Reprinted Pieces, Charles Dickens [little red riding hood read aloud .TXT] 📗

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since I went from Westminster to the Temple, one Thursday afternoon, in a cheap steamboat. The sky was black, when I imprudently walked on board. It began to thunder and lighten immediately afterwards, and the rain poured down in torrents. The deck seeming to smoke with the wet, I went below; but so many passengers were there, smoking too, that I came up again, and buttoning my pea-coat, and standing in the shadow of the paddle-box, stood as upright as I could, and made the best of it.

 

It was at this moment that I first beheld the terrible Being, who is the subject of my present recollections.

 

Standing against the funnel, apparently with the intention of drying himself by the heat as fast as he got wet, was a shabby man in threadbare black, and with his hands in his pockets, who fascinated me from the memorable instant when I caught his eye.

 

Where had I caught that eye before? Who was he? Why did I connect him, all at once, with the Vicar of Wakefield, Alfred the Great, Gil Blas, Charles the Second, Joseph and his Brethren, the Fairy Queen, Tom Jones, the Decameron of Boccaccio, Tam O’Shanter, the Marriage of the Doge of Venice with the Adriatic, and the Great Plague of London? Why, when he bent one leg, and placed one hand upon the back of the seat near him, did my mind associate him wildly with the words, ‘Number one hundred and forty-two, Portrait of a gentleman’? Could it be that I was going mad?

 

I looked at him again, and now I could have taken my affidavit that he belonged to the Vicar of Wakefield’s family. Whether he was the Vicar, or Moses, or Mr. Burchill, or the Squire, or a conglomeration of all four, I knew not; but I was impelled to seize him by the throat, and charge him with being, in some fell way, connected with the Primrose blood. He looked up at the rain, and then - oh Heaven! - he became Saint John. He folded his arms, resigning himself to the weather, and I was frantically inclined to address him as the Spectator, and firmly demand to know what he had done with Sir Roger de Coverley.

 

The frightful suspicion that I was becoming deranged, returned upon me with redoubled force. Meantime, this awful stranger, inexplicably linked to my distress, stood drying himself at the funnel; and ever, as the steam rose from his clothes, diffusing a mist around him, I saw through the ghostly medium all the people I have mentioned, and a score more, sacred and profane.

 

I am conscious of a dreadful inclination that stole upon me, as it thundered and lightened, to grapple with this man, or demon, and plunge him over the side. But, I constrained myself - I know not how - to speak to him, and in a pause of the storm, I crossed the deck, and said:

 

‘What are you?’

 

He replied, hoarsely, ‘A Model.’

 

‘A what?’ said I.

 

‘A Model,’ he replied. ‘I sets to the profession for a bob a-hour.’ (All through this narrative I give his own words, which are indelibly imprinted on my memory.)

 

The relief which this disclosure gave me, the exquisite delight of the restoration of my confidence in my own sanity, I cannot describe. I should have fallen on his neck, but for the consciousness of being observed by the man at the wheel.

 

‘You then,’ said I, shaking him so warmly by the hand, that I wrung the rain out of his coat-cuff, ‘are the gentleman whom I have so frequently contemplated, in connection with a high-backed chair with a red cushion, and a table with twisted legs.’

 

‘I am that Model,’ he rejoined moodily, ‘and I wish I was anything else.’

 

‘Say not so,’ I returned. ‘I have seen you in the society of many beautiful young women;’ as in truth I had, and always (I now remember) in the act of making the most of his legs.

 

‘No doubt,’ said he. ‘And you’ve seen me along with warses of flowers, and any number of table-kivers, and antique cabinets, and warious gammon.’

 

‘Sir?’ said I.

 

‘And warious gammon,’ he repeated, in a louder voice. ‘You might have seen me in armour, too, if you had looked sharp. Blessed if I ha’n’t stood in half the suits of armour as ever came out of Pratt’s shop: and sat, for weeks together, a-eating nothing, out of half the gold and silver dishes as has ever been lent for the purpose out of Storrses, and Mortimerses, or Garrardses, and Davenportseseses.’

 

Excited, as it appeared, by a sense of injury, I thought he would never have found an end for the last word. But, at length it rolled sullenly away with the thunder.

 

‘Pardon me,’ said I, ‘you are a well-favoured, well-made man, and yet - forgive me - I find, on examining my mind, that I associate you with - that my recollection indistinctly makes you, in short -

excuse me - a kind of powerful monster.’

 

‘It would be a wonder if it didn’t,’ he said. ‘Do you know what my points are?’

 

‘No,’ said I.

 

‘My throat and my legs,’ said he. ‘When I don’t set for a head, I mostly sets for a throat and a pair of legs. Now, granted you was a painter, and was to work at my throat for a week together, I suppose you’d see a lot of lumps and bumps there, that would never be there at all, if you looked at me, complete, instead of only my throat. Wouldn’t you?’

 

‘Probably,’ said I, surveying him.

 

‘Why, it stands to reason,’ said the Model. ‘Work another week at my legs, and it’ll be the same thing. You’ll make ‘em out as knotty and as knobby, at last, as if they was the trunks of two old trees. Then, take and stick my legs and throat on to another man’s body, and you’ll make a reg’lar monster. And that’s the way the public gets their reg’lar monsters, every first Monday in May, when the Royal Academy Exhibition opens.’

 

‘You are a critic,’ said I, with an air of deference.

 

‘I’m in an uncommon ill humour, if that’s it,’ rejoined the Model, with great indignation. ‘As if it warn’t bad enough for a bob a-hour, for a man to be mixing himself up with that there jolly old furniter that one ‘ud think the public know’d the wery nails in by this time - or to be putting on greasy old ‘ats and cloaks, and playing tambourines in the Bay o’ Naples, with Wesuvius a smokin’

according to pattern in the background, and the wines a bearing wonderful in the middle distance - or to be unpolitely kicking up his legs among a lot o’ gals, with no reason whatever in his mind but to show ‘em - as if this warn’t bad enough, I’m to go and be thrown out of employment too!’

 

‘Surely no!’ said I.

 

‘Surely yes,’ said the indignant Model. ‘BUT I’LL GROW ONE.’

 

The gloomy and threatening manner in which he muttered the last words, can never be effaced from my remembrance. My blood ran cold.

 

I asked of myself, what was it that this desperate Being was resolved to grow. My breast made no response.

 

I ventured to implore him to explain his meaning. With a scornful laugh, he uttered this dark prophecy: ‘I’LL GROW ONE. AND, MARK MY WORDS, IT SHALL HAUNT YOU!’

 

We parted in the storm, after I had forced half-a-crown on his acceptance, with a trembling hand. I conclude that something supernatural happened to the steamboat, as it bore his reeking figure down the river; but it never got into the papers.

 

Two years elapsed, during which I followed my profession without any vicissitudes; never holding so much as a motion, of course. At the expiration of that period, I found myself making my way home to the Temple, one night, in precisely such another storm of thunder and lightning as that by which I had been overtaken on board the steamboat - except that this storm, bursting over the town at midnight, was rendered much more awful by the darkness and the hour.

 

As I turned into my court, I really thought a thunderbolt would fall, and plough the pavement up. Every brick and stone in the place seemed to have an echo of its own for the thunder. The waterspouts were overcharged, and the rain came tearing down from the house-tops as if they had been mountain-tops.

 

Mrs. Parkins, my laundress - wife of Parkins the porter, then newly dead of a dropsy - had particular instructions to place a bedroom candle and a match under the staircase lamp on my landing, in order that I might light my candle there, whenever I came home. Mrs.

Parkins invariably disregarding all instructions, they were never there. Thus it happened that on this occasion I groped my way into my sitting-room to find the candle, and came out to light it.

 

What were my emotions when, underneath the staircase lamp, shining with wet as if he had never been dry since our last meeting, stood the mysterious Being whom I had encountered on the steamboat in a thunderstorm, two years before! His prediction rushed upon my mind, and I turned faint.

 

‘I said I’d do it,’ he observed, in a hollow voice, ‘and I have done it. May I come in?’

 

‘Misguided creature, what have you done?’ I returned.

 

‘I’ll let you know,’ was his reply, ‘if you’ll let me in.’

 

Could it be murder that he had done? And had he been so successful that he wanted to do it again, at my expense?

 

I hesitated.

 

‘May I come in?’ said he.

 

I inclined my head, with as much presence of mind as I could command, and he followed me into my chambers. There, I saw that the lower part of his face was tied up, in what is commonly called a Belcher handkerchief. He slowly removed this bandage, and exposed to view a long dark beard, curling over his upper lip, twisting about the corners of his mouth, and hanging down upon his breast.

 

‘What is this?’ I exclaimed involuntarily, ‘and what have you become?’

 

‘I am the Ghost of Art!’ said he.

 

The effect of these words, slowly uttered in the thunderstorm at midnight, was appalling in the last degree. More dead than alive, I surveyed him in silence.

 

‘The German taste came up,’ said he, ‘and threw me out of bread. I am ready for the taste now.’

 

He made his beard a little jagged with his hands, folded his arms, and said,

 

‘Severity!’

 

I shuddered. It was so severe.

 

He made his beard flowing on his breast, and, leaning both hands on the staff of a carpet-broom which Mrs. Parkins had left among my books, said:

 

‘Benevolence.’

 

I stood transfixed. The change of sentiment was entirely in the beard. The man might have left his face alone, or had no face.

 

The beard did everything.

 

He lay down, on his back, on my table, and with that action of his head threw up his beard at the chin.

 

‘That’s death!’ said he.

 

He got off my table and, looking up at the ceiling, cocked his beard a little awry; at the same time making it stick out before him.

 

‘Adoration, or a vow of vengeance,’ he observed.

 

He turned his profile to me, making his upper lip very bulky with the upper part