Холодный дом

More Old Soldiers Than One

           "Wouldyoubelieveit?Gotanengagementatthetheayter,withhisfather,toplaythefifeinamilitarypiece.""Welldone,mygodson!"criesMr.George,slappinghisthigh."Ibelieveyou!"saysMrs.Bagnet."He’saBriton.That’swhatWoolwichis.ABriton!""AndMatblowsawayathisbassoon,andyou’rerespectableciviliansoneandall,"saysMr.George."Familypeople.Childrengrowingup.Mat’soldmotherinScotland,andyouroldfathersomewhereelse,correspondedwith,andhelpedalittle,andwell,well!Tobesure,Idon’tknowwhyIshouldn’tbewishedahundredmileaway,forIhavenotmuchtodowithallthis!"Mr.Georgeisbecomingthoughtful,sittingbeforethefireinthewhitewashedroom,whichhasasandedfloorandabarracksmellandcontainsnothingsuperfluousandhasnotavisiblespeckofdirtordustinit,fromthefacesofQuebecandMaltatothebrighttinpotsandpannikinsuponthedressershelvesMr.Georgeisbecomingthoughtful,sittingherewhileMrs.Bagnetisbusy,whenMr.BagnetandyoungWoolwichopportunelycomehome.Mr.Bagnetisanex-artilleryman,tallandupright,withshaggyeyebrowsandwhiskerslikethefibresofacoco-nut,notahairuponhishead,andatorridcomplexion.Hisvoice,short,deep,andresonant,isnotatallunlikethetonesoftheinstrumenttowhichheisdevoted.Indeedtheremaybegenerallyobservedinhimanunbending,unyielding,brass-boundair,asifhewerehimselfthebassoonofthehumanorchestra.YoungWoolwichisthetypeandmodelofayoungdrummer.Bothfatherandsonsalutethetrooperheartily.

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