CHAPTER IV.

MR. SAPSEA

Accepting the Jackass as the type of self-sufficient stupidity and

conceit—a custom, perhaps, like some few other customs, more

conventional than fair—then the purest jackass in Cloisterham is Mr.

Thomas Sapsea, Auctioneer.

Mr. Sapsea “dresses at” the Dean; has been bowed to for the Dean, in

mistake; has even been spoken to in the street as My Lord, under the

impression that he was the Bishop come down unexpectedly, without his

chaplain. Mr. Sapsea is very proud of this, and of his voice, and of

his style. He has even (in selling landed property) tried the

experiment of slightly intoning in his pulpit, to make himself more

like what he takes to be the genuine ecclesiastical article. So, in

ending a Sale by Public Auction, Mr. Sapsea finishes off with an air of

bestowing a benediction on the assembled brokers, which leaves the real

Dean—a modest and worthy gentleman—far behind.

Mr. Sapsea has many admirers; indeed, the proposition is carried by a

large local majority, even including non-believers in his wisdom, that

he is a credit to Cloisterham. He possesses the great qualities of

being portentous and dull, and of having a roll in his speech, and

another roll in his gait; not to mention a certain gravely flowing

action with his hands, as if he were presently going to Confirm the

individual with whom he holds discourse. Much nearer sixty years of age

than fifty, with a flowing outline of stomach, and horizontal creases

in his waistcoat; reputed to be rich; voting at elections in the

strictly respectable interest; morally satisfied that nothing but he

himself has grown since he was a baby; how can dunder-headed Mr. Sapsea

be otherwise than a credit to Cloisterham, and society?

Mr. Sapsea’s premises are in the High-street, over against the Nuns’

House. They are of about the period of the Nuns’ House, irregularly

modernised here and there, as steadily deteriorating generations found,

more and more, that they preferred air and light to Fever and the

Plague. Over the doorway is a wooden effigy, about half life-size,

representing Mr. Sapsea’s father, in a curly wig and toga, in the act

of selling. The chastity of the idea, and the natural appearance of the

little finger, hammer, and pulpit, have been much admired.

Mr. Sapsea sits in his dull ground-floor sitting-room, giving first on

his paved back yard; and then on his railed-off garden. Mr. Sapsea has

a bottle of port wine on a table before the fire—the fire is an early

luxury, but pleasant on the cool, chilly autumn evening—and is

characteristically attended by his portrait, his eight-day clock, and

his weather-glass. Characteristically, because he would uphold himself

against mankind, his weather-glass against weather, and his clock

against time.

By Mr. Sapsea’s side on the table are a writing-desk and writing

materials. Glancing at a scrap of manuscript, Mr. Sapsea reads it to

himself with a lofty air, and then, slowly pacing the room with his

thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, repeats it from memory: so

internally, though with much dignity, that the word “Ethelinda” is

alone audible.

There are three clean wineglasses in a tray on the table. His

serving-maid entering, and announcing “Mr. Jasper is come, sir,” Mr.

Sapsea waves “Admit him,” and draws two wineglasses from the rank, as

being claimed.

“Glad to see you, sir. I congratulate myself on having the honour of

receiving you here for the first time.” Mr. Sapsea does the honours of

his house in this wise.

“You are very good. The honour is mine and the self-congratulation is

mine.”

“You are pleased to say so, sir. But I do assure you that it is a

satisfaction to me to receive you in my humble home. And that is what I

would not say to everybody.” Ineffable loftiness on Mr. Sapsea’s part

accompanies these words, as leaving the sentence to be understood: “You

will not easily believe that your society can be a satisfaction to a

man like myself; nevertheless, it is.”

“I have for some time desired to know you, Mr. Sapsea.”

“And I, sir, have long known you by reputation as a man of taste. Let

me fill your glass. I will give you, sir,” says Mr. Sapsea, filling his

own:

“When the French come over,

May we meet them at Dover!”

This was a patriotic toast in Mr. Sapsea’s infancy, and he is therefore

fully convinced of its being appropriate to any subsequent era.

“You can scarcely be ignorant, Mr. Sapsea,” observes Jasper, watching

the auctioneer with a smile as the latter stretches out his legs before

the fire, “that you know the world.”

“Well, sir,” is the chuckling reply, “I think I know something of it;

something of it.”

“Your reputation for that knowledge has always interested and surprised

me, and made me wish to know you. For Cloisterham is a little place.

Cooped up in it myself, I know nothing beyond it, and feel it to be a

very little place.”

“If I have not gone to foreign countries, young man,” Mr. Sapsea

begins, and then stops:—“You will excuse me calling you young man, Mr.

Jasper? You are much my junior.”

“By all means.”

“If I have not gone to foreign countries, young man, foreign countries

have come to me. They have come to me in the way of business, and I

have improved upon my opportunities. Put it that I take an inventory,

or make a catalogue. I see a French clock. I never saw him before, in

my life, but I instantly lay my finger on him and say ‘Paris!’ I see

some cups and saucers of Chinese make, equally strangers to me

personally: I put my finger on them, then and there, and I say ‘Pekin,

Nankin, and Canton.’ It is the same with Japan, with Egypt, and with

bamboo and sandalwood from the East Indies; I put my finger on them

all. I have put my finger on the North Pole before now, and said ‘Spear

of Esquimaux make, for half a pint of pale sherry!’”

“Really? A very remarkable way, Mr. Sapsea, of acquiring a knowledge of

men and things.”

“I mention it, sir,” Mr. Sapsea rejoins, with unspeakable complacency,

“because, as I say, it don’t do to boast of what you are; but show how

you came to be it, and then you prove it.”

“Most interesting. We were to speak of the late Mrs. Sapsea.”

“We were, sir.” Mr. Sapsea fills both glasses, and takes the decanter

into safe keeping again. “Before I consult your opinion as a man of

taste on this little trifle”—holding it up—“which is _but_ a trifle,

and still has required some thought, sir, some little fever of the

brow, I ought perhaps to describe the character of the late Mrs.

Sapsea, now dead three quarters of a year.”

Mr. Jasper, in the act of yawning behind his wineglass, puts down that

screen and calls up a look of interest. It is a little impaired in its

expressiveness by his having a shut-up gape still to dispose of, with

watering eyes.

“Half a dozen years ago, or so,” Mr. Sapsea proceeds, “when I had

enlarged my mind up to—I will not say to what it now is, for that might

seem to aim at too much, but up to the pitch of wanting another mind to

be absorbed in it—I cast my eye about me for a nuptial partner.

Because, as I say, it is not good for man to be alone.”

Mr. Jasper appears to commit this original idea to memory.

“Miss Brobity at that time kept, I will not call it the rival

establishment to the establishment at the Nuns’ House opposite, but I

will call it the other parallel establishment down town. The world did

have it that she showed a passion for attending my sales, when they

took place on half holidays, or in vacation time. The world did put it

about, that she admired my style. The world did notice that as time

flowed by, my style became traceable in the dictation-exercises of Miss

Brobity’s pupils. Young man, a whisper even sprang up in obscure

malignity, that one ignorant and besotted Churl (a parent) so committed

himself as to object to it by name. But I do not believe this. For is

it likely that any human creature in his right senses would so lay

himself open to be pointed at, by what I call the finger of scorn?”

Mr. Jasper shakes his head. Not in the least likely. Mr. Sapsea, in a

grandiloquent state of absence of mind, seems to refill his visitor’s

glass, which is full already; and does really refill his own, which is

empty.

“Miss Brobity’s Being, young man, was deeply imbued with homage to

Mind. She revered Mind, when launched, or, as I say, precipitated, on

an extensive knowledge of the world. When I made my proposal, she did

me the honour to be so overshadowed with a species of Awe, as to be

able to articulate only the two words, ‘O Thou!’ meaning myself. Her

limpid blue eyes were fixed upon me, her semi-transparent hands were

clasped together, pallor overspread her aquiline features, and, though

encouraged to proceed, she never did proceed a word further. I disposed

of the parallel establishment by private contract, and we became as

nearly one as could be expected under the circumstances. But she never

could, and she never did, find a phrase satisfactory to her

perhaps-too-favourable estimate of my intellect. To the very last

(feeble action of liver), she addressed me in the same unfinished

terms.”

Mr. Jasper has closed his eyes as the auctioneer has deepened his

voice. He now abruptly opens them, and says, in unison with the

deepened voice “Ah!”—rather as if stopping himself on the extreme verge

of adding—“men!”

“I have been since,” says Mr. Sapsea, with his legs stretched out, and

solemnly enjoying himself with the wine and the fire, “what you behold

me; I have been since a solitary mourner; I have been since, as I say,

wasting my evening conversation on the desert air. I will not say that

I have reproached myself; but there have been times when I have asked

myself the question: What if her husband had been nearer on a level

with her? If she had not had to look up quite so high, what might the

stimulating action have been upon the liver?”

Mr. Jasper says, with an appearance of having fallen into dreadfully

low spirits, that he “supposes it was to be.”

“We can only suppose so, sir,” Mr. Sapsea coincides. “As I say, Man

proposes, Heaven disposes. It may or may not be putting the same

thought in another form; but that is the way I put it.”

Mr. Jasper murmurs assent.

“And now, Mr. Jasper,” resumes the auctioneer, producing his scrap of

manuscript, “Mrs. Sapsea’s monument having had full time to settle and

dry, let me take your opinion, as a man of taste, on the inscription I

have (as I before remarked, not without some little fever of the brow)

drawn out for it. Take it in your own hand. The setting out of the

lines requires to be followed with the eye, as well as the contents

with the mind.”

Mr. Jasper complying, sees and reads as follows:

ETHELINDA,

Reverential Wife of

MR. THOMAS SAPSEA,

AUCTIONEER, VALUER, ESTATE AGENT, &c.,

OF THIS CITY.

Whose Knowledge of the World,

Though somewhat extensive,

Never brought him acquainted with

A SPIRIT

More capable of

LOOKING UP TO HIM.

STRANGER, PAUSE

And ask thyself the Question,

CANST THOU DO LIKEWISE?

If Not,

WITH A BLUSH RETIRE.

Mr. Sapsea having risen and stationed himself with his back to the

fire, for the purpose of observing the effect of these lines on the

countenance of a man of taste, consequently has his face towards the

door, when his serving-maid, again appearing, announces, “Durdles is

come, sir!” He promptly draws forth and fills the third wineglass, as

being now claimed, and replies, “Show Durdles in.”

“Admirable!” quoth Mr. Jasper, handing back the paper.

“You approve, sir?”

“Impossible not to approve. Striking, characteristic, and complete.”

The auctioneer inclines his head, as one accepting his due and giving a

receipt; and invites the entering Durdles to take off that glass of

wine (handing the same), for it will warm him.

Durdles is a stonemason; chiefly in the gravestone, tomb, and monument

way, and wholly of their colour from head to foot. No man is better

known in Cloisterham. He is the chartered libertine of the place. Fame

trumpets him a wonderful workman—which, for aught that anybody knows,

he may be (as he never works); and a wonderful sot—which everybody

knows he is. With the Cathedral crypt he is better acquainted than any

living authority; it may even be than any dead one. It is said that the

intimacy of this acquaintance began in his habitually resorting to that

secret place, to lock-out the Cloisterham boy-populace, and sleep off

fumes of liquor: he having ready access to the Cathedral, as contractor

for rough repairs. Be this as it may, he does know much about it, and,

in the demolition of impedimental fragments of wall, buttress, and

pavement, has seen strange sights. He often speaks of himself in the

third person; perhaps, being a little misty as to his own identity,

when he narrates; perhaps impartially adopting the Cloisterham

nomenclature in reference to a character of acknowledged distinction.

Thus he will say, touching his strange sights: “Durdles come upon the

old chap,” in reference to a buried magnate of ancient time and high

degree, “by striking right into the coffin with his pick. The old chap

gave Durdles a look with his open eyes, as much as to say, ‘Is your

name Durdles? Why, my man, I’ve been waiting for you a devil of a

time!’ And then he turned to powder.” With a two-foot rule always in

his pocket, and a mason’s hammer all but always in his hand, Durdles

goes continually sounding and tapping all about and about the

Cathedral; and whenever he says to Tope: “Tope, here’s another old ’un

in here!” Tope announces it to the Dean as an established discovery.

In a suit of coarse flannel with horn buttons, a yellow neckerchief

with draggled ends, an old hat more russet-coloured than black, and

laced boots of the hue of his stony calling, Durdles leads a hazy,

gipsy sort of life, carrying his dinner about with him in a small

bundle, and sitting on all manner of tombstones to dine. This dinner of

Durdles’s has become quite a Cloisterham institution: not only because

of his never appearing in public without it, but because of its having

been, on certain renowned occasions, taken into custody along with

Durdles (as drunk and incapable), and exhibited before the Bench of

justices at the townhall. These occasions, however, have been few and

far apart: Durdles being as seldom drunk as sober. For the rest, he is

an old bachelor, and he lives in a little antiquated hole of a house

that was never finished: supposed to be built, so far, of stones stolen

from the city wall. To this abode there is an approach, ankle-deep in

stone chips, resembling a petrified grove of tombstones, urns,

draperies, and broken columns, in all stages of sculpture. Herein two

journeymen incessantly chip, while other two journeymen, who face each

other, incessantly saw stone; dipping as regularly in and out of their

sheltering sentry-boxes, as if they were mechanical figures

emblematical of Time and Death.

To Durdles, when he had consumed his glass of port, Mr. Sapsea intrusts

that precious effort of his Muse. Durdles unfeelingly takes out his

two-foot rule, and measures the lines calmly, alloying them with

stone-grit.

“This is for the monument, is it, Mr. Sapsea?”

“The Inscription. Yes.” Mr. Sapsea waits for its effect on a common

mind.

“It’ll come in to a eighth of a inch,” says Durdles. “Your servant, Mr.

Jasper. Hope I see you well.”

“How are you Durdles?”

“I’ve got a touch of the Tombatism on me, Mr. Jasper, but that I must

expect.”

“You mean the Rheumatism,” says Sapsea, in a sharp tone. (He is nettled

by having his composition so mechanically received.)

“No, I don’t. I mean, Mr. Sapsea, the Tombatism. It’s another sort from

Rheumatism. Mr. Jasper knows what Durdles means. You get among them

Tombs afore it’s well light on a winter morning, and keep on, as the

Catechism says, a-walking in the same all the days of your life, and

_you’ll_ know what Durdles means.”

“It is a bitter cold place,” Mr. Jasper assents, with an antipathetic

shiver.

“And if it’s bitter cold for you, up in the chancel, with a lot of live

breath smoking out about you, what the bitterness is to Durdles, down

in the crypt among the earthy damps there, and the dead breath of the

old ’uns,” returns that individual, “Durdles leaves you to judge.—Is

this to be put in hand at once, Mr. Sapsea?”

Mr. Sapsea, with an Author’s anxiety to rush into publication, replies

that it cannot be out of hand too soon.

“You had better let me have the key then,” says Durdles.

“Why, man, it is not to be put inside the monument!”

“Durdles knows where it’s to be put, Mr. Sapsea; no man better. Ask

’ere a man in Cloisterham whether Durdles knows his work.”

Mr. Sapsea rises, takes a key from a drawer, unlocks an iron safe let

into the wall, and takes from it another key.

“When Durdles puts a touch or a finish upon his work, no matter where,

inside or outside, Durdles likes to look at his work all round, and see

that his work is a-doing him credit,” Durdles explains, doggedly.

The key proffered him by the bereaved widower being a large one, he

slips his two-foot rule into a side-pocket of his flannel trousers made

for it, and deliberately opens his flannel coat, and opens the mouth of

a large breast-pocket within it before taking the key to place it in

that repository.

“Why, Durdles!” exclaims Jasper, looking on amused, “you are undermined

with pockets!”

“And I carries weight in ’em too, Mr. Jasper. Feel those!” producing

two other large keys.

“Hand me Mr. Sapsea’s likewise. Surely this is the heaviest of the

three.”

“You’ll find ’em much of a muchness, I expect,” says Durdles. “They all

belong to monuments. They all open Durdles’s work. Durdles keeps the

keys of his work mostly. Not that they’re much used.”

“By the bye,” it comes into Jasper’s mind to say, as he idly examines

the keys, “I have been going to ask you, many a day, and have always

forgotten. You know they sometimes call you Stony Durdles, don’t you?”

“Cloisterham knows me as Durdles, Mr. Jasper.”

“I am aware of that, of course. But the boys sometimes—”

“O! if you mind them young imps of boys—” Durdles gruffly interrupts.

“I don’t mind them any more than you do. But there was a discussion the

other day among the Choir, whether Stony stood for Tony;” clinking one

key against another.

(“Take care of the wards, Mr. Jasper.”)

“Or whether Stony stood for Stephen;” clinking with a change of keys.

(“You can’t make a pitch pipe of ’em, Mr. Jasper.”)

“Or whether the name comes from your trade. How stands the fact?”

Mr. Jasper weighs the three keys in his hand, lifts his head from his

idly stooping attitude over the fire, and delivers the keys to Durdles

with an ingenuous and friendly face.

But the stony one is a gruff one likewise, and that hazy state of his

is always an uncertain state, highly conscious of its dignity, and

prone to take offence. He drops his two keys back into his pocket one

by one, and buttons them up; he takes his dinner-bundle from the

chair-back on which he hung it when he came in; he distributes the

weight he carries, by tying the third key up in it, as though he were

an Ostrich, and liked to dine off cold iron; and he gets out of the

room, deigning no word of answer.

Mr. Sapsea then proposes a hit at backgammon, which, seasoned with his

own improving conversation, and terminating in a supper of cold roast

beef and salad, beguiles the golden evening until pretty late. Mr.

Sapsea’s wisdom being, in its delivery to mortals, rather of the

diffuse than the epigrammatic order, is by no means expended even then;

but his visitor intimates that he will come back for more of the

precious commodity on future occasions, and Mr. Sapsea lets him off for

the present, to ponder on the instalment he carries away.