Loe raamatut: «Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes», lehekülg 14
Volume Two – Chapter Eight.
Documentary Evidence
“Now, sir,” said old Matt, as he appeared, brushed-up and smart for the occasion, punctual to his appointment; “now, sir; here we are – baptism, marriage, and doctor. First ought to come last, you know, only Saint Mark’s Church comes before Finsbury, don’t you see?”
Septimus Hardon rose from his writing with a sigh, for he was far from sanguine of success, and would fain even now have given up his task entirely, so feeble seemed to him the likelihood of any advantage accruing; but in obedience to instructions from Mrs Septimus, old Matt rattled on about the future, thoroughly doing his duty in keeping the shrinking man to his part; and so they started.
They made their way out into Holborn, and then up Skinner-street, past the frowning walls of Newgate, and into the street of the same name; when old Matt could not get along for stopping to admire the various joints displayed, and giving his opinion upon their merits.
“Here, let’s go this way, sir,” he said, turning into Warwick-lane. “Pretty game this, sir, isn’t it? Slaughtered sheep, and murdered novels, and books of all sorts close together. Authors’ sheep’s-heads, and butchers’ sheep’s-heads cheek by jowl. Rum thing for both trades to get so close together. Regular bit of philosophy if you like to take it up, sir; stomach and brains, you see, food for both – books for the brains, meat for the stomach; and then backwards and forwards, one feeds the other, and one couldn’t get on without the other; and here they are situated close to the very heart of the City. Look at the circulation going on – wonderful, ain’t it, sir?”
Old Matt stopped by a slaughter-house, not to pity the simple animal just killed, but to point out sundry choice portions that might be had bargains, if they could have availed themselves of the opportunity.
“Wouldn’t do, though, to go about such a job as we have on hand carrying a sheep’s-head, would it, sir?” he observed to Septimus.
“No; pray come along, and let’s get our task over,” exclaimed the latter.
“To be sure,” said Matt, coming to himself, and the next minute they were in Paternoster-row. “Lots of my old friends here,” said Matt, stopping short in the middle of the narrow way, to be hustled by boys laden with sheets of paper fresh from the press, lads carrying reams, or newly-bound works tied between boards; men with blue bags over their shoulders heavily laden with books; men with oblong “mems” in their hands which they consulted as they hurried from swinging door to swinging door, collecting the publications of the different firms. Once the old man was nearly run over by a truck full of type-galleys driven by a pair of reckless imps of some neighbouring printing-office; while at least four times he came into contact with the fruit-baskets of the nymphs in stout boots and flattened bonnets, whose haunt is the labyrinth of learning known as “the Row.” – “Lots of my old friends here,” said Matt as his companion looked bewildered, and was thrust off the pavement; on to it again; into booksellers’ where he did not want to go; and once against the muddy wheel of a cab, whose driver roundly abused him for nearly getting himself injured. – “Lots of my old friends here. Ah, you needn’t mind a bit of pushing, sir – it’s a busy place. Now, you know, if I liked to hunt about, I could find more than one bit of my work here, for I’ve done things and bits of things that’s come out in more than half these places. All sorts of stuff; and what a sight of work a man can be put upon in a matter of fifty year, from playbills to prayer-books, and down again to penny-a-lining and posters! Law and physic’s been my strongest points: but there; I’ve been on your magazines, and newspapers, and three-volume novels, and pamphlets, and everything else that’s printed on a leaf, ’cept’ last dying-speeches and halfpenny songs; and I never did get down, quite so low as that. I’ve taken hold of author’s copy so queer that it’s made you scratch your head and torn the paper t’other way up to see which is tops and which is bottoms, and then back again, for you’ve been as wise as ever. Talk about ants and bluebottles running over the paper with inky feet, that’s nothing, sir. You’ve seen them painter-chaps, sir, graining the shetters of shops?”
Septimus, seeing that he was expected to say something, roused himself from his brown study, and nodded.
“Well,” continued Matt, “you see they have what they call a tool, though it’s only a flat brush made like a comb, and with that they make lines cross and across the panels, all about the same distance apart, and then they dab them lightly with a long soft brush to keep the grain from looking too stiff and hard. Well, I’ve had copy that’s looked as if the author had used one of these tools dipped in ink, and streaked it across and across the paper, and then dabbed it, not with a very soft brush, but with a very hard one, shoving in, too, a few smears and blots, just to fill up as knots and specimens of cross-grain. Up one goes to the overseer and asks him to help you, giving the other men a side-grin at the same time. He takes it, looks at it, turns it over, and then can’t make anything of it, though he won’t say so; for overseers must of course seem to know everything. So he sticks it back in your hand, and says he, ‘Go and make the best you can of it; for I’m busy.’ Well, you go back, and make the best you can of it; puzzles out one word, jumps at another, puts in two, and guesses two more, while you make a couple more out of the next line fit in somewhere after ’em; and so, one way or another, it gets scrambled up, and the proof goes to the reader, who cuffs his boy’s head because he blunders so over the stuff he can’t make head nor tail of, though he’s as much bothered as his boy; while, though some of them are clever, intelligent fellows, some of those readers, sir, have about as much imagination as a mop. They’re down upon a wrong letter, or bad pointing or spelling, and stick a big qy? against a bit of slack grammar, like lightning; but give ’em a take of stuff where the author goes a little out of the regular rut, and it bothers them as much as the bit of copy I’m talking about. Well, sir, corrections get made, and the proof is sent in to the author, who most likely don’t know it again; but he sends it back so as one has a better chance of getting it together; and so it goes on, backwards and forwards, till it’s all right, and they write ‘press’ in one corner, when it’s printed, and, as far as we’re concerned, there’s an end of it. Strange ways, ain’t they, sir?”
Septimus Hardon stared in a bewildered manner at the speaker, but did not answer.
“Blest if I think he’s heard a word I’ve said,” muttered the old fellow.
“Strange?” said Septimus, rousing himself; “yes, very.”
“’Tis, sir,” said Matt, who was interested in his subject. “Now, do you know, sir,” he continued after they had walked part of the way along the Row, – “do you know that if I was younger, I should be for founding a society, to be called the ‘Printers’ Spectacle Association,’ supported by contributions from writers for the press, who by this means would supply us with glasses, for often and often they quite destroy our sight.”
Old Matt’s dissertation was put an end to by the driver of one of the Delivery carts, when, returning to the matter which had brought them from home, the strange couple were soon threading their way along Cheapside.
There was but little difficulty in getting access to the registers of the old church, and a not very long search brought the seekers to the entry, in brown ink upon yellow paper, of the baptism of Septimus, son of Octavius and Lavinia Hardon, January 17 – ; but though the ages of the children before and after were entered, by some omission, his was absent.
A copy was taken by both, and then they stood once more in the open street.
“Just as I told you, sir,” said Matt, “isn’t it? there’s the date; but it don’t say how old you were.”
“No,” replied Septimus; “but still it is satisfactory, so far. Now we’ll see about the marriage, and then visit Finsbury.”
“You know the church?” said Matt.
“Well, not exactly,” said Septimus dreamily.
“There are two in the street; but it was at one of them.”
“Good,” said the old man; and soon after they stood in the street of two churches, and, taking the most imposing, they obtained admission to the vestry, where, after a long and careful search of the time-stained register, they were compelled to give up, for there was no result; while the regular way in which the leaves followed proved that none were missing.
“Try t’other,” said Matt laconically; and soon after they entered the damp, mouldy-smelling receptacle of the registers at the second church – a quaint, queerly-built place that looked as if architecture had been set at defiance when it was erected.
Old Matt was quiet and laconic enough in his speech; but as leaf after leaf was turned over, it was evident that the old man was more deeply interested than Septimus himself; for he grew so excited, that he was quite voracious with his snuff, his nose becoming a very devouring dragon of Scotch and rappee, till the supposed date of the marriage was neared, when the snuff was hastily pocketed.
“Rayther rheumatic spot this, I should think,” said Matt to the sexton, so as to appear quite at his ease.
“Well, yes, it is damp,” said the sexton, who would have had no difficulty in passing himself off as Matt’s brother; “but we have a fire here on Sundays all through the winter.”
“Don’t have many berrin’s now, I s’pose,” said Matt, again bringing out the snuff, but this time for hospitable purposes.
“Bless you, no,” said the sexton, “ain’t had one for years upon years. All cemetery work now.”
“To be sure, of course,” said Matt, trying to converse in a cool pleasant way, but with one eye fixed upon the trembling searcher; for some of Matt’s eagerness seemed now to be transferred to his companion.
“There’s a great piece of the book out here,” said Septimus suddenly – “most of the year before the baptism.”
“Torn out, by Jove!” muttered Matt, shaking his head, and looking suspicion’s self.
“Dessay there is, sir,” said the sexton coolly; “the damp here would spile the binding of any book.”
“But, I say; look here, you sir; here’s a good four months gone: no Jennywerry, nor Feberwerry, nor March, nor April. Looks precious queer,” said Matt.
“Ah, so there is – good big bit gone; all but a leaf here and there.” And then, to get a better look, the sexton took out an old leathern case, drew out his spectacles, replaced the case very carefully, wiped the glasses upon the tail of his coat, and then very leisurely put them on, a process not directly completed; for, like their master, the springs of the spectacles had grown weak, and were joined by a piece of black tape, which had to be passed carefully over the sexton’s head to keep the glasses in their place. “Ah,” he said again, while the searchers looked on, astonished at his coolness, “so there is – a good big bit gone; but ’tain’t no wonder, for the thread’s as rotten as tinder, and – ”
“I say, old un, don’t tear any more out,” cried Matt excitedly; for the sexton was experimentally disposed, and testing the endurance of the thread and glue.
“There’s plenty loose,” said the old sexton, “and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you find a lot more gone.”
Septimus Hardon looked at Matt, who returned the look, for the feeling of suspicion was now fully shared. However, they still went on carefully searching.
“It’s of no use,” said Septimus at last, mournfully; “we may as well go. I never had any hope.”
“Don’t be in a hurry, sir,” said Matt. “You know there are other ways of killing the cat, as the old saying says; wait a bit. Looks suspicious, certainly,” he said, treating himself to a fresh pinch of snuff. – “I say, guv’nor, you haven’t got the loose leaves lying about anywheres, have you? Not been taken away that you know of, eh?”
The sexton shook his head, thrust his hands to the bottoms of his trousers-pockets, shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and then stood gazing at his visitors with his spectacles high up on his forehead.
“No,” said he, “nobody never meddles with ’em, ’cept a lawyer’s clerk now and then; and they’re very civil, and just copies out something, and gives me a shilling, and then goes.”
Septimus Hardon took the hint in its first acceptation, while the mouldy old sexton removed one hand from his pocket to accept the proffered shilling held to him, before his visitors were about to take the second part of the hint.
As they moved off through the damp old church, Septimus Hardon wondered whether, upon some bright morning half a century before, his father and mother had knelt before that altar and been made one. He sighed as he walked on, meeting in the entrance a tall, gentlemanly – looking man who was passing in.
“What’s to be done next, Matt?” said Septimus, in a dispirited tone.
“Pint of porter and crust o’ bread-and-cheese,” said the old man decidedly. “I’m faint, sir – got a fit of my chronics; but it’s taking me the wrong way to-day; I’m hungry, and you must want support. Keep your chin in the air, sir; we can’t win every time. You’ve had two tries this morning, and one’s come all right. That register looks suspicious, certainly; but after all you can’t even go and swear that your old people were married in that church; and even if you could, and had the copy of the stiffikit, that ain’t all we want, for it don’t prove that you weren’t a year old then.”
“Hi!” cried a voice behind them; and upon the cry being repeated, they both turned to find that the old sexton was telegraphing them to come back, by wagging his head in the direction of the church-door.
“What’s up now?” said old Matt when they reached him.
“Parson wants to see you in the westry,” was the reply.
Anxiously following the old man, Septimus Hardon found himself in the presence of the gentleman he had encountered at the door.
“I think,” said he, “that you have been complaining of the bad state of our registers, and really we deserve it. I have only been here a few weeks, and have done but little towards getting them right. However, I have quite fifty loose leaves and pieces arranged here ready for pasting back, though I can assure you it is no light task.”
As he spoke, he took down from a little closet on the wall a heap of damp-stained, ragged, worthless-looking paper, and then set himself to try and help discover the required name.
“Hardon,” he said, – “Hardon, Octavius Hardon and Lavinia Addison. We’ll lay those that are done with down here, if you please; for, though they do not appear so, the leaves are in a certain order. Hardon, Hardon, Octavius, and Lavinia Addison,” he kept on muttering, as Septimus and he carefully examined column after column amongst the dilapidated leaves; though Septimus progressed but slowly, for his hand trembled and a mist swam before his eyes.
“Take a glass of wine,” said the curate kindly, producing a decanter and glass from the little cupboard; “you seem agitated.”
Septimus took the glass with trembling hand, and then resumed his task with increased energy, till at last there were not above half a dozen leaves to scan, when he uttered an exclamation of joy, for there, upon a scrap before him – torn, stained, and almost illegible – was the sought-for entry, bearing the well-known signature of his father, and the trembling handwriting of his mother.
“Here, here, Matt,” he whispered, “look!” and the paper quivered in his hands – “‘Octavius Hardon, Lavinia Addison,’ and signed by her old friend Miss Morris.”
“Right it is, so far,” said Matt, holding his glasses to his eyes wrong way foremost, with both hands, “and just a year and a half before the baptism. Now you know, sir, I pitched it pretty strong before now, so as you shouldn’t expect too much; but it’s my belief that, after all said and done, we’ve got enough documentary evidence; and things seeming so very regular, if you had begun as you should have done, unless there was something very strong on the other side that we can’t see through, you must have got a verdict. But then I hardly like for you to try on this only; for the law’s a ticklish thing to deal with, and though this all looks so straightforward, it don’t prove against what your uncle says, and will bring witnesses to swear.”
“But how can he?” exclaimed Septimus, in a whisper.
“Ah,” said Matt, refreshing himself after his wont, “how can he? Why, by means of that comical stuff as he’s been so anxious to get hold of. Why, sir, he could find witnesses as would swear to any mortal thing on the face of this earth; they’d almost undertake to prove as you weren’t born at all, sir. Mind, I don’t say that they’d carry the day, sir; but I’m only telling you of what villainy there is in this world, and how you must be prepared, even to fighting the dev – I beg your pardon, sir,” said Matt bashfully, as he pulled up short, having in his earnestness forgotten the presence of the third party.
“I’m sorry to say that there’s a great deal of truth in what you assert,” said the curate quietly; for Septimus was looking at him in an appealing way as if expecting that he would demolish all that Matt had advanced. “Suborned witnesses are nothing new in this world of ours.”
“Pull out your note-book, sir, and let’s take it down,” said Matt; and as he spoke, he drew out an old dog’s-eared memorandum-book and a stumpy fragment of lead pencil that would not mark without being kissed and coaxed every moment, when he copied the entry most carefully, compared it with the original, and then with that just made by Septimus Hardon.
“Really,” said the clergyman at parting, “I am extremely glad to have met you this morning, and you may depend upon finding us in better order at your next visit.”
“There has been no trickery there you see, Matt,” said Septimus, as they stood once more in the street; “all seems straightforward.”
“Just so, sir; your uncle seems to have some game of his own that I can’t quite see through as yet; but stop a bit. Good sort o’ chap that young parson. I’ll ask him to dinner some day, though he didn’t say, ‘Take a glass of sherry, Matthew Space.’ Then how careful you ought to be! Now I should have been ready to swear that your precious uncle had been at them books. S’pose he ain’t so much older than you, sir?”
“Not many years,” replied Septimus. “He was my poor father’s younger brother. But now for the doctor!” he said in an elated tone.
“Thanky, sir, but suppose we have the porter and bread-and-cheese first. You youngsters are so rash and impatient; and besides, I didn’t taste that fine old dry sherry, you know. One thing at a time’s the best plan, and it seems to me that a little refreshment’s the next thing wanted. ’Tain’t no use to suppose, sir, that because a horse has won one race he’ll go and polish off the next the same hour. D’yer see, sir?”
Septimus expressed himself as being able to see, and he submitted forthwith to his companion’s guidance.
Now most people would imagine that Matt entered the first inviting open portal that presented itself, where the gorgeously-emblazoned boards announced the retailing of So-and-so’s entire; but no. Old Matt seemed very particular and hard to please, passing house after house before he could meet with one to his satisfaction; and in a quarter of an hour’s brisk walk a few public-houses can be passed in London streets. But Matt had something else on his mind besides draught stout; and at last, when Septimus Hardon’s patience was well-nigh exhausted, the old man stopped short before a place where the window displayed a notice to the effect that the Post-office Directory was at the bar.
“There,” said Matt, pointing to the window, “thought me a nuisance now, didn’t you, sir? But that’s what I wanted. So now we’ll have our stout and cheese, and a look at the doctors too.”
Seated in the public-house parlour, fragrant with the fumes of flat beer and stale tobacco, they were soon discussing the foaming stout and more solid refreshments, though Septimus spent the greater part of his time poring over the volume he had laid open upon the gum-ringed table – a volume that Matt considered would be as useful as a medical directory. Surgeons there were in plenty; but only one answering to the name of Phillips, and he was practising at Newington.
“Moved there, perhaps,” said Matt.
Septimus Hardon shook his head, and read again, “Phillips, EJ, Terrace, Newington.”
“Stop a bit, sir,” said Matt, rising and catching the ring hung from the ceiling, and pulling the bell. – “Here, fill that pint again, my man; and, I say, got another of these d’rectories anywheres?”
“Yes,” said the pot-boy, “there’s another somewheres – an old un.”
“That’s the ticket, my lad, bring it in.”
The boy performed the, to him, satisfactory feat of pitching the pot in the air, and catching it with one hand as he went out, though the performance was somewhat marred by the vessel turning in its flight, and announcing its descent by a small frothy brown shower, which sprinkled the performer’s countenance. However, he was soon back with the refilled measure, and a very dirty, very dusty, and dog’s-eared old copy of the Directory, with one cover torn off, and a general aspect of its having been used for generations as the original London Spelling-book.
Septimus seized the bulky tome, and soon had the right page found; and in this volume there was no mention of EJ Phillips of Newington.
“Young beginner,” said Matt hollowly; for he had the pewter-vessel to his lips. “Anyone else same name?”
“Two more!” cried Septimus in a husky voice: “Phillips, Thomas, Camden-town; Phillips, Nicholas, Chiswell-street.”
“Hooray!” cried Matt, thumping down the pewter-pot, so that a portion of the contents splashed over into the cheese-dish. “That’s the man we want, sir; so finish your crust and cheese, and then off we go.” And shrewd old Matt forgot to ask himself in his excitement how it was that the name was not in the Directory often years later date, but acted up to what he was advising, and, then late in the afternoon, they again started on their search.
It was not a very long walk from Walbrook to Chiswell-street; but old Matt made very little progress, halting at times as if in pain, while in answer to inquiries he only smiled and declared that it was his “chronics.” Now he panted and seemed out of breath, then he paused at one of his favourite halting-places, but too short of breath to make a speech, even had he felt so disposed. At the last stoppage, induced by Septimus Hardon’s eager strides, the old man panted out:
“Let’s see, sir; you walked down to Somesham, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Septimus somewhat surprised at the question. “Come along;” for he was now as eager to continue the quest as he had formerly been to avoid it.
“That’s all very well,” said Matt, panting; “but I shouldn’t have liked to walk with you, and if Chiswell-street had been t’other side the square, you’d have had to carry me, so I tell you; and – ”
“Is anything wrong?” exclaimed Septimus anxiously, for his companion had turned very pale and haggard.
“Not much,” he gasped; “better d’rectly – out of breath rather.”
But he seemed to grow so much worse, that all thought of farther search was forgotten in the anxiety to get the old man to the principal thoroughfare, for he stoutly refused to hear of a cab being called; though he sank back thoroughly exhausted in a corner of the omnibus, when at last the right one passed with room inside.
A quiet cup of tea and an hour’s rest seemed to restore the old man, and he rose to leave Bennett’s-rents, firmly refusing to allow Septimus to walk home with him, though it was only by slow stages and great exertion that he reached his lodging.
