Chapter XXV. Mrs. Snagsby Sees It All

by Charles Dickens

　　There is disquietude in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. Blacksuspicion hides in that peaceful region. The mass of Cook'sCourtiers are in their usual state of mind, no better and no worse;but Mr. Snagsby is changed, and his little woman knows it.For Tom-all-Alone's and Lincoln's Inn Fields persist in harnessingthemselves, a pair of ungovernable coursers, to the chariot of Mr.Snagsby's imagination; and Mr. Bucket drives; and the passengersare Jo and Mr. Tulkinghorn; and the complete equipage whirls thoughthe law-stationery business at wild speed all round the clock.Even in the little front kitchen where the family meals are taken,it rattles away at a smoking pace from the dinner-table, when Mr.Snagsby pauses in carving the first slice of the leg of muttonbaked with potatoes and stares at the kitchen wall.Mr. Snagsby cannot make out what it is that he has had to do with.Something is wrong somewhere, but what something, what may come ofit, to whom, when, and from which unthought of and unheard ofquarter is the puzzle of his life. His remote impressions of therobes and coronets, the stars and garters, that sparkle through thesurface-dust of Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers; his veneration for themysteries presided over by that best and closest of his customers,whom all the Inns of Court, all Chancery Lane, and all the legalneighbourhood agree to hold in awe; his remembrance of DetectiveMr. Bucket with his forefinger and his confidential manner,impossible to be evaded or declined, persuade him that he is aparty to some dangerous secret without knowing what it is. And itis the fearful peculiarity of this condition that, at any hour ofhis daily life, at any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of thebell, at any entrance of a messenger, or any delivery of a letter,the secret may take air and fire, explode, and blow up--Mr. Bucketonly knows whom.For which reason, whenever a man unknown comes into the shop (asmany men unknown do) and says, "Is Mr. Snagsby in?" or words tothat innocent effect, Mr. Snagsby's heart knocks hard at his guiltybreast. He undergoes so much from such inquiries that when theyare made by boys he revenges himself by flipping at their ears overthe counter and asking the young dogs what they mean by it and whythey can't speak out at once? More impracticable men and boyspersist in walking into Mr. Snagsby's sleep and terrifying him withunaccountable questions, so that often when the cock at the littledairy in Cursitor Street breaks out in his usual absurd way aboutthe morning, Mr. Snagsby finds himself in a crisis of nightmare,with his little woman shaking him and saying "What's the matterwith the man!"The little woman herself is not the least item in his difficulty.To know that he is always keeping a secret from her, that he hasunder all circumstances to conceal and hold fast a tender doubletooth, which her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head,gives Mr. Snagsby, in her dentistical presence, much of the air ofa dog who has a reservation from his master and will look anywhererather than meet his eye.These various signs and tokens, marked by the little woman, are notlost upon her. They impel her to say, "Snagsby has something onhis mind!" And thus suspicion gets into Cook's Court, CursitorStreet. From suspicion to jealousy, Mrs. Snagsby finds the road asnatural and short as from Cook's Court to Chancery Lane. And thusjealousy gets into Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. Once there (andit was always lurking thereabout), it is very active and nimble inMrs. Snagsby's breast, prompting her to nocturnal examinations ofMr. Snagsby's pockets; to secret perusals of Mr. Snagsby's letters;to private researches in the day book and ledger, till, cash-box,and iron safe; to watchings at windows, listenings behind doors,and a general putting of this and that together by the wrong end.Mrs. Snagsby is so perpetually on the alert that the house becomesghostly with creaking boards and rustling garments. The 'prenticesthink somebody may have been murdered there in bygone times.Guster holds certain loose atoms of an idea (picked up at Tooting,where they were found floating among the orphans) that there isburied money underneath the cellar, guarded by an old man with awhite beard, who cannot get out for seven thousand years because hesaid the Lord's Prayer backwards."Who was Nimrod?" Mrs. Snagsby repeatedly inquires of herself."Who was that lady--that creature? And who is that boy?" Now,Nimrod being as dead as the mighty hunter whose name Mrs. Snagsbyhas appropriated, and the lady being unproducible, she directs hermental eye, for the present, with redoubled vigilance to the boy."And who," quoth Mrs. Snagsby for the thousand and first time, "isthat boy? Who is that--!" And there Mrs. Snagsby is seized withan inspiration.He has no respect for Mr. Chadband. No, to be sure, and hewouldn't have, of course. Naturally he wouldn't, under thosecontagious circumstances. He was invited and appointed by Mr.Chadband--why, Mrs. Snagsby heard it herself with her own ears!--tocome back, and be told where he was to go, to be addressed by Mr.Chadband; and he never came! Why did he never come? Because hewas told not to come. Who told him not to come? Who? Ha, ha!Mrs. Snagsby sees it all.But happily (and Mrs. Snagsby tightly shakes her head and tightlysmiles) that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yesterday in the streets;and that boy, as affording a subject which Mr. Chadband desires toimprove for the spiritual delight of a select congregation, wasseized by Mr. Chadband and threatened with being delivered over tothe police unless he showed the reverend gentleman where he livedand unless he entered into, and fulfilled, an undertaking to appearin Cook's Court to-morrow night, "'to--mor--row--night," Mrs.Snagsby repeats for mere emphasis with another tight smile andanother tight shake of her head; and to-morrow night that boy willbe here, and to-morrow night Mrs. Snagsby will have her eye uponhim and upon some one else; and oh, you may walk a long while inyour secret ways (says Mrs. Snagsby with haughtiness and scorn),but you can't blind me!Mrs. Snagsby sounds no timbrel in anybody's ears, but holds herpurpose quietly, and keeps her counsel. To-morrow comes, thesavoury preparations for the Oil Trade come, the evening comes.Comes Mr. Snagsby in his black coat; come the Chadbands; come (whenthe gorging vessel is replete) the 'prentices and Guster, to beedified; comes at last, with his slouching head, and his shufllebackward, and his shuffle forward, and his shuffle to the right,and his shuffle to the left, and his bit of fur cap in his muddyhand, which he picks as if it were some mangy bird he had caughtand was plucking before eating raw, Jo, the very, very toughsubject Mr. Chadband is to improve.Mrs. Snagsby screws a watchful glance on Jo as he is brought intothe little drawing-room by Guster. He looks at Mr. Snagsby themoment he comes in. Aha! Why does he look at Mr. Snagsby? Mr.Snagsby looks at him. Why should he do that, but that Mrs. Snagsbysees it all? Why else should that look pass between them, why elseshould Mr. Snagsby be confused and cough a signal cough behind hishand? It is as clear as crystal that Mr. Snagsby is that boy'sfather.'"Peace, my friends," says Chadband, rising and wiping the oilyexudations from his reverend visage. "Peace be with us! Myfriends, why with us? Because," with his fat smile, "it cannot beagainst us, because it must be for us; because it is not hardening,because it is softening; because it does not make war like thehawk, but comes home unto us like the dove. Therefore, my friends,peace be with us! My human boy, come forward!"Stretching forth his flabby paw, Mr. Chadband lays the same on Jo'sarm and considers where to station him. Jo, very doubtful of hisreverend friend's intentions and not at all clear but thatsomething practical and painful is going to be done to him,mutters, "You let me alone. I never said nothink to you. You letme alone.""No, my young friend," says Chadband smoothly, "I will not let youalone. And why? Because I am a harvest-labourer, because I am atoiler and a moiler, because you are delivered over unto me and arebecome as a precious instrument in my hands. My friends, may I soemploy this instrument as to use it to your advantage, to yourprofit, to your gain, to your welfare, to your enrichment! Myyoung friend, sit upon this stool."Jo, apparently possessed by an impression that the reverendgentleman wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both armsand is got into the required position with great difficulty andevery possible manifestation of reluctance.When he is at last adjusted like a lay-figure, Mr. Chadband,retiring behind the table, holds up his bear's-paw and says, "Myfriends!" This is the signal for a general settlement of theaudience. The 'prentices giggle internally and nudge each other.Guster falls into a staring and vacant state, compounded of astunned admiration of Mr. Chadband and pity for the friendlessoutcast whose condition touches her nearly. Mrs. Snagsby silentlylays trains of gunpowder. Mrs. Chadband composes herself grimly bythe fire and warms her knees, finding that sensation favourable tothe reception of eloquence.It happens that Mr. Chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing somemember of his congregation with his eye and fatly arguing hispoints with that particular person, who is understood to beexpected to be moved to an occasional grunt, groan, gasp, or otheraudible expression of inward working, which expression of inwardworking, being echoed by some elderly lady in the next pew and socommunicated like a game of forfeits through a circle of the morefermentable sinners present, serves the purpose of parliamentarycheering and gets Mr. Chadband's steam up. From mere force ofhabit, Mr. Chadband in saying "My friends!" has rested his eye onMr. Snagsby and proceeds to make that ill-starred stationer,already sufficiently confused, the immediate recipient of hisdiscourse."We have here among us, my friends," says Chadband, "a Gentile anda heathen, a dweller in the tents of Tom-all-Alone's and a mover-onupon the surface of the earth. We have here among us, my friends,"and Mr. Chadband, untwisting the point with his dirty thumb-nail,bestows an oily smile on Mr. Snagsby, signifying that he will throwhim an argumentative back-fall presently if he be not already down,"a brother and a boy. Devoid of parents, devoid of relations,devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and silver and ofprecious stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he is devoid ofthese possessions? Why? Why is he?" Mr. Chadband states thequestion as if he were propoundlng an entirely new riddle of muchingenuity and merit to Mr. Snagsby and entreating him not to giveit up.Mr. Snagsby, greatly perplexed by the mysterious look he receivedjust now from his little woman--at about the period when Mr.Chadband mentioned the word parents--is tempted into modestlyremarking, "I don't know, I'm sure, sir." On which interruptionMrs. Chadband glares and Mrs. Snagsby says, "For shame!""I hear a voice," says Chadband; "is it a still small voice, myfriends? I fear not, though I fain would hope so--""Ah--h!" from Mrs. Snagsby."Which says, 'I don't know.' Then I will tell you why. I say thisbrother present here among us is devoid of parents, devoid ofrelations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver,and of precious stones because he is devoid of the light thatshines in upon some of us. What is that light? What is it? I askyou, what is that light?"Mr. Chadband draws back his head and pauses, but Mr. Snagsby is notto be lured on to his destruction again. Mr. Chadband, leaningforward over the table, pierces what he has got to follow directlyinto Mr. Snagsby with the thumb-nail already mentioned."It is," says Chadband, "the ray of rays, the sun of suns, the moonof moons, the star of stars. It is the light of Terewth."Mr. Chadband draws himself up again and looks triumphantly at Mr.Snagsby as if he would be glad to know how he feels after that."Of Terewth," says Mr. Chadband, hitting him again. "Say not to methat it is not the lamp of lamps. I say to you it is. I say toyou, a million of times over, it is. It is! I say to you that Iwill proclaim it to you, whether you like it or not; nay, that theless you like it, the more I will proclaim it to you. With aspeaking-trumpet! I say to you that if you rear yourself againstit, you shall fall, you shall be bruised, you shall be battered,you shall be flawed, you shall be smashed."The present effect of this flight of oratory--much admired for itsgeneral power by Mr. Chadband's followers--being not only to makeMr. Chadband unpleasantly warm, but to represent the innocent Mr.Snagsby in the light of a determined enemy to virtue, with aforehead of brass and a heart of adamant, that unfortunatetradesman becomes yet more disconcerted and is in a very advancedstate of low spirits and false position when Mr. Chadbandaccidentally finishes him."My friends," he resumes after dabbing his fat head for some time--and it smokes to such an extent that he seems to light his pocket-handkerchief at it, which smokes, too, after every dab--"to pursuethe subject we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts to improve,let us in a spirit of love inquire what is that Terewth to which Ihave alluded. For, my young friends," suddenly addressing the'prentices and Guster, to their consternation, "if I am told by thedoctor that calomel or castor-oil is good for me, I may naturallyask what is calomel, and what is castor-oil. I may wish to beinformed of that before I dose myself with either or with both.Now, my young friends, what is this Terewth then? Firstly (in aspirit of love), what is the common sort of Terewth--the workingclothes--the every-day wear, my young friends? Is it deception?""Ah--h!" from Mrs. Snagsby."Is it suppression?"A shiver in the negative from Mrs. Snagsby."Is it reservation?"A shake of the head from Mrs. Snagsby--very long and very tight."No, my friends, it is neither of these. Neither of these namesbelongs to it. When this young heathen now among us--who is now,my friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition beingset upon his eyelids; but do not wake him, for it is right that Ishould have to wrestle, and to combat and to struggle, and toconquer, for his sake--when this young hardened heathen told us astory of a cock, and of a bull, and of a lady, and of a sovereign,was that the Terewth? No. Or if it was partly, was it wholly andentirely? No, my friends, no!"If Mr. Snagsby could withstand his little woman's look as it entersat his eyes, the windows of his soul, and searches the wholetenement, he were other than the man he is. He cowers and droops."Or, my juvenile friends," says Chadband, descending to the levelof their comprehension with a very obtrusive demonstration in hisgreasily meek smile of coming a long way downstairs for thepurpose, "if the master of this house was to go forth into the cityand there see an eel, and was to come back, and was to call untohim the mistress of this house, and was to say, 'Sarah, rejoicewith me, for I have seen an elephant!' would that be Terewth?"Mrs. Snagsby in tears."Or put it, my juvenile friends, that he saw an elephant, andreturning said 'Lo, the city is barren, I have seen but an eel,'would that be Terewth?"Mrs. Snagsby sobbing loudly."Or put it, my juvenile friends," said Chadband, stimulated by thesound, "that the unnatural parents of this slumbering heathen--forparents he had, my juvenile friends, beyond a doubt--after castinghim forth to the wolves and the vultures, and the wild dogs and theyoung gazelles, and the serpents, went back to their dwellings andhad their pipes, and their pots, and their flutings and theirdancings, and their malt liquors, and their butcher's meat andpoultry, would that be Terewth?"Mrs. Snagsby replies by delivering herself a prey to spasms, not anunresisting prey, but a crying and a tearing one, so that Cook'sCourt re-echoes with her shrieks. Finally, becoming cataleptic,she has to be carried up the narrow staircase like a grand piano.After unspeakable suffering, productive of the utmostconsternation, she is pronounced, by expresses from the bedroom,free from pain, though much exhausted, in which state of affairsMr. Snagsby, trampled and crushed in the piano-forte removal, andextremely timid and feeble, ventures to come out from behind thedoor in the drawing-room.All this time Jo has been standing on the spot where he woke up,ever picking his cap and putting bits of fur in his mouth. Hespits them out with a remorseful air, for he feels that it is inhis nature to be an unimprovable reprobate and that it's no goodhis trying to keep awake, for he won't never know nothink. Thoughit may be, Jo, that there is a history so interesting and affectingeven to minds as near the brutes as thine, recording deeds done onthis earth for common men, that if the Chadbands, removing theirown persons from the light, would but show it thee in simplereverence, would but leave it unimproved, would but regard it asbeing eloquent enough without their modest aid--it might hold theeawake, and thou might learn from it yet!Jo never heard of any such book. Its compilers and the ReverendChadband are all one to him, except that he knows the ReverendChadband and would rather run away from him for an hour than hearhim talk for five minutes. "It an't no good my waiting here nolonger," thinks Jo. "Mr. Snagsby an't a-going to say nothink to meto-night." And downstairs he shuffles.But downstairs is the charitable Guster, holding by the handrail ofthe kitchen stairs and warding off a fit, as yet doubtfully, thesame having been induced by Mrs. Snagsby's screaming. She has herown supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jo, with whom sheventures to interchange a word or so for the first time."Here's something to eat, poor boy," says Guster."Thank'ee, mum," says Jo."Are you hungry?""Jist!" says Jo."What's gone of your father and your mother, eh?"Jo stops in the middle of a bite and looks petrified. For thisorphan charge of the Christian saint whose shrine was at Tootinghas patted him on the shoulder, and it is the first time in hislife that any decent hand has been so laid upon him."I never know'd nothink about 'em," says Jo."No more didn't I of mine," cries Guster. She is repressingsymptoms favourable to the fit when she seems to take alarm atsomething and vanishes down the stairs."Jo," whispers the law-stationer softly as the boy lingers on thestep."Here I am, Mr. Snagsby!""I didn't know you were gone--there's another half-crown, Jo. Itwas quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the othernight when we were out together. It would breed trouble. Youcan't be too quiet, Jo.""I am fly, master!"And so, good night.A ghostly shade, frilled and night-capped, follows the law-stationer to the room he came from and glides higher up. Andhenceforth he begins, go where he will, to be attended by anothershadow than his own, hardly less constant than his own, hardly lessquiet than his own. And into whatsoever atmosphere of secrecy hisown shadow may pass, let all concerned in the secrecy beware! Forthe watchful Mrs. Snagsby is there too--bone of his bone, flesh ofhis flesh, shadow of his shadow.