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About this Episode
Bleak House is Charles Dickens masterful ninth novel, first published in 20 monthly installments from March 1852 to September 1853. Renowned as one of Dickens most accomplished works, it weaves a rich tapestry of minor characters and intricate subplots that captivate readers. The story unfolds through the eyes of the resilient Esther Summerson, alongside an omniscient narrator, bringing to life unforgettable figures such as the ominous lawyer Tulkinghorn, the well-meaning yet melancholic John Jarndyce, and the whimsical Harold Skimpole. At its heart lies a protracted legal battle over the case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, with profound implications for all involved. (Summary from Wikipedia)
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Hey, it's Cole Swindell.
After I give everything I've got to land a perfect vocal, I usually take five before jumping into the next track.
And I've learned exactly how to recharge in that time.
Some folks grab coffee.
I hit a quick good lookspin.
Next thing you know, the break is just as fun as land down the track.
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Bleak House by Charles Dickens.
Chapter 53.
The Track.
Mr. Bucket and his Fat Four Finger are much in consultation together under existing circumstances.
When Mr. Bucket has a matter of this pressing interest under his consideration,
the Fat Four Finger seems to rise to the dignity of a familiar demon.
He puts it to his ears and it whispers information.
He puts it to his lips and it enjoins him to secrecy.
He rubs it over his nose and it sharpens his scent.
He shakes it before a guilty man and it charms him to his destruction.
The Augures of the Detective Temple invariably predict that when Mr. Bucket and that Fat Four Finger are in much conference,
a terrible avenger will be heard of before long.
Otherwise, mildly studious in his observation of human nature,
on the whole a big, nignant philosopher not disposed to be severe upon the follies of mankind,
Mr. Bucket pervades a vast number of houses and strolls about an infinity of streets
to outward appearance rather languishing for want of an object.
He is the friendliest condition toward his species and will drink with most of them.
He is free with his money, affable in his manners, innocent in his conversation,
but through the placid stream of his life,
there glides an undercurrent of Four Finger.
Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket.
Like man in the abstract, he is here today and gone tomorrow,
but, very unlike man indeed, he is here again the next day.
This evening he will be casually looking into the iron extinguishers
at the door of Sir Leicester Deadlock's house in town.
And tomorrow morning he will be walking on the leads at Chessney World,
where as the old man walked whose ghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas.
Drawers, desks, pockets, all things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket examines.
A few hours afterwards, he and the Roman will be alone together, comparing Four Fingers.
It is likely, but that these occupations are irreconcilable with home enjoyment,
but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not go home.
Though in general, he highly appreciates the society of Mrs. Bucket,
a lady of natural detective genius, which, if it had been improved by professional exercise,
might have done great things, but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur.
He holds himself aloof from that dear solace.
Mrs. Bucket is dependent on their larger.
Fortunately, an amiable lady in whom she takes an interest for companionship and conversation.
A great crowd assembles in Lincoln's infields on the day of the funeral.
Sir Leicester Deadlock attends the ceremony in person.
Strictly speaking, there are only three other human followers that is to say,
William Buffey and the debilitated cousin thrown in as a make-weight,
but the amount of inconsolable carriages is immense.
The peerage contributes more four-wheeled affliction than has ever been seen in that neighborhood.
Such is the assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels
that the Harold's College might be supposed to have lost its father and mother at a blow.
The duke of foodle sends a splendid pile of dust and ashes
with silver wheelboxes, patent axles,
all the last improvements and three bereaved worms,
six feet high, holding on behind, in a bunch of woe.
All the stake-coachmen in London seemed plunged into mourning,
and if that dead old man of the rusty garb be not beyond a taste in horse flesh,
which appears impossible, it must be highly gratified this day.
Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages and the calves of so many legs all steeped in grief,
Mr. Bucket sits concealed in one of the inconsolable carriages,
and at his ease surveys the crowd through the lattice blinds.
He has a keen eye for a crowd, as for what not,
and looking here and there, now from this side of the carriage,
now from the other, now up the house windows, now along the people's heads,
nothing escapes him.
And there you are, my partner A, says Mr. Bucket to himself,
a pastoralising Mrs. Bucket, stationed by his favour on the steps of the deceased's house,
and so you are, and so you are, and very well indeed you are looking Mrs. Bucket.
The procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause of its assemblage to be brought out.
Mr. Bucket, in the foremost emblazoned carriage, uses two fat four fingers to hold the lattice
a hair's breath open while he looks.
And it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that he is still occupied with Mrs. B.
There you are, my partner A, he murmuringly repeats,
and our larger with you, I'm taking notice of you Mrs. Bucket,
I hope you're alright in your health, my dear.
Not another word does Mr. Bucket say, but sits with most attentive eyes
until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought down.
Where are all those secrets now, to see keep them yet?
Did they fly with him on that sudden journey?
And until the procession moves, and Mr. Bucket's view is changed,
after which he composes himself for an easy ride,
and takes note of the fittings of the carriage, in case he should ever find such knowledge useful.
Contrast enough between Mr. Tolkien horn shut up in his dark carriage,
and Mr. Bucket shut up in his.
Between the immeasurable track of space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one into the fixed sleep,
which jolt so heavily over the stones of the streets,
and the narrow track of blood which keeps the other in the watchful state expressed in every hair of his head.
But it is all one to both, neither is troubled about that.
Mr. Bucket sits out the procession in his own easy manner,
and glides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with himself arrives.
He makes for Sir Leicester deadlocks, which is at present a sort of home to him,
where he comes and goes, as he likes at all hours,
where he is always welcome and made much of,
where he knows the whole establishment and walks in an atmosphere of mysterious greatness.
No knocking or ringing for Mr. Bucket,
he has caused himself to be provided with a key and can pass in at his pleasure.
As he is crossing the hall, Mercury informs him.
Here's another letter for you Mr. Bucket, come by post, and gives it him.
Another one A says Mr. Bucket.
If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering curiosity as to Mr. Bucket's letters,
that weary person is not the man to gratify it.
Mr. Bucket looks at him as if his face were a vista of some miles in length,
and he were leisurely contemplating the same.
Do you happen to carry a box?
Says Mr. Bucket?
Unfortunately, Mercury is no snuff taker.
Could you fetch me a pinch from anywhere?
Says Mr. Bucket, thank you.
It don't matter what it is, I'm not particular as to the kind, thank you.
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But a ba ba ba ba.
Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed from somebody downstairs for the purpose,
and having made a considerable show of taste.
First, with one side of his nose and then with the other,
Mr. Bucket, with much deliberation,
pronounces it of the right sort and goes on, letter in hand.
Now, although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to the little library within the larger one,
with the face of a man who receives some score from the other,
he will be able to get the right answer.
Now, although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to the little library within the larger one,
some score of letters every day,
it happens that much correspondence is not incidental to his life.
He is no great scribe,
rather handling his pen like the pocket staff he carries about with him always convenient to his grasp,
and discourages correspondence with himself and others,
as being too artless and direct a way of doing delicate business.
Further, he often sees damaging letters produced in evidence and has occasion to reflect
that it was a green thing to write them.
For these reasons, he is very little to do with letters,
either as sender or receiver,
and yet he has received around half dozen within the last 24 hours.
And this, says Mr. Bucket, spreading it out on the table,
is in the same hand and consists of the same two words.
What two words?
He turns the key in the door,
ungirdles his black pocketbook,
book of fate to many,
lays another letter by it,
and reads, boldly written in each,
lady deadlock.
Yes, yes, says Mr. Bucket,
but I could have made the money without this anonymous information.
Having put the letters in his book of fate and girdled it up again,
he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner,
which is brought upon a goodly tray with a decanter of sherry.
Mr. Bucket frequently observes in friendly circles where there is no restraint,
that he likes a toothful of your fine old brown East Inder Sherry
better than anything you can offer him.
Consequently, he fills and empties his glass with a smack of his lips
and is proceeding with his refreshment when an idea enters his mind.
Mr. Bucket softly opens the door of communication between that room and the next and looks in.
The library is deserted and the fire is sinking low.
Mr. Bucket's eye, after taking a pigeon flight round the room,
a lights upon a table where letters are usually put as they arrive.
Several letters for Sir Leicester are upon it.
Mr. Bucket draws near and examines the directions.
No, he says, there's none in that hand.
It's only me as is written to.
I can break it to Sir Leicester deadlock, baron it, tomorrow.
With that, he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite
and after a light nap is summoned into the drawing room.
Sir Leicester has received him there these several evenings past
to know whether he has anything to report.
The debilitated cousin, much exhausted by the funeral
and volumnia are in attendance.
Mr. Bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these three people.
A bow of homage to Sir Leicester, a bow of gallantry to volumnia
and a bow of recognition to the debilitated cousin to whom it rarely says.
You are a swell about town and you know me and I know you.
Having distributed these little specimens of his tact,
Mr. Bucket rubs his hands.
Have you anything new to communicate, officer?
Inquires Sir Leicester?
Do you wish to hold any conversation with me in private?
Why, not tonight, Sir Leicester deadlock, baron it.
Because my time, pursues Sir Leicester, is wholly at your disposal
with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty of the law.
Mr. Bucket coughs and glances at volumnia, rouged and necklace
as though he would respectfully observe.
I do assure you, you're a pretty creature.
I've seen hundreds worse looking at your time of life I have indeed.
The fair volumnia, not quite unconscious perhaps of the humanizing influence of her charms,
pauses in the writing of cocked hat notes and meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace.
Mr. Bucket prices that decoration in his mind and thinks it is as likely as not
that volumnia is writing poetry.
If I have not, pursues Sir Leicester, in the most emphatic manner,
adjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in this atrocious case,
I particularly desire to take the present opportunity of rectifying any omission I may have made.
Let no expense be a consideration.
I am prepared to defray all charges.
You can occur none in pursuit of the object you have undertaken that I shall hesitate for a moment to bear.
Mr. Bucket made Sir Leicester's bow again as a response to this liberality.
My mind, Sir Leicester adds with genuine warmth, has not, as may, be easily supposed,
recovered its tone since the late diabolical occurrence.
It is not likely ever to recover its tone, but it is full of indignation tonight,
after undergoing the ordeal of consigning to the tomb the remains of a faithful,
a zealous, a devoted, adherent.
Sir Leicester's voice trembles and his grey hair stirs upon his head.
Tears are in his eyes, the best part of his nature is aroused.
I declare, he says, I solemnly declare, that until this crime is discovered,
and in the course of justice punished, I almost feel as if there were a stain upon my name.
A gentleman who has devoted a large portion of his life to me,
a gentleman who has devoted the last day of his life to me,
a gentleman who has constantly sat at my table and slept under my roof,
goes from my house to his own, and is struck down within an hour of his leaving my house.
I cannot say but that he may have been followed from my house, watched at my house,
even first marked because of his association with my house,
which may have suggested his possessing greater wealth,
and being altogether of greater importance than his own retiring demeanor would have indicated.
If I cannot, with my means and influence and my position,
bring all the perpetrators of such a crime to light,
I fail in the assertion of my respect for that gentleman's memory
and of my fidelity towards one who was ever faithful to me.
While he makes this protestation with great emotion and earnestness,
looking round the room as if he were addressing an assembly,
Mr. Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity in which there might be,
but for the audacity of the thought, a touch of compassion.
The ceremony of today continues Sir Lester,
strikingly illustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend,
he lays a stress upon the word, for death levels all distinctions,
was held by the flower of the land, as I say aggravated the shock I have received
from this most horrible and audacious crime.
If it were my brother who had committed it, I would not spare him.
Mr. Bucket looks very grave,
volumnary marks of the deceased that he was the trustiest and dearest person.
You must feel it as a deprivation to you, Miss,
replies Mr. Bucket soothingly, no doubt.
He was calculated to be a deprivation, I'm sure he was.
volumnary gives Mr. Bucket to understand in reply that her sensitive mind
is fully made up never to get the better of it as long as she lives,
that her nerves are unstrung forever,
and that she has not the least expectation of ever smiling again.
Meanwhile, she folds up a cocked hat for that redoubtable old general at bath,
descriptive of her melancholy condition.
It gives a start to a delicate female, says Mr. Bucket sympathetically,
but it will wear off.
volumnary wishes of all things to know what is doing,
whether they are going to convict, or whatever it is, that dreadful soldier,
whether he had any accomplices, or whatever the thing is called in the law.
And a great deal more to the like, artless purpose.
Why, you see, Miss, returns Mr. Bucket bringing the finger into persuasive action,
and such is his natural gallant treat that he had almost said my dear.
It ain't easy to answer those questions at the present moment.
Not at the present moment, I've kept myself on this case,
Sir Leicester deadlocked baronnet, who Mr. Bucket takes into the conversation
in right of his importance.
Morning, noon, and night, but for a glass of or two of Sherry,
I don't think I could have had my mind so much upon the stretch as it has been.
I could answer your questions, Miss, but duty forbids it.
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Hey, it's Cole Swindell.
After I give everything I've got to land a perfect vocal,
I usually take five before jumping into the next track,
and I've learned exactly how to recharge in that time.
Some folks grab coffee, I hit a quick good lookspin.
Next thing you know, the break is just as fun as land down the track.
A better break makes for a better take.
Need a break? Let's chumbo.
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So let's do deadlock baronet.
We'll very soon be made acquainted with all that has been traced.
And I hope that he may find it.
Mr. Bucket again looks grave to his satisfaction.
The debilitated cousin only hopes some flare-be-executed sample.
Thinks more interest-wanted.
Get man-hang present time.
Then get man-placed 10,000 a year.
Hasn't a doubt sample.
Far better hang wrong, fella.
The no-feller.
You know life.
You know, sir, says Mr. Bucket,
with a complimentary twinkle of his eye and crook of his finger.
And you can confirm what I've mentioned to this lady.
You don't want to be told that.
From information I have received.
I have gone to work.
You're up to what a lady can't be expected to be up to.
Lord, especially in your elevated cessation of society, Miss,
says Mr. Bucket, quite reddening at another narrow escape from my dear.
The officer, Velomnia, observes,
Celester, is faithful to his duty and perfectly right.
Mr. Bucket murmurs, glad to have the honor of your approbation
Celester deadlock baronet.
In fact, Velomnia proceeds Celester.
It is not holding up a good model for imitation
to ask the officer any such questions as you have put to him.
He is the best judge of his own responsibility.
He acts upon his responsibility.
And it does not become us who assist in making the laws
to impede or interfere with those who carry them into execution.
Or, says Celester, somewhat sternly,
for Velomnia was going to cut in before he had rounded his sentence
or who vindicate their outraged majesty.
Velomnia, with all humility,
explains that she had not merely the plea of curiosity to urge,
in common with the giddy youth of her sex in general,
but that she is perfectly dying with regret and interest
for the darling man whose loss they all deplore.
Very well, Velomnia returns Celester,
then you cannot be too discreet.
Mr. Bucket takes the opportunity of a pause to be heard again.
Celester deadlock baronet,
I have no objections to telling this lady
with your leave among ourselves
that I look upon the case as pretty well complete.
It is a beautiful case, a beautiful case,
and what little is wanting to complete it
I expect to be able to supply in a few hours.
I am very glad to hear it, says Celester,
highly creditable to you.
Celester deadlock baronet returns Mr. Bucket very seriously.
I hope it may be one and the same time,
do me credit and prove satisfactory to all.
When I depict it as a beautiful case,
you see, Miss, Mr. Bucket goes on glancing gravely at Celester.
I mean from my point of view,
as considered from other points of view,
such cases will always involve more or less unpleasantness.
Very strange things comes to our knowledge
and families, Miss, bless your heart,
what you would think to be phenomenons, quite.
Velomnia with her innocent little scream
suppose is so.
I, and even in gentile families,
in high families, in great families,
says Mr. Bucket, again gravely eyeing Celester aside.
I have had the honor of being employed in high families before,
and you have no idea.
Come, I'll go so far as to say,
not even you have any idea, sir,
this to the depilitated cousin.
What games goes on?
The cousin, who has been casting sofa pillows on his head
in a protestation of boredom,
veily being the used up for very likely.
Celester, deeming a time to dismiss the officer,
here majestically interposes with the words.
Very good, thank you,
and also with a wave of his hand,
implying not only that there is an end of the discourse,
but that if high families fall into low habits,
they must take the consequences.
You will not forget officer he adds with condescension,
that I am at your disposal when you please.
Mr. Bucket, still grave,
inquires if tomorrow morning now would suit,
in case he should be as forward as he expects to be.
Celester replies,
all times are alike to me.
Mr. Bucket makes his three bows and is withdrawing,
when a forgotten point occurs to him.
Might I ask by the by,
he says in a low voice, cautiously returning.
Who posted the reward bill on the staircase?
I ordered it to be put up there,
reply, Celester.
Would it be considered a liberty,
Celester, baronnet,
if I was to ask you why?
Not at all.
I chose it as a conspicuous part of the house.
I think it cannot be too prominently kept before
the whole establishment.
I wish my people to be impressed with the enormity of the crime,
the determination to punish it,
and the hopelessness of escape.
At the same time, officer,
if you, in your better knowledge of the subject,
see any objection,
Mr. Bucket sees none now.
The bill, having been put up,
had better not be taken down.
Repeating his three bows, he withdraws,
closing the door on voluminous little scream,
which is a preliminary to her remarking
that that charmingly horrible person
is a perfect blue chamber.
In his fondness for society,
and his adaptability to all grades,
Mr. Bucket is presently standing before the hall-fire,
bright and warm on the early winter night,
admiring Mercury.
Why, you're six, for two, I suppose,
says Mr. Bucket.
Three, says Mercury.
Are you so much?
But then you see you're brought in proportion and don't look it.
You're not one of those weak-leg ones you ain't.
Was you ever modeled now?
Mr. Bucket asks, conveying the expression of an artist
into the turn of his eye and head.
Mercury never was modeled.
Then you ought to be, you know, says Mr. Bucket,
and a friend of mine that you'll hear of one day
as a royal academy sculptor would stand something
handsome to make a drawing of your proportions for the marble.
My lady's out, ain't she?
Out to dinner.
Goes out pretty well every day, don't she?
Yes.
Not to be wondered at, says Mr. Bucket,
such a fine woman is her,
so hands full and graceful and so elegant
is like a fresh lemon on a dinner table,
ornamental wherever she goes.
Was your father in the same way of life as yourself?
Answer in the negative.
Mine was, says Mr. Bucket.
My father was first a page, then a footman,
then a butler, then a steward, then an innkeeper,
lived universally respected and died lamented,
said with his last breath that he considered service
the most honorable part of his career, and so it was.
I've a brother in service and a brother-in-law.
My lady, a good temper.
Mercury replies,
as good as you can expect.
I, says Mr. Bucket,
a little spoiled, a little capricious,
Lord, what can you anticipate when they're so handsome as that?
And we like them all the better for it, don't we?
Mercury, with his hands in the pockets
of his bright peach blossom small cloves,
stretches his symmetrical silk legs
with the air of a man of gallantry and can't deny it.
Come the roll of wheels and a violent ringing at the bell.
Talk of the angels, says Mr. Bucket, here she is.
The doors are thrown open and she passes through the hall.
Still very pale, she is dressed in slight mourning
and wears two beautiful bracelets.
Either their beauty or the beauty of her arms
is particularly attractive to Mr. Bucket.
He looks at them with an eager eye
and rattles something in his pocket.
Hey, Pence, perhaps.
Noticing him at his distance,
she turns an inquiring look on the other Mercury
who has brought her home.
Mr. Bucket, my lady.
Mr. Bucket makes a leg and comes forward,
passing his familiar demon over the region of his mouth.
Are you waiting to see Sir Leicester?
No, my lady, I've seen him.
Have you anything to say to me?
Not just at present, my lady.
Have you made any new discoveries?
A few, my lady.
This is merely in passing.
She scarcely makes a stop and sweeps upstairs alone.
Mr. Bucket, moving toward the staircase foot,
watches her as she goes up the steps,
the old man came down to his grave,
past murderous groups of statuary,
repeated with their shadowy weapons on the wall,
past the printed bill which she looks at going by, out of view.
She's a lovely woman, too.
She really is, says Mr. Bucket, coming back to Mercury.
Don't look quite healthy, though.
Is not quite healthy, Mercury informs him,
suffers much from headaches.
Really?
That's a pity.
Walking.
Mr. Bucket would recommend for that.
Well, she tries walking, Mercury rejoins.
Walk sometimes for two hours when she has them bad,
by night, too.
Are you sure you quite so much as six foot three?
Ask Mr. Bucket.
Begging your pardon for interrupting you a moment.
Not a doubt about it.
You're so well put together that I shouldn't have thought it,
but the household troops, though considered fine men,
are built so straggling.
Walks by night, does she?
When it's moonlight, though.
Oh, yes, when it's moonlight, of course.
Oh, of course, conversational and acquiescent on both sides.
I suppose you ain't in the habit of walking yourself, says Mr. Bucket.
Not much time for it, I should say.
Besides which, Mercury don't like it, prefers carriage exercise.
To be sure, says Mr. Bucket, that makes a difference.
Now I think of it, says Mr. Bucket, warming his hands and looking
pleasantly at the blaze.
She went out walking the very night of this business.
To be sure she did, I let her into the garden over the way.
And left her there.
Certainly you did.
I saw you doing it.
I didn't see you, says Mercury.
I was rather in a hurry, returns Mr. Bucket,
for I was going to visit an aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea,
next door but to the old original bun house.
Ninety-year-old the lady is, a single woman, and got a little property.
Yes, I'd chance to be passing at the time.
Let's see, what time might it be?
It wasn't ten.
Half past nine.
You're right, so it was.
And if I don't deceive myself, my lady was muffled in a loose black
mantle with a deep fringe to it.
Of course she was.
Of course she was.
Mr. Bucket must return to a little work he has to get on with upstairs.
But he must shake hands with Mercury in acknowledgement of his
agreeable conversation.
And will he?
This is all he asks.
Well he, when he has a leisure half hour,
think of bestowing it upon that royal academy sculptor
for the advantage of both parties.
End of chapter 53.
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