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双城记|A Tale of Two Cities

Book 2 Chapter 1 Five Years Later

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 查尔斯-狄更斯] 阅读：[48769]
Book 2 Chapter 1 Five Years Later
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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伦敦法学会大门旁的台尔森银行即使在一千七百八十年也已是个老式的地方。它很窄小，很阴暗，很丑陋，很不方便。而且它之所以是个老式的地方，是因为从道德属性上讲，银行的股东们都以它的窄小、阴暗、丑陋为骄傲，以它的不方便为骄傲。他们甚至夸耀它的这些突出特点，并因一种特殊的信仰而热血沸腾：它若不是那么可厌就不会那么可敬。这并非是一种消极的信仰，而是一种可以在比较方便的业务环境中挥舞的积极武器。他们说台尔森银行用不着宽敞，用不着光线，用不着花里胡哨，诺克公司可能需要，斯努克兄弟公司可能需要，可是台尔森公司，谢谢上帝！--

1
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若是有哪位董事的孩子打算改建台尔森银行，他就会被剥夺了继承权。在这个问题上，台尔森银行倒是跟国家如出一辙。国家总是剥夺提出修改法律和习俗的儿子们的继承权，因为法律和风俗正是因为它们长期令人深恶痛绝而尤其可敬的。

2
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其结果便是台尔森银行的不方便反倒是它一种完美的成就。它的大门白痴式地顽固，在被你硬推开时，它的喉咙会发出一声微弱的咕哝，让你一个趔趄直落两步台阶掉进银行，等到你定过神来，就已进入了一个可怜的店堂。那儿有两个小柜台，柜台边衰老不堪的办事员在最阴暗的窗户前核对签字时，会弄得你的支票簌簌发抖，仿佛有风在吹着。那窗户永远有从舰队街上飞来的泥水为它洗淋浴，又因它自己的铁栅栏和法学会的重重蔽障而更加阴暗。如果你因业务需要必须会见“银行当局”，你便会被送进后面一个像“死囚牢”的地方，让你在那儿因误入歧途而悔恨沉思，直到“当局”双手抄在口袋里踱了进来，而在那吓人的幽暗里你连惊异得眨眨眼也难于办到。你的钱是从虫蛀的木质抽屉里取出来的，也是送到那儿去的。开抽屉关抽屉时木料的粉末就飞进你的鼻子，钻进你的喉咙。你的钞票带着霉臭味，好像很快就要分解成碎纸。你的金银器具被塞进一个藏垢纳污之地，一两天之内它们的光泽就被周围的环境腐蚀掉。你的文件被塞进临时凑合使用的保险库里，那是用厨房的洗碗槽改装的。羊皮纸里的脂肪全被榨了出来，混进银行的空气里。你装有家庭文件的较轻的箱子则被送到楼上一间巴米赛德型的大厅里，那里永远有一张巨大的餐桌，却从来没摆过筵席。在那儿，即使到了一千七百八十年，你的情人给你写的初恋的情书和你的幼年的孩子给你写的最初的信件刚才免于受到一排首级窥看的恐怖不久。那一排首级挂在法学会大门口示众。这种做法之麻木、野蛮和凶狠可以跟阿比西尼亚和阿善提媲美。

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可是事实上死刑在各行各业都是一种时髦的窍门。台尔森银行自然不甘落后。死亡既是大自然解决一切问题的良方，为什么不可以在立法上采用？因此伪造文件者处死；使用伪币者处死；私拆信件者处死；盗窃四先令六便士者处死；在台尔森银行门前为人管马却偷了马跑掉者处死；伪造先令者处死。“犯罪”这个乐器的全部音阶，有四分之三的音符谁若是触响了都会被处死。这样做对于预防犯罪并非全无好处一-几乎值得一提的倒是：事实恰好相反--可它却砍掉了每一桩具体案件带给这世界的麻烦，抹掉了许多拖泥带水的事情。这祥，台尔森银行便在它存在的日子里，跟它同时代的更大的企业一祥夺去了许多人的性命。若是在它前面落地的人头不是悄悄地处理掉，而是排在法学院大门口，它们便可能在相当程度上遮去了银行底层原已不多的光线。

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蜷缩在台尔森银行各式各样昏暗的柜橱和半截门上认真地工作着的是些衰迈不堪的人。年轻人一进入台尔森银行便被送到某个地方秘藏起来，一直藏到变成个老头儿。他们把他像奶酪一样存放在阴暗的角落里，等它长出蓝霉，散发出地地道道的台尔森香味来，再让他被人看见。那时他已在神气十足地研读着巨大的帐本，并把他的马裤和套鞋熔铸进那个机构，以增加它的分量。

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台尔森银行外面有一个干零活的，偶尔应应门，跑跑腿，除非有人叫，从不进门。这人起着银行活招牌的作用。上班时间他从不缺席，除非是跑腿去了。可他走了也还有他的儿子代理：那是个十二岁的丑陋的顽童，长得跟那人一模一样。大家知道台尔森银行颇有气派地容忍了这个干零活的。银行一向需要容忍一个人来干这种活，而时势和潮流送到这个岗位上的就是他。这人姓克朗彻，早年在东部的杭兹迪奇教区经教父母代为宣布唾弃魔鬼的行为时接受了杰瑞这个名字。

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地点：克朗彻先生在白袍僧区悬剑胡同的私人寓所。时间：安诺多米尼一干七百八十年三月一个刮风的早晨七点（克朗彻先生总把“安诺多米尼”说成“安娜．多米诺”，显然以为基督教纪元是从一个叫安娜的女士发明了多米诺骨牌，而且用自己的名字为它命名而开始的）。

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克朗彻先生寓所的环境并不温馨，一共只有两个编号，另外一号还是一个小屋，只有一块玻璃作窗户。但这两间屋却都收拾得清清爽爽的。那个多风的三月清晨虽然时间还早，他睡觉的屋子却已擦洗得干干净净。一张非常清洁的白台布已经铺在一张粗糙的松木餐桌上，上面摆好了早餐的杯盘。

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克朗彻先生盖了一床白衲衣图案的花哨被子，像是呆在家里的丑角。开头他睡得很沉，渐渐便开始翻来翻去，最后他翻到被面上，露出了他那一头麦穗样揸开的头发，仿佛会把被子划成破布条似的。此时他非常恼怒地叫了一声：

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“他妈的，她又干起来了！”

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一个干净整齐，后来很勤快的妇女从一个角落里站了起来（她刚才跪在那里），动作很快，却带着惶恐，表明挨骂的正是她。

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“怎么，”克朗彻先生在床上找着靴子，“你又在干了，是么？”

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他用这种致敬的方式问了早安之后，便把靴子向那女人掷去作为第三次问候。那靴上满是泥，可以说明克朗彻先生家庭经济的奇特情况：他每天从银行下班回来靴子总是干干净净的，可第二天早上起床时那靴子就已涂满了泥。

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“你又在玩什么花样，”克朗彻先生没打中目标，便改变了问候方式。“又找麻烦是不是？”

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“我只不过在做祈祷。”

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“做祈祷！多么可爱的女人！咚一声跪下地来咒我，你这是什么意思”

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“我没有咒你，我是为你祈祷。”

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“没有。你要是为我祈祷，我会那么凶么？过来！你的妈妈是个好女人，小杰瑞，她祈祷你的爸爸失败，不让他发迹。你那妈很尽职，儿子。你那妈很信上帝，孩子。咚地一声跪下地来就祈祷她唯一的儿子嘴里的奶油面包叫人抢走。”

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克朗彻少爷（他此时穿着衬衫）一听这话难免生气，转身便向妈妈表示强烈抗议，不愿别人抢走他的食物。

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“你以为你那祈祷值几个钱？”克朗彻先生说，没有意识到自己态度已前后不一。“你这个自以为得意的女人，你说你那祈祷能值几个钱？”

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“我是从内心里祈祷，杰瑞。只值这一点，再也没有多的了。”

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“再也没有多的，”克朗彻先生重复道。“那么，它就不值几个钱。总而言之，我不准许谁祈祷我倒霉，我告诉你。我受不了。我不能让你叽叽咕咕祈祷得我倒了霉。你想跪可以跪，你得为你的男人和娃娃祈祷点好的，可别祈祷他们倒霉。要是我老婆不那么不近人情，这可怜的孩子他娘不那么不近人情，我上周就可以赚到钱了，就不至于挨人咒骂，受人破坏，得不到上帝保佑，倒下大霉了。他妈的！”克朗彻先生一面穿衣服一面说。“我上个礼拜不走运，遇到了一件又一件的倒霉事，一个规规矩矩的可怜生意人所遇到的最倒霉的事！小杰瑞，穿衣服，孩子，我擦靴子的时候，你拿眼睛盯着点你娘，她只要想跪下来你就叫我。因为，我告诉你，”他掉头又对他妻子说，“我像现在这样是不会出门的。我已经是像一部快要散架的出租马车，困得像鸦片瘾发了。我的腰眼累坏了，若不是因为它疼，我简直连哪里是我，哪里是别人都分不清楚了。可是兜里还是没有增加几文。所以我怀疑你从早到晚都在祈祷不让我的腰包鼓起来，我是不会饶你的，他奶奶的，你现在还有什么可说的！”

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克朗彻先生嘟嘟哝哝说着话：“啊，不错，你也信上帝，你不会干出对你男人和孩子不利的事，你不会的！”说时从他那飞速旋转的憎恶的磨盘上飞溅出尖刻讥讽的火花，同时擦着靴子做上班的准备。这时他的儿子则按照要求监视着他的母亲。这孩子头上也长着尖刺一样的头发，只是软一些，一对年轻的眼睛靠得很近，像他爸爸。他不时窜出他睡觉的小屋（他在那儿梳洗），压低了嗓子叫道：“你又要跪下了，妈妈-一爸爸，你看！”一番瞎紧张之后他又带着忤逆不孝的傻笑窜进屋里去了。他就这样不断严重地干扰着他的母亲。

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克朗彻先生到吃早饭时脾气仍然毫无好转，他对克朗彻太太做祈祷怀着一种特别的厌恶。

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“好了，他奶奶的！你又玩什么花样了？又在干什么？”

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他的妻子回答说，她只不过在“乞求保佑”。

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“可别求！”克朗彻先生四面望望说，仿佛希望面包因为他妻子的请求而消失。“我可不愿给保佑得没了房子没了家，饭桌上没了吃的。闭嘴!”

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他双眼通红，脾气很大，仿佛彻夜不眠参加了晚会回来，而那晚会又无丝毫乐趣。他不是在吃早饭，而是在拿早饭发脾气，像动物园里的居民一样对它嗥叫。快到九点他才放下他耸起的鬣毛，在他那本色的自我外面摆出一副受人尊敬的公事公办的样子，出去开始他一天的工作。

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他虽然喜欢把自己叫作“诚实的生意人”，其实他的工作几乎难以叫作“生意”。他的全部资本就是一张木头凳子。那还是用一张破椅子砍掉椅背做成的。小杰瑞每天早晨便带着这凳子跟他爸爸去到银行大楼，在最靠近法学会大门一边的窗户下放下，再从路过的车辆上扯下一把干草，让他打零工的爸爸的脚不受寒气和潮湿侵袭。这就完成了全天的“安营扎寨”任务。克朗彻先生干这个活儿在舰队街和法学院一带的名气很大，也跟这一带的建筑一样十分丑陋。

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他在八点三刻“安营扎寨”完毕，正好来得及向走进台尔森银行的年纪最大的老头子们碰碰他的三角帽。在这个刮风的三月清晨杰瑞上了岗位。小杰瑞若是没有进入法学院大门去骚扰，去向路过的孩子们进行尖锐的身体或心理伤害（若是那孩子个子不大，正好适于他这类友好活动的话），他就站在父亲旁边。父子二人极为相像，都一言不发看着清晨的车辆在舰队街上来往。两个脑袋就像他们那两对眼睛一样紧靠在一起，很像是一对猴子。有时那成年的杰瑞还咬咬干草，再吐出来，小杰瑞那双亮晶晶的眼睛跟注视舰队街上别的东西一样骨碌碌地转着、望着他。这时，两人就更相像了。

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台尔森银行内部一个正式信使把脑袋从门里伸出来，说：

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“要送信！”

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“呜啦，爸爸！一大早就有生意了！”

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小杰瑞像这样祝贺了爸爸，便在凳子上坐了下来，对他爸爸刚才嚼过的干草产生了研究兴趣，并沉思起来。

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“永远有锈！他的指头永远有锈！”小杰瑞喃喃地说。“我爸爸那铁锈是从什么地方来的呢？这儿并没有铁锈呀！”

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伦敦法学会大门旁的台尔森银行即使在一千七百八十年也已是个老式的地方。它很窄小，很阴暗，很丑陋，很不方便。而且它之所以是个老式的地方，是因为从道德属性上讲，银行的股东们都以它的窄小、阴暗、丑陋为骄傲，以它的不方便为骄傲。他们甚至夸耀它的这些突出特点，并因一种特殊的信仰而热血沸腾：它若不是那么可厌就不会那么可敬。这并非是一种消极的信仰，而是一种可以在比较方便的业务环境中挥舞的积极武器。他们说台尔森银行用不着宽敞，用不着光线，用不着花里胡哨，诺克公司可能需要，斯努克兄弟公司可能需要，可是台尔森公司，谢谢上帝！--

36
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若是有哪位董事的孩子打算改建台尔森银行，他就会被剥夺了继承权。在这个问题上，台尔森银行倒是跟国家如出一辙。国家总是剥夺提出修改法律和习俗的儿子们的继承权，因为法律和风俗正是因为它们长期令人深恶痛绝而尤其可敬的。

37
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其结果便是台尔森银行的不方便反倒是它一种完美的成就。它的大门白痴式地顽固，在被你硬推开时，它的喉咙会发出一声微弱的咕哝，让你一个趔趄直落两步台阶掉进银行，等到你定过神来，就已进入了一个可怜的店堂。那儿有两个小柜台，柜台边衰老不堪的办事员在最阴暗的窗户前核对签字时，会弄得你的支票簌簌发抖，仿佛有风在吹着。那窗户永远有从舰队街上飞来的泥水为它洗淋浴，又因它自己的铁栅栏和法学会的重重蔽障而更加阴暗。如果你因业务需要必须会见“银行当局”，你便会被送进后面一个像“死囚牢”的地方，让你在那儿因误入歧途而悔恨沉思，直到“当局”双手抄在口袋里踱了进来，而在那吓人的幽暗里你连惊异得眨眨眼也难于办到。你的钱是从虫蛀的木质抽屉里取出来的，也是送到那儿去的。开抽屉关抽屉时木料的粉末就飞进你的鼻子，钻进你的喉咙。你的钞票带着霉臭味，好像很快就要分解成碎纸。你的金银器具被塞进一个藏垢纳污之地，一两天之内它们的光泽就被周围的环境腐蚀掉。你的文件被塞进临时凑合使用的保险库里，那是用厨房的洗碗槽改装的。羊皮纸里的脂肪全被榨了出来，混进银行的空气里。你装有家庭文件的较轻的箱子则被送到楼上一间巴米赛德型的大厅里，那里永远有一张巨大的餐桌，却从来没摆过筵席。在那儿，即使到了一千七百八十年，你的情人给你写的初恋的情书和你的幼年的孩子给你写的最初的信件刚才免于受到一排首级窥看的恐怖不久。那一排首级挂在法学会大门口示众。这种做法之麻木、野蛮和凶狠可以跟阿比西尼亚和阿善提媲美。

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可是事实上死刑在各行各业都是一种时髦的窍门。台尔森银行自然不甘落后。死亡既是大自然解决一切问题的良方，为什么不可以在立法上采用？因此伪造文件者处死；使用伪币者处死；私拆信件者处死；盗窃四先令六便士者处死；在台尔森银行门前为人管马却偷了马跑掉者处死；伪造先令者处死。“犯罪”这个乐器的全部音阶，有四分之三的音符谁若是触响了都会被处死。这样做对于预防犯罪并非全无好处一-几乎值得一提的倒是：事实恰好相反--可它却砍掉了每一桩具体案件带给这世界的麻烦，抹掉了许多拖泥带水的事情。这祥，台尔森银行便在它存在的日子里，跟它同时代的更大的企业一祥夺去了许多人的性命。若是在它前面落地的人头不是悄悄地处理掉，而是排在法学院大门口，它们便可能在相当程度上遮去了银行底层原已不多的光线。

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蜷缩在台尔森银行各式各样昏暗的柜橱和半截门上认真地工作着的是些衰迈不堪的人。年轻人一进入台尔森银行便被送到某个地方秘藏起来，一直藏到变成个老头儿。他们把他像奶酪一样存放在阴暗的角落里，等它长出蓝霉，散发出地地道道的台尔森香味来，再让他被人看见。那时他已在神气十足地研读着巨大的帐本，并把他的马裤和套鞋熔铸进那个机构，以增加它的分量。

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台尔森银行外面有一个干零活的，偶尔应应门，跑跑腿，除非有人叫，从不进门。这人起着银行活招牌的作用。上班时间他从不缺席，除非是跑腿去了。可他走了也还有他的儿子代理：那是个十二岁的丑陋的顽童，长得跟那人一模一样。大家知道台尔森银行颇有气派地容忍了这个干零活的。银行一向需要容忍一个人来干这种活，而时势和潮流送到这个岗位上的就是他。这人姓克朗彻，早年在东部的杭兹迪奇教区经教父母代为宣布唾弃魔鬼的行为时接受了杰瑞这个名字。

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地点：克朗彻先生在白袍僧区悬剑胡同的私人寓所。时间：安诺多米尼一干七百八十年三月一个刮风的早晨七点（克朗彻先生总把“安诺多米尼”说成“安娜．多米诺”，显然以为基督教纪元是从一个叫安娜的女士发明了多米诺骨牌，而且用自己的名字为它命名而开始的）。

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克朗彻先生寓所的环境并不温馨，一共只有两个编号，另外一号还是一个小屋，只有一块玻璃作窗户。但这两间屋却都收拾得清清爽爽的。那个多风的三月清晨虽然时间还早，他睡觉的屋子却已擦洗得干干净净。一张非常清洁的白台布已经铺在一张粗糙的松木餐桌上，上面摆好了早餐的杯盘。

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克朗彻先生盖了一床白衲衣图案的花哨被子，像是呆在家里的丑角。开头他睡得很沉，渐渐便开始翻来翻去，最后他翻到被面上，露出了他那一头麦穗样揸开的头发，仿佛会把被子划成破布条似的。此时他非常恼怒地叫了一声：

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“他妈的，她又干起来了！”

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一个干净整齐，后来很勤快的妇女从一个角落里站了起来（她刚才跪在那里），动作很快，却带着惶恐，表明挨骂的正是她。

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“怎么，”克朗彻先生在床上找着靴子，“你又在干了，是么？”

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他用这种致敬的方式问了早安之后，便把靴子向那女人掷去作为第三次问候。那靴上满是泥，可以说明克朗彻先生家庭经济的奇特情况：他每天从银行下班回来靴子总是干干净净的，可第二天早上起床时那靴子就已涂满了泥。

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“你又在玩什么花样，”克朗彻先生没打中目标，便改变了问候方式。“又找麻烦是不是？”

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“我只不过在做祈祷。”

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“做祈祷！多么可爱的女人！咚一声跪下地来咒我，你这是什么意思”

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“我没有咒你，我是为你祈祷。”

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“没有。你要是为我祈祷，我会那么凶么？过来！你的妈妈是个好女人，小杰瑞，她祈祷你的爸爸失败，不让他发迹。你那妈很尽职，儿子。你那妈很信上帝，孩子。咚地一声跪下地来就祈祷她唯一的儿子嘴里的奶油面包叫人抢走。”

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克朗彻少爷（他此时穿着衬衫）一听这话难免生气，转身便向妈妈表示强烈抗议，不愿别人抢走他的食物。

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“你以为你那祈祷值几个钱？”克朗彻先生说，没有意识到自己态度已前后不一。“你这个自以为得意的女人，你说你那祈祷能值几个钱？”

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“我是从内心里祈祷，杰瑞。只值这一点，再也没有多的了。”

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“再也没有多的，”克朗彻先生重复道。“那么，它就不值几个钱。总而言之，我不准许谁祈祷我倒霉，我告诉你。我受不了。我不能让你叽叽咕咕祈祷得我倒了霉。你想跪可以跪，你得为你的男人和娃娃祈祷点好的，可别祈祷他们倒霉。要是我老婆不那么不近人情，这可怜的孩子他娘不那么不近人情，我上周就可以赚到钱了，就不至于挨人咒骂，受人破坏，得不到上帝保佑，倒下大霉了。他妈的！”克朗彻先生一面穿衣服一面说。“我上个礼拜不走运，遇到了一件又一件的倒霉事，一个规规矩矩的可怜生意人所遇到的最倒霉的事！小杰瑞，穿衣服，孩子，我擦靴子的时候，你拿眼睛盯着点你娘，她只要想跪下来你就叫我。因为，我告诉你，”他掉头又对他妻子说，“我像现在这样是不会出门的。我已经是像一部快要散架的出租马车，困得像鸦片瘾发了。我的腰眼累坏了，若不是因为它疼，我简直连哪里是我，哪里是别人都分不清楚了。可是兜里还是没有增加几文。所以我怀疑你从早到晚都在祈祷不让我的腰包鼓起来，我是不会饶你的，他奶奶的，你现在还有什么可说的！”

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克朗彻先生嘟嘟哝哝说着话：“啊，不错，你也信上帝，你不会干出对你男人和孩子不利的事，你不会的！”说时从他那飞速旋转的憎恶的磨盘上飞溅出尖刻讥讽的火花，同时擦着靴子做上班的准备。这时他的儿子则按照要求监视着他的母亲。这孩子头上也长着尖刺一样的头发，只是软一些，一对年轻的眼睛靠得很近，像他爸爸。他不时窜出他睡觉的小屋（他在那儿梳洗），压低了嗓子叫道：“你又要跪下了，妈妈-一爸爸，你看！”一番瞎紧张之后他又带着忤逆不孝的傻笑窜进屋里去了。他就这样不断严重地干扰着他的母亲。

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克朗彻先生到吃早饭时脾气仍然毫无好转，他对克朗彻太太做祈祷怀着一种特别的厌恶。

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“好了，他奶奶的！你又玩什么花样了？又在干什么？”

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他的妻子回答说，她只不过在“乞求保佑”。

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“可别求！”克朗彻先生四面望望说，仿佛希望面包因为他妻子的请求而消失。“我可不愿给保佑得没了房子没了家，饭桌上没了吃的。闭嘴!”

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他双眼通红，脾气很大，仿佛彻夜不眠参加了晚会回来，而那晚会又无丝毫乐趣。他不是在吃早饭，而是在拿早饭发脾气，像动物园里的居民一样对它嗥叫。快到九点他才放下他耸起的鬣毛，在他那本色的自我外面摆出一副受人尊敬的公事公办的样子，出去开始他一天的工作。

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他虽然喜欢把自己叫作“诚实的生意人”，其实他的工作几乎难以叫作“生意”。他的全部资本就是一张木头凳子。那还是用一张破椅子砍掉椅背做成的。小杰瑞每天早晨便带着这凳子跟他爸爸去到银行大楼，在最靠近法学会大门一边的窗户下放下，再从路过的车辆上扯下一把干草，让他打零工的爸爸的脚不受寒气和潮湿侵袭。这就完成了全天的“安营扎寨”任务。克朗彻先生干这个活儿在舰队街和法学院一带的名气很大，也跟这一带的建筑一样十分丑陋。

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他在八点三刻“安营扎寨”完毕，正好来得及向走进台尔森银行的年纪最大的老头子们碰碰他的三角帽。在这个刮风的三月清晨杰瑞上了岗位。小杰瑞若是没有进入法学院大门去骚扰，去向路过的孩子们进行尖锐的身体或心理伤害（若是那孩子个子不大，正好适于他这类友好活动的话），他就站在父亲旁边。父子二人极为相像，都一言不发看着清晨的车辆在舰队街上来往。两个脑袋就像他们那两对眼睛一样紧靠在一起，很像是一对猴子。有时那成年的杰瑞还咬咬干草，再吐出来，小杰瑞那双亮晶晶的眼睛跟注视舰队街上别的东西一样骨碌碌地转着、望着他。这时，两人就更相像了。

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台尔森银行内部一个正式信使把脑袋从门里伸出来，说：

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“要送信！”

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“呜啦，爸爸！一大早就有生意了！”

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小杰瑞像这样祝贺了爸爸，便在凳子上坐了下来，对他爸爸刚才嚼过的干草产生了研究兴趣，并沉思起来。

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“永远有锈！他的指头永远有锈！”小杰瑞喃喃地说。“我爸爸那铁锈是从什么地方来的呢？这儿并没有铁锈呀！”

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TELLSON’S Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence in those particulars, and were fired by an empress conviction that, if it were less objectionable, it would be less   respectable. This was no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more convenient places of business. Tellson’s (they said) wanted no elbow-room, Tellson’s wanted no light, Tellson’s wanted no embellishment. Noakes and Co.’s might, or Snooks Brothers’ might; but Tellson’s, thank Heaven!---

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Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the question of rebuilding Tellson’s. In this respect the House was much on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly objectionable, but were only the more respectable.

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Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson’s was the triumphant perfection of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson’s down two steps, and came to your senses in a miser-able little shop, with two little counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street, and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing `the House,’ you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back, where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal twilight. Your money came out of’ or went into, wormy old wooden drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their parchments into the banking house air. Your lighter boxes of family papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of Abyssinia or Ashantee.

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But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson’s. Death is Nature’s remedy for all things, and why not Legislation’s? Accordingly, the forger was put to death; the utterer of a bad note was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder of a horse at Tellson’s door, who made off with it, was put to Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Grime, were put to Death. Not that it

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did the least good in the way of prevention--it might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked after. Thus, Tellson’s, in its day, like greater places of business, its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately disposed of’ they would probably have excluded what little light the ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.

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Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson’s, the oldest of men carried on the business gravely.

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When they took a young man into Tellson’s London house, they hid him somewhere till he was old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.

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Outside Tellson’s--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson’s, in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness,

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in the easterly parish church of Houndsditch, he had received the added appellation of Jerry.

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The scene was Mr. Cruncher’s private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley, Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)

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Mr. Cruncher’s apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay a-bed was already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth was spread.

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Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:

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`Bust me, if she ain’t at it agin!’

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A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the person referred to.

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`What!’ said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot.

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`You’re at it agin, are you?

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After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher’s domestic economy, that, whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he often got up next morning to find the same boots   covered with clay.

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`What,’ said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark--’what are you, up to, Aggerawayter?’

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`I was only saying my prayers.

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`Saying your prayers! You’re a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?’

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`I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.’

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`You weren’t. And if you were, I won’t be took the liberty with. Here! your mother’s a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your father’s prosperity. You’ve got a dutiful mother, you have, my son. You’ve got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child.’

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Master cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board.

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`And what do you suppose, you conceited female,’ said Mr. Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, `that the worth of your prayers may be? Name the price that you put your prayers at!’

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`They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than that.’

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`Worth no more than that,’ repeated Mr. Cruncher. `They ain’t worth much, then. Whether or no, I won’t be prayed agin, I tell you. I can’t afford it. I’m not a going to be made unlucky by your sneaking. If you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and child, and not in opposition to ’em. If I had had any but a unnat’ral wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat’ral mother, I might have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me ` said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, `if I ain’t, what with piety and one blowed thing and another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I tell you,’ here he addressed his wife once more, `I won’t be gone agin, in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackneycoach, I’m as sleepy as laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn’t know, if it wasn’t for the pain in ’em, which was me and which somebody else, yet I’m none the better for it in pocket; and it’s my suspicion that you’ve been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, and I won’t put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you say now!’

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Growling, in addition, such phrases as `Ah! yes! You’re religious, too. You wouldn’t put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband and child, would you? Not you!’ and throwing off other sarcastic sparks from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business. In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes, and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father’s did, kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping

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closet, where he made his toilet, with a suppressed cry of `You are going to flop, mother.--Halloa, father!’ and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in again with an undutiful grin.

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Mr. Cruncher’s temper was not at all improved when he came to his breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher’s saying grace with particular animosity.

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`Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it agin?’

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His wife explained that she had merely `asked a blessing.’

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`Don’t do it!’ said Mr. Cruncher, looking about, as if he rather expected to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife’s petitions. `I ain’t a going to be blest out of house and home. I won’t have my wittles blest off my table. Keep still!’

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Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o’clock he smoothed his ruffled aspect, and, presenting as respectful and business-like an exterior as he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation of the day.

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It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite description of himself as `a honest tradesman.’ His stock consisted of a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool, young Jerry, walking at his father’s side, carried every morning to beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where, with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man’s feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr. Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar itself,--and was almost as ill-looking.

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Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson’s, Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son, extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys. The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else in Fleet-street.

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The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson’s establishment was put through the door, and the word was given.

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`Porter wanted!’

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`Hooray, father! Here’s an early job to begin with!’

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Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father had been chewing, and cogitated.

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`Always rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!’ muttered young Jerry. `Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don’t get no iron rust here!’

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TELLSON’S Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence in those particulars, and were fired by an empress conviction that, if it were less objectionable, it would be less   respectable. This was no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more convenient places of business. Tellson’s (they said) wanted no elbow-room, Tellson’s wanted no light, Tellson’s wanted no embellishment. Noakes and Co.’s might, or Snooks Brothers’ might; but Tellson’s, thank Heaven!---

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Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the question of rebuilding Tellson’s. In this respect the House was much on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly objectionable, but were only the more respectable.

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Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson’s was the triumphant perfection of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson’s down two steps, and came to your senses in a miser-able little shop, with two little counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street, and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing `the House,’ you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back, where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal twilight. Your money came out of’ or went into, wormy old wooden drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their parchments into the banking house air. Your lighter boxes of family papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of Abyssinia or Ashantee.

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But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson’s. Death is Nature’s remedy for all things, and why not Legislation’s? Accordingly, the forger was put to death; the utterer of a bad note was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder of a horse at Tellson’s door, who made off with it, was put to Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Grime, were put to Death. Not that it

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did the least good in the way of prevention--it might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked after. Thus, Tellson’s, in its day, like greater places of business, its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately disposed of’ they would probably have excluded what little light the ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.

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Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson’s, the oldest of men carried on the business gravely.

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When they took a young man into Tellson’s London house, they hid him somewhere till he was old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.

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Outside Tellson’s--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson’s, in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness,

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in the easterly parish church of Houndsditch, he had received the added appellation of Jerry.

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The scene was Mr. Cruncher’s private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley, Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)

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Mr. Cruncher’s apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay a-bed was already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth was spread.

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Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:

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`Bust me, if she ain’t at it agin!’

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A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the person referred to.

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`What!’ said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot.

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`You’re at it agin, are you?

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After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher’s domestic economy, that, whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he often got up next morning to find the same boots   covered with clay.

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`What,’ said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark--’what are you, up to, Aggerawayter?’

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`I was only saying my prayers.

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`Saying your prayers! You’re a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?’

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`I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.’

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`You weren’t. And if you were, I won’t be took the liberty with. Here! your mother’s a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your father’s prosperity. You’ve got a dutiful mother, you have, my son. You’ve got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child.’

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Master cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board.

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`And what do you suppose, you conceited female,’ said Mr. Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, `that the worth of your prayers may be? Name the price that you put your prayers at!’

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`They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than that.’

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`Worth no more than that,’ repeated Mr. Cruncher. `They ain’t worth much, then. Whether or no, I won’t be prayed agin, I tell you. I can’t afford it. I’m not a going to be made unlucky by your sneaking. If you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and child, and not in opposition to ’em. If I had had any but a unnat’ral wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat’ral mother, I might have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me ` said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, `if I ain’t, what with piety and one blowed thing and another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I tell you,’ here he addressed his wife once more, `I won’t be gone agin, in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackneycoach, I’m as sleepy as laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn’t know, if it wasn’t for the pain in ’em, which was me and which somebody else, yet I’m none the better for it in pocket; and it’s my suspicion that you’ve been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, and I won’t put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you say now!’

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Growling, in addition, such phrases as `Ah! yes! You’re religious, too. You wouldn’t put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband and child, would you? Not you!’ and throwing off other sarcastic sparks from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business. In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes, and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father’s did, kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping

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closet, where he made his toilet, with a suppressed cry of `You are going to flop, mother.--Halloa, father!’ and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in again with an undutiful grin.

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Mr. Cruncher’s temper was not at all improved when he came to his breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher’s saying grace with particular animosity.

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`Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it agin?’

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His wife explained that she had merely `asked a blessing.’

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`Don’t do it!’ said Mr. Cruncher, looking about, as if he rather expected to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife’s petitions. `I ain’t a going to be blest out of house and home. I won’t have my wittles blest off my table. Keep still!’

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Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o’clock he smoothed his ruffled aspect, and, presenting as respectful and business-like an exterior as he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation of the day.

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It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite description of himself as `a honest tradesman.’ His stock consisted of a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool, young Jerry, walking at his father’s side, carried every morning to beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where, with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man’s feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr. Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar itself,--and was almost as ill-looking.

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Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson’s, Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son, extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys. The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else in Fleet-street.

75

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The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson’s establishment was put through the door, and the word was given.

76

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`Porter wanted!’

77

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`Hooray, father! Here’s an early job to begin with!’

78

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Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father had been chewing, and cogitated.

79

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`Always rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!’ muttered young Jerry. `Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don’t get no iron rust here!’

80

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