflects Boots and Brewer, and two other stuffed Buffers interposed between the rest of the company and possible accidents.

The Veneering dinners are excellent dinners—or new people wouldn't come—and all goes well. Notably, Lady Tippins has made a series of experiments on her digestive functions, so extremely complicated and daring, that if they could be published with their results it might benefit the human race. Having taken in provisions from all parts of the world, this hardy old cruiser has last touched at the North Pole, when, as the ice-plates are being removed, the following words fall from her:

'I assure you, my dear Veneering—'

(Poor Twemlow's hand approaches his forehead, for it would seem now, that Lady Tippins is going to be the oldest friend.)

'I assure you, my dear Veneering, that it is the oddest affair! Like the advertising people, I don't ask you to trust me, without offering a respectable reference. Mortimer there, is my reference, and knows all about it.'

Mortimer raises his drooping eyelids, and slightly opens his mouth. But a faint smile, expressive of 'What's the use!' passes over his face, and he drops his eyelids and shuts his mouth.

'Now, Mortimer,' says Lady Tippins, rapping the sticks of her closed green fan upon the knuckles of her left hand—which is particularly rich in knuckles, 'I insist upon your telling all that is to be told about the man from Jamaica.'

'Give you my honour I never heard of any man from Jamaica, except the man who was a brother,' replies Mortimer.

'Tobago, then.'

'Nor yet from Tobago.'

'Except,' Eugene strikes in: so unexpectedly that the mature young lady, who has forgotten all about him, with a start takes the epaulette out of his way: 'except our friend who long lived on rice-pudding and isinglass, till at length to his something or other, his physician said something else, and a leg of mutton somehow ended in daygo.'

A reviving impression goes round the table that Eugene is coming out. An unfulfilled impression, for he goes in again.

'Now, my dear Mrs Veneering,' quoth Lady Tippins, I appeal to you whether this is not the basest conduct ever known in this world? I carry my lovers about, two or three at a time, on condition that they are very obedient and devoted; and here is my oldest lover-in-chief, the head of all my slaves, throwing off his allegiance before company! And here is another of my lovers, a rough Cymon at present certainly, but of whom I had most hopeful expectations as to his turning out well in course of time, pretending that he can't remember his nursery rhymes! On purpose to annoy me, for he knows how I doat upon them!'

A grisly little fiction concerning her lovers is Lady Tippins's point. She is always attended by a lover or two, and she keeps a little list of her lovers, and she is always booking a new lover, or striking out an old lover, or putting a lover in her black list, or promoting a lover to her blue list, or adding up her lovers, or otherwise posting her book. Mrs Veneering is charmed by the humour, and so is Veneering. Perhaps it is enhanced by a certain yellow play in Lady Tippins's throat, like the legs of scratching poultry.

'I banish the false wretch from this moment, and I strike him out of my Cupidon (my name for my Ledger, my dear,) this very night. But I am resolved to have the account of the man from Somewhere, and I beg you to elicit it for me, my love,' to Mrs Veneering, 'as I have lost my own influence. Oh, you perjured man!' This to Mortimer, with a rattle of her fan.

'We are all very much interested in the man from Somewhere,' Veneering observes.

Then the four Buffers, taking heart of grace all four at once, say:

'Deeply interested!'

'Quite excited!'

'Dramatic!'

'Man from Nowhere, perhaps!'

And then Mrs Veneering—for the Lady Tippins's winning wiles are contagious—folds her hands in the manner of a supplicating child, turns to her left neighbour, and says, 'Tease! Pay! Man from Tumwhere!' At which the four Buffers, again mysteriously moved all four at once, explain, 'You can't resist!'

'Upon my life,' says Mortimer languidly, 'I find it immensely embarrassing to have the eyes of Europe upon me to this extent, and my only consolation is that you will all of you execrate Lady Tippins in your secret hearts when you find, as you inevitably will, the man from Somewhere a bore. Sorry to destroy romance by fixing him with a local habitation, but he comes from the place, the name of which escapes me, but will suggest itself to everybody else here, where they make the wine.'

Eugene suggests 'Day and Martin's.'

'No, not that place,' returns the unmoved Mortimer, 'that's where they make the Port. My man comes from the country where they make the Cape Wine. But look here, old fellow; it's not at all statistical and it's rather odd.'

It is always noticeable at the table of the Veneerings, that no man troubles himself much about the Veneerings themselves, and that any one who has anything to tell, generally tells it to anybody else in preference.

'The man,' Mortimer goes on, addressing Eugene, 'whose name is Harmon, was only son of a tremendous old rascal who made his money by Dust.'

'Red velveteens and a bell?' the gloomy Eugene inquires.

'And a ladder and basket if you like. By which means, or by others, he grew rich as a Dust Contractor, and lived in a hollow in a hilly country entirely composed of Dust. On his own small estate the growling old vagabond threw up his own mountain range, like an old volcano, and its geological formation was Dust. Coal-dust, vegetable-dust, bone-dust, crockery dust, rough dust and sifted dust,—all manner of Dust.'

A passing remembrance of Mrs Veneering, here induces Mortimer to address his next half-dozen words to her; after which he wanders away again, tries Twemlow and finds he doesn't answer, ultimately takes up with the Buffers who receive him enthusiastically.

'The moral being—I believe that's the right expression—of this exemplary person, derived its highest gratification from anathematizing his nearest relations and turning them out of doors. Having begun (as was natural) by rendering these attentions to the wife of his bosom, he next found himself at leisure to bestow a similar recognition on the claims of his daughter. He chose a husband for her, entirely to his own satisfaction and not in the least to hers, and proceeded to settle upon her, as her marriage portion, I don't know how much Dust, but something immense. At this stage of the affair the poor girl respectfully intimated that she was secretly engaged to that popular character whom the novelists and versifiers call Another, and that such a marriage would make Dust of her heart and Dust of her life—in short, would set her up, on a very extensive scale, in her father's business. Immediately, the venerable parent—on a cold winter's night, it is said—anathematized and turned her out.'

Here, the Analytical Chemist (who has evidently formed a very low opinion of Mortimer's story) concedes a little claret to the Buffers; who, again mysteriously moved all four at once, screw it slowly into themselves with a peculiar twist of enjoyment, as they cry in chorus, 'Pray go on.'

'The pecuniary resources of Another were, as they usually are, of a very limited nature. I believe I am not using too strong an expression when I say that Another was hard up. However, he married the young lady, and they lived in a humble dwelling, probably possessing a porch ornamented with honeysuckle and woodbine twining, until she died. I must refer you to the Registrar of the District in which the humble dwelling was situated, for the certified cause of death; but early sorrow and anxiety may have had to do with it, though they may not appear in the ruled pages and printed forms. Indisputably this was the case with Another, for he was so cut up by the loss of his young wife that if he outlived her a year it was as much as he did.'

There is that in the indolent Mortimer, which seems to hint that if good society might on any account allow itself to be impressible, he, one of good society, might have the weakness to be impressed by what he here relates. It is hidden with great pains, but it is in him. The gloomy Eugene too, is not without some kindred touch; for, when that appalling Lady Tippins declares that if Another had survived, he should have gone down at the head of her list of lovers—and also when the mature young lady shrugs her epaulettes, and laughs at some private and confidential comment from the mature young gentleman—his gloom deepens to that degree that he trifles quite ferociously with his dessert-knife.

Mortimer proceeds.

'We must now return, as novelists say, and as we all wish they wouldn't, to the man from Somewhere. Being a boy of fourteen, cheaply educated at Brussels when his sister's expulsion befell, it was some little time before he heard of it—probably from herself, for the mother was dead; but that I don't know. Instantly, he absconded, and came over here. He must have been a boy of spirit and resource, to get here on a stopped allowance of five sous a week; but he did it somehow, and he burst in on his father, and pleaded his sister's cause. Venerable parent promptly resorts to anathematization, and turns him out. Shocked and terrified boy takes flight, seeks his fortune, gets aboard ship, ultimately turns up on dry land among the Cape wine: small proprietor, farmer, grower—whatever you like to call it.'

At this juncture, shuffling is heard in the hall, and tapping is heard at the dining-room door. Analytical Chemist goes to the door, confers angrily with unseen tapper, appears to become mollified by descrying reason in the tapping, and goes out.

'So he was discovered, only the other day, after having been expatriated about fourteen years.'

A Buffer, suddenly astounding the other three, by detaching himself, and asserting individuality, inquires: 'How discovered, and why?'

'Ah! To be sure. Thank you for reminding me. Venerable parent dies.'

Same Buffer, emboldened by success, says: 'When?'

'The other day. Ten or twelve months ago.'

Same Buffer inquires with smartness, 'What of?' But herein perishes a melancholy example; being regarded by the three other Buffers with a stony stare, and attracting no further attention from any mortal.

'Venerable parent,' Mortimer repeats with a passing remembrance that there is a Veneering at table, and for the first time addressing him—'dies.'

The gratified Veneering repeats, gravely, 'dies'; and folds his arms, and composes his brow to hear it out in a judicial manner, when he finds himself again deserted in the bleak world.

'His will is found,' said Mortimer, catching Mrs Podsnap's rocking-horse's eye. 'It is dated very soon after the son's flight. It leaves the lowest of the range of dust-mountains, with some sort of a dwelling-house at its foot, to an old servant who is sole executor, and all the rest of the property—which is very considerable—to the son. He directs himself to be buried with certain eccentric ceremonies and precautions against his coming to life, with which I need not bore you, and that's all—except—' and this ends the story.

The Analytical Chemist returning, everybody looks at him. Not because anybody wants to see him, but because of that subtle influence in nature which impels humanity to embrace the slightest opportunity of looking at anything, rather than the person who addresses it.

'—Except that the son's inheriting is made conditional on his marrying a girl, who at the date of the will, was a child of four or five years old, and who is now a marriageable young woman. Advertisement and inquiry discovered the son in the man from Somewhere, and at the present moment, he is on his way home from there—no doubt, in a state of great astonishment—to succeed to a very large fortune, and to take a wife.'

Mrs Podsnap inquires whether the young person is a young person of personal charms? Mortimer is unable to report.

Mr Podsnap inquires what would become of the very large fortune, in the event of the marriage condition not being fulfilled? Mortimer replies, that by special testamentary clause it would then go to the old servant above mentioned, passing over and excluding the son; also, that if the son had not been living, the same old servant would have been sole residuary legatee.

Mrs Veneering has just succeeded in waking Lady Tippins from a snore, by dexterously shunting a train of plates and dishes at her knuckles across the table; when everybody but Mortimer himself becomes aware that the Analytical Chemist is, in a ghostly manner, offering him a folded paper. Curiosity detains Mrs Veneering a few moments.

Mortimer, in spite of all the arts of the chemist, placidly refreshes himself with a glass of Madeira, and remains unconscious of the Document which engrosses the general attention, until Lady Tippins (who has a habit of waking totally insensible), having remembered where she is, and recovered a perception of surrounding objects, says: 'Falser man than Don Juan; why don't you take the note from the commendatore?' Upon which, the chemist advances it under the nose of Mortimer, who looks round at him, and says:

'What's this?'

Analytical Chemist bends and whispers.

'Who?' says Mortimer.

Analytical Chemist again bends and whispers.

Mortimer stares at him, and unfolds the paper. Reads it, reads it twice, turns it over to look at the blank outside, reads it a third time.

'This arrives in an extraordinarily opportune manner,' says Mortimer then, looking with an altered face round the table: 'this is the conclusion of the story of the identical man.'

'Already married?' one guesses.

'Declines to marry?' another guesses.

'Codicil among the dust?' another guesses.

'Why, no,' says Mortimer; 'remarkable thing, you are all wrong. The story is completer and rather more exciting than I supposed. Man's drowned!'