The most striking of these was perhaps the relishing manner in which he
remarked on the pensioner's infirmities and failings, as if he were
a gracious Keeper making a running commentary on the decline of the
harmless animal he exhibited.
'Not ready for more ham yet, Nandy? Why, how slow you are! (His last
teeth,' he explained to the company, 'are going, poor old boy.')
At another time, he said, 'No shrimps, Nandy?' and on his not instantly
replying, observed, ('His hearing is becoming very defective. He'll be
deaf directly.') At another time he asked him, 'Do you walk much, Nandy, about the yard
within the walls of that place of yours?'
'No, sir; no. I haven't any great liking for that.'
'No, to be sure,' he assented. 'Very natural.' Then he privately
informed the circle ('Legs going.')
Once he asked the pensioner, in that general clemency which asked him
anything to keep him afloat, how old his younger grandchild was?
'John Edward,' said the pensioner, slowly laying down his knife and fork
to consider. 'How old, sir? Let me think now.' The Father of the Marshalsea tapped his forehead ('Memory weak.') 'John Edward, sir? Well, I really forget. I couldn't say at this minute,
sir, whether it's two and two months, or whether it's two and five
months. It's one or the other.' 'Don't distress yourself by worrying your mind about it,' he returned,
with infinite forbearance. ('Faculties evidently decaying--old man rusts
in the life he leads!')
The more of these discoveries that he persuaded himself he made in the
pensioner, the better he appeared to like him; and when he got out of
his chair after tea to bid the pensioner good-bye, on his intimating
that he feared, honoured sir, his time was running out, he made himself
look as erect and strong as possible.
'We don't call this a shilling, Nandy, you know,' he said, putting one
in his hand. 'We call it tobacco.' 'Honoured sir, I thank you. It shall buy tobacco. My thanks and duty to
Miss Amy and Miss Fanny. I wish you good night, Mr Clennam.' 'And mind you don't forget us, you know, Nandy,' said the Father. 'You
must come again, mind, whenever you have an afternoon. You must not come
out without seeing us, or we shall be jealous. Good night, Nandy. Be
very careful how you descend the stairs, Nandy; they are rather uneven
and worn.'
With that he stood on the landing, watching the old man down:
and when he came into the room again, said, with a solemn satisfaction
on him, 'A melancholy sight that, Mr Clennam, though one has the
consolation of knowing that he doesn't feel it himself. The poor old
fellow is a dismal wreck. Spirit broken and gone--pulverised--crushed
out of him, sir, completely!'