Our Mutual Friend

by Charles Dickens

  Chapter 7

  MR WEGG LOOKS AFTER HIMSELF

  Silas Wegg, being on his road to the Roman Empire, approaches it by wayof Clerkenwell. The time is early in the evening; the weather moist andraw. Mr Wegg finds leisure to make a little circuit, by reason that hefolds his screen early, now that he combines another source of incomewith it, and also that he feels it due to himself to be anxiouslyexpected at the Bower. 'Boffin will get all the eagerer for waiting abit,' says Silas, screwing up, as he stumps along, first his right eye,and then his left. Which is something superfluous in him, for Nature hasalready screwed both pretty tight.

  'If I get on with him as I expect to get on,' Silas pursues, stumpingand meditating, 'it wouldn't become me to leave it here. It wouldn't berespectable.' Animated by this reflection, he stumps faster, and looksa long way before him, as a man with an ambitious project in abeyanceoften will do.

  Aware of a working-jeweller population taking sanctuary about the churchin Clerkenwell, Mr Wegg is conscious of an interest in, and a respectfor, the neighbourhood. But, his sensations in this regard halt as totheir strict morality, as he halts in his gait; for, they suggest thedelights of a coat of invisibility in which to walk off safely with theprecious stones and watch-cases, but stop short of any compunction forthe people who would lose the same.

  Not, however, towards the 'shops' where cunning artificers work inpearls and diamonds and gold and silver, making their hands so rich,that the enriched water in which they wash them is bought for therefiners;--not towards these does Mr Wegg stump, but towards the poorershops of small retail traders in commodities to eat and drink and keepfolks warm, and of Italian frame-makers, and of barbers, and of brokers,and of dealers in dogs and singing-birds. From these, in a narrow anda dirty street devoted to such callings, Mr Wegg selects one darkshop-window with a tallow candle dimly burning in it, surrounded by amuddle of objects vaguely resembling pieces of leather and dry stick,but among which nothing is resolvable into anything distinct, savethe candle itself in its old tin candlestick, and two preserved frogsfighting a small-sword duel. Stumping with fresh vigour, he goes in atthe dark greasy entry, pushes a little greasy dark reluctant side-door,and follows the door into the little dark greasy shop. It is so darkthat nothing can be made out in it, over a little counter, but anothertallow candle in another old tin candlestick, close to the face of a manstooping low in a chair.

  Mr Wegg nods to the face, 'Good evening.'

  The face looking up is a sallow face with weak eyes, surmounted by atangle of reddish-dusty hair. The owner of the face has no cravat on,and has opened his tumbled shirt-collar to work with the more ease.For the same reason he has no coat on: only a loose waistcoat over hisyellow linen. His eyes are like the over-tried eyes of an engraver, buthe is not that; his expression and stoop are like those of a shoemaker,but he is not that.

  'Good evening, Mr Venus. Don't you remember?'

  With slowly dawning remembrance, Mr Venus rises, and holds his candleover the little counter, and holds it down towards the legs, natural andartificial, of Mr Wegg.

  'To be SURE!' he says, then. 'How do you do?'

  'Wegg, you know,' that gentleman explains.

  'Yes, yes,' says the other. 'Hospital amputation?'

  'Just so,' says Mr Wegg.

  'Yes, yes,' quoth Venus. 'How do you do? Sit down by the fire, and warmyour--your other one.'

  The little counter being so short a counter that it leaves thefireplace, which would have been behind it if it had been longer,accessible, Mr Wegg sits down on a box in front of the fire, and inhalesa warm and comfortable smell which is not the smell of the shop. 'Forthat,' Mr Wegg inwardly decides, as he takes a corrective sniff or two,'is musty, leathery, feathery, cellary, gluey, gummy, and,' with anothersniff, 'as it might be, strong of old pairs of bellows.'

  'My tea is drawing, and my muffin is on the hob, Mr Wegg; will youpartake?'

  It being one of Mr Wegg's guiding rules in life always to partake, hesays he will. But, the little shop is so excessively dark, is stuck sofull of black shelves and brackets and nooks and corners, that he seesMr Venus's cup and saucer only because it is close under the candle, anddoes not see from what mysterious recess Mr Venus produces anotherfor himself until it is under his nose. Concurrently, Wegg perceives apretty little dead bird lying on the counter, with its head droopingon one side against the rim of Mr Venus's saucer, and a long stiff wirepiercing its breast. As if it were Cock Robin, the hero of the ballad,and Mr Venus were the sparrow with his bow and arrow, and Mr Wegg werethe fly with his little eye.

  Mr Venus dives, and produces another muffin, yet untoasted; taking thearrow out of the breast of Cock Robin, he proceeds to toast it on theend of that cruel instrument. When it is brown, he dives again andproduces butter, with which he completes his work.

  Mr Wegg, as an artful man who is sure of his supper by-and-bye, pressesmuffin on his host to soothe him into a compliant state of mind, or, asone might say, to grease his works. As the muffins disappear, little bylittle, the black shelves and nooks and corners begin to appear, and MrWegg gradually acquires an imperfect notion that over against him on thechimney-piece is a Hindoo baby in a bottle, curved up with his bighead tucked under him, as he would instantly throw a summersault if thebottle were large enough.

  When he deems Mr Venus's wheels sufficiently lubricated, Mr Weggapproaches his object by asking, as he lightly taps his hands together,to express an undesigning frame of mind:

  'And how have I been going on, this long time, Mr Venus?'

  'Very bad,' says Mr Venus, uncompromisingly.

  'What? Am I still at home?' asks Wegg, with an air of surprise.

  'Always at home.'

  This would seem to be secretly agreeable to Wegg, but he veils hisfeelings, and observes, 'Strange. To what do you attribute it?'

  'I don't know,' replies Venus, who is a haggard melancholy man, speakingin a weak voice of querulous complaint, 'to what to attribute it, MrWegg. I can't work you into a miscellaneous one, no how. Do what I will,you can't be got to fit. Anybody with a passable knowledge would pickyou out at a look, and say,--"No go! Don't match!"'

  'Well, but hang it, Mr Venus,' Wegg expostulates with some littleirritation, 'that can't be personal and peculiar in ME. It must oftenhappen with miscellaneous ones.'

  'With ribs (I grant you) always. But not else. When I prepare amiscellaneous one, I know beforehand that I can't keep to nature, andbe miscellaneous with ribs, because every man has his own ribs, and noother man's will go with them; but elseways I can be miscellaneous. Ihave just sent home a Beauty--a perfect Beauty--to a school of art. Oneleg Belgian, one leg English, and the pickings of eight other people init. Talk of not being qualified to be miscellaneous! By rights you OUGHTto be, Mr Wegg.'

  Silas looks as hard at his one leg as he can in the dim light, and aftera pause sulkily opines 'that it must be the fault of the other people.Or how do you mean to say it comes about?' he demands impatiently.

  'I don't know how it comes about. Stand up a minute. Hold the light.'Mr Venus takes from a corner by his chair, the bones of a leg and foot,beautifully pure, and put together with exquisite neatness. These hecompares with Mr Wegg's leg; that gentleman looking on, as if he werebeing measured for a riding-boot. 'No, I don't know how it is, but so itis. You have got a twist in that bone, to the best of my belief. I neversaw the likes of you.'

  Mr Wegg having looked distrustfully at his own limb, and suspiciously atthe pattern with which it has been compared, makes the point:

  'I'll bet a pound that ain't an English one!'

  'An easy wager, when we run so much into foreign! No, it belongs to thatFrench gentleman.'

  As he nods towards a point of darkness behind Mr Wegg, the latter, witha slight start, looks round for 'that French gentleman,' whom he atlength descries to be represented (in a very workmanlike manner) by hisribs only, standing on a shelf in another corner, like a piece of armouror a pair of stays.

  'Oh!' says Mr Wegg, with a so
rt of sense of being introduced; 'Idare say you were all right enough in your own country, but I hope noobjections will be taken to my saying that the Frenchman was never yetborn as I should wish to match.'

  At this moment the greasy door is violently pushed inward, and a boyfollows it, who says, after having let it slam:

  'Come for the stuffed canary.'

  'It's three and ninepence,' returns Venus; 'have you got the money?'

  The boy produces four shillings. Mr Venus, always in exceedingly lowspirits and making whimpering sounds, peers about for the stuffedcanary. On his taking the candle to assist his search, Mr Wegg observesthat he has a convenient little shelf near his knees, exclusivelyappropriated to skeleton hands, which have very much the appearance ofwanting to lay hold of him. From these Mr Venus rescues the canary in aglass case, and shows it to the boy.

  'There!' he whimpers. 'There's animation! On a twig, making up his mindto hop! Take care of him; he's a lovely specimen.--And three is four.'

  The boy gathers up his change and has pulled the door open by a leatherstrap nailed to it for the purpose, when Venus cries out:

  'Stop him! Come back, you young villain! You've got a tooth among themhalfpence.'

  'How was I to know I'd got it? You giv it me. I don't want none of yourteeth; I've got enough of my own.' So the boy pipes, as he selects itfrom his change, and throws it on the counter.

  'Don't sauce ME, in the wicious pride of your youth,' Mr Venus retortspathetically. 'Don't hit ME because you see I'm down. I'm low enoughwithout that. It dropped into the till, I suppose. They drop intoeverything. There was two in the coffee-pot at breakfast time. Molars.'

  'Very well, then,' argues the boy, 'what do you call names for?'

  To which Mr Venus only replies, shaking his shock of dusty hair, andwinking his weak eyes, 'Don't sauce ME, in the wicious pride of youryouth; don't hit ME, because you see I'm down. You've no idea how smallyou'd come out, if I had the articulating of you.'

  This consideration seems to have its effect on the boy, for he goes outgrumbling.

  'Oh dear me, dear me!' sighs Mr Venus, heavily, snuffing the candle,'the world that appeared so flowery has ceased to blow! You're castingyour eye round the shop, Mr Wegg. Let me show you a light. My workingbench. My young man's bench. A Wice. Tools. Bones, warious. Skulls,warious. Preserved Indian baby. African ditto. Bottled preparations,warious. Everything within reach of your hand, in good preservation.The mouldy ones a-top. What's in those hampers over them again, I don'tquite remember. Say, human warious. Cats. Articulated English baby.Dogs. Ducks. Glass eyes, warious. Mummied bird. Dried cuticle, warious.Oh, dear me! That's the general panoramic view.'

  Having so held and waved the candle as that all these heterogeneousobjects seemed to come forward obediently when they were named, andthen retire again, Mr Venus despondently repeats, 'Oh dear me, dearme!' resumes his seat, and with drooping despondency upon him, falls topouring himself out more tea.

  'Where am I?' asks Mr Wegg.

  'You're somewhere in the back shop across the yard, sir; and speakingquite candidly, I wish I'd never bought you of the Hospital Porter.'

  'Now, look here, what did you give for me?'

  'Well,' replies Venus, blowing his tea: his head and face peering outof the darkness, over the smoke of it, as if he were modernizing the oldoriginal rise in his family: 'you were one of a warious lot, and I don'tknow.'

  Silas puts his point in the improved form of 'What will you take forme?'

  'Well,' replies Venus, still blowing his tea, 'I'm not prepared, at amoment's notice, to tell you, Mr Wegg.'

  'Come! According to your own account I'm not worth much,' Wegg reasonspersuasively.

  'Not for miscellaneous working in, I grant you, Mr Wegg; but you mightturn out valuable yet, as a--' here Mr Venus takes a gulp of tea, sohot that it makes him choke, and sets his weak eyes watering; 'as aMonstrosity, if you'll excuse me.'

  Repressing an indignant look, indicative of anything but a dispositionto excuse him, Silas pursues his point.

  'I think you know me, Mr Venus, and I think you know I never bargain.'

  Mr Venus takes gulps of hot tea, shutting his eyes at every gulp, andopening them again in a spasmodic manner; but does not commit himself toassent.

  'I have a prospect of getting on in life and elevating myself by my ownindependent exertions,' says Wegg, feelingly, 'and I shouldn't like--Itell you openly I should NOT like--under such circumstances, to be whatI may call dispersed, a part of me here, and a part of me there, butshould wish to collect myself like a genteel person.'

  'It's a prospect at present, is it, Mr Wegg? Then you haven't got themoney for a deal about you? Then I'll tell you what I'll do with you;I'll hold you over. I am a man of my word, and you needn't be afraid ofmy disposing of you. I'll hold you over. That's a promise. Oh dear me,dear me!'

  Fain to accept his promise, and wishing to propitiate him, Mr Wegg lookson as he sighs and pours himself out more tea, and then says, trying toget a sympathetic tone into his voice:

  'You seem very low, Mr Venus. Is business bad?'

  'Never was so good.'

  'Is your hand out at all?'

  'Never was so well in. Mr Wegg, I'm not only first in the trade, but I'mTHE trade. You may go and buy a skeleton at the West End if you like,and pay the West End price, but it'll be my putting together. I've asmuch to do as I can possibly do, with the assistance of my young man,and I take a pride and a pleasure in it.'

  Mr Venus thus delivers himself, his right hand extended, his smokingsaucer in his left hand, protesting as though he were going to burstinto a flood of tears.

  'That ain't a state of things to make you low, Mr Venus.'

  'Mr Wegg, I know it ain't. Mr Wegg, not to name myself as a workmanwithout an equal, I've gone on improving myself in my knowledge ofAnatomy, till both by sight and by name I'm perfect. Mr Wegg, if you wasbrought here loose in a bag to be articulated, I'd name your smallestbones blindfold equally with your largest, as fast as I could pick 'emout, and I'd sort 'em all, and sort your wertebrae, in a manner thatwould equally surprise and charm you.'

  'Well,' remarks Silas (though not quite so readily as last time), 'THATain't a state of things to be low about.--Not for YOU to be low about,leastways.'

  'Mr Wegg, I know it ain't; Mr Wegg, I know it ain't. But it's the heartthat lowers me, it is the heart! Be so good as take and read that cardout loud.'

  Silas receives one from his hand, which Venus takes from a wonderfullitter in a drawer, and putting on his spectacles, reads:

  '"Mr Venus,"'

  'Yes. Go on.'

  '"Preserver of Animals and Birds,"'

  'Yes. Go on.'

  '"Articulator of human bones."'

  'That's it,' with a groan. 'That's it! Mr Wegg, I'm thirty-two, and abachelor. Mr Wegg, I love her. Mr Wegg, she is worthy of being loved bya Potentate!' Here Silas is rather alarmed by Mr Venus's springing tohis feet in the hurry of his spirits, and haggardly confronting him withhis hand on his coat collar; but Mr Venus, begging pardon, sits downagain, saying, with the calmness of despair, 'She objects to thebusiness.'

  'Does she know the profits of it?'

  'She knows the profits of it, but she don't appreciate the art ofit, and she objects to it. "I do not wish," she writes in her ownhandwriting, "to regard myself, nor yet to be regarded, in that boneylight".'

  Mr Venus pours himself out more tea, with a look and in an attitude ofthe deepest desolation.

  'And so a man climbs to the top of the tree, Mr Wegg, only to see thatthere's no look-out when he's up there! I sit here of a night surroundedby the lovely trophies of my art, and what have they done for me? Ruinedme. Brought me to the pass of being informed that "she does not wish toregard herself, nor yet to be regarded, in that boney light"!' Havingrepeated the fatal expressions, Mr Venus drinks more tea by gulps, andoffers an explanation of his doing so.

  'It lowers me. When I'm equally lowered all over, lethargy sets in. Bysticking to it til
l one or two in the morning, I get oblivion. Don't letme detain you, Mr Wegg. I'm not company for any one.'

  'It is not on that account,' says Silas, rising, 'but because I've gotan appointment. It's time I was at Harmon's.'

  'Eh?' said Mr Venus. 'Harmon's, up Battle Bridge way?'

  Mr Wegg admits that he is bound for that port.

  'You ought to be in a good thing, if you've worked yourself in there.There's lots of money going, there.'

  'To think,' says Silas, 'that you should catch it up so quick, and knowabout it. Wonderful!'

  'Not at all, Mr Wegg. The old gentleman wanted to know the nature andworth of everything that was found in the dust; and many's the bone, andfeather, and what not, that he's brought to me.'

  'Really, now!'

  'Yes. (Oh dear me, dear me!) And he's buried quite in thisneighbourhood, you know. Over yonder.'

  Mr Wegg does not know, but he makes as if he did, by responsivelynodding his head. He also follows with his eyes, the toss of Venus'shead: as if to seek a direction to over yonder.

  'I took an interest in that discovery in the river,' says Venus.'(She hadn't written her cutting refusal at that time.) I've got upthere--never mind, though.'

  He had raised the candle at arm's length towards one of the darkshelves, and Mr Wegg had turned to look, when he broke off.

  'The old gentleman was well known all round here. There used to bestories about his having hidden all kinds of property in those dustmounds. I suppose there was nothing in 'em. Probably you know, Mr Wegg?'

  'Nothing in 'em,' says Wegg, who has never heard a word of this before.

  'Don't let me detain you. Good night!'

  The unfortunate Mr Venus gives him a shake of the hand with a shake ofhis own head, and drooping down in his chair, proceeds to pour himselfout more tea. Mr Wegg, looking back over his shoulder as he pulls thedoor open by the strap, notices that the movement so shakes the crazyshop, and so shakes a momentary flare out of the candle, as that thebabies--Hindoo, African, and British--the 'human warious', the Frenchgentleman, the green glass-eyed cats, the dogs, the ducks, and allthe rest of the collection, show for an instant as if paralyticallyanimated; while even poor little Cock Robin at Mr Venus's elbow turnsover on his innocent side. Next moment, Mr Wegg is stumping under thegaslights and through the mud.