我们一路走去，我借日光打量温米克先生，想看看他白天的模样。我发现他是个干瘪的男人，身材相当矮小，长着一张方木头似的脸，那表情仿佛是用一把钝凿子勉强凿出来的。脸上有几处若隐若现的凹痕，要是材质软些、工具细些，本可算是酒窝，可实际不过是些坑洼。凿子在鼻子上方试了三四下想要装饰，却半途而废，连磨平都没费心。从他亚麻衣领的磨损程度，我判断他是个单身汉；而他似乎经历过不少丧亲之痛，因为他至少戴着四枚哀悼戒指，此外还有一枚胸针，上面是一位女士、一棵垂泪的柳树、一座坟茔和一只骨灰瓮。我还注意到，他的表链上挂着好几枚戒指和印章，仿佛满载着对亡友的纪念。他有一双发亮的眼睛——小而锐利，黑沉沉的——还有两片又薄又宽、斑驳的嘴唇。据我推测，他年纪约在四十到五十岁之间。
“这么说你以前从没来过伦敦？”温米克先生问我。
“没有。”我说。
“我当初也是这儿的新人，”温米克先生说，“现在想来真够稀奇的！”
“那你如今很熟了？”
“哎，是啊，”温米克先生说，“这里的门道我都清楚。”
“这是个很邪恶的地方吗？”我发问，更多是为了找话聊，而非求信息。
“在伦敦，你可能被骗、被抢、被杀。可随便哪儿都有大把人乐意替你干这些。”
“要是你跟他们有仇隙。”我说，想把语气缓和些。
“哦！我可不知道什么仇隙，”温米克先生回道，“谈不上什么深仇大恨。只要有油水，他们就下手。”
“那就更糟了。”
“你这么想？”温米克先生回道，“要我说，半斤八两。”
他帽子扣在后脑勺上，直视前方：自顾自地走着，仿佛街上没什么值得他留意。他的嘴像个邮局似的，透着一股机械式的笑意。一直走到霍尔本山山顶，我才发觉那不过是机械式的表情，他根本没在笑。
“你知道马修·朴凯特先生住哪儿吗？”我问温米克先生。
“知道，”他朝那个方向点点头，“在伦敦西边的哈默史密斯。”
“远吗？”
“嗯！算五英里吧。”
“你认识他？”
“哟，你真是个正牌的盘问官！”温米克先生带着赞许的神气看我，“认识。我认识他！”
他吐出这几个字时，那语气里带着几分容忍或轻慢，让我颇为沮丧；我正侧眼打量他那块木板似的脸，想找出点令人鼓舞的意思，他却说我们到巴纳德旅馆了。这宣告并没减轻我的沮丧，因为我原以为那是巴纳德先生开的旅店，咱们镇上的蓝野猪不过是个小酒馆罢了。可眼前这巴纳德分明是个虚无的幽灵，或纯属虚构，而他的旅馆不过是一堆挤在偏角里的破败建筑，像是野猫俱乐部。
我们穿过一道小门进了这避风港，经由一条导入的通道，被吐进一处愁惨的小方场，在我看來像个扁平的坟地。我觉得里头有最凄惨的树、最凄惨的麻雀、最凄惨的猫，以及最凄惨的屋子（统共五六幢），都是我从未见过的。那些屋子分隔成一间间公寓，我觉得每扇窗都处在百叶帘和窗帘破烂、花盆残废、玻璃开裂、积尘腐朽、凑合将就的各色衰败中；而“出租，出租，出租”从空房里朝我瞪眼，仿佛再没新苦命人投奔此处，巴纳德的冤魂正借现住户缓缓自尽、不洁地葬身砾石之下，慢慢平息怒气。一层污黑烟熏的丧服裹着这被弃的巴纳德造物，它头上撒着灰，正作为垃圾坑受罚蒙羞。这是我的视觉所见；而干腐湿腐及一切潜滋暗长于荒废顶棚地窖的寂寂腐臭——连同近旁鼠辈虫豸与马车行的腐味——隐隐袭向我鼻端，哀叹着：“试试巴纳德牌混合物。”
我对第一桩远大前程的实感竟如此残缺，不禁沮丧地望向温米克先生。“啊！”他误会了我的意思，“这清静让你想起乡下。我也一样。”
他带我拐进一角，引我上一段楼梯——那楼梯在我看來正缓缓塌成锯末，终有一日楼上房客推门一看，便发现自己下不来了——来到顶楼一套房间。门上漆着“朴凯特少爷”，信箱上贴着标签：“即刻返回”。
“他没料到你来得这么快，”温米克先生解释，“你不再需要我了？”
“不了，谢谢。”我说。
“既然钱归我管，”温米克先生说，“咱们多半常碰面。日安。”
“日安。”
我伸出手，温米克先生先盯着我的手，像以为我要讨什么东西。继而他看看我，改口道——
“可不是！对。你习惯握手？”
我有点窘，心想这准不合伦敦规矩，但仍说习惯。
“我可早不兴这个了！”温米克先生说，“——除了一本正经时。真高兴结识你。日安！”
握过手他走后，我推开楼梯窗，险些掉了脑袋，因为窗绳早已朽烂，窗扇如断头台般砸下。幸而它落得飞快，我还没把头探出去。逃过此劫，我甘从窗上污垢眺望这旅馆的朦胧景致，凄然伫立，暗自嘀咕伦敦果然名过其实。
朴凯特少爷的“即刻”不同于我的“即刻”，我差不多望眼欲穿地等了半小时，拿手指在每扇窗的灰里写自己名字写了好几遍，才听见楼梯上有脚步声。渐渐在我眼前升起一顶帽子、一颗头、一条领巾、一件背心、一条裤、一双靴——是个与我身份相仿的爷们。他腋下各夹一个纸袋，一手提着一小筐草莓，上气不接下气。
“是皮普先生？”他说。
“是朴凯特先生？”我说。
“天哪！”他叫道，“太对不起了；可我知道你们那儿中午有趟马车，以为你坐那班来。实情是，我为你出门了——虽说这不算借口——我想你打乡下米，饭后许想吃点水果，就去考文特花园市场挑好的了。”
因着心头缘由，我觉眼珠简直要迸出脑袋。我语无伦次谢过他的心意，开始疑心这是场梦。
“天哪！”朴凯特少爷说，“这门真黏！”
他腋下夹着纸袋，正跟门摔跤似的把水果挤成酱，我请他容我拿住。他欣然一笑递过来，随即与门搏斗如斗野兽。门忽地一让，他朝我踉跄，我朝对门踉跄，两人都笑了。可我仍觉眼珠要迸出脑袋，这必是梦。
“请进，”朴凯特少爷说，“容我带路。这儿挺空，但望你凑合到周一还成。家父想你与我过明日比与他更投缘，或许愿逛逛伦敦。我定很高兴带你逛。至于饭食，望你不嫌，由这咖啡馆供，且（该说明）算你账，乃贾格斯先生之意。至于住处，绝不算阔气，因我自挣面包，家父无物给我，便有我也不受。这是客厅——桌椅地毯之类，你看，皆家中匀出。桌布勺儿调味瓶莫算我，乃咖啡馆为你备。这是我的小卧房；霉了点，可巴纳德本就霉。这是你卧房；家具为客备租，望堪用；若缺什么，我去取。房室僻静，咱俩独处，想来不打架。但天哪，恕我失礼，你一直拎着水果。快给我袋子，真不好意思。”
我对立着递袋，一、二，见他眼中浮起我知自己所有的那般惊相，他退步道——
“主保佑，你是那溜达的男孩！”
“而你，”我说，“是那苍白的年轻绅士！”
Casting my eyes on Mr. Wemmick as we went along, to see what he was
like in the light of day, I found him to be a dry man, rather short in
stature, with a square wooden face, whose expression seemed to have
been imperfectly chipped out with a dull-edged chisel. There were some
marks in it that might have been dimples, if the material had been
softer and the instrument finer, but which, as it was, were only dints.
The chisel had made three or four of these attempts at embellishment
over his nose, but had given them up without an effort to smooth them
off. I judged him to be a bachelor from the frayed condition of his
linen, and he appeared to have sustained a good many bereavements; for
he wore at least four mourning rings, besides a brooch representing a
lady and a weeping willow at a tomb with an urn on it. I noticed, too,
that several rings and seals hung at his watch-chain, as if he were
quite laden with remembrances of departed friends. He had glittering
eyes,—small, keen, and black,—and thin wide mottled lips. He had had
them, to the best of my belief, from forty to fifty years.
“So you were never in London before?” said Mr. Wemmick to me.
“No,” said I.
“_I_ was new here once,” said Mr. Wemmick. “Rum to think of now!”
“You are well acquainted with it now?”
“Why, yes,” said Mr. Wemmick. “I know the moves of it.”
“Is it a very wicked place?” I asked, more for the sake of saying
something than for information.
“You may get cheated, robbed, and murdered in London. But there are
plenty of people anywhere, who’ll do that for you.”
“If there is bad blood between you and them,” said I, to soften it off
a little.
“O! I don’t know about bad blood,” returned Mr. Wemmick; “there’s not
much bad blood about. They’ll do it, if there’s anything to be got by
it.”
“That makes it worse.”
“You think so?” returned Mr. Wemmick. “Much about the same, I should
say.”
He wore his hat on the back of his head, and looked straight before
him: walking in a self-contained way as if there were nothing in the
streets to claim his attention. His mouth was such a post-office of a
mouth that he had a mechanical appearance of smiling. We had got to the
top of Holborn Hill before I knew that it was merely a mechanical
appearance, and that he was not smiling at all.
“Do you know where Mr. Matthew Pocket lives?” I asked Mr. Wemmick.
“Yes,” said he, nodding in the direction. “At Hammersmith, west of
London.”
“Is that far?”
“Well! Say five miles.”
“Do you know him?”
“Why, you’re a regular cross-examiner!” said Mr. Wemmick, looking at me
with an approving air. “Yes, I know him. _I_ know him!”
There was an air of toleration or depreciation about his utterance of
these words that rather depressed me; and I was still looking sideways
at his block of a face in search of any encouraging note to the text,
when he said here we were at Barnard’s Inn. My depression was not
alleviated by the announcement, for, I had supposed that establishment
to be an hotel kept by Mr. Barnard, to which the Blue Boar in our town
was a mere public-house. Whereas I now found Barnard to be a
disembodied spirit, or a fiction, and his inn the dingiest collection
of shabby buildings ever squeezed together in a rank corner as a club
for Tom-cats.
