Master Humphrey’s Clock(汉普雷老爷的钟)

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Master Humphrey's Clock

Master Humphrey's

Clock

by Charles Dickens

Master Humphrey's Clock

CHAPTER I

MASTER HUMPHREY, FROM HIS CLOCK-

SIDE IN THE CHIMNEY CORNER

THE reader must not expect to know where I live. At present, it is

true, my abode may be a question of little or no import to anybody; but

if I should carry my readers with me, as I hope to do, and there should

spring up between them and me feelings of homely affection and regard

attaching something of interest to matters ever so slightly connected

with my fortunes or my speculations, even my place of residence might

one day have a kind of charm for them. Bearing this possible

contingency in mind, I wish them to understand, in the outset, that they

must never expect to know it.

I am not a churlish old man. Friendless I can never be, for all

mankind are my kindred, and I am on ill terms with no one member of

my great family. But for many years I have led a lonely, solitary life; -

what wound I sought to heal, what sorrow to forget, originally, matters

not now; it is sufficient that retirement has become a habit with me, and

that I am unwilling to break the spell which for so long a time has shed

its quiet influence upon my home and heart.

I live in a venerable suburb of London, in an old house which in

bygone days was a famous resort for merry roysterers and peerless ladies,

long since departed. It is a silent, shady place, with a paved courtyard

so full of echoes, that sometimes I am tempted to believe that faint

responses to the noises of old times linger there yet, and that these

ghosts of sound haunt my footsteps as I pace it up and down. I am the

more confirmed in this belief, because, of late years, the echoes that

attend my walks have been less loud and marked than they were wont to

Master Humphrey's Clock

be; and it is pleasanter to imagine in them the rustling of silk brocade,

and the light step of some lovely girl, than to recognise in their altered

note the failing tread of an old man.

Those who like to read of brilliant rooms and gorgeous furniture

would derive but little pleasure from a minute description of my simple

dwelling. It is dear to me for the same reason that they would hold it in

slight regard. Its worm-eaten doors, and low ceilings crossed by

clumsy beams; its walls of wainscot, dark stairs, and gaping closets; its

small chambers, communicating with each other by winding passages or

narrow steps; its many nooks, scarce larger than its corner-cupboards; its

very dust and dulness, are all dear to me. The moth and spider are my

constant tenants; for in my house the one basks in his long sleep, and the

other plies his busy loom secure and undisturbed. I have a pleasure in

thinking on a summer's day how many butterflies have sprung for the

first time into light and sunshine from some dark corner of these old

walls.

When I first came to live here, which was many years ago, the

neighbours were curious to know who I was, and whence I came, and

why I lived so much alone. As time went on, and they still remained

unsatisfied on these points, I became the centre of a popular ferment,

extending for half a mile round, and in one direction for a full mile.

Various rumours were circulated to my prejudice. I was a spy, an

infidel, a conjurer, a kidnapper of children, a refugee, a priest, a monster.

Mothers caught up their infants and ran into their houses as I passed;

men eyed me spitefully, and muttered threats and curses. I was the

object of suspicion and distrust - ay, of downright hatred too.

But when in course of time they found I did no harm, but, on the

contrary, inclined towards them despite their unjust usage, they began to

relent. I found my footsteps no longer dogged, as they had often been

before, and observed that the women and children no longer retreated,

but would stand and gaze at me as I passed their doors. I took this for a

good omen, and waited patiently for better times. By degrees I began

to make friends among these humble folks; and though they were yet

Master Humphrey's Clock

shy of speaking, would give them 'good day,' and so pass on. In a little

time, those whom I had thus accosted would make a point of coming to

their doors and windows at the usual hour, and nod or courtesy to me;

children, too, came timidly within my reach, and ran away quite scared

when I patted their heads and bade them be good at school. These little

people soon grew more familiar. From exchanging mere words of

course with my older neighbours, I gradually became their friend and

adviser, the depositary of their cares and sorrows, and sometimes, it may

be, the reliever, in my small way, of their distresses. And now I never

walk abroad but pleasant recognitions and smiling faces wait on Master

Humphrey.

It was a whim of mine, perhaps as a whet to the curiosity of my

neighbours, and a kind of retaliation upon them for their suspicions - it

was, I say, a whim of mine, when I first took up my abode in this place,

to acknowledge no other name than Humphrey. With my detractors, I

was Ugly Humphrey. When I began to convert them into friends, I was

Mr. Humphrey and Old Mr. Humphrey. At length I settled down into

plain Master Humphrey, which was understood to be the title most

pleasant to my ear; and so completely a matter of course has it become,

that sometimes when I am taking my morning walk in my little

courtyard, I overhear my barber - who has a profound respect for me,

and would not, I am sure, abridge my honours for the world - holding

forth on the other side of the wall, touching the state of 'Master

Humphrey's' health, and communicating to some friend the substance of

the conversation that he and Master Humphrey have had together in the

course of the shaving which he has just concluded.

That I may not make acquaintance with my readers under false

pretences, or give them cause to complain hereafter that I have withheld

any matter which it was essential for them to have learnt at first, I wish

them to know - and I smile sorrowfully to think that the time has been

when the confession would have given me pain - that I am a misshapen,

deformed old man.

I have never been made a misanthrope by this cause. I have never

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been stung by any insult, nor wounded by any jest upon my crooked

figure. As a child I was melancholy and timid, but that was because the

gentle consideration paid to my misfortune sunk deep into my spirit and

made me sad, even in those early days. I was but a very young creature

when my poor mother died, and yet I remember that often when I hung

around her neck, and oftener still when I played about the room before

her, she would catch me to her bosom, and bursting into tears, would

soothe me with every term of fondness and affection. God knows I

was a happy child at those times, - happy to nestle in her breast, - happy

to weep when she did, - happy in not knowing why. These occasions

are so strongly impressed upon my memory, that they seem to have

occupied whole years. I had numbered very, very few when they

ceased for ever, but before then their meaning had been revealed to me.

I do not know whether all children are imbued with a quick

perception of childish grace and beauty, and a strong love for it, but I

was. I had no thought that I remember, either that I possessed it myself

or that I lacked it, but I admired it with an intensity that I cannot

describe. A little knot of playmates - they must have been beautiful, for

I see them now - were clustered one day round my mother's knee in

eager admiration of some picture representing a group of infant angels,

which she held in her hand. Whose the picture was, whether it was

familiar to me or otherwise, or how all the children came to be there, I

forget; I have some dim thought it was my birthday, but the beginning of

my recollection is that we were all together in a garden, and it was

summer weather, - I am sure of that, for one of the little girls had roses

in her sash. There were many lovely angels in this picture, and I

remember the fancy coming upon me to point out which of them

represented each child there, and that when I had gone through my

companions, I stopped and hesitated, wondering which was most like me.

I remember the children looking at each other, and my turning red and

hot, and their crowding round to kiss me, saying that they loved me all

the same; and then, and when the old sorrow came into my dear mother's

mild and tender look, the truth broke upon me for the first time, and I

Master Humphrey's Clock

knew, while watching my awkward and ungainly sports, how keenly she

had felt for her poor crippled boy.

I used frequently to dream of it afterwards, and now my heart aches

for that child as if I had never been he, when I think how often he awoke

from some fairy change to his own old form, and sobbed himself to

sleep again.

Well, well, - all these sorrows are past. My glancing at them may

not be without its use, for it may help in some measure to explain why I

have all my life been attached to the inanimate objects that people my

chamber, and how I have come to look upon them rather in the light of

old and constant friends, than as mere chairs and tables which a little

money could replace at will.

Chief and first among all these is my Clock, - my old, cheerful,

companionable Clock. How can I ever convey to others an idea of the

comfort and consolation that this old Clock has been for years to me!

It is associated with my earliest recollections. It stood upon the

staircase at home (I call it home still mechanically), nigh sixty years ago.

I like it for that; but it is not on that account, nor because it is a quaint

old thing in a huge oaken case curiously and richly carved, that I prize it

as I do. I incline to it as if it were alive, and could understand and give

me back the love I bear it.

And what other thing that has not life could cheer me as it does?

what other thing that has not life (I will not say how few things that have)

could have proved the same patient, true, untiring friend? How often

have I sat in the long winter evenings feeling such society in its cricket-

voice, that raising my eyes from my book and looking gratefully towards

it, the face reddened by the glow of the shining fire has seemed to relax

from its staid expression and to regard me kindly! how often in the

summer twilight, when my thoughts have wandered back to a

melancholy past, have its regular whisperings recalled them to the calm

and peaceful present! how often in the dead tranquillity of night has its

bell broken the oppressive silence, and seemed to give me assurance that

the old clock was still a faithful watcher at my chamber-door! My

Master Humphrey's Clock

easy-chair, my desk, my ancient furniture, my very books, I can scarcely

bring myself to love even these last like my old clock.

It stands in a snug corner, midway between the fireside and a low

arched door leading to my bedroom. Its fame is diffused so extensively

throughout the neighbourhood, that I have often the satisfaction of

hearing the publican, or the baker, and sometimes even the parish-clerk,

petitioning my housekeeper (of whom I shall have much to say by-and-

by) to inform him the exact time by Master Humphrey's clock. My

barber, to whom I have referred, would sooner believe it than the sun.

Nor are these its only distinctions. It has acquired, I am happy to say,

another, inseparably connecting it not only with my enjoyments and

reflections, but with those of other men; as I shall now relate.

I lived alone here for a long time without any friend or acquaintance.

In the course of my wanderings by night and day, at all hours and

seasons, in city streets and quiet country parts, I came to be familiar with

certain faces, and to take it to heart as quite a heavy disappointment if

they failed to present themselves each at its accustomed spot. But these

were the only friends I knew, and beyond them I had none.

It happened, however, when I had gone on thus for a long time, that I

formed an acquaintance with a deaf gentleman, which ripened into

intimacy and close companionship. To this hour, I am ignorant of his

name. It is his humour to conceal it, or he has a reason and purpose for

so doing. In either case, I feel that he has a right to require a return of

the trust he has reposed; and as he has never sought to discover my

secret, I have never sought to penetrate his. There may have been

something in this tacit confidence in each other flattering and pleasant to

us both, and it may have imparted in the beginning an additional zest,

perhaps, to our friendship. Be this as it may, we have grown to be like

brothers, and still I only know him as the deaf gentleman.

I have said that retirement has become a habit with me. When I add,

that the deaf gentleman and I have two friends, I communicate nothing

which is inconsistent with that declaration. I spend many hours of

every day in solitude and study, have no friends or change of friends but

Master Humphrey's Clock

these, only see them at stated periods, and am supposed to be of a retired

spirit by the very nature and object of our association.

We are men of secluded habits, with something of a cloud upon our

early fortunes, whose enthusiasm, nevertheless, has not cooled with age,

whose spirit of romance is not yet quenched, who are content to ramble

through the world in a pleasant dream, rather than ever waken again to

its harsh realities. We are alchemists who would extract the essence of

perpetual youth from dust and ashes, tempt coy Truth in many light and

airy forms from the bottom of her well, and discover one crumb of

comfort or one grain of good in the commonest and least-regarded

matter that passes through our crucible. Spirits of past times, creatures

of imagination, and people of to-day are alike the objects of our seeking,

and, unlike the objects of search with most philosophers, we can insure

their coming at our command.

The deaf gentleman and I first began to beguile our days with these

fancies, and our nights in communicating them to each other. We are

now four. But in my room there are six old chairs, and we have

decided that the two empty seats shall always be placed at our table

when we meet, to remind us that we may yet increase our company by

that number, if we should find two men to our mind. When one among

us dies, his chair will always be set in its usual place, but never occupied

again; and I have caused my will to be so drawn out, that when we are

all dead the house shall be shut up, and the vacant chairs still left in their

accustomed places. It is pleasant to think that even then our shades

may, perhaps, assemble together as of yore we did, and join in ghostly

converse.

One night in every week, as the clock strikes ten, we meet. At the

second stroke of two, I am alone.

And now shall I tell how that my old servant, besides giving us note

of time, and ticking cheerful encouragement of our proceedings, lends

its name to our society, which for its punctuality and my love is

christened 'Master Humphrey's Clock'? Now shall I tell how that in the

bottom of the old dark closet, where the steady pendulum throbs and

Master Humphrey's Clock

beats with healthy action, though the pulse of him who made it stood

still long ago, and never moved again, there are piles of dusty papers

constantly placed there by our hands, that we may link our enjoyments

with my old friend, and draw means to beguile time from the heart of

time itself? Shall I, or can I, tell with what a secret pride I open this

repository when we meet at night, and still find new store of pleasure in

my dear old Clock?

Friend and companion of my solitude! mine is not a selfish love; I

would not keep your merits to myself, but disperse something of

pleasant association with your image through the whole wide world; I

would have men couple with your name cheerful and healthy thoughts; I

would have them believe that you keep true and honest time; and how it

would gladden me to know that they recognised some hearty English

work in Master Humphrey's clock!

THE CLOCK-CASE

It is my intention constantly to address my readers from the

chimney-corner, and I would fain hope that such accounts as I shall give

them of our histories and proceedings, our quiet speculations or more

busy adventures, will never be unwelcome. Lest, however, I should

grow prolix in the outset by lingering too long upon our little association,

confounding the enthusiasm with which I regard this chief happiness of

my life with that minor degree of interest which those to whom I address

myself may be supposed to feel for it, I have deemed it expedient to

break off as they have seen.

But, still clinging to my old friend, and naturally desirous that all its

merits should be known, I am tempted to open (somewhat irregularly

and against our laws, I must admit) the clock-case. The first roll of

paper on which I lay my hand is in the writing of the deaf gentleman. I

shall have to speak of him in my next paper; and how can I better

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approach that welcome task than by prefacing it with a production of his

own pen, consigned to the safe keeping of my honest Clock by his own

hand?

The manuscript runs thus

INTRODUCTION TO THE GIANT

CHRONICLES

Once upon a time, that is to say, in this our time, - the exact year,

month, and day are of no matter, - there dwelt in the city of London a

substantial citizen, who united in his single person the dignities of

wholesale fruiterer, alderman, common-councilman, and member of the

worshipful Company of Patten-makers; who had superadded to these

extraordinary distinctions the important post and title of Sheriff, and

who at length, and to crown all, stood next in rotation for the high and

honourable office of Lord Mayor.

He was a very substantial citizen indeed. His face was like the full

moon in a fog, with two little holes punched out for his eyes, a very ripe

pear stuck on for his nose, and a wide gash to serve for a mouth. The

girth of his waistcoat was hung up and lettered in his tailor's shop as an

extraordinary curiosity. He breathed like a heavy snorer, and his voice

in speaking came thickly forth, as if it were oppressed and stifled by

feather-beds. He trod the ground like an elephant, and eat and drank

like - like nothing but an alderman, as he was.

This worthy citizen had risen to his great eminence from small

beginnings. He had once been a very lean, weazen little boy, never

dreaming of carrying such a weight of flesh upon his bones or of money

in his pockets, and glad enough to take his dinner at a baker's door, and

his tea at a pump. But he had long ago forgotten all this, as it was

proper that a wholesale fruiterer, alderman, common-councilman,

member of the worshipful Company of Patten- makers, past sheriff, and,

above all, a Lord Mayor that was to be, should; and he never forgot it

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MasterHumphrey'sClock1MasterHumphrey'sClockbyCharlesDickensMasterHumphrey'sClock2CHAPTERIMASTERHUMPHREY,FROMHISCLOCK-SIDEINTHECHIMNEYCORNERTHEreadermustnotexpecttoknowwhereIlive.Atpresent,itistrue,myabodemaybeaquestionoflittleornoimporttoanybody;butifIshouldcarrymyreaderswithme,asIhopetodo,andtheres...

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