“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? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say but …”
“My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again.”
“Well I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back …”
“Yes,” said Mr. Todd. “The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here …”
Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject but his host was evasive. Finally he said, “Forgive me, Mr. Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?”
“There is no boat.”
“Well, the Indians can build one.”
“You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now.”
“How long will that be?”
“A month … two months …”
They had finished Bleak House and were nearing the end of Dombey and Son when the rain came.
“Now it is time to make preparations to go.”
“Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season — it is one of their superstitions.”
“You might have told me.”
“Did I not mention it? I forgot.”
Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied.
At their midday meal Mr. Todd said, “Mr. Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe.”
“So they gave me to understand … and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book.”
They finished Dombey and Son; nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of Martin Chuzzlewit, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters.
Year 1919.
I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished.
There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: Mr. Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington.
“Mr. Todd,” said Tony, “I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released.”
“But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like.”
“You know very well that I can't get away without your help.”
“In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter.”
“Mr. Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Manaós I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day.”
But I have no need of another man. You read so well.”
“I have read for the last time.”
“I hope not,” said Mr. Todd politely.
That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr. Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch.