commonest business of life—diving through law and equity； and
through that kindred mystery； the street mud； which is made of
nobody knows what； and collects about us nobody knows whence
or how： we only knowing in general that when there is too much of
it； we find it necessary to shovel it away—the lawyer and the law…
stationer come to a Rag and Bottle shop； and general emporium of
much disregarded merchandise； lying and being in the shadow of
the wall of Lincoln’s Inn； and kept； as is announced in paint； to all
whom it may concern； by one Krook。
“This is where he lives； sir；” says the law…stationer。
“This is where he lives； is it？” says the lawyer unconcernedly。
“Thank you。”
“Are you not going in； sir？”
“No； thank you； no； I am going on to the Fields at present。 Good
evening。 Thank you！” Mr Snagsby lifts his hat； and returns to his
little woman and his tea。
But； Mr Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present。 He
goes a short way； turns back； comes again to the shop of Mr
Krook； and enters it straight。 It is dim enough； with a blot…headed
candle or so in the windows； and an old man and a cat sitting in
the back part by a fire。 The old man rises and comes forward； with
another blot…headed candle in his hand。
“Pray is your lodger within？”
“Male or female； sir？” says Mr Krook。
“Male。 The person who does copying。”
Mr Krook has eyed his man narrowly。 Knows him by sight。 Has
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an indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute。
“Did you wish to see him； sir？”
“Yes。”
“It’s what I seldom do myself；” says Mr Krook with a grin。
“Shall I call him down？ But it’s a weak chance if he’d come； sir！”
“I’ll go up to him； then；” says Mr Tulkinghorn。
“Second floor； sir。 Take the candle。 Up there！” Mr Krook； with
his cat beside him； stands at the bottom of the staircase looking
after Mr Tulkinghorn。 “Hi…hi！” he says； when Mr Tulkinghorn has
nearly disappeared。 The lawyer looks down over the handrail。 The
cat expands her wicked mouth； and snarls at him。
“Order； Lady Jane！ Behave yourself to visitors； my lady！ You
know what they say of my lodger？” whispers Krook； going up a
step or two。
“What do they say of him？”
“They say he has sold himself to the Enemy； but you and I
know better—he don’t buy。 I’ll tell you what； though； my lodger is
so black…humoured and gloomy； that I believe he’d as soon make
that bargain as any other。 Don’t put him out； sir。 That’s my
advice！”
Mr Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way。 He comes to the
dark door on the second floor。 He knocks； receives no answer；
opens it； and accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so。
The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished
it； if he had not。 It is a small room； nearly black with soot； and
grease； and dirt。 In the rusty skeleton of a grate； pinched at the
middle as if Poverty had gripped it； a red coke fire burns low。 In
the corner by the chimney； stand a deal table and a broken desk； a
wilderness marked with a rain of ink。 In another corner； a ragged
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old portmanteau on one of the two chairs； serves for cabinet or
wardrobe； no larger one is needed； for it collapses like the cheeks
of a starved man。 The floor is bare； except that one old mat；
trodden to shreds of rope…yarn； lies perishing upon the hearth。 No
curtain veils the darkness of the night； but the discoloured
shutters are drawn together； and through the two gaunt holes
pierced in them； famine might be staring in—the Banshee of the
man upon the bed。
For on a low bed opposite the fire； a confusion of dirty
patchwork； lean…ribbed ticking； and coarse sacking； the lawyer；
hesitating just within the doorway； sees a man。 He lies there；
dressed in shirt and trousers； with bare feet。 He has a yellow look
in the spectral darkness of a candle that has guttered down； until
the whole length of its wick （still burning） has doubled over； and
left a tower of winding sheet above it。 His hair is ragged； mingling
with his whiskers and his beard—the latter ragged too； and grown；
like the scum and mist around him； in neglect。 Foul and filthy as
the room is； foul and filthy as the air； it is not easy to perceive what
fumes those are which most oppress the senses in it； but through
the general sickliness and faintness； and the odour of stale
tobacco； there comes into the lawyer’s mouth the bitter； vapid
taste of opium。
“Hallo； my friend！” he cries； and strikes his iron candlestick
against the door。
He thinks he has awakened his friend。 He lies a little turned
away； but his eyes are surely open。
“Hallo； my friend！” he cries again。 “Hallo！ Hallo！”
As he rattles on the door； the candle which has drooped so long；
goes out； and leaves him in the dark； with the gaunt eyes in the
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shutters staring down upon the bed。
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Chapter 11
Our Dear Brother
touch on the lawyer’s wrinkled hand； as he stands in the
Adark room； irresolute； makes him start and say； “What’s
that？”
“It’s me；” returns the old man of the house； whose breath is in
his ear。 “Can’t you wake him？”
“No。”
“What have you done with your candle？”
“It’s gone out。 Here it is。”
Krook takes it； goes to the fire； stoops over the red embers； and
tries to get a light。 The dying ashes have no light to spare； and his
endeavours are vain。 Muttering after an ineffectual call to his
lodger； that he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candle from
the shop； the old man departs。 Mr Tulkinghorn； for some new
reason that he has； does not await his return in the room； but on
the stairs outside。
The welcome light soon shines upon the wall； as Krook comes
slowly up； with his green…eyed cat following at his heels。 “Does the
man generally sleep like this？” inquires the lawyer； in a low voice。
“Hi！ I don’t know；” says Krook； shaking his head and lifting his
eyebrows。 “I know next to nothing of his habits； except that he
keeps himself very close。”
Thus whispering； they both go in together。 As the light goes in；
the great eyes in the shutters； darkening； seem to close。 Not so the
eyes upon the bed。
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Bleak House 196
“God save us！” exclaims Mr Tulkinghorn。 “He is dead！”
Krook drops the heavy hand he has taken up； so suddenly that
the arm swings over the bedside。
They look at one another for a moment。
“Send for some doctor！ Call for Miss Flite up the stairs； sir。
Here’s poison by the bed！ Call out for Flite； will you？” says Krook；
with his lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire’s
wings。
Mr Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing； and calls “Miss Flite！
Flite！ Make haste； here； whoever you are！ Flite！” Krook follows
him with his eyes； and； while he is calling； finds opportunity to
steal to the old portmanteau and steal back again。
“Run； Flite； run！ The nearest doctor！ Run！” So Mr Krook
addresses a crazy little woman； who is his female lodger： who
appears and vanishes in a breath： who soon returns； accompanied
by a testy medical man； brought from his dinner—with a broad
snuffy upper lip； and a broad Scotch tongue。
“Ey！ Bless the hearts o’ ye；” says the medical man； looking up
at them after a moment’s examination。 “He’s just as dead as
Phairy！”
Mr Tulkinghorn （standing by the old portmanteau） inquires if
he has been dead any time？
“Any time； sir？” says the medical gentleman。 “It’s probable he
wull have been dead aboot three hours。”
“About that time； I should say；” observes a dark young man； on
the other side of the bed。
“Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself； sir？” inquires
the first。
The dark young man says yes。
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Bleak
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