Bleak House by Charles Dickens (ebook reader that looks like a book TXT) 📕

Telescopic Philanthropy

We were to pass the night, Mr. Kenge told us when we arrived in his

room, at Mrs. Jellyby’s; and then he turned to me and said he took

it for granted I knew who Mrs. Jellyby was.

“I really don’t, sir,” I returned. “Perhaps Mr. Carstone—or Miss

Clare—”

But no, they knew nothing whatever about Mrs. Jellyby. “In-deed!

Mrs. Jellyby,” said Mr. Kenge, standing with his back to the fire

and casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were Mrs.

Jellyby’s biography, “is a lady of very remarkable strength of

character who devotes herself entirely to the public. She has

devoted herself to an extensive variety of public subjects at

various times and is at present (until something else attracts

her) devoted to the subject of Africa, with a view to the general

cultivation of the coffee berry—AND the natives—and the happy

settlement, on the banks of the African rivers, of our superabundant

home population. Mr. Jarndyce, who is desirous to aid any work

that is considered likely to be a good work and who is much sought

after by philanthropists, has, I believe, a very high opinion of

Mrs. Jellyby.”

Mr. Kenge, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us.

“And Mr. Jellyby, sir?” suggested Richard.

“Ah! Mr. Jellyby,” said Mr. Kenge, “is—a—I don’t know that I can

describe him to you better than by saying that he is the husband of

Mrs. Jellyby.”

“A nonentity, sir?” said Richard with a droll look.

“I don’t say that,” returned Mr. Kenge gravely. “I can’t say that,

indeed, for I know nothing whatever OF Mr. Jellyby. I never, to my

knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jellyby. He may be a

very superior man, but he is, so to speak, merged—merged—in the

more shining qualities of his wife.” Mr. Kenge proceeded to tell

us that as the road to Bleak House would have been very long, dark,

and tedious on such an evening, and as we had been travelling

already, Mr. Jarndyce had himself proposed this arrangement. A

carriage would be at Mrs. Jellyby’s to convey us out of town early

in the forenoon of to-morrow.

He then rang a little bell, and the young gentleman came in.

Addressing him by the name of Guppy, Mr. Kenge inquired whether

Miss Summerson’s boxes and the rest of the baggage had been “sent

round.” Mr. Guppy said yes, they had been sent round, and a coach

was waiting to take us round too as soon as we pleased.

“Then it only remains,” said Mr. Kenge, shaking hands with us, “for

me to express my lively satisfaction in (good day, Miss Clare!) the

arrangement this day concluded and my (GOOD-bye to you, Miss

Summerson!) lively hope that it will conduce to the happiness, the

(glad to have had the honour of making your acquaintance, Mr.

Carstone!) welfare, the advantage in all points of view, of all

concerned! Guppy, see the party safely there.”

“Where IS ‘there,’ Mr. Guppy?” said Richard as we went downstairs.

“No distance,” said Mr. Guppy; “round in Thavies Inn, you know.”

“I can’t say I know where it is, for I come from Winchester and am

strange in London.”

“Only round the corner,” said Mr. Guppy. “We just twist up

Chancery Lane, and cut along Holborn, and there we are in four

minutes’ time, as near as a toucher. This is about a London

particular NOW, ain’t it, miss?” He seemed quite delighted with it

on my account.

“The fog is very dense indeed!” said I.

“Not that it affects you, though, I’m sure,” said Mr. Guppy,

putting up the steps. “On the contrary, it seems to do you good,

miss, judging from your appearance.”

I knew he meant well in paying me this compliment, so I laughed at

myself for blushing at it when he had shut the door and got upon

the box; and we all three laughed and chatted about our

inexperience and the strangeness of London until we turned up under

an archway to our destination—a narrow street of high houses like

an oblong cistern to hold the fog. There was a confused little

crowd of people, principally children, gathered about the house at

which we stopped, which had a tarnished brass plate on the door

with the inscription JELLYBY.

“Don’t be frightened!” said Mr. Guppy, looking in at the coach-window. “One of the young Jellybys been and got his head through

the area railings!”

“Oh, poor child,” said I; “let me out, if you please!”

“Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are always

up to something,” said Mr. Guppy.

I made my way to the poor child, who was one of the dirtiest little

unfortunates I ever saw, and found him very hot and frightened and

crying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron railings, while a

milkman and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, were

endeavouring to drag him back by the legs, under a general

impression that his skull was compressible by those means. As I

found (after pacifying him) that he was a little boy with a

naturally large head, I thought that perhaps where his head could

go, his body could follow, and mentioned that the best mode of

extrication might be to push him forward. This was so favourably

received by the milkman and beadle that he would immediately have

been pushed into the area if I had not held his pinafore while

Richard and Mr. Guppy ran down through the kitchen to catch him

when he should be released. At last he was happily got down

without any accident, and then he began to beat Mr. Guppy with a

hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner.

Nobody had appeared belonging to the house except a person in

pattens, who had been poking at the child from below with a broom;

I don’t know with what object, and I don’t think she did. I

therefore supposed that Mrs. Jellyby was not at home, and was quite

surprised when the person appeared in the passage without the

pattens, and going up to the back room on the first floor before

Ada and me, announced us as, “Them two young ladies, Missis

Jellyby!” We passed several more children on the way up, whom it

was difficult to avoid treading on in the dark; and as we came into

Mrs. Jellyby’s presence, one of the poor little things fell

downstairs—down a whole flight (as it sounded to me), with a great

noise.

Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which we

could not help showing in our own faces as the dear child’s head

recorded its passage with a bump on every stair—Richard afterwards

said he counted seven, besides one for the landing—received us

with perfect equanimity. She was a pretty, very diminutive, plump

woman of from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had a

curious habit of seeming to look a long way off. As if—I am

quoting Richard again—they could see nothing nearer than Africa!

“I am very glad indeed,” said Mrs. Jellyby in an agreeable voice,

“to have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect for

Mr. Jarndyce, and no one in whom he is interested can be an object

of indifference to me.”

We expressed our acknowledgments and sat down behind the door,

where there was a lame invalid of a sofa. Mrs. Jellyby had very

good hair but was too much occupied with her African duties to

brush it. The shawl in which she had been loosely muffled dropped

onto her chair when she advanced to us; and as she turned to resume

her seat, we could not help noticing that her dress didn’t nearly

meet up the back and that the open space was railed across with a

lattice-work