“It does not matter which we take first.”
“You are fond of Dickens?”
“Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more.
You see, they are the only books I have ever heard.
My father used to read them and then later the black man … and now you.
I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words … I have all Dickens books here except those that the ants devoured.
It takes a long time to read them all — more than two years.”
“Well,” said Tony lightly, “they will well last out my visit.”
“Oh, I hope not.
It is delightful to start again.
Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire.”
They took down the first volume of Bleak House and that afternoon Tony had his first reading.
He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her.
He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper.
But Mr. Todd was a unique audience.
The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips.
Often when a new character was introduced he would say,
“Repeat the name, I have forgotten him,” or
“Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman.”
He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story — such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him — but always about the characters.
“Now why does she say that?
Does she really mean it?
Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?”
He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times; and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in “Tom-all-alones” tears ran down his cheeks into his beard.
His comments on the story were usually simple.
“I think that Dedlock is a very proud man,” or,
“Mrs. Jellyby does not take enough care of her children.”
Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did.
At the end of the first day the old man said,
“You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man.
And you explain better.
It is almost as though my father were here again.”
And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.
“I enjoyed that very much.
It was an extremely distressing chapter.
But, if I remember rightly, it will all turn out well.”
By the time that they were in the second volume however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless.
He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides.
But Mr. Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints.
One day, running his thumb through the pages of Bleak House that remained to be read, Tony said,
“We still have a lot to get through.
I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go.”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Todd. “Do not disturb yourself about that.
You will have time to finish it, my friend.”
For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner.
That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.
“You know, Mr. Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization.
I have already imposed myself on your hospitality for too long.”
Mr. Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.
“How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? … I said how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?