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远大前程|Great Expectations

第4章|Chapter 4

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 查尔斯-狄更斯] 阅读：[57312]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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我满腹狐疑地以为一定有警察坐在厨房里，等我回来逮住我。然而，厨房中不仅没有警察等着，而且连我偷窃的事也没有被发觉。乔夫人正在干劲十足地大忙特忙，为了庆贺节日要把房子打扫得一干二净，所以乔只得被赶到厨房的门阶上，免得在她的簸箕前碍手碍脚。我姐姐要么不扫地，一扫起来总是精力旺盛地使尽全身解数。迟早有一天，乔会被我姐姐一扫帚扫进簸箕里去。

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“你这个鬼东西刚才又死到哪里去了？”我怀着良心的自责回到家里时，姐姐看到我说的圣诞节祝贺辞就是这句话。

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我说我去听圣诞颂歌了。“嗯，这就好！”她说道，“我原以为你又去干什么坏事了。”我想，她说的一点不假。

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“我要是不当上铁匠的老婆，不成为围裙不离身的奴隶，反正铁匠老婆和奴隶是一样的，我也会去听圣诞颂歌。”乔夫人说道，“我本人对圣诞颂歌特别偏爱，但我一辈子也没有听过，也许这就是我偏爱它的最好理由。”

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当簸箕从我们面前拿走之后，乔才壮着胆子跟我走进厨房。他用手背擦了一下鼻子，对着乔夫人的瞪眼，表现出和平共处的气慨。等乔夫人的眼光转过去后，他偷偷地把两只手的食指交叉在一起，让我看这个手势，以表明乔夫人正在气头上。其实她总是在生气，生气是她的平时表现。她一生气，乔和我就得几个星期地受气，变成了十字军战士，因为不朽的十字军战士总是叉着腿站着，两腿叉立和两食指交叉一样都是怒气冲冲的象征。

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今天我们将有一顿盛况空前的丰富午餐，上的菜会有青菜烧腌猪腿，一对八宝烤鸭。昨天早晨就做好了一块漂亮的碎肉饼，所以碎肉不见了这件事还没有被发觉。另外，布了也已经开始用水蒸了。中饭的盛大安排却简而单之地把我们的早餐给挤掉了。乔夫人说：“我没有时间给你们大摆筵席，让你们又吞又饮，然后再给你们洗碗涮碟，摆在我面前的事情很多，我告诉你们，不要指望。”

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所以我们只得弄点面包片充饥。现在，我们仿佛是拥有两千士兵的军队在急行军，而不是两个待在家中的大人和孩子。我们把柜子上的一罐加水牛奶大口地倒在嘴里，脸上露出抱歉的表情。这时，乔夫人挂上了洁白的窗帘，在宽阔的壁炉架上钉了一块新的花边布，换下了旧的，还打开了过道上的正式会客室。这个会客室专门为节日开放，而其他时间都只能和银箔纸雾气般的寒光共同度过。这种雾气般的寒光一直照到壁炉架上四只玲珑可爱的白色陶瓷小狮子狗身上。每一条狗都有一只黑鼻子，嘴中衔着一篮子花朵，造型色彩都一模一样。乔夫人是一位非常爱干净的家庭主妇，但因为她非常过分地爱干净，到头来，她的干净比起肮脏更使人感到不舒服，不愉快。于净本是虔诚的邻居，所以有些虔诚的人也就爱起干净来了。

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我的姐姐由于有许许多多的事情要做，上教堂的任务只能由代表履行，也就是说，由乔和我代替她去。乔穿起工装倒是一个结结实实。很有性格的铁匠，但是一穿起节日服装，就变成了一个矫揉造作的稻草人。他的节日服装穿起来既不合身，也不像是他的。他穿在身上的每一件衣服都好像在咬他的肉。在这圣诞节的日子里，当教堂的欢乐钟声响起，他从房中走出来，穿着那套节日礼服，完全是一副可怜的样子。至于我，我的姐姐自有她的想法，把我看作是一个小讨债鬼，出生的那一天由警察局里的产科医生接生出来并交给她，由她任意处置，甚至可以破坏法律的原则。我从一生下来到现在所受到的待遇，就好像我天生就是理性、宗教以及道德准则的死对头，就是反对好朋友的劝阻，本来不该出生，而我却坚持出生的。就连带我去做一套新衣服，裁缝师傅也受命把它们做成感化院里的式样，决不考虑放开我的手脚让其自由行动。

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所以乔和我到教堂的这副仪表对于那些有怜悯心肠的人来说，一定会令其大为感动。其实我外表所忍受的痛苦比起内心所忍受的痛苦来说是微不足道的。只要我姐姐走近食品间，或者从食品间走出来，我就神魂不定，心惊肉跳，然而，毕竟是我亲手进行的偷窃，想起来又是悔恨交加。这害怕和悔恨的心情在我的内心是势均力敌的。秘密作恶的沉重担子压在我的心头，我在思付，要是我向教会坦白交待，教会有没有能力保护我，使我躲过那个令人毛骨悚然的年轻人的复仇。于是，我打定了主意，在教堂宣布结婚预告时，等牧师说“如有异议可陈述己见”后，我就挺身而出，并且建议到祷告间去和牧师密谈。可惜这一天是圣诞节，不是礼拜天，否则我说不定真会采取这个极端的手段，使全体教民大吃一惊的。

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教堂里的职员沃甫赛先生那天要到我们家来吃饭，另外来吃饭的还有车匠胡卜先生及胡卜夫人，还有彭波契克舅舅。应该说他是乔的舅舅，不过乔夫人却把他占为自己的舅舅。舅舅在附近的镇上做粮食生意，手头富裕，出门有自己的马车。中餐定在下午一时半。乔和我从教堂回到家时，餐桌已整理就绪，乔夫人也打扮了一番。菜肴已下锅，正门也打开了（这门在其他时间是不开放的），准备迎接客人的光临，处处都显得富丽堂皇。到现在为止，关于失窃之事一个字也没有提到。

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午餐的时间到了，但这没有使我心情轻松；宾客纷至，也没有使我负疚的情感如释重负。沃甫赛先生生了一只鹰钩鼻，还有个大而秃的前额，泛出亮亮的油光。他的语音深沉洪亮，为此他十分骄傲。凡是他的朋友都晓得，只要任他自由发挥，他念起经文来，连牧师也比不上。他认为，如果教会实行开放政策，进行竞选，他只要参加竞争，就一定当选，决不会失望。可是教会并不实行开放政策，他还是教堂的一个职员，这我在前面就提到过。于是，他只能狠狠地惩罚“阿门”。在他诵读圣诗时，总是清清楚楚地读完一整节，然后向下面的会众环视一下，仿佛在说：“你们听到上面的这个朋友朗诵得如何，再看看他的朗诵风格怎样，提提你们的意见。”

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我打开正门迎接宾客。这是为了使他们相信，我们历来都是开大门的。我迎接的第一个人是沃甫赛先生，第二次迎接的是胡卜先生和夫人，最后才是彭波契克舅舅。虽然这里我称他舅舅，但请注意，我姐姐是不允许我叫他舅舅的，否则我就会受到非常严厉的惩罚。

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“乔夫人，”彭波契克进来后对姐姐说道。他是一个大块头的中年人，行动缓慢，呼吸困难，生了张鱼一般的扁嘴，眼睛迟钝却睁得滚圆，沙色的头发根根竖立在头上，那模样真像被问得昏迷了过去而现在才苏醒过来一样。“我给你捎来节日的问候，夫人，我为你捎来了一瓶雪莉酒，夫人，我还为你捎来了一瓶葡萄牙波特红葡萄酒。”

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每一年的圣诞节他都要来，讲的是相同的话，还自以为很有新意，抱来的是两只相同的像哑铃一般的酒瓶。每一年的圣诞节，乔夫人的答谢语也是一成不变的，和现在说的一样：“噢！彭——波——契克舅舅！可真谢您了！”每一年的圣诞节，听了姐姐的答谢后，他照例还是几句旧话：“一切都是你的功劳。你们都健康愉快吗？这个小东西怎么样呢？”小东西就是指我。

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在每年的佳节时刻，我们总是在厨房中吃午餐，然后到客厅去吃胡桃、桔子和苹果。从厨房变换到客厅，就好像乔从工作服变换成节日礼服一样。现在我的姐姐是从来未有过的愉快，尤其和胡卜夫人在一起比和其他人在一起表现得更加态度自若、和蔼可亲。在我的记忆中，胡卜夫人娇小瘦弱，一头鬈发，身着天蓝色衣服，保持了少女般的天真姿态。她是在什么遥远的时期和胡卜先生结婚的，我不知道，但有一点可以肯定，她比胡卜先生年轻得太多了。胡卜先生在我的记忆中，是一个体格健壮的高肩膀的人，但腰背有些驼，身上散发出刨花的香气，两条腿走起路来总是分得特别开。早些年我个子很矮，在巷口看到他走来，从他的两腿之间可以望到几英里宽的乡间旷野。

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在这批贵宾之间，我本来就感到身价比他们低一等，何况我还偷了食品间的东西。我的身价低并不是因为我被挤在桌子的一个小尖角旁，胸口和桌子一样高，彭波契克的胳膊肘总是碰到我的眼睛；也不是因为他们不许我讲话，其实我根本不想讲话；也不是因为他们款待我，请我吃的全是些带着鳞皮的鸡爪子和不知道是猪身上哪一处地方的东西，其实即使这猪在它的生前也不会为这些东西而夸耀。不，全然不是这些理由。如果他们把我丢在一边使我孤零零的，我不会介意。问题是他们并不把我丢在一边。他们以为，如果不指指划划地谈论我，不把我当作话柄儿，简直是有失良机。我几乎成了西班牙斗牛场中一头不幸的小公牛，被他们满嘴的仁义道德刺得通体伤痛。

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我们各就各位开始用膳时，他们也开始了对我的攻击。沃甫赛先生像读剧本台词那样念他的膳前祷告，现在想起来，可有点儿像《哈姆莱特》及《理查三世》中有关鬼魂出现的宗教仪式。最后他以大家要诚心诚意感恩的愿望结束了祷告。听到这句话，我姐姐用她的目光盯着我，并且带着责备的口吻，低声地对我说：“听到他说的话吗？要感恩。”

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彭波契克先生也凑热闹地说道：“小孩子，特别要对把你一手带大的人们感恩。”

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胡卜夫人也摇晃着她的脑袋。她有一种令人痛心的预感，那就是我不会有什么好前程。她问我：“为什么那些年轻人总是不懂得感恩呢？”她提出的这个道德问题太神秘而深不可测，弄得大家也哑口无言，还是胡卜先生一针见血地揭开了谜底：“他们都是天生的坏蛋。”接着大家都附和说“真妙！”同时，用一种特别令人讨厌的、似乎带有个人深仇的目光打量着我。

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乔在家中的地位和影响是不大的，如果有客人在场，他的地位和影响就更加弱小。尽管如此，他不会忘记在他可能的情况下以他的方式帮助我和安慰我。在吃饭的时候，只要饭桌上有肉汁，他总要给我舀一些。今天饭桌上有很多肉汁，乔用汤匙舀起装在我盆子里的到这时已有半品脱之多。

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过了一会儿，沃甫赛先生又打开他的话匣子，一本正经、声色俱厉地指责了今天牧师的布道词，并且暗示他那套老话，也就是如果教会实行开放政策的话，他的布道词一定会是如何如何令人满意。吹了一通后，他又提出几个重要的地方，接着又批评今天讲道的主题，说根本选择不当。他又说，现在好主题多如牛毛，随手可得，因此今天所选择的主题更是不可原谅的。

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“你又一次说对了，”彭波契克舅舅说道，“你真是一针见血，先生！只要你掌握了用饵去诱捕鸟的诀窍，主题自然随手可得。这就是我们所需要的。无论谁，只要准备好诱捕的饵，不要走多远，猎物就会上钩的。”彭波契克先生若有所思地想了片刻，又说道：“就拿猪肉来说吧，这就是个好主题！你如果想找个布道主题，猪肉就是一个！”

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“一点不错，先生，对于小字辈来讲，”沃甫赛先生刚说了半句，我就知道他把他的主题又硬扯到我身上来了。“他们可以从中吸取许许多多的教训。”

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“你该听听这些话。”我姐姐十分严厉地对我说。

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乔却又给我舀了些肉汁。

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“就猪这个主题来说，”沃甫赛先生用深沉洪亮的声音说着，还用叉子指着我被他们羞红了的脸，仿佛猪就是我的教名似的，“猪是挥霍浪费、好吃懒做的人的好友。猪贪吃的下场就在眼前，小字辈应该引以为训。”我想，刚才他还在夸奖猪呢，说猪长得多胖，多么有油，等等，怎么一下子又改变了话锋，可谓妙哉。他接着说：“猪是令人讨嫌的，而像猪一样的男孩子就更令人讨嫌。”

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“还有像猪一样的女孩子。”胡卜先生提示性地说道。

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“当然，像猪一样的女孩子也令人讨嫌，胡卜先生，”沃甫赛先生嘴上不得不附和，而内心却有些恼怒，“不过，这儿没有女孩。”

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彭波契克先生这时急速地转向我说道：“还有，你得想一想，该感恩报德些什么。如果你生下来是一个哇哇乱叫的小崽子——”

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我姐姐还没有等别人的话讲完便肯定地说：

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“他就是会哇哇乱叫，世上没有像他这样的孩子。”

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乔又给我舀了些肉汁。

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“是这么回事，不过我说的是生着四只蹄子的小猪崽子。”彭波契克先生说道，“如果你生下来就是小猪崽子，现在你还会在这里吗？你不——”

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“就是在这里，”沃甫赛先生对着盘子中的猪肉示意性地点了点头说，“也会变成这模样。”

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“我的意思可不是说这种模样，先生。”彭波契克先生因为话被打断，心中十分不快，所以反驳了他的说法。“我的意思是指他还能不能和大人长辈们一起享受幸福的生活，以大人长辈们的教导来改进自己，不断进步，在挥霍浪费中享受荣华呢？他还能这样做吗？不，他不能。那么你会落到什么困地呢？”这时他又转向我说， “你会被牵到市场去，按照市场现价卖得几个先令。然后，来了个杀猪的屠夫，朝你躺着的稻草堆走过来，一把把你夹在左胳肢窝下，右手撩起他的杀猪袍，从背心口袋中掏出一把宰猪刀，一刀扎进去给你放血，结束了你的小命。那么，又有谁来把你一手带大呢？连影子也没有。”

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乔又给我添了些肉汁，可我吓得不敢吃。

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“夫人，他一定把你闹得不可开交吧。”胡卜夫人深感同情地对我姐姐说。

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“闹得不可开交？”我姐姐重复了一句，“仅仅不可开交吗？”然后便进入了她的长篇大论，数说我罪有应得的种种疾病，以及不睡觉时犯下的一切坏事，说我曾经从什么什么高处摔下来，又曾经滚进什么什么低洼的地方去，又说我自作自受，给自己带来了多少伤害，还说她总是盼着我进入坟墓，可是我偏偏不如她意，一味地不想到坟墓里去。

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我想，古代的罗马人相互激怒结怨，一定是因为彼此的鼻子。也许正是由于这个原因，罗马人成了历史上一个不安分守己的民族。无论如何，沃甫赛先生那罗马人的鹰钩鼻也激怒了我，在我的姐姐说我这也不好那也不对时，我真想去扯他的鼻子，一直扯到他大声嚎叫为止。我姐姐把我说得一无是处之后，大家沉默了一会儿，而就是在这沉默之中，我不知犯了什么罪过，每一个人都对我怒目而视，似乎对我痛恨之极，我的内心感受到极大的伤痛。然而，我忍气吞声地挨到现在，所受的一切苦难与我在这沉默被打破之后的可怕心情相比真算不上什么。

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过了一会儿，彭波契克先生细声细语地又把大家的话题重新引向刚才一度走岔路的主题。“我说猪肉吧，一旦煮过后，倒也是油腻腻的有滋味，对不对？”

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“尝口白兰地吧，舅舅。”我姐姐说道。

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哦，天哪，终于大祸临头了！他只要一喝白兰地就会感到味儿太淡，就会说味道太淡，我也就没命了！我的双手在桌布下面紧紧地抱住桌腿，等待着我的恶运降临。

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我姐姐跑进食品间去取石玉酒坛，回来时捧着石玉酒坛，把酒斟在他的杯子里。别人一点儿也没尝，只有这个大坏蛋端起酒杯把玩一番：将它举得高高的，通过射进的阳光仔细端详，然后又放下来。这便延长了我的不幸。这时，乔夫人和乔正欢快地收拾桌上的杯盘，准备给客人们上肉馅饼和布丁。

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我一直望着他，不敢把目光移开。现在，我不仅双手紧抱桌腿，而且连双脚也盘在桌腿上了。我看着这个可怜的家伙用手指抚弄着杯子，端起来，露出微笑，然后才仰起头来，把白兰地一饮而尽。酒一进口，他突然跳了起来，弄得四座惊恐万状，不知发生了什么事。只见他一阵紧张的抽搐，围着桌子转了几圈，发酒疯似的咳着冲到门外。从窗子中望出去，只见他没命地顿足捶胸，唾沫四溅，做出最难看的鬼脸，完全像疯了一样。

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我抱着桌腿不放，而乔夫人和乔向他奔去。我的确不知道我究竟是怎么做的，但无疑是我把他害苦了。正在我怕得手足无措时，他们把他扶了进来。我这才松了一口气。进来后，他看了四座的人一眼，仿佛是他们害了他一样，然后沉重地坐在椅子上，气喘吁吁地说出三个令人吃惊的字：“柏油水！”

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我这才知道，我加进酒坛子中的竟是柏油水。根据我的经验，我知道一会儿以后他会感到更加难受。由于我在桌布下把桌腿抱得太紧，以至于整张桌子都给挪动了，就好像今日社会中的女巫在摆弄着那些招魂把戏一样。

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“柏油水！”我姐姐吃惊不小地说道，“柏油水怎么可能跑到酒坛中去的？”

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现在在这间厨房中，彭波契克舅舅是无所不能的主，他不愿意再听到柏油水这几个字，也不愿意再谈论这个主题。他专横跋扈地挥动着手，表示不要再多说了，快去把加水杜松子酒拿来。我姐姐从慌乱和思考中惊醒过来，不得不赶忙去准备杜松子酒、热水、食糖和柠檬皮，把这几样配在一起。至少在此时此刻我得救了。我依旧紧紧地抱着桌腿不放，而心中却是充满了说不尽的感激。

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我的心情渐渐地平静下来，平静得使我松开了抱紧桌腿的手脚，并且开始分享布丁的滋味。彭彼契克先生也坐下来吃布了，所有的人都吃起了布丁。这道甜食结束后，由于加水杜松子酒起了作用，彭波契克先生的面孔又泛起红光。我想，今天总算挨过去了，可正想到这里，我姐姐对乔说道：“把干净盘子拿来，不用烤热。”

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这一声使我不得不立刻又抱紧了桌腿，将它紧贴在胸口上，仿佛它是我幼年的同伴，心灵的密友。我预感到麻烦已经降临。这一回我真的倒霉了。

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我姐姐和颜悦色地对宾客们说道：“你们一定要尝一尝，在结束这次节日宴席的时候，请你们尝一口彭波契克舅舅送来的讨人喜爱且美味可口的礼物。”

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一定要让大家尝吗？还是不要让他们尝为好。

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“我得让你们知道，”姐姐站起来说道，“还有一块饼，是一块美味可口的猪肉馅饼。”

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一听说有猪肉馅饼，大家都咕咕哝哝地讲着恭维话。彭波契克舅舅显得最为活跃。刚才的尴尬局面已经过去，现在他自以为是在座最该享受馅饼的人。“好，乔夫人，我们就准备大享口福了，让我们共享一块肉馅饼吧。”

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我姐姐起身出去取饼。我听到她的脚步声进入了食品间。我看到彭波契克先生摆弄着餐刀。我又看到在沃甫赛先生鹰钩鼻的鼻孔张合中表现出重新苏醒的食欲。我听到胡卜先生的高论：“吃一点儿美味可口的肉馅饼，是刚才吃的许多东西的点缀，是有益无害的。”我又听到乔对我说：“你也有一份尝尝，皮普。”我害怕得大叫了一声，不过，这惊恐的呼叫究竟是心灵内部的还是大家都听得到的，我至今也不能确定。总之，我感到无法再忍受下去，我必须逃跑了。于是我把紧抱着桌腿的手脚松开，赶忙没命地向门外逃去。

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我刚刚跑到屋门口，就一头撞进了一队士兵当中。他们手持滑膛枪，其中的一个拿着一副手铐，对我说道：“到了到了，快，跟我进来。”

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I FULLY expected to find a Constable in the kitchen, waiting to take me up. But not only was there no Constable there, but no discovery had yet been made of the robbery. Mrs Joe was prodigiously busy in getting the house ready for the festivities of the day, and Joe had been put upon the kitchen door-step to keep him out of the dust-pan - an article into which his destiny always led him sooner or later, when my sister was vigorously reaping the floors of her establishment.

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`And where the deuce ha’ you been?’ was Mrs Joe’s Christmas salutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.

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I said I had been down to hear the Carols. `Ah! well!’ observed Mrs Joe. `You might ha’ done worse.’ Not a doubt of that, I thought.

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`Perhaps if I warn’t a blacksmith’s wife, and (what’s the same thing) a slave with her apron never off, I should have been to hear the Carols,’ said Mrs Joe. `I’am rather partial to Carols, myself, and that’s the best of reasons for my never hearing any.’

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Joe, who had ventured into the kitchen after me as the dust-pan had retired before us, drew the back of his hand across his nose with a conciliatory air when Mrs Joe darted a look at him, and, when her eyes were withdrawn, secretly crossed his two forefingers, and exhibited them to me, as our token that Mrs Joe was in a cross temper. This was so much her normal state, that Joe and I would often, for weeks together, be, as to our fingers, like monumental Crusaders as to their legs.

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We were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls. A handsome mince-pie had been made yesterday morning (which accounted for the mincemeat not being missed), and the pudding was already on the boil. These extensive arrangements occasioned us to be cut off unceremoniously in respect of breakfast; `for I an’t,’ said Mrs Joe, `I an’t a going to have no formal cramming and busting and washing up now, with what I’ve got before me, I promise you!’

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So, we had our slices served out, as if we were two thousand troops on a forced march instead of a man and boy at home; and we took gulps of milk and water, with apologetic countenances, from a jug on the dresser. In the meantime, Mrs Joe put clean white curtains up, and tacked a new flowered-flounce across the wide chimney to replace the old one, and uncovered the little state parlour across the passage, which was never uncovered at any other time, but passed the rest of the year in a cool haze of silver paper, which even extended to the four little white crockery poodles on the mantelshelf, each with a black nose and a basket of flowers in his mouth, and each the counterpart of the other. Mrs Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but had an exquisite art of making her cleanliness more uncomfortable and unacceptable than dirt itself. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and some people do the same by their religion.

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My sister having so much to do, was going to church vicariously; that is to say, Joe and I were going. In his working clothes, Joe was a well-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he was more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else. Nothing that he wore then, fitted him or seemed to belong to him; and everything that he wore then, grazed him. On the present festive occasion he emerged from his room, when the blithe bells were going, the picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday penitentials. As to me, I think my sister must have had some general idea that I was a young offender whom an Accoucheur Policemen had taken up (on my birthday) and delivered over to her, to be dealt with according to the outraged majesty of the law. I was always treated as if I had insisted on being born, in opposition to the dictates of reason, religion, and morality, and against the dissuading arguments of my best friends. Even when I was taken to have a new suit of clothes, the tailor had orders to make them like a kind of Reformatory, and on no account to let me have the free use of my limbs.

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Joe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle for compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside, was nothing to what I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs Joe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be equalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had done. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether the Church would be powerful enough to shield me from the vengeance of the terrible young man, if I divulged to that establishment. I conceived the idea that the time when the banns were read and when the clergyman said, `Ye are now to declare it!’ would be the time for me to rise and propose a private conference in the vestry. I am far from being sure that I might not have astonished our small congregation by resorting to this extreme measure, but for its being Christmas Day and no Sunday.

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Mr Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr Hubble the wheelwright and Mrs Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe’s uncle, but Mrs Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do corn-chandler in the nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was half-past one. When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and Mrs Joe dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked (it never was at any other time) for the company to enter by, and everything most splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.

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The time came, without bringing with it any relief to my feelings, and the company came. Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and a large shining bald forehead, had a deep voice which he was uncommonly proud of; indeed it was understood among his acquaintance that if you could only give him his head, he would read the clergyman into fits; he himself confessed that if the Church was `thrown open,’ meaning to competition, he would not despair of making his mark in it. The Church not being `thrown open,’ he was, as I have said, our clerk. But the punished the Amens tremendously; and when he gave out the psalm - always giving the whole verse - he looked all round the congregation first, as much as to say, `You have heard my friend overhead; oblige me with your opinion of this style!’

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I opened the door to the company - making believe that it was a habit of ours to open that door - and I opened it first to Mr Wopsle, next to Mr and Mrs Hubble, and last of all to Uncle Pumblechook. N.B. I was not allowed to call him uncle, under the severest penalties.

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`Mrs Joe,’ said Uncle Pumblechook: a large hard-breathing middle-aged slow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair standing upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been all but chocked, and had that moment come to; `I have brought you, as the compliments of the season - I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry wine - and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine.’

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Every Christmas Day he presented himself, as a profound novelty, with exactly the same words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells. Every Christmas Day, Mrs Joe replied, as she now replied, `Oh, Un - cle Pum - ble - chook! This IS kind!’ Every Christmas Day, he retorted, as he now retorted, `It’s no more than your merits. And now are you all bobbish, and how’s Sixpennorth of halfpence?’ meaning me.

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We dined on these occasions in the kitchen, and adjourned, for the nuts and oranges and apples, to the parlour; which was a change very like Joe’s change from his working clothes to his Sunday dress. My sister was uncommonly lively on the present occasion, and indeed was generally more gracious in the society of Mrs Hubble than in other company. I remember Mrs Hubble as a little curly sharp-edged person in sky-blue, who held a conventionally juvenile position, because she had married Mr Hubble - I don’t know at what remote period - when she was much younger than he. I remember Mr Hubble as a tough high-shouldered stooping old man, of a sawdusty fragrance, with his legs extraordinarily wide apart: so that in my short days I always saw some miles of open country between them when I met him coming up the lane.

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Among this good company I should have felt myself, even if I hadn’t robbed the pantry, in a false position. Not because I was squeezed in at an acute angle of the table-cloth, with the table in my chest, and the Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not allowed to speak (I didn’t want to speak), nor because I was regaled with the scaly tips of the drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure corners of pork of which the pig, when living, had had the least reason to be vain. No; I should not have minded that, if they would only have left me alone. But they wouldn’t leave me alone. They seemed to think the opportunity lost, if they failed to point the conversation at me, every now and then, and stick the point into me. I might have been an unfortunate little bull in a Spanish arena, I got so smartingly touched up by these moral goads.

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It began the moment we sat down to dinner. Mr Wopsle said grace with theatrical declamation - as it now appears to me, something like a religious cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third - and ended with the very proper aspiration that we might be truly grateful. Upon which my sister fixed me with her eye, and said, in a low reproachful voice, `Do you hear that? Be grateful.’

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`Especially,’ said Mr Pumblechook, `be grateful, boy, to them which brought you up by hand.’

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Mrs Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with a mournful presentiment that I should come to no good, asked, `Why is it that the young are never grateful?’ This moral mystery seemed too much for the company until Mr Hubble tersely solved it by saying, `Naterally wicious.’ Everybody then murmured `True!’ and looked at me in a particularly unpleasant and personal manner.

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Joe’s station and influence were something feebler (if possible) when there was company, than when there was none. But he always aided and comforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did so at dinner-time by giving me gravy, if there were any. There being plenty of gravy to-day, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about half a pint.

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A little later on in the dinner, Mr Wopsle reviewed the sermon with some severity, and intimated - in the usual hypothetical case of the Church being `thrown open’ - what king of sermon he would have given them. After favouring them with some heads of that discourse, he remarked that he considered the subject of the day’s homily, ill-chosen; which was the less excusable, he added, when there were so many subjects `going about.’

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`True again,’ said Uncle Pumblechook. `You’ve hit it, sir!Plenty of subjects going about, for them that know how to put salt upon their tails. That’s what’s wanted. A man needn’t go far to find a subject, if he’s ready with his salt-box.’ Mr Pumblechook added, after a short interval of reflection, `Look at Pork alone. There’s a subject! If you want a subject, look at Pork!’

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`True, sir. Many a moral for the young,’ returned Mr Wopsle; and I knew he was going to lug me in, before he said it; `might be deduced from that text.’

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(`You listen to this,’ said my sister to me, in a severe parenthesis.)

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Joe gave me some more gravy.

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`Swine,’ pursued Mr Wopsle, in his deepest voice, and pointing his fork at my blushes, as if he were mentioning my christian name; `Swine were the companions of the prodigal. The gluttony of Swine is put before us, as an example to the young.’ (I thought this pretty well in him who had been praising up the pork for being so plump and juicy.) `What is detestable in a pig, is more detestable in a boy.’

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`Or girl,’ suggested Mr Hubble.

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`Of course, or girl, Mr Hubble,’ assented Mr Wopsle, rather irritably, `but there is no girl present.’

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`Besides,’ said Mr Pumblechook, turning sharp on me, `think what you’ve got to be grateful for. If you’d been born a Squeaker--’

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`He was, if ever a child was,’ said my sister, most emphatically.

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Joe gave me some more gravy.

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`Well, but I mean a four-footed Squeaker,’ said Mr Pumblechook. `If you had been born such, would you have been here now? Now you--’

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`Unless in that form,’ said Mr Wopsle, nodding towards the dish.

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`But I don’t mean in that form, sir,’ returned Mr Pumblechook, who had an objection to being interrupted; `I mean, enjoying himself with his elders and betters, and improving himself with their conversation, and rolling in the lap of luxury. Would he have been doing that? No, he wouldn’t. And what would have been your destination?’ turning on me again. `You would have been disposed of for so many shillings according to the market price of the article, and Dunstable the butcher would have come up to you as you lay in your straw, and he would have whipped you under his left arm, and with his right he would have tucked up his frock to get a penknife from out of his waistcoat - pocket, and he would have shed your blood and had your life. No bringing up by hand then. Not a bit of it!’

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Joe offered me more gravy, which I was afraid to take.

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`He was a world of trouble to you, ma’am,’ said Mrs Hubble, commiserating my sister.

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`Trouble?’ echoed my sister; `trouble?’ and then entered on a fearful catalogue of all the illnesses I had been guilty of, and all the acts of sleeplessness I had committed, and all the high places I had tumbled from, and all the low places I had tumbled into, and all the injuries I had done myself, and all the times she had wished me in my grave, and I had contumaciously refused to go there.

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I think the Romans must have aggravated one another very much, with their noses. Perhaps, they became the restless people they were, in consequence. Anyhow, Mr Wopsle’s Roman nose so aggravated me, during the recital of my misdemeanours, that I should have liked to pull it until he howled. But, all I had endured up to this time, was nothing in comparison with the awful feelings that took possession of me when the pause was broken which ensued upon my sister’s recital, and in which pause everybody had looked at me (as I felt painfully conscious) with indignation and abhorrence.

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`Yet,’ said Mr Pumblechook, leading the company gently back to the theme from which they had strayed, `Pork - regarded as biled - is rich, too; ain’t it?’

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`Have a little brandy, uncle,’ said my sister.

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O Heavens, it had come at last! He would find it was weak, he would say it was weak, and I was lost! I held tight to the leg of the table under the cloth, with both hands, and awaited my fate.

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My sister went for the stone bottle, came back with the stone bottle, and poured his brandy out: no one else taking any. The wretched man trifled with his glass - took it up, looked at it through the light, put it down - prolonged my misery. All this time, Mrs Joe and Joe were briskly clearing the table for the pie and pudding.

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I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. Always holding tight by the leg of the table with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable creature finger his glass playfully, take it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink the brandy off. Instantly afterwards, the company were seized with unspeakable consternation, owing to his springing to his feet, turning round several times in an appalling spasmodic whooping-cough dance, and rushing out at the door; he then became visible through the window, violently plunging and expectorating, making the most hideous faces, and apparently out of his mind.

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I held on tight, while Mrs Joe and Joe ran to him. I didn’t know how I had done it, but I had no doubt I had murdered him somehow. In my dreadful situation, it was a relief when he was brought back, and, surveying the company all round as if they had disagreed with him, sank down into his chair with the one significant gasp, `Tar!’

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I had filled up the bottle from the tar-water jug. I knew he would be worse by-and-by. I moved the table, like a Medium of the present day, by the vigour of my unseen hold upon it.

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`Tar!’ cried my sister, in amazement. `Why, how ever could Tar come there?’

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But, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent in that kitchen, wouldn’t hear the word, wouldn’t hear of the subject, imperiously waved it all away with his hand, and asked for hot gin-and-water. My sister, who had begun to be alarmingly meditative, had to employ herself actively in getting the gin, the hot water, the sugar, and the lemon-peel, and mixing them. For the time at least, I was saved. I still held on to the leg of the table, but clutched it now with the fervour of gratitude.

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By degrees, I became calm enough to release my grasp and partake of pudding. Mr Pumblechook partook of pudding. All partook of pudding. The course terminated, and Mr Pumblechook had begun to beam under the genial influence of gin-and-water. I began to think I should get over the day, when my sister said to Joe, `Clean plates - cold.’

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I clutched the leg of the table again immediately, and pressed it to my bosom as if it had been the companion of my youth and friend of my soul. I foresaw what was coming, and I felt that this time I really was gone.

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`You must taste,’ said my sister, addressing the guests with her best grace, `You must taste, to finish with, such a delightful and delicious present of Uncle Pumblechook’s!’

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Must they! Let them not hope to taste it!

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`You must know,’ said my sister, rising, `it’s a pie; a savoury pork pie.’

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The company murmured their compliments. Uncle Pumblechook, sensible of having deserved well of his fellow-creatures, said - quite vivaciously, all things considered - `Well, Mrs Joe, we’ll do our best endeavours; let us have a cut at this same pie.’

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My sister went out to get it. I heard her steps proceed to the pantry. I saw Mr Pumblechook balance his knife. I saw re-awakening appetite in the Roman nostrils of Mr Wopsle. I heard Mr Hubble remark that `a bit of savoury pork pie would lay atop of anything you could mention, and do no harm,’ and I heard Joe say, `You shall have some, Pip.’ I have never been absolutely certain whether I uttered a shrill yell of terror, merely in spirit, or in the bodily hearing of the company. I felt that I could bear no more, and that I must run away. I released the leg of the table, and ran for my life.

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But, I ran no further than the house door, for there I ran head foremost into a party of soldiers with their muskets: one of whom held out a pair of handcuffs to me, saying, `Here you are, look sharp, come on!’

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