Гордость и предубеждение / Pride and Prejudice. Большие надежды / Great Expectations

I went into the front office with my little bag in my hand and asked, Was Mr. Jaggers at home?

“He is not,” returned the clerk. “He is in Court at present. Am I addressing Mr. Pip?”

I signified that he was addressing Mr. Pip.

“Mr. Jaggers left word, would you wait in his room.”

Mr. Jaggers’s room was lighted by a skylight only, and was a most dismal place. There were not so many papers about, as I should have expected to see; and there were some odd objects about, that I should not have expected to see – such as an old rusty pistol, a sword, several strange-looking boxes and packages.

I sat down in the chair placed over against Mr. Jaggers’s chair, and became fascinated by the dismal atmosphere of the place. But I sat wondering and waiting in Mr. Jaggers’s close room, and got up and went out.

At length, as I was looking out at the Little Britain, I saw Mr. Jaggers coming across the road towards me.

My guardian then took me into his own room, and while he lunched, informed me what arrangements he had made for me.

I was to go to “Barnard’s Inn,[94 - Barnard’s Inn – «Подворье Барнарда»]” to young Mr. Pocket’s rooms, where a bed had been sent in for my accommodation. “You will find your credit good, Mr. Pip,” said my guardian, but I shall by this means be able to check your bills.”

I asked Mr. Jaggers if I could send for a coach? He said it was not worth while, I was so near my destination; Wemmick[95 - Wemmick – Уэммик] should walk round with me.

Chapter 21

Mr. Wemmick was a dry man, rather short in stature, with a square wooden face.

“So you were never in London before?” said Mr. Wemmick to me.

“No,” said I.

“I was new here once,” said Mr. Wemmick.

“You are well acquainted with it now?”

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Wemmick.

“Is it a very wicked place?” I asked, more for the sake[96 - for the sake – ради] 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.”

His mouth was such a post-office of a mouth that he had a mechanical appearance of smiling.

“Do you know where Mr. Matthew Pocket lives?” I asked Mr. Wemmick.

“Yes,” said he, nodding in the direction. “At Hammersmith,[97 - Hammersmith – Хэммерсмит] west of London.”

“Is that far?”

“Well! Say five miles.