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LITTLE DORRIT
By Charles Dickens
Original
Original
CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE TO THE 1857 EDITION
I have been occupied with this story, during many working hours of two years. I must have been very ill employed, if I could not leave its merits and demerits as a whole, to express themselves on its being read as a whole. But, as it is not unreasonable to suppose that I may have held its threads with a more continuous attention than anyone else can have given them during its desultory publication, it is not unreasonable to ask that the weaving may be looked at in its completed state, and with the pattern finished.
I have been focused on this story for many hours over the past two years. I must have really wasted my time if I couldn't let its strengths and weaknesses be revealed when read in full. However, since it’s fair to think I’ve paid more consistent attention to it than anyone else has during its sporadic release, it's reasonable to ask that the final product be viewed with the complete design in mind.
If I might offer any apology for so exaggerated a fiction as the Barnacles and the Circumlocution Office, I would seek it in the common experience of an Englishman, without presuming to mention the unimportant fact of my having done that violence to good manners, in the days of a Russian war, and of a Court of Inquiry at Chelsea. If I might make so bold as to defend that extravagant conception, Mr Merdle, I would hint that it originated after the Railroad-share epoch, in the times of a certain Irish bank, and of one or two other equally laudable enterprises. If I were to plead anything in mitigation of the preposterous fancy that a bad design will sometimes claim to be a good and an expressly religious design, it would be the curious coincidence that it has been brought to its climax in these pages, in the days of the public examination of late Directors of a Royal British Bank. But, I submit myself to suffer judgment to go by default on all these counts, if need be, and to accept the assurance (on good authority) that nothing like them was ever known in this land.
If I may apologize for such an exaggerated story as the Barnacles and the Circumlocution Office, I would attribute it to the common experiences of an Englishman, without needing to mention the minor detail that I’ve violated good manners during a Russian war and a Court of Inquiry in Chelsea. If I might be so bold as to defend this outrageous idea, Mr. Merdle, I would suggest that it came about after the era of railroad shares, during the time of a certain Irish bank and a few other equally noteworthy ventures. If I were to argue anything to lessen the absurd notion that a bad plan can sometimes pretend to be a good and explicitly religious one, it would be the strange coincidence that it has reached its peak in these pages during the public examination of recent Directors of a Royal British Bank. However, I’m willing to let judgment be passed on all these points, if necessary, and to acknowledge the assurance (from reliable sources) that nothing like them has ever been seen in this country.
Some of my readers may have an interest in being informed whether or no any portions of the Marshalsea Prison are yet standing. I did not know, myself, until the sixth of this present month, when I went to look. I found the outer front courtyard, often mentioned here, metamorphosed into a butter shop; and I then almost gave up every brick of the jail for lost. Wandering, however, down a certain adjacent ‘Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey’, I came to ‘Marshalsea Place:’ the houses in which I recognised, not only as the great block of the former prison, but as preserving the rooms that arose in my mind’s-eye when I became Little Dorrit’s biographer. The smallest boy I ever conversed with, carrying the largest baby I ever saw, offered a supernaturally intelligent explanation of the locality in its old uses, and was very nearly correct. How this young Newton (for such I judge him to be) came by his information, I don’t know; he was a quarter of a century too young to know anything about it of himself. I pointed to the window of the room where Little Dorrit was born, and where her father lived so long, and asked him what was the name of the lodger who tenanted that apartment at present? He said, ‘Tom Pythick.’ I asked him who was Tom Pythick? and he said, ‘Joe Pythick’s uncle.’
Some of my readers might want to know if any parts of the Marshalsea Prison are still standing. I wasn't sure myself until the sixth of this month, when I went to check it out. I found the outer front courtyard, which I’ve mentioned often, transformed into a butter shop; at that point, I almost lost hope of finding any part of the jail. However, while wandering down a nearby ‘Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey,’ I stumbled upon ‘Marshalsea Place’: the houses I recognized not just as the main block of the old prison but also as the spaces that came to mind when I became Little Dorrit’s biographer. The smallest boy I’ve ever talked to, carrying the largest baby I’ve ever seen, gave an incredibly insightful explanation of the area’s former use and was almost spot on. I’m not sure how this young genius (as I assume he is) got his information; he was still twenty-five years too young to know anything about it himself. I pointed to the window of the room where Little Dorrit was born and where her father lived for so long, and I asked him who the current tenant of that apartment was. He replied, ‘Tom Pythick.’ I asked him who Tom Pythick was, and he said, ‘Joe Pythick’s uncle.’
A little further on, I found the older and smaller wall, which used to enclose the pent-up inner prison where nobody was put, except for ceremony. But, whosoever goes into Marshalsea Place, turning out of Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey, will find his feet on the very paving-stones of the extinct Marshalsea jail; will see its narrow yard to the right and to the left, very little altered if at all, except that the walls were lowered when the place got free; will look upon rooms in which the debtors lived; and will stand among the crowding ghosts of many miserable years.
A little further ahead, I came across the old, smaller wall that used to surround the inner prison where no one was ever sent, except for ceremonies. But anyone who enters Marshalsea Place from Angel Court, heading towards Bermondsey, will find themselves on the very paving stones of the long-gone Marshalsea jail; will see its narrow yard on both the right and left, barely changed at all, except that the walls were lowered when the place was freed; will look into the rooms where the debtors lived; and will stand among the lingering shadows of many unhappy years.
In the Preface to Bleak House I remarked that I had never had so many readers. In the Preface to its next successor, Little Dorrit, I have still to repeat the same words. Deeply sensible of the affection and confidence that have grown up between us, I add to this Preface, as I added to that, May we meet again!
In the Preface to Bleak House, I mentioned that I had never had so many readers. In the Preface to its next book, Little Dorrit, I still have to say the same thing. Feeling deeply grateful for the affection and trust that have developed between us, I add to this Preface, just like I did before, May we meet again!
London May 1857
London, May 1857
BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY
CHAPTER 1. Sun and Shadow
Thirty years ago, Marseilles lay burning in the sun, one day.
Thirty years ago, Marseilles was blazing under the sun one day.
A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in southern France then, than at any other time, before or since. Everything in Marseilles, and about Marseilles, had stared at the fervid sky, and been stared at in return, until a staring habit had become universal there. Strangers were stared out of countenance by staring white houses, staring white walls, staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burnt away. The only things to be seen not fixedly staring and glaring were the vines drooping under their load of grapes. These did occasionally wink a little, as the hot air barely moved their faint leaves.
A blazing sun on a scorching August day was just as common in southern France then as it has been at any other time, before or since. Everything in Marseille and around it had been scrutinized by the intense sky, and in return, it had been scrutinized back, until everyone there started to take on a staring habit. Strangers were taken aback by the glaring white houses, bright white walls, glaring white streets, harsh stretches of dry road, and glaring hills stripped of greenery. The only things that didn’t seem to stare and glare were the vines drooping under the weight of their grapes. Occasionally, they would barely flutter a little as the hot air hardly moved their delicate leaves.
There was no wind to make a ripple on the foul water within the harbour, or on the beautiful sea without. The line of demarcation between the two colours, black and blue, showed the point which the pure sea would not pass; but it lay as quiet as the abominable pool, with which it never mixed. Boats without awnings were too hot to touch; ships blistered at their moorings; the stones of the quays had not cooled, night or day, for months. Hindoos, Russians, Chinese, Spaniards, Portuguese, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Genoese, Neapolitans, Venetians, Greeks, Turks, descendants from all the builders of Babel, come to trade at Marseilles, sought the shade alike—taking refuge in any hiding-place from a sea too intensely blue to be looked at, and a sky of purple, set with one great flaming jewel of fire.
There was no wind to create a ripple on the dirty water in the harbor, or on the beautiful sea beyond. The line separating the two colors, black and blue, marked the point that the clear sea wouldn't cross; but it lay as still as the disgusting pool, with which it never mixed. Boats without covers were too hot to touch; ships sizzled at their moorings; the stones of the docks hadn't cooled, day or night, for months. People from all over—Hindus, Russians, Chinese, Spaniards, Portuguese, English, French, Genoese, Neapolitans, Venetians, Greeks, Turks, descendants of all the builders of Babel—came to trade in Marseilles, all seeking shade, trying to escape the sea that was too intensely blue to look at, and a purple sky, featuring one big blazing jewel of fire.
The universal stare made the eyes ache. Towards the distant line of Italian coast, indeed, it was a little relieved by light clouds of mist, slowly rising from the evaporation of the sea, but it softened nowhere else. Far away the staring roads, deep in dust, stared from the hill-side, stared from the hollow, stared from the interminable plain. Far away the dusty vines overhanging wayside cottages, and the monotonous wayside avenues of parched trees without shade, drooped beneath the stare of earth and sky. So did the horses with drowsy bells, in long files of carts, creeping slowly towards the interior; so did their recumbent drivers, when they were awake, which rarely happened; so did the exhausted labourers in the fields. Everything that lived or grew, was oppressed by the glare; except the lizard, passing swiftly over rough stone walls, and the cicala, chirping his dry hot chirp, like a rattle. The very dust was scorched brown, and something quivered in the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting.
The universal glare made the eyes hurt. Toward the distant line of the Italian coast, it was slightly relieved by light clouds of mist slowly rising from the sea, but it softened nowhere else. Far away, the glaring roads, deep in dust, stared from the hillside, stared from the hollow, and stared from the endless plain. Far off, the dusty vines drooped over the cottages by the road, and the monotonous stretches of dry trees, providing no shade, sagged under the weight of the glare from the earth and sky. The horses with drowsy bells trudged in long lines of carts, creeping slowly toward the interior; their drivers often slumped over when they were awake, which was rare; and the exhausted laborers in the fields were similarly affected. Everything that lived or grew was weighed down by the brightness, except for the lizard darting quickly over rough stone walls and the cicada, chirping its dry, hot sound like a rattle. The very dust was scorched brown, and something shimmered in the air as if the atmosphere itself were gasping for breath.
Blinds, shutters, curtains, awnings, were all closed and drawn to keep out the stare. Grant it but a chink or keyhole, and it shot in like a white-hot arrow. The churches were the freest from it. To come out of the twilight of pillars and arches—dreamily dotted with winking lamps, dreamily peopled with ugly old shadows piously dozing, spitting, and begging—was to plunge into a fiery river, and swim for life to the nearest strip of shade. So, with people lounging and lying wherever shade was, with but little hum of tongues or barking of dogs, with occasional jangling of discordant church bells and rattling of vicious drums, Marseilles, a fact to be strongly smelt and tasted, lay broiling in the sun one day.
Blinds, shutters, curtains, and awnings were all closed tight to block out the glare. Just a tiny opening or a keyhole let the light in like a white-hot arrow. The churches were the least affected by it. Stepping out from the dimness of the pillars and arches—softly lit by flickering lamps and filled with the awkward forms of old shadows sleepily dozing, spitting, and begging—was like diving into a scorching river, desperately swimming to the nearest patch of shade. So, with people lounging and lying wherever there was shade, with little sound from conversations or barking dogs, occasionally interrupted by the clanging of mismatched church bells and the pounding of annoying drums, Marseille lay simmering in the sun one day.
In Marseilles that day there was a villainous prison. In one of its chambers, so repulsive a place that even the obtrusive stare blinked at it, and left it to such refuse of reflected light as it could find for itself, were two men. Besides the two men, a notched and disfigured bench, immovable from the wall, with a draught-board rudely hacked upon it with a knife, a set of draughts, made of old buttons and soup bones, a set of dominoes, two mats, and two or three wine bottles. That was all the chamber held, exclusive of rats and other unseen vermin, in addition to the seen vermin, the two men.
In Marseilles that day, there was a dreadful prison. In one of its rooms, so disgusting that even the glaring sunlight hesitated to shine on it and only found a way to reflect the faintest light, were two men. Along with the two men, there was a worn and damaged bench, fixed to the wall, with a checkers board crudely carved into it with a knife, a set of checkers made from old buttons and soup bones, a set of dominoes, two mats, and a couple of wine bottles. That was all that the room contained, besides rats and other hidden pests, along with the two visible men.
Original
It received such light as it got through a grating of iron bars fashioned like a pretty large window, by means of which it could be always inspected from the gloomy staircase on which the grating gave. There was a broad strong ledge of stone to this grating where the bottom of it was let into the masonry, three or four feet above the ground. Upon it, one of the two men lolled, half sitting and half lying, with his knees drawn up, and his feet and shoulders planted against the opposite sides of the aperture. The bars were wide enough apart to admit of his thrusting his arm through to the elbow; and so he held on negligently, for his greater ease.
It got the little light it had through a grating of iron bars made to look like a fairly large window, which allowed it to be constantly checked from the dark staircase where the grating opened. There was a broad, sturdy ledge of stone beneath this grating, set into the wall, about three or four feet above the ground. On it, one of the two men lounged, half sitting and half lying down, with his knees pulled up and his feet and shoulders pressed against the opposite sides of the opening. The bars were spaced wide enough for him to push his arm through to the elbow, and he held on casually for his comfort.
A prison taint was on everything there. The imprisoned air, the imprisoned light, the imprisoned damps, the imprisoned men, were all deteriorated by confinement. As the captive men were faded and haggard, so the iron was rusty, the stone was slimy, the wood was rotten, the air was faint, the light was dim. Like a well, like a vault, like a tomb, the prison had no knowledge of the brightness outside, and would have kept its polluted atmosphere intact in one of the spice islands of the Indian ocean.
Everything there had a prison-like stain. The air felt trapped, the light was restricted, the dampness was suffocating, and the men looked worn down by confinement. Just as the captive men appeared faded and haggard, the iron was rusty, the stone was slimy, the wood was decayed, the air was stale, and the light was weak. The prison was like a well, like a vault, like a tomb, completely unaware of the brightness outside, and it would have preserved its polluted atmosphere even on one of the spice islands in the Indian Ocean.
The man who lay on the ledge of the grating was even chilled. He jerked his great cloak more heavily upon him by an impatient movement of one shoulder, and growled, ‘To the devil with this Brigand of a Sun that never shines in here!’
The man lying on the edge of the grate felt really cold. He pulled his large cloak tighter around him with an annoyed shrug of his shoulder and muttered, ‘To hell with this sun that never shines in here!’
He was waiting to be fed, looking sideways through the bars that he might see the further down the stairs, with much of the expression of a wild beast in similar expectation. But his eyes, too close together, were not so nobly set in his head as those of the king of beasts are in his, and they were sharp rather than bright—pointed weapons with little surface to betray them. They had no depth or change; they glittered, and they opened and shut. So far, and waiving their use to himself, a clockmaker could have made a better pair. He had a hook nose, handsome after its kind, but too high between the eyes by probably just as much as his eyes were too near to one another. For the rest, he was large and tall in frame, had thin lips, where his thick moustache showed them at all, and a quantity of dry hair, of no definable colour, in its shaggy state, but shot with red. The hand with which he held the grating (seamed all over the back with ugly scratches newly healed), was unusually small and plump; would have been unusually white but for the prison grime.
He was waiting to be fed, glancing sideways through the bars to see further down the stairs, much like a wild animal in a similar state of anticipation. But his eyes, set too close together, were not as nobly arranged in his head as those of a king of beasts, and they were sharp rather than bright—pointed tools with little surface to reveal them. They lacked depth or variation; they sparkled, opening and closing. By all means, a clockmaker could have crafted a better pair. He had a hooked nose, attractive in its own way, but it sat higher between the eyes, probably just about as much as his eyes were too close together. Otherwise, he was large and tall, had thin lips, where his thick mustache showed at all, and a mess of dry hair that was a mix of colors but tinged with red. The hand holding the grating (marked all over the back with ugly, recently healed scratches) was unusually small and plump; it would have been strikingly white if not for the dirt of prison.
The other man was lying on the stone floor, covered with a coarse brown coat.
The other man was lying on the stone floor, covered with a rough brown coat.
‘Get up, pig!’ growled the first. ‘Don’t sleep when I am hungry.’
‘Get up, pig!’ growled the first. ‘Don’t sleep when I’m hungry.’
‘It’s all one, master,’ said the pig, in a submissive manner, and not without cheerfulness; ‘I can wake when I will, I can sleep when I will. It’s all the same.’
‘It's all the same, master,’ said the pig, happily and a bit submissively; ‘I can wake up whenever I want, I can sleep whenever I want. It’s all the same.’
As he said it, he rose, shook himself, scratched himself, tied his brown coat loosely round his neck by the sleeves (he had previously used it as a coverlet), and sat down upon the pavement yawning, with his back against the wall opposite to the grating.
As he said this, he stood up, shook himself off, scratched at his body, loosely tied his brown coat around his neck by the sleeves (he had used it as a blanket before), and sat down on the pavement yawning, with his back against the wall across from the grating.
‘Say what the hour is,’ grumbled the first man.
“Tell me what time it is,” complained the first man.
‘The mid-day bells will ring—in forty minutes.’ When he made the little pause, he had looked round the prison-room, as if for certain information.
‘The midday bells will ring—in forty minutes.’ He paused for a moment, glancing around the prison room as if seeking specific information.
‘You are a clock. How is it that you always know?’
‘You’re like a clock. How do you always know?’
‘How can I say? I always know what the hour is, and where I am. I was brought in here at night, and out of a boat, but I know where I am. See here! Marseilles harbour;’ on his knees on the pavement, mapping it all out with a swarthy forefinger; ‘Toulon (where the galleys are), Spain over there, Algiers over there. Creeping away to the left here, Nice. Round by the Cornice to Genoa. Genoa Mole and Harbour. Quarantine Ground. City there; terrace gardens blushing with the bella donna. Here, Porto Fino. Stand out for Leghorn. Out again for Civita Vecchia, so away to—hey! there’s no room for Naples;’ he had got to the wall by this time; ‘but it’s all one; it’s in there!’
‘How can I explain? I always know what time it is and where I am. I was brought in here at night, and out of a boat, but I know where I am. Look! Marseilles harbor;’ he was on his knees on the pavement, tracing it all out with a dark finger; ‘Toulon (where the galleys are), Spain is over there, Algiers is over there. If you go to the left here, you’ll find Nice. Going around the Cornice to Genoa. Genoa Mole and Harbour. Quarantine Ground. City there; terrace gardens blooming with the bella donna. Here, Porto Fino. Heading out for Leghorn. Then off again for Civita Vecchia, so away to—hey! there’s no space for Naples;’ he had reached the wall by this point; ‘but it’s all the same; it’s in there!’
He remained on his knees, looking up at his fellow-prisoner with a lively look for a prison. A sunburnt, quick, lithe, little man, though rather thickset. Earrings in his brown ears, white teeth lighting up his grotesque brown face, intensely black hair clustering about his brown throat, a ragged red shirt open at his brown breast. Loose, seaman-like trousers, decent shoes, a long red cap, a red sash round his waist, and a knife in it.
He stayed on his knees, gazing up at his fellow prisoner with a surprisingly lively expression for someone in jail. He was a sunburned, quick, agile little guy, though a bit stocky. He had earrings in his brown ears, white teeth that brightened his oddly shaped brown face, and intensely black hair that curled around his brown neck. He wore a ripped red shirt that hung open at his brown chest, loose sailor-style pants, decent shoes, a long red cap, a red sash around his waist, and a knife tucked into it.
‘Judge if I come back from Naples as I went! See here, my master! Civita Vecchia, Leghorn, Porto Fino, Genoa, Cornice, Off Nice (which is in there), Marseilles, you and me. The apartment of the jailer and his keys is where I put this thumb; and here at my wrist they keep the national razor in its case—the guillotine locked up.’
‘Judge if I come back from Naples the same way I left! Look here, my master! Civita Vecchia, Leghorn, Porto Fino, Genoa, Cornice, off Nice (which is inside there), Marseilles, you and me. The jailer's apartment and his keys are where I put this thumb; and here at my wrist they keep the national razor in its case—the guillotine locked up.’
The other man spat suddenly on the pavement, and gurgled in his throat.
The other man suddenly spat on the pavement and made a gurgling sound in his throat.
Some lock below gurgled in its throat immediately afterwards, and then a door crashed. Slow steps began ascending the stairs; the prattle of a sweet little voice mingled with the noise they made; and the prison-keeper appeared carrying his daughter, three or four years old, and a basket.
Some lock below gurgled in its throat right after that, and then a door slammed. Slow footsteps started going up the stairs; the chatter of a sweet little voice mixed with the noise they made; and the prison guard showed up carrying his daughter, who was about three or four years old, along with a basket.
‘How goes the world this forenoon, gentlemen? My little one, you see, going round with me to have a peep at her father’s birds. Fie, then! Look at the birds, my pretty, look at the birds.’
‘How's the world this morning, gentlemen? My little one, you see, is coming along with me to take a look at her father’s birds. Oh dear! Look at the birds, my pretty, look at the birds.’
He looked sharply at the birds himself, as he held the child up at the grate, especially at the little bird, whose activity he seemed to mistrust. ‘I have brought your bread, Signor John Baptist,’ said he (they all spoke in French, but the little man was an Italian); ‘and if I might recommend you not to game—’
He glanced intently at the birds as he lifted the child up to the grate, particularly eyeing the little bird, whose movements he seemed to be suspicious of. ‘I’ve brought your bread, Signor John Baptist,’ he said (they all spoke in French, but the little man was Italian); ‘and if I could suggest that you avoid gambling—’
‘You don’t recommend the master!’ said John Baptist, showing his teeth as he smiled.
‘You don’t recommend the boss!’ said John Baptist, flashing a smile.
‘Oh! but the master wins,’ returned the jailer, with a passing look of no particular liking at the other man, ‘and you lose. It’s quite another thing. You get husky bread and sour drink by it; and he gets sausage of Lyons, veal in savoury jelly, white bread, strachino cheese, and good wine by it. Look at the birds, my pretty!’
‘Oh! but the master wins,’ replied the jailer, giving the other man a brief look of disapproval, ‘and you lose. It’s completely different. You get stale bread and sour drink from it; while he gets sausage from Lyons, veal in savory jelly, white bread, strachino cheese, and good wine. Look at the birds, my dear!’
‘Poor birds!’ said the child.
“Poor birds!” said the kid.
The fair little face, touched with divine compassion, as it peeped shrinkingly through the grate, was like an angel’s in the prison. John Baptist rose and moved towards it, as if it had a good attraction for him. The other bird remained as before, except for an impatient glance at the basket.
The pretty little face, radiating divine compassion, peeked timidly through the grate, resembling an angel in the prison. John the Baptist stood up and approached it, as if feeling a strong pull towards it. The other bird stayed as it was, aside from a frustrated glance at the basket.
‘Stay!’ said the jailer, putting his little daughter on the outer ledge of the grate, ‘she shall feed the birds. This big loaf is for Signor John Baptist. We must break it to get it through into the cage. So, there’s a tame bird to kiss the little hand! This sausage in a vine leaf is for Monsieur Rigaud. Again—this veal in savoury jelly is for Monsieur Rigaud. Again—these three white little loaves are for Monsieur Rigaud. Again, this cheese—again, this wine—again, this tobacco—all for Monsieur Rigaud. Lucky bird!’
‘Stay!’ said the jailer, placing his little daughter on the outer ledge of the grate. ‘She can feed the birds. This big loaf is for Signor John Baptist. We need to break it to fit it through into the cage. So, here’s a tame bird to kiss the little hand! This sausage wrapped in a vine leaf is for Monsieur Rigaud. Again—this veal in savory jelly is for Monsieur Rigaud. Once more—these three small white loaves are for Monsieur Rigaud. And this cheese—again, this wine—again, this tobacco—all for Monsieur Rigaud. Lucky bird!’
The child put all these things between the bars into the soft, Smooth, well-shaped hand, with evident dread—more than once drawing back her own and looking at the man with her fair brow roughened into an expression half of fright and half of anger. Whereas she had put the lump of coarse bread into the swart, scaled, knotted hands of John Baptist (who had scarcely as much nail on his eight fingers and two thumbs as would have made out one for Monsieur Rigaud), with ready confidence; and, when he kissed her hand, had herself passed it caressingly over his face. Monsieur Rigaud, indifferent to this distinction, propitiated the father by laughing and nodding at the daughter as often as she gave him anything; and, so soon as he had all his viands about him in convenient nooks of the ledge on which he rested, began to eat with an appetite.
The child placed all these things between the bars into the soft, smooth, well-shaped hand, clearly scared—more than once pulling back her own hand and looking at the man with her fair brow twisted into a mix of fear and anger. In contrast, she had confidently given the lump of coarse bread to John Baptist, whose rough, scaled hands had barely enough nail on his eight fingers and two thumbs to create one nail for Monsieur Rigaud. When he kissed her hand, she tenderly stroked his face. Monsieur Rigaud, unconcerned by this difference, tried to win over the father by laughing and nodding at the daughter whenever she gave him something. As soon as he had all his food arranged conveniently in the nooks of the ledge where he was resting, he began to eat with gusto.
When Monsieur Rigaud laughed, a change took place in his face, that was more remarkable than prepossessing. His moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache, in a very sinister and cruel manner.
When Monsieur Rigaud laughed, his face changed in a way that was more striking than appealing. His mustache curled up under his nose, and his nose drooped down over his mustache in a very menacing and harsh way.
‘There!’ said the jailer, turning his basket upside down to beat the crumbs out, ‘I have expended all the money I received; here is the note of it, and that’s a thing accomplished. Monsieur Rigaud, as I expected yesterday, the President will look for the pleasure of your society at an hour after mid-day, to-day.’
‘There!’ said the jailer, turning his basket upside down to shake out the crumbs, ‘I’ve used up all the money I got; here’s the record of it, and that’s done. Monsieur Rigaud, as I expected yesterday, the President will be looking forward to your company at one o'clock today.’
‘To try me, eh?’ said Rigaud, pausing, knife in hand and morsel in mouth.
‘Trying me, huh?’ said Rigaud, pausing, knife in hand and food in his mouth.
‘You have said it. To try you.’
‘You've said it. To test you.’
‘There is no news for me?’ asked John Baptist, who had begun, contentedly, to munch his bread.
‘Is there no news for me?’ asked John Baptist, who had started, happily, to munch on his bread.
The jailer shrugged his shoulders.
The jailer shrugged.
‘Lady of mine! Am I to lie here all my life, my father?’
‘My lady! Am I supposed to lie here for the rest of my life, my father?’
‘What do I know!’ cried the jailer, turning upon him with southern quickness, and gesticulating with both his hands and all his fingers, as if he were threatening to tear him to pieces. ‘My friend, how is it possible for me to tell how long you are to lie here? What do I know, John Baptist Cavalletto? Death of my life! There are prisoners here sometimes, who are not in such a devil of a hurry to be tried.’
“What do I know!” yelled the jailer, spinning around to face him with quick impatience, waving his hands and fingers as if he were about to rip him apart. “My friend, how can I possibly say how long you’ll be stuck here? What do I know, John Baptist Cavalletto? For heaven’s sake! There are prisoners here sometimes who aren’t in such a crazy rush to be tried.”
He seemed to glance obliquely at Monsieur Rigaud in this remark; but Monsieur Rigaud had already resumed his meal, though not with quite so quick an appetite as before.
He seemed to glance sideways at Monsieur Rigaud with this comment; but Monsieur Rigaud had already gone back to his meal, though not with quite as much enthusiasm as before.
‘Adieu, my birds!’ said the keeper of the prison, taking his pretty child in his arms, and dictating the words with a kiss.
‘Goodbye, my little birds!’ said the prison warden, lifting his beautiful child in his arms and saying the words with a kiss.
‘Adieu, my birds!’ the pretty child repeated.
‘Goodbye, my birds!’ the pretty child repeated.
Her innocent face looked back so brightly over his shoulder, as he walked away with her, singing her the song of the child’s game:
Her innocent face smiled back brightly at him as he walked away with her, singing the song from the child’s game:
‘Who passes by this road so late?
‘Who is walking down this road so late?
Compagnon de la Majolaine!
Majolaine companion!
Who passes by this road so late?
Who is walking down this road so late?
Always gay!’
Always happy!
that John Baptist felt it a point of honour to reply at the grate, and in good time and tune, though a little hoarsely:
that John Baptist considered it a matter of pride to respond at the grate, and in a timely and appropriate manner, although somewhat hoarsely:
‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower,
‘Of all the king’s knights, it’s the best,
Compagnon de la Majolaine!
Majolaine companion!
Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower,
Of all the king's knights, it's the best.
Always gay!’
Always proud!
Which accompanied them so far down the few steep stairs, that the prison-keeper had to stop at last for his little daughter to hear the song out, and repeat the Refrain while they were yet in sight. Then the child’s head disappeared, and the prison-keeper’s head disappeared, but the little voice prolonged the strain until the door clashed.
Which accompanied them down the few steep stairs so far that the prison guard had to stop for his little daughter to finish the song and repeat the refrain while they were still in sight. Then the child’s head vanished, and the prison guard's head vanished, but the little voice continued the melody until the door slammed shut.
Monsieur Rigaud, finding the listening John Baptist in his way before the echoes had ceased (even the echoes were the weaker for imprisonment, and seemed to lag), reminded him with a push of his foot that he had better resume his own darker place. The little man sat down again upon the pavement with the negligent ease of one who was thoroughly accustomed to pavements; and placing three hunks of coarse bread before himself, and falling to upon a fourth, began contentedly to work his way through them as if to clear them off were a sort of game.
Monsieur Rigaud, noticing John Baptist lingering in his path before the echoes had faded (even the echoes seemed dimmer with confinement and appeared to lag), nudged him with his foot, suggesting he should return to his own shadowy spot. The little man plopped back onto the pavement with the casual ease of someone who was used to sitting on the ground. He set three chunks of coarse bread in front of him and began munching on a fourth, happily making his way through them as if finishing them off was a fun challenge.
Perhaps he glanced at the Lyons sausage, and perhaps he glanced at the veal in savoury jelly, but they were not there long, to make his mouth water; Monsieur Rigaud soon dispatched them, in spite of the president and tribunal, and proceeded to suck his fingers as clean as he could, and to wipe them on his vine leaves. Then, as he paused in his drink to contemplate his fellow-prisoner, his moustache went up, and his nose came down.
Perhaps he looked at the Lyons sausage, and maybe he looked at the veal in savory jelly, but they didn't stay in front of him long enough to make him hungry; Monsieur Rigaud quickly finished them off, despite the president and the court, and then proceeded to lick his fingers as clean as possible, wiping them on his vine leaves. Then, as he took a break from his drink to observe his fellow prisoner, his moustache curled up, and his nose drooped down.
‘How do you find the bread?’
‘How do you like the bread?’
‘A little dry, but I have my old sauce here,’ returned John Baptist, holding up his knife.
‘A bit dry, but I have my old sauce here,’ John Baptist said, holding up his knife.
‘How sauce?’
‘How's the sauce?’
‘I can cut my bread so—like a melon. Or so—like an omelette. Or so—like a fried fish. Or so—like Lyons sausage,’ said John Baptist, demonstrating the various cuts on the bread he held, and soberly chewing what he had in his mouth.
‘I can cut my bread like this—like a melon. Or like this—like an omelette. Or like this—like a fried fish. Or like this—like Lyon sausage,’ said John Baptist, showing the different ways to cut the bread he was holding, while seriously chewing what was in his mouth.
‘Here!’ cried Monsieur Rigaud. ‘You may drink. You may finish this.’
‘Here!’ shouted Monsieur Rigaud. ‘You can drink. You can finish this.’
It was no great gift, for there was mighty little wine left; but Signor Cavalletto, jumping to his feet, received the bottle gratefully, turned it upside down at his mouth, and smacked his lips.
It wasn't much of a gift, since there was hardly any wine left; but Signor Cavalletto jumped up, took the bottle gratefully, tipped it upside down at his mouth, and smacked his lips.
‘Put the bottle by with the rest,’ said Rigaud.
“Put the bottle with the others,” said Rigaud.
The little man obeyed his orders, and stood ready to give him a lighted match; for he was now rolling his tobacco into cigarettes by the aid of little squares of paper which had been brought in with it.
The little man followed his instructions and was prepared to hand him a lit match; he was now rolling his tobacco into cigarettes using the small squares of paper that had been brought in with it.
‘Here! You may have one.’
"Here! You can have one."
‘A thousand thanks, my master!’ John Baptist said in his own language, and with the quick conciliatory manner of his own countrymen.
‘Thanks a lot, my master!’ John Baptist said in his own language, and with the quick, friendly manner of his countrymen.
Monsieur Rigaud arose, lighted a cigarette, put the rest of his stock into a breast-pocket, and stretched himself out at full length upon the bench. Cavalletto sat down on the pavement, holding one of his ankles in each hand, and smoking peacefully. There seemed to be some uncomfortable attraction of Monsieur Rigaud’s eyes to the immediate neighbourhood of that part of the pavement where the thumb had been in the plan. They were so drawn in that direction, that the Italian more than once followed them to and back from the pavement in some surprise.
Monsieur Rigaud got up, lit a cigarette, tucked the rest of his pack into a breast pocket, and stretched out fully on the bench. Cavalletto sat down on the pavement, holding one of his ankles in each hand and smoking calmly. It seemed like there was an unsettling pull in Monsieur Rigaud's gaze towards the specific spot on the pavement where the thumb had been in the plan. His eyes were so focused in that direction that the Italian looked over there and back again several times in confusion.
‘What an infernal hole this is!’ said Monsieur Rigaud, breaking a long pause. ‘Look at the light of day. Day? the light of yesterday week, the light of six months ago, the light of six years ago. So slack and dead!’
‘What a horrible place this is!’ said Monsieur Rigaud, breaking a long pause. ‘Look at the light of day. Day? The light from last week, the light from six months ago, the light from six years ago. So dull and lifeless!’
It came languishing down a square funnel that blinded a window in the staircase wall, through which the sky was never seen—nor anything else.
It trickled down a square funnel that blocked a window in the staircase wall, through which the sky was never visible—nor anything else.
‘Cavalletto,’ said Monsieur Rigaud, suddenly withdrawing his gaze from this funnel to which they had both involuntarily turned their eyes, ‘you know me for a gentleman?’
‘Cavalletto,’ said Monsieur Rigaud, suddenly looking away from the funnel that had captured both their attention, ‘you know I'm a gentleman, right?’
‘Surely, surely!’
"Of course, of course!"
‘How long have we been here?’
‘How long have we been here?’
‘I, eleven weeks, to-morrow night at midnight. You, nine weeks and three days, at five this afternoon.’
‘I, eleven weeks, tomorrow night at midnight. You, nine weeks and three days, at five this afternoon.’
‘Have I ever done anything here? Ever touched the broom, or spread the mats, or rolled them up, or found the draughts, or collected the dominoes, or put my hand to any kind of work?’
‘Have I ever done anything here? Ever touched the broom, spread the mats, rolled them up, found the drafts, collected the dominoes, or done any kind of work?’
‘Never!’
"Not a chance!"
‘Have you ever thought of looking to me to do any kind of work?’
‘Have you ever considered asking me to do any kind of work?’
John Baptist answered with that peculiar back-handed shake of the right forefinger which is the most expressive negative in the Italian language.
John Baptist responded with that distinctive back-handed shake of his right forefinger, which is the most expressive way to say no in Italian.
‘No! You knew from the first moment when you saw me here, that I was a gentleman?’
‘No! You knew from the very first moment you saw me here that I was a gentleman?’
‘ALTRO!’ returned John Baptist, closing his eyes and giving his head a most vehement toss. The word being, according to its Genoese emphasis, a confirmation, a contradiction, an assertion, a denial, a taunt, a compliment, a joke, and fifty other things, became in the present instance, with a significance beyond all power of written expression, our familiar English ‘I believe you!’
‘ALTRO!’ John Baptist replied, closing his eyes and shaking his head vigorously. The word, with its Genoese emphasis, served as a confirmation, a contradiction, an assertion, a denial, a taunt, a compliment, a joke, and a hundred other things. In this instance, it conveyed something deeper than words can express, akin to our familiar English phrase ‘I believe you!’
‘Haha! You are right! A gentleman I am! And a gentleman I’ll live, and a gentleman I’ll die! It’s my intent to be a gentleman. It’s my game. Death of my soul, I play it out wherever I go!’
‘Haha! You’re right! I’m a gentleman! And I’ll live as a gentleman, and I’ll die as a gentleman! It’s my goal to be a gentleman. That’s my deal. My word, I’ll keep it up wherever I go!’
He changed his posture to a sitting one, crying with a triumphant air:
He shifted to a sitting position, crying with a sense of victory:
‘Here I am! See me! Shaken out of destiny’s dice-box into the company of a mere smuggler;—shut up with a poor little contraband trader, whose papers are wrong, and whom the police lay hold of besides, for placing his boat (as a means of getting beyond the frontier) at the disposition of other little people whose papers are wrong; and he instinctively recognises my position, even by this light and in this place. It’s well done! By Heaven! I win, however the game goes.’
‘Here I am! Look at me! Shaken out of fate's dice box and stuck with a mere smuggler;—cooped up with a poor little contraband trader, whose papers are messed up, and who’s also getting caught by the police for offering his boat (as a way to get past the border) to other little folks whose papers are also messed up; and he instinctively understands my situation, even in this light and at this place. Well done! By God! I win, no matter how the game turns out.’
Again his moustache went up, and his nose came down.
Again, his mustache curled up, and his nose drooped down.
‘What’s the hour now?’ he asked, with a dry hot pallor upon him, rather difficult of association with merriment.
‘What time is it now?’ he asked, with a dry, hot pallor to him that was hard to connect with any sense of fun.
‘A little half-hour after mid-day.’
‘Half an hour after noon.’
‘Good! The President will have a gentleman before him soon. Come! Shall I tell you on what accusation? It must be now, or never, for I shall not return here. Either I shall go free, or I shall go to be made ready for shaving. You know where they keep the razor.’
‘Good! The President will soon have a gentleman in front of him. Come! Should I tell you what the accusation is? It has to be now or never, as I won’t be coming back here. Either I’ll walk away free, or I’ll get prepared for shaving. You know where they keep the razor.’
Signor Cavalletto took his cigarette from between his parted lips, and showed more momentary discomfiture than might have been expected.
Signor Cavalletto took his cigarette from between his lips and showed more momentary discomfort than one might expect.
‘I am a’—Monsieur Rigaud stood up to say it—‘I am a cosmopolitan gentleman. I own no particular country. My father was Swiss—Canton de Vaud. My mother was French by blood, English by birth. I myself was born in Belgium. I am a citizen of the world.’
‘I am a’—Monsieur Rigaud stood up to say it—‘I am a cosmopolitan gentleman. I don't belong to any specific country. My father was Swiss—Canton de Vaud. My mother was French by heritage, English by birth. I was born in Belgium. I am a citizen of the world.’
His theatrical air, as he stood with one arm on his hip within the folds of his cloak, together with his manner of disregarding his companion and addressing the opposite wall instead, seemed to intimate that he was rehearsing for the President, whose examination he was shortly to undergo, rather than troubling himself merely to enlighten so small a person as John Baptist Cavalletto.
His dramatic demeanor, standing with one arm on his hip within the folds of his cloak, along with his way of ignoring his companion and speaking to the wall instead, suggested that he was preparing for the President, whose evaluation he was soon to face, rather than simply trying to explain things to someone as insignificant as John Baptist Cavalletto.
‘Call me five-and-thirty years of age. I have seen the world. I have lived here, and lived there, and lived like a gentleman everywhere. I have been treated and respected as a gentleman universally. If you try to prejudice me by making out that I have lived by my wits—how do your lawyers live—your politicians—your intriguers—your men of the Exchange?’
‘Call me thirty-five years old. I’ve seen the world. I’ve lived here and there, and I’ve lived like a gentleman everywhere. I’ve been treated and respected as a gentleman all around. If you try to discredit me by claiming I’ve lived by my wits—how do your lawyers live—your politicians—your schemers—your people in finance?’
He kept his small smooth hand in constant requisition, as if it were a witness to his gentility that had often done him good service before.
He constantly used his small, smooth hand, as if it were proof of his refinement that had often served him well in the past.
‘Two years ago I came to Marseilles. I admit that I was poor; I had been ill. When your lawyers, your politicians, your intriguers, your men of the Exchange fall ill, and have not scraped money together, they become poor. I put up at the Cross of Gold,—kept then by Monsieur Henri Barronneau—sixty-five at least, and in a failing state of health. I had lived in the house some four months when Monsieur Henri Barronneau had the misfortune to die;—at any rate, not a rare misfortune, that. It happens without any aid of mine, pretty often.’
"Two years ago, I arrived in Marseilles. I’ll admit I was broke; I had been sick. When your lawyers, politicians, schemers, and stock traders get ill and haven't saved up any money, they end up poor. I stayed at the Cross of Gold, run by Monsieur Henri Barronneau—who was at least sixty-five and in poor health. I had been living there for about four months when Monsieur Henri Barronneau unfortunately passed away; not that it was an uncommon misfortune. It happens, quite often actually, without any help from me."
John Baptist having smoked his cigarette down to his fingers’ ends, Monsieur Rigaud had the magnanimity to throw him another. He lighted the second at the ashes of the first, and smoked on, looking sideways at his companion, who, preoccupied with his own case, hardly looked at him.
John Baptist finished his cigarette down to the butt, and Monsieur Rigaud generously gave him another. He lit the second one with the ashes of the first and kept smoking, glancing sideways at his companion, who was so absorbed in his own matters that he barely glanced back at him.
‘Monsieur Barronneau left a widow. She was two-and-twenty. She had gained a reputation for beauty, and (which is often another thing) was beautiful. I continued to live at the Cross of Gold. I married Madame Barronneau. It is not for me to say whether there was any great disparity in such a match. Here I stand, with the contamination of a jail upon me; but it is possible that you may think me better suited to her than her former husband was.’
'Monsieur Barronneau left behind a widow. She was twenty-two. She had a reputation for being beautiful, and (which often means something else) she actually was beautiful. I kept living at the Cross of Gold. I married Madame Barronneau. I won't say whether there was a big difference in this match. Here I am, with the stain of a jail on me; but you might think I’m better suited to her than her late husband was.'
He had a certain air of being a handsome man—which he was not; and a certain air of being a well-bred man—which he was not. It was mere swagger and challenge; but in this particular, as in many others, blustering assertion goes for proof, half over the world.
He had an impression of being a handsome guy—which he wasn’t; and an impression of being a well-mannered guy—which he wasn’t. It was just swagger and bravado; but in this case, as in many others, loud claims are accepted as evidence in much of the world.
‘Be it as it may, Madame Barronneau approved of me. That is not to prejudice me, I hope?’
‘Be that as it may, Madame Barronneau liked me. That doesn't count against me, I hope?’
His eye happening to light upon John Baptist with this inquiry, that little man briskly shook his head in the negative, and repeated in an argumentative tone under his breath, altro, altro, altro, altro—an infinite number of times.
His eye happened to catch John Baptist with this question, and the little man quickly shook his head in disagreement, mumbling in a tone that sounded like he was arguing, "other, other, other, other" — an endless number of times.
‘Now came the difficulties of our position. I am proud. I say nothing in defence of pride, but I am proud. It is also my character to govern. I can’t submit; I must govern. Unfortunately, the property of Madame Rigaud was settled upon herself. Such was the insane act of her late husband. More unfortunately still, she had relations. When a wife’s relations interpose against a husband who is a gentleman, who is proud, and who must govern, the consequences are inimical to peace. There was yet another source of difference between us. Madame Rigaud was unfortunately a little vulgar. I sought to improve her manners and ameliorate her general tone; she (supported in this likewise by her relations) resented my endeavours. Quarrels began to arise between us; and, propagated and exaggerated by the slanders of the relations of Madame Rigaud, to become notorious to the neighbours. It has been said that I treated Madame Rigaud with cruelty. I may have been seen to slap her face—nothing more. I have a light hand; and if I have been seen apparently to correct Madame Rigaud in that manner, I have done it almost playfully.’
‘Now came the challenges of our situation. I’m proud. I don’t defend pride, but I am proud. It's also in my nature to lead. I can’t submit; I must lead. Unfortunately, Madame Rigaud’s property was settled on her alone. That was the foolish decision of her late husband. Even worse, she had relatives. When a wife’s relatives step in against a husband who is a gentleman, proud, and must lead, the results are harmful to peace. There was another point of contention between us. Madame Rigaud was somewhat vulgar. I tried to improve her manners and raise her general tone; she, supported by her relatives, resisted my efforts. Arguments began to arise between us; and, fueled and exaggerated by the slanders of Madame Rigaud’s relatives, they became well-known to our neighbors. It has been claimed that I treated Madame Rigaud cruelly. I may have been seen to slap her face—nothing more. I have a light hand; and if I was seen to correct Madame Rigaud in that way, it was almost done playfully.’
If the playfulness of Monsieur Rigaud were at all expressed by his smile at this point, the relations of Madame Rigaud might have said that they would have much preferred his correcting that unfortunate woman seriously.
If Monsieur Rigaud's playfulness showed through his smile at this moment, Madame Rigaud's family might have said they would have much rather he addressed that unfortunate woman seriously.
‘I am sensitive and brave. I do not advance it as a merit to be sensitive and brave, but it is my character. If the male relations of Madame Rigaud had put themselves forward openly, I should have known how to deal with them. They knew that, and their machinations were conducted in secret; consequently, Madame Rigaud and I were brought into frequent and unfortunate collision. Even when I wanted any little sum of money for my personal expenses, I could not obtain it without collision—and I, too, a man whose character it is to govern! One night, Madame Rigaud and myself were walking amicably—I may say like lovers—on a height overhanging the sea. An evil star occasioned Madame Rigaud to advert to her relations; I reasoned with her on that subject, and remonstrated on the want of duty and devotion manifested in her allowing herself to be influenced by their jealous animosity towards her husband. Madame Rigaud retorted; I retorted; Madame Rigaud grew warm; I grew warm, and provoked her. I admit it. Frankness is a part of my character. At length, Madame Rigaud, in an access of fury that I must ever deplore, threw herself upon me with screams of passion (no doubt those that were overheard at some distance), tore my clothes, tore my hair, lacerated my hands, trampled and trod the dust, and finally leaped over, dashing herself to death upon the rocks below. Such is the train of incidents which malice has perverted into my endeavouring to force from Madame Rigaud a relinquishment of her rights; and, on her persistence in a refusal to make the concession I required, struggling with her—assassinating her!’
‘I am both sensitive and brave. I don’t claim this as a virtue, but it’s just who I am. If Madame Rigaud’s male relatives had confronted me directly, I would have known how to handle them. They were aware of this, so they plotted in secret, leading to frequent and unfortunate confrontations between Madame Rigaud and me. Even when I needed a small amount of money for personal expenses, I couldn’t get it without conflict—and I, too, a man whose nature is to lead! One night, Madame Rigaud and I were walking together—almost like lovers—on a cliff overlooking the sea. An unfortunate moment caused her to bring up her relatives; I talked to her about it and expressed my concerns about her letting their jealous hatred toward her husband sway her. Madame Rigaud responded; I responded back; she got upset; I got upset, and I admit, I provoked her. Honesty is part of who I am. Eventually, in a fit of rage that I will always regret, Madame Rigaud attacked me with screams of passion (which were likely heard from a distance), ripped my clothes, pulled my hair, scratched my hands, kicked up the dust, and ultimately jumped off the cliff, falling to her death on the rocks below. This is how malice twisted events into a narrative of me trying to force Madame Rigaud to give up her rights, and when she refused to concede, that I was somehow struggling with her—killing her!’
He stepped aside to the ledge where the vine leaves yet lay strewn about, collected two or three, and stood wiping his hands upon them, with his back to the light.
He moved over to the ledge where the vine leaves were still scattered, picked up two or three, and wiped his hands on them, facing away from the light.
‘Well,’ he demanded after a silence, ‘have you nothing to say to all that?’
‘Well,’ he asked after a silence, ‘do you have nothing to say about all that?’
‘It’s ugly,’ returned the little man, who had risen, and was brightening his knife upon his shoe, as he leaned an arm against the wall.
‘It’s ugly,’ said the little man, who had gotten up and was shining his knife on his shoe while leaning an arm against the wall.
‘What do you mean?’
"What do you mean?"
John Baptist polished his knife in silence.
John Baptist silently polished his knife.
‘Do you mean that I have not represented the case correctly?’
'Are you saying that I didn't represent the case accurately?'
‘Al-tro!’ returned John Baptist. The word was an apology now, and stood for ‘Oh, by no means!’
‘Al-tro!’ replied John Baptist. The word was an apology now, meaning ‘Oh, definitely not!’
‘What then?’
'What's next?'
‘Presidents and tribunals are so prejudiced.’
‘Presidents and courts are so biased.’
‘Well,’ cried the other, uneasily flinging the end of his cloak over his shoulder with an oath, ‘let them do their worst!’
‘Well,’ the other said, uneasily tossing the end of his cloak over his shoulder with an oath, ‘let them do their worst!’
‘Truly I think they will,’ murmured John Baptist to himself, as he bent his head to put his knife in his sash.
‘Honestly, I think they will,’ John Baptist murmured to himself as he tilted his head to tuck his knife into his sash.
Nothing more was said on either side, though they both began walking to and fro, and necessarily crossed at every turn. Monsieur Rigaud sometimes stopped, as if he were going to put his case in a new light, or make some irate remonstrance; but Signor Cavalletto continuing to go slowly to and fro at a grotesque kind of jog-trot pace with his eyes turned downward, nothing came of these inclinings.
Nothing more was said by either of them, but they both started to walk back and forth, and they crossed paths at every turn. Monsieur Rigaud would sometimes pause, as if he was about to present his case differently or make an angry complaint; however, Signor Cavalletto kept moving slowly back and forth at a funny sort of jog-trot pace with his eyes looking down, so nothing came of these hints.
By-and-by the noise of the key in the lock arrested them both. The sound of voices succeeded, and the tread of feet. The door clashed, the voices and the feet came on, and the prison-keeper slowly ascended the stairs, followed by a guard of soldiers.
Before long, the noise of the key in the lock caught their attention. They heard voices next, followed by footsteps. The door slammed open, the voices and footsteps got closer, and the prison guard slowly climbed the stairs, trailed by a group of soldiers.
‘Now, Monsieur Rigaud,’ said he, pausing for a moment at the grate, with his keys in his hands, ‘have the goodness to come out.’
‘Now, Monsieur Rigaud,’ he said, pausing for a moment at the fireplace, holding his keys, ‘please come out.’
‘I am to depart in state, I see?’
‘I’m supposed to leave in style, right?’
‘Why, unless you did,’ returned the jailer, ‘you might depart in so many pieces that it would be difficult to get you together again. There’s a crowd, Monsieur Rigaud, and it doesn’t love you.’
‘Well, unless you did,’ replied the jailer, ‘you might leave in so many pieces that it would be hard to put you back together again. There’s a crowd, Monsieur Rigaud, and they don’t like you.’
He passed on out of sight, and unlocked and unbarred a low door in the corner of the chamber. ‘Now,’ said he, as he opened it and appeared within, ‘come out.’
He stepped out of view and unlocked a low door in the corner of the room. “Now,” he said as he opened it and appeared inside, “come out.”
There is no sort of whiteness in all the hues under the sun at all like the whiteness of Monsieur Rigaud’s face as it was then. Neither is there any expression of the human countenance at all like that expression in every little line of which the frightened heart is seen to beat. Both are conventionally compared with death; but the difference is the whole deep gulf between the struggle done, and the fight at its most desperate extremity.
There’s no shade of white in all the colors under the sun that compares to the whiteness of Monsieur Rigaud’s face at that moment. There’s also no look on a human face that resembles the expression in which every little line shows a beating, terrified heart. Both are often compared to death, but the difference is the vast gulf between having completed the struggle and being in the fight’s most desperate moment.
He lighted another of his paper cigars at his companion’s; put it tightly between his teeth; covered his head with a soft slouched hat; threw the end of his cloak over his shoulder again; and walked out into the side gallery on which the door opened, without taking any further notice of Signor Cavalletto. As to that little man himself, his whole attention had become absorbed in getting near the door and looking out at it. Precisely as a beast might approach the opened gate of his den and eye the freedom beyond, he passed those few moments in watching and peering, until the door was closed upon him.
He lit another one of his paper cigars using his friend's flame, tucked it firmly between his teeth, pulled a soft slouchy hat over his head, tossed his cloak over his shoulder again, and walked out into the side gallery where the door opened, without paying any more attention to Signor Cavalletto. As for that little man, he was completely focused on getting closer to the door and looking out. Just like an animal might approach the open gate of its den and eye the freedom outside, he spent those moments watching and peering until the door closed behind him.
There was an officer in command of the soldiers; a stout, serviceable, profoundly calm man, with his drawn sword in his hand, smoking a cigar. He very briefly directed the placing of Monsieur Rigaud in the midst of the party, put himself with consummate indifference at their head, gave the word ‘march!’ and so they all went jingling down the staircase. The door clashed—the key turned—and a ray of unusual light, and a breath of unusual air, seemed to have passed through the jail, vanishing in a tiny wreath of smoke from the cigar.
There was an officer leading the soldiers; a sturdy, practical, and deeply calm man, with his sword drawn in one hand, smoking a cigar. He quickly instructed them to place Monsieur Rigaud in the middle of the group, took his position at the front with perfect indifference, called out ‘march!’ and they all jingled down the stairs. The door slammed shut—the key turned—and a ray of unexpected light, along with a breath of fresh air, seemed to sweep through the jail, disappearing in a small puff of smoke from the cigar.
Still, in his captivity, like a lower animal—like some impatient ape, or roused bear of the smaller species—the prisoner, now left solitary, had jumped upon the ledge, to lose no glimpse of this departure. As he yet stood clasping the grate with both hands, an uproar broke upon his hearing; yells, shrieks, oaths, threats, execrations, all comprehended in it, though (as in a storm) nothing but a raging swell of sound distinctly heard.
Still, in his captivity, like a lower animal—like some restless ape or agitated small bear—the prisoner, now left alone, jumped onto the ledge to catch every glimpse of this departure. As he stood there gripping the grate with both hands, a chaos erupted in his ears; yells, shrieks, curses, threats, all blended together, though (like a storm) it was nothing but a wild swell of sound that he could clearly hear.
Excited into a still greater resemblance to a caged wild animal by his anxiety to know more, the prisoner leaped nimbly down, ran round the chamber, leaped nimbly up again, clasped the grate and tried to shake it, leaped down and ran, leaped up and listened, and never rested until the noise, becoming more and more distant, had died away. How many better prisoners have worn their noble hearts out so; no man thinking of it; not even the beloved of their souls realising it; great kings and governors, who had made them captive, careering in the sunlight jauntily, and men cheering them on. Even the said great personages dying in bed, making exemplary ends and sounding speeches; and polite history, more servile than their instruments, embalming them!
Fueled by his anxiety to learn more, the prisoner became even more like a caged wild animal. He nimbly jumped down, ran around the room, jumped back up, grabbed the grate, and tried to shake it. He leaped down and ran, jumped up and listened, and never took a break until the noise had faded into the distance. How many better prisoners have exhausted their noble hearts like this; no one ever thinks about it; not even the ones they love truly realize it; great kings and governors, who captured them, happily thriving in the sunlight while people cheer them on. Even those same important figures die in bed, making admirable ends and giving grand speeches; and polite history, more subservient than their tools, glorifying them!
At last, John Baptist, now able to choose his own spot within the compass of those walls for the exercise of his faculty of going to sleep when he would, lay down upon the bench, with his face turned over on his crossed arms, and slumbered. In his submission, in his lightness, in his good humour, in his short-lived passion, in his easy contentment with hard bread and hard stones, in his ready sleep, in his fits and starts, altogether a true son of the land that gave him birth.
Finally, John Baptist, now free to pick his own place within those walls to fall asleep whenever he liked, lay down on the bench, resting his face on his crossed arms, and dozed off. In his submission, his lightheartedness, his good humor, his fleeting passion, his easy acceptance of hard bread and rough stones, his willingness to sleep, and his sudden awakenings, he was truly a son of the land that birthed him.
The wide stare stared itself out for one while; the Sun went down in a red, green, golden glory; the stars came out in the heavens, and the fire-flies mimicked them in the lower air, as men may feebly imitate the goodness of a better order of beings; the long dusty roads and the interminable plains were in repose—and so deep a hush was on the sea, that it scarcely whispered of the time when it shall give up its dead.
The wide gaze held still for a moment; the Sun set in a stunning display of red, green, and gold; the stars appeared in the sky, and the fireflies mirrored them in the lower air, just as people might weakly try to emulate the goodness of higher beings; the long, dusty roads and endless plains rested in tranquility—and the sea was so quiet that it barely hinted at the moment when it would release its dead.
CHAPTER 2 Fellow Travellers
N o more of yesterday’s howling over yonder to-day, Sir; is there?’
N o more of yesterday’s howling over there today, Sir; is there?’
‘I have heard none.’
"I haven't heard anything."
‘Then you may be sure there is none. When these people howl, they howl to be heard.’
‘Then you can be sure there is none. When these people shout, they shout to be heard.’
‘Most people do, I suppose.’
"Most people probably do."
‘Ah! but these people are always howling. Never happy otherwise.’
‘Ah! but these people are always complaining. Never satisfied otherwise.’
‘Do you mean the Marseilles people?’
'Are you talking about the people from Marseilles?'
‘I mean the French people. They’re always at it. As to Marseilles, we know what Marseilles is. It sent the most insurrectionary tune into the world that was ever composed. It couldn’t exist without allonging and marshonging to something or other—victory or death, or blazes, or something.’
‘I mean the French people. They're always at it. As for Marseilles, we know what Marseilles is. It sent the most rebellious song into the world that was ever created. It couldn't exist without rallying and marching for something or other—victory or death, or flames, or something.’
The speaker, with a whimsical good humour upon him all the time, looked over the parapet-wall with the greatest disparagement of Marseilles; and taking up a determined position by putting his hands in his pockets and rattling his money at it, apostrophised it with a short laugh.
The speaker, always in a playful mood, glanced over the wall with clear disdain for Marseilles. He took a firm stance by stuffing his hands in his pockets and shaking his change, then addressed the city with a brief laugh.
‘Allong and marshong, indeed. It would be more creditable to you, I think, to let other people allong and marshong about their lawful business, instead of shutting ‘em up in quarantine!’
‘Letting people go about their legitimate business would be more respectable for you, I think, rather than locking them up in quarantine!’
‘Tiresome enough,’ said the other. ‘But we shall be out to-day.’
"Tiring enough," said the other. "But we will be out today."
‘Out to-day!’ repeated the first. ‘It’s almost an aggravation of the enormity, that we shall be out to-day. Out! What have we ever been in for?’
‘Out today!’ repeated the first. ‘It’s almost an annoyance that we’ll be out today. Out! What have we ever been in for?’
‘For no very strong reason, I must say. But as we come from the East, and as the East is the country of the plague—’
‘For no really strong reason, I have to say. But since we come from the East, and since the East is the land of the plague—’
‘The plague!’ repeated the other. ‘That’s my grievance. I have had the plague continually, ever since I have been here. I am like a sane man shut up in a madhouse; I can’t stand the suspicion of the thing. I came here as well as ever I was in my life; but to suspect me of the plague is to give me the plague. And I have had it—and I have got it.’
‘The plague!’ repeated the other. ‘That’s my issue. I’ve been dealing with the plague non-stop since I got here. I feel like a sane person trapped in a madhouse; I can’t take the suspicion of it. I came here feeling perfectly fine, but to suspect me of having the plague is to make me feel like I have it. And I’ve had it—and I still have it.’
‘You bear it very well, Mr Meagles,’ said the second speaker, smiling.
"You handle it really well, Mr. Meagles," said the second speaker, smiling.
‘No. If you knew the real state of the case, that’s the last observation you would think of making. I have been waking up night after night, and saying, now I have got it, now it has developed itself, now I am in for it, now these fellows are making out their case for their precautions. Why, I’d as soon have a spit put through me, and be stuck upon a card in a collection of beetles, as lead the life I have been leading here.’
‘No. If you knew the real situation, that's the last comment you’d make. I've been waking up night after night, thinking, now I get it, now it’s all coming together, now I'm in trouble, now these guys are building their case for their precautions. Honestly, I’d rather have a spike through me and be pinned on a card in a beetle collection than live the way I’ve been living here.’
‘Well, Mr Meagles, say no more about it now it’s over,’ urged a cheerful feminine voice.
‘Well, Mr. Meagles, let’s not talk about it anymore now that it’s done,’ urged a cheerful feminine voice.
‘Over!’ repeated Mr Meagles, who appeared (though without any ill-nature) to be in that peculiar state of mind in which the last word spoken by anybody else is a new injury. ‘Over! and why should I say no more about it because it’s over?’
“Over!” Mr. Meagles repeated, seeming (though not in any mean way) to be in that strange state of mind where the last thing someone else says feels like a new offense. “Over! And why should I stop talking about it just because it’s over?”
It was Mrs Meagles who had spoken to Mr Meagles; and Mrs Meagles was, like Mr Meagles, comely and healthy, with a pleasant English face which had been looking at homely things for five-and-fifty years or more, and shone with a bright reflection of them.
It was Mrs. Meagles who had talked to Mr. Meagles; and Mrs. Meagles was, like Mr. Meagles, attractive and healthy, with a nice English face that had been focused on everyday things for over fifty-five years, and radiated a cheerful reflection of them.
‘There! Never mind, Father, never mind!’ said Mrs Meagles. ‘For goodness sake content yourself with Pet.’
‘There! It's okay, Father, it’s okay!’ said Mrs. Meagles. ‘For goodness' sake, just be happy with Pet.’
‘With Pet?’ repeated Mr Meagles in his injured vein. Pet, however, being close behind him, touched him on the shoulder, and Mr Meagles immediately forgave Marseilles from the bottom of his heart.
‘With Pet?’ Mr. Meagles repeated, sounding hurt. However, Pet, being right behind him, touched him on the shoulder, and Mr. Meagles instantly forgave Marseilles from the bottom of his heart.
Pet was about twenty. A fair girl with rich brown hair hanging free in natural ringlets. A lovely girl, with a frank face, and wonderful eyes; so large, so soft, so bright, set to such perfection in her kind good head. She was round and fresh and dimpled and spoilt, and there was in Pet an air of timidity and dependence which was the best weakness in the world, and gave her the only crowning charm a girl so pretty and pleasant could have been without.
Pet was around twenty. A fair girl with lush brown hair falling freely in natural curls. A beautiful girl, with an open face and amazing eyes; so big, so soft, so bright, perfectly set in her kind, gentle head. She was round, fresh, dimpled, and a bit spoiled, and there was in Pet a sense of shyness and neediness that was the sweetest kind of vulnerability, giving her the one charm that a girl as pretty and pleasant as she was could easily have lacked.
‘Now, I ask you,’ said Mr Meagles in the blandest confidence, falling back a step himself, and handing his daughter a step forward to illustrate his question: ‘I ask you simply, as between man and man, you know, DID you ever hear of such damned nonsense as putting Pet in quarantine?’
‘Now, I ask you,’ said Mr. Meagles with the mildest confidence, stepping back a bit himself and guiding his daughter a step forward to emphasize his question: ‘I ask you simply, as one person to another, you know, HAVE you ever heard such ridiculous nonsense as putting Pet in quarantine?’
‘It has had the result of making even quarantine enjoyable.’
‘It has made even quarantine enjoyable.’
‘Come!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘that’s something to be sure. I am obliged to you for that remark. Now, Pet, my darling, you had better go along with Mother and get ready for the boat. The officer of health, and a variety of humbugs in cocked hats, are coming off to let us out of this at last: and all we jail-birds are to breakfast together in something approaching to a Christian style again, before we take wing for our different destinations. Tattycoram, stick you close to your young mistress.’
‘Come on!’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘that’s for sure. I appreciate that comment. Now, Pet, my dear, you should go with Mother and get ready for the boat. The health officer, along with a bunch of phonies in fancy hats, is coming to finally let us out of here: and all of us in confinement will have breakfast together in something like a decent manner before we head off to our different places. Tattycoram, stay close to your young mistress.’
He spoke to a handsome girl with lustrous dark hair and eyes, and very neatly dressed, who replied with a half curtsey as she passed off in the train of Mrs Meagles and Pet. They crossed the bare scorched terrace all three together, and disappeared through a staring white archway. Mr Meagles’s companion, a grave dark man of forty, still stood looking towards this archway after they were gone; until Mr Meagles tapped him on the arm.
He talked to a beautiful girl with shiny dark hair and eyes, who was dressed very neatly. She responded with a slight curtsey as she walked past Mrs. Meagles and Pet. All three of them crossed the empty, sun-baked terrace together and disappeared through a glaring white archway. Mr. Meagles's companion, a serious dark-haired man in his forties, continued to look in the direction of the archway after they had left until Mr. Meagles tapped him on the arm.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said he, starting.
“Sorry,” he said, surprised.
‘Not at all,’ said Mr Meagles.
'Not at all,' said Mr. Meagles.
They took one silent turn backward and forward in the shade of the wall, getting, at the height on which the quarantine barracks are placed, what cool refreshment of sea breeze there was at seven in the morning. Mr Meagles’s companion resumed the conversation.
They took a quiet turn back and forth in the shade of the wall, getting the cool sea breeze that was there at seven in the morning, at the height where the quarantine barracks were located. Mr. Meagles’s companion continued the conversation.
‘May I ask you,’ he said, ‘what is the name of—’
‘May I ask you,’ he said, ‘what is the name of—’
‘Tattycoram?’ Mr Meagles struck in. ‘I have not the least idea.’
‘Tattycoram?’ Mr. Meagles interjected. ‘I have no clue.’
‘I thought,’ said the other, ‘that—’
‘I thought,’ said the other, ‘that—’
‘Tattycoram?’ suggested Mr Meagles again.
"Tattycoram?" Mr. Meagles suggested again.
‘Thank you—that Tattycoram was a name; and I have several times wondered at the oddity of it.’
‘Thank you—that Tattycoram was a name; and I have several times wondered about the oddness of it.’
‘Why, the fact is,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘Mrs Meagles and myself are, you see, practical people.’
“Actually,” Mr. Meagles said, “Mrs. Meagles and I are, you know, practical people.”
‘That you have frequently mentioned in the course of the agreeable and interesting conversations we have had together, walking up and down on these stones,’ said the other, with a half smile breaking through the gravity of his dark face.
"‘You’ve often brought it up during our enjoyable and engaging talks while we walked back and forth on these stones,’ said the other, with a faint smile breaking through the seriousness of his dark face."
‘Practical people. So one day, five or six years ago now, when we took Pet to church at the Foundling—you have heard of the Foundling Hospital in London? Similar to the Institution for the Found Children in Paris?’
‘Practical people. So one day, about five or six years ago, when we took Pet to church at the Foundling—you’ve heard of the Foundling Hospital in London? It’s similar to the Institution for the Found Children in Paris?’
‘I have seen it.’
"I've seen it."
‘Well! One day when we took Pet to church there to hear the music—because, as practical people, it is the business of our lives to show her everything that we think can please her—Mother (my usual name for Mrs Meagles) began to cry so, that it was necessary to take her out. “What’s the matter, Mother?” said I, when we had brought her a little round: “you are frightening Pet, my dear.” “Yes, I know that, Father,” says Mother, “but I think it’s through my loving her so much, that it ever came into my head.” “That ever what came into your head, Mother?” “O dear, dear!” cried Mother, breaking out again, “when I saw all those children ranged tier above tier, and appealing from the father none of them has ever known on earth, to the great Father of us all in Heaven, I thought, does any wretched mother ever come here, and look among those young faces, wondering which is the poor child she brought into this forlorn world, never through all its life to know her love, her kiss, her face, her voice, even her name!” Now that was practical in Mother, and I told her so. I said, “Mother, that’s what I call practical in you, my dear.”’
‘Well! One day when we took Pet to church to enjoy the music—because, as practical people, it's our job to show her everything we think will make her happy—Mother (what I usually call Mrs. Meagles) started to cry so much that we had to take her outside. “What’s wrong, Mother?” I asked, once we had calmed her down a bit: “you’re scaring Pet, my dear.” “Yes, I know, Father,” said Mother, “but I think it’s because I love her so much that this thought came to me.” “What thought, Mother?” “Oh dear, dear!” cried Mother, breaking down again, “when I saw all those children lined up tier upon tier, reaching out to a father they’ve never known on earth, appealing to the great Father of us all in Heaven, I wondered, does any poor mother ever come here, searching among those young faces, wondering which is the child she brought into this lonely world, who will never know her love, her kiss, her face, her voice, or even her name!” Now that was practical of Mother, and I told her so. I said, “Mother, I think that’s very practical of you, my dear.”’
The other, not unmoved, assented.
The other, somewhat moved, agreed.
‘So I said next day: Now, Mother, I have a proposition to make that I think you’ll approve of. Let us take one of those same little children to be a little maid to Pet. We are practical people. So if we should find her temper a little defective, or any of her ways a little wide of ours, we shall know what we have to take into account. We shall know what an immense deduction must be made from all the influences and experiences that have formed us—no parents, no child-brother or sister, no individuality of home, no Glass Slipper, or Fairy Godmother. And that’s the way we came by Tattycoram.’
“So I said the next day: Now, Mom, I have an idea that I think you’ll like. Let’s take one of those little kids to be a maid for Pet. We’re practical people. So if we find her temper a bit off, or if her behavior is a little different from ours, we’ll know what to consider. We’ll understand how much we have to account for all the influences and experiences that shaped us—no parents, no siblings, no unique home life, no Glass Slipper, or Fairy Godmother. That’s how we ended up with Tattycoram.”
‘And the name itself—’
’And the name itself—’
‘By George!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I was forgetting the name itself. Why, she was called in the Institution, Harriet Beadle—an arbitrary name, of course. Now, Harriet we changed into Hattey, and then into Tatty, because, as practical people, we thought even a playful name might be a new thing to her, and might have a softening and affectionate kind of effect, don’t you see? As to Beadle, that I needn’t say was wholly out of the question. If there is anything that is not to be tolerated on any terms, anything that is a type of Jack-in-office insolence and absurdity, anything that represents in coats, waistcoats, and big sticks our English holding on by nonsense after every one has found it out, it is a beadle. You haven’t seen a beadle lately?’
"Goodness!" exclaimed Mr. Meagles, "I almost forgot the name itself. She was called Harriet Beadle in the Institution—an arbitrary name, of course. We changed Harriet to Hattey, and then to Tatty, because we thought a playful name might be something new for her and could have a softening, affectionate effect, you know? As for Beadle, well, that was completely out of the question. If there's anything that can't be tolerated under any circumstances, anything that represents snobby arrogance and foolishness, anything that embodies our English stubbornness in ridiculous outfits and big sticks after everyone has seen through it, it's a beadle. You haven’t run into a beadle lately, have you?"
‘As an Englishman who has been more than twenty years in China, no.’
‘As an Englishman who has been in China for over twenty years, no.’
‘Then,’ said Mr Meagles, laying his forefinger on his companion’s breast with great animation, ‘don’t you see a beadle, now, if you can help it. Whenever I see a beadle in full fig, coming down a street on a Sunday at the head of a charity school, I am obliged to turn and run away, or I should hit him. The name of Beadle being out of the question, and the originator of the Institution for these poor foundlings having been a blessed creature of the name of Coram, we gave that name to Pet’s little maid. At one time she was Tatty, and at one time she was Coram, until we got into a way of mixing the two names together, and now she is always Tattycoram.’
“Then,” said Mr. Meagles, animatedly placing his finger on his friend’s chest, “can’t you avoid a beadle? Whenever I see a beadle in full regalia walking down the street on a Sunday at the front of a charity school, I have to turn and run away, or I’d end up hitting him. Since the name Beadle is off the table and the founder of the institution for these poor foundlings was a wonderful person named Coram, we gave that name to Pet’s little maid. At one point, she was called Tatty, and at another, she was Coram, until we started mixing the two names together, and now she’s always Tattycoram.”
‘Your daughter,’ said the other, when they had taken another silent turn to and fro, and, after standing for a moment at the wall glancing down at the sea, had resumed their walk, ‘is your only child, I know, Mr Meagles. May I ask you—in no impertinent curiosity, but because I have had so much pleasure in your society, may never in this labyrinth of a world exchange a quiet word with you again, and wish to preserve an accurate remembrance of you and yours—may I ask you, if I have not gathered from your good wife that you have had other children?’
‘Your daughter,’ said the other, after they took another silent turn back and forth, and after pausing for a moment at the wall to glance down at the sea, had resumed their walk, ‘is your only child, I know, Mr. Meagles. Can I ask you—in no intrusive way, but because I’ve enjoyed our time together so much, and may never have the chance to share a quiet moment with you again in this complicated world, and want to remember you and your family accurately—can I ask you if I understood correctly from your lovely wife that you have had other children?’
‘No. No,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Not exactly other children. One other child.’
‘No. No,’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘Not exactly other children. Just one other child.’
‘I am afraid I have inadvertently touched upon a tender theme.’
"I’m afraid I accidentally brought up a sensitive topic."
‘Never mind,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘If I am grave about it, I am not at all sorrowful. It quiets me for a moment, but does not make me unhappy. Pet had a twin sister who died when we could just see her eyes—exactly like Pet’s—above the table, as she stood on tiptoe holding by it.’
“It's okay,” Mr. Meagles said. “Even though I'm serious about it, I’m not really sad. It calms me for a moment, but it doesn’t make me unhappy. Pet had a twin sister who died when we could just see her eyes—exactly like Pet’s—over the table, as she stood on her tiptoes holding onto it.”
‘Ah! indeed, indeed!’
"Ah! Really, really!"
‘Yes, and being practical people, a result has gradually sprung up in the minds of Mrs Meagles and myself which perhaps you may—or perhaps you may not—understand. Pet and her baby sister were so exactly alike, and so completely one, that in our thoughts we have never been able to separate them since. It would be of no use to tell us that our dead child was a mere infant. We have changed that child according to the changes in the child spared to us and always with us. As Pet has grown, that child has grown; as Pet has become more sensible and womanly, her sister has become more sensible and womanly by just the same degrees. It would be as hard to convince me that if I was to pass into the other world to-morrow, I should not, through the mercy of God, be received there by a daughter, just like Pet, as to persuade me that Pet herself is not a reality at my side.’
"Yes, and being practical people, Mrs. Meagles and I have come to a conclusion that you might— or might not—understand. Pet and her baby sister were so alike and so completely one that we’ve never been able to separate them in our minds since. It wouldn’t matter if you told us that our deceased child was just an infant. We have changed our view of that child as Pet has grown and changed, always keeping her with us. As Pet has matured, that child has also matured; as Pet has become more sensible and womanly, her sister has become more sensible and womanly in the same way. It would be just as hard to convince me that if I were to pass into the next world tomorrow, I wouldn’t, through God’s mercy, be welcomed there by a daughter just like Pet, as it would be to persuade me that Pet herself isn’t real and right beside me."
‘I understand you,’ said the other, gently.
"I get you," the other replied softly.
‘As to her,’ pursued her father, ‘the sudden loss of her little picture and playfellow, and her early association with that mystery in which we all have our equal share, but which is not often so forcibly presented to a child, has necessarily had some influence on her character. Then, her mother and I were not young when we married, and Pet has always had a sort of grown-up life with us, though we have tried to adapt ourselves to her. We have been advised more than once when she has been a little ailing, to change climate and air for her as often as we could—especially at about this time of her life—and to keep her amused. So, as I have no need to stick at a bank-desk now (though I have been poor enough in my time I assure you, or I should have married Mrs Meagles long before), we go trotting about the world. This is how you found us staring at the Nile, and the Pyramids, and the Sphinxes, and the Desert, and all the rest of it; and this is how Tattycoram will be a greater traveller in course of time than Captain Cook.’
“As for her,” her father continued, “the sudden loss of her little friend and playmate, along with her early exposure to that mystery we all share but isn't usually so striking to a child, has definitely shaped her character. Additionally, her mother and I were not young when we got married, and Pet has always lived a somewhat grown-up life with us, even though we've tried to adjust to her. We've been advised more than once, especially during times when she hasn’t been feeling well, to change her surroundings and keep her entertained as much as possible—especially at this stage in her life. Since I don't have to sit at a bank desk anymore (though I’ve been quite poor in my life, trust me, or I would have married Mrs. Meagles long ago), we travel around the world. That’s why you found us gazing at the Nile, the Pyramids, the Sphinxes, the Desert, and everything else; and this is how Tattycoram will eventually travel more than Captain Cook.”
‘I thank you,’ said the other, ‘very heartily for your confidence.’
“I really appreciate your trust,” said the other.
‘Don’t mention it,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘I am sure you are quite welcome. And now, Mr Clennam, perhaps I may ask you whether you have yet come to a decision where to go next?’
‘Don’t mention it,’ replied Mr. Meagles, ‘I’m sure you’re very welcome. Now, Mr. Clennam, can I ask if you’ve made a decision about where to go next?’
‘Indeed, no. I am such a waif and stray everywhere, that I am liable to be drifted where any current may set.’
‘Indeed, no. I’m such a lost soul that I could easily end up wherever the tides take me.’
‘It’s extraordinary to me—if you’ll excuse my freedom in saying so—that you don’t go straight to London,’ said Mr Meagles, in the tone of a confidential adviser.
“It’s amazing to me—if you don’t mind me saying this—that you don’t head straight to London,” said Mr. Meagles, in the tone of a trusted adviser.
‘Perhaps I shall.’
"Maybe I will."
‘Ay! But I mean with a will.’
‘Yeah! But I mean it seriously.’
‘I have no will. That is to say,’—he coloured a little,—‘next to none that I can put in action now. Trained by main force; broken, not bent; heavily ironed with an object on which I was never consulted and which was never mine; shipped away to the other end of the world before I was of age, and exiled there until my father’s death there, a year ago; always grinding in a mill I always hated; what is to be expected from me in middle life? Will, purpose, hope? All those lights were extinguished before I could sound the words.’
‘I have no will. That is to say,’—he flushed a bit,—‘next to none that I can act on right now. I was forced into this situation; broken, but not defeated; heavily burdened with a responsibility I never agreed to and that was never mine; sent off to the other side of the world before I came of age, and kept there until my father died a year ago; always stuck in a situation I’ve always despised; what can you expect from me at this stage in life? Will, purpose, hope? All those lights were snuffed out before I even learned to say the words.’
‘Light ‘em up again!’ said Mr Meagles.
‘Light them up again!’ said Mr. Meagles.
‘Ah! Easily said. I am the son, Mr Meagles, of a hard father and mother. I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured, and priced everything; for whom what could not be weighed, measured, and priced, had no existence. Strict people as the phrase is, professors of a stern religion, their very religion was a gloomy sacrifice of tastes and sympathies that were never their own, offered up as a part of a bargain for the security of their possessions. Austere faces, inexorable discipline, penance in this world and terror in the next—nothing graceful or gentle anywhere, and the void in my cowed heart everywhere—this was my childhood, if I may so misuse the word as to apply it to such a beginning of life.’
“Ah! Easy to say. I am the son, Mr. Meagles, of a tough father and mother. I am the only child of parents who measured and valued everything; for them, anything that couldn’t be weighed, measured, or assigned a value had no meaning. Strict people, as the saying goes, followers of a harsh belief system, their very faith was a grim sacrifice of preferences and connections that were never truly theirs, given up as part of a deal for the protection of their belongings. Stern faces, relentless discipline, penance in this world and fear in the next—no grace or kindness anywhere, and the emptiness in my timid heart everywhere—this was my childhood, if I may stretch the term to describe such an unwelcoming start to life.”
‘Really though?’ said Mr Meagles, made very uncomfortable by the picture offered to his imagination. ‘That was a tough commencement. But come! You must now study, and profit by, all that lies beyond it, like a practical man.’
‘Really though?’ said Mr. Meagles, feeling quite uneasy about the image presented to him. ‘That was a rough start. But come on! You need to focus on and learn from everything that comes after it, like a sensible person.’
‘If the people who are usually called practical, were practical in your direction—’
‘If the people who are usually called practical were actually practical in your direction—’
‘Why, so they are!’ said Mr Meagles.
‘Why, they really are!’ said Mr. Meagles.
‘Are they indeed?’
"Are they really?"
‘Well, I suppose so,’ returned Mr Meagles, thinking about it. ‘Eh? One can but be practical, and Mrs Meagles and myself are nothing else.’
‘Well, I guess so,’ replied Mr. Meagles, considering it. ‘Right? One can only be practical, and Mrs. Meagles and I are nothing if not that.’
‘My unknown course is easier and more helpful than I had expected to find it, then,’ said Clennam, shaking his head with his grave smile. ‘Enough of me. Here is the boat.’
‘My unknown path is easier and more helpful than I thought it would be,’ said Clennam, shaking his head with a serious smile. ‘Enough about me. Here’s the boat.’
The boat was filled with the cocked hats to which Mr Meagles entertained a national objection; and the wearers of those cocked hats landed and came up the steps, and all the impounded travellers congregated together. There was then a mighty production of papers on the part of the cocked hats, and a calling over of names, and great work of signing, sealing, stamping, inking, and sanding, with exceedingly blurred, gritty, and undecipherable results. Finally, everything was done according to rule, and the travellers were at liberty to depart whithersoever they would.
The boat was filled with the tricorn hats that Mr. Meagles strongly disliked; and the people wearing those hats disembarked and came up the steps, where all the detained travelers gathered together. Then there was a huge display of paperwork from the hat-wearers, calling out names, and a lot of signing, sealing, stamping, inking, and sanding, all resulting in very smudged, gritty, and unreadable documents. Finally, everything was completed as per the rules, and the travelers were free to leave wherever they wanted.
They made little account of stare and glare, in the new pleasure of recovering their freedom, but flitted across the harbour in gay boats, and reassembled at a great hotel, whence the sun was excluded by closed lattices, and where bare paved floors, lofty ceilings, and resounding corridors tempered the intense heat. There, a great table in a great room was soon profusely covered with a superb repast; and the quarantine quarters became bare indeed, remembered among dainty dishes, southern fruits, cooled wines, flowers from Genoa, snow from the mountain tops, and all the colours of the rainbow flashing in the mirrors.
They didn’t care much about the stares and glares, caught up in the excitement of regaining their freedom. They glided across the harbor in bright boats and gathered again at a large hotel, where closed shutters kept out the sun, and the bare stone floors, high ceilings, and echoing corridors helped cool off the intense heat. There, a big table in a spacious room was soon overflowing with a fantastic feast; and the quarantine quarters faded into memory, overshadowed by fancy dishes, southern fruits, chilled wines, flowers from Genoa, snow from the mountain peaks, and all the colors of the rainbow reflecting in the mirrors.
‘But I bear those monotonous walls no ill-will now,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it’s left behind; I dare say a prisoner begins to relent towards his prison, after he is let out.’
‘But I don't hold any grudges against those dull walls now,’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘You start to forgive a place as soon as you leave it behind; I bet a prisoner begins to feel differently about their prison once they’re released.’
They were about thirty in company, and all talking; but necessarily in groups. Father and Mother Meagles sat with their daughter between them, the last three on one side of the table: on the opposite side sat Mr Clennam; a tall French gentleman with raven hair and beard, of a swart and terrible, not to say genteelly diabolical aspect, but who had shown himself the mildest of men; and a handsome young Englishwoman, travelling quite alone, who had a proud observant face, and had either withdrawn herself from the rest or been avoided by the rest—nobody, herself excepted perhaps, could have quite decided which. The rest of the party were of the usual materials: travellers on business, and travellers for pleasure; officers from India on leave; merchants in the Greek and Turkey trades; a clerical English husband in a meek strait-waistcoat, on a wedding trip with his young wife; a majestic English mama and papa, of the patrician order, with a family of three growing-up daughters, who were keeping a journal for the confusion of their fellow-creatures; and a deaf old English mother, tough in travel, with a very decidedly grown-up daughter indeed, which daughter went sketching about the universe in the expectation of ultimately toning herself off into the married state.
There were about thirty people in the group, all chatting, but necessarily in smaller circles. Mr. and Mrs. Meagles sat with their daughter between them at one end of the table. Across from them sat Mr. Clennam, a tall French man with dark hair and a beard, who had a somewhat menacing but also charming appearance, yet he had proven to be the gentlest of men. There was also a beautiful young Englishwoman traveling alone, who had a proud, observant demeanor and seemed either to have distanced herself from the rest or to have been avoided by them—no one, not even she, could really tell which. The rest of the group was made up of the usual mix: business travelers and pleasure seekers; officers from India on leave; merchants involved in Greek and Turkish trades; a mild-mannered English husband in a stiff suit on his honeymoon with his young wife; a distinguished English couple of high social standing with three growing daughters who were keeping a journal to document the world around them; and a deaf old English mother, seasoned from travel, with a very adult daughter who spent her time sketching around, hoping to eventually settle down in marriage.
The reserved Englishwoman took up Mr Meagles in his last remark.
The reserved Englishwoman responded to Mr. Meagles' last comment.
‘Do you mean that a prisoner forgives his prison?’ said she, slowly and with emphasis.
“Are you saying that a prisoner forgives their prison?” she replied, slowly and with emphasis.
‘That was my speculation, Miss Wade. I don’t pretend to know positively how a prisoner might feel. I never was one before.’
'That was just my guess, Miss Wade. I can't say for sure how a prisoner might feel. I've never been one myself.'
‘Mademoiselle doubts,’ said the French gentleman in his own language, ‘it’s being so easy to forgive?’
‘Mademoiselle doubts,’ said the French gentleman in his own language, ‘it’s so easy to forgive?’
‘I do.’
"I do."
Pet had to translate this passage to Mr Meagles, who never by any accident acquired any knowledge whatever of the language of any country into which he travelled. ‘Oh!’ said he. ‘Dear me! But that’s a pity, isn’t it?’
Pet had to translate this passage to Mr. Meagles, who never somehow learned any language from any country he visited. ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Goodness! But that’s too bad, isn’t it?’
‘That I am not credulous?’ said Miss Wade.
'That I'm not gullible?' said Miss Wade.
‘Not exactly that. Put it another way. That you can’t believe it easy to forgive.’
‘Not quite that. Let me put it another way. It's hard to believe that forgiving is easy.’
‘My experience,’ she quietly returned, ‘has been correcting my belief in many respects, for some years. It is our natural progress, I have heard.’
‘My experience,’ she quietly replied, ‘has been challenging my beliefs in many ways for a few years now. It’s just our natural progression, or so I’ve heard.’
‘Well, well! But it’s not natural to bear malice, I hope?’ said Mr Meagles, cheerily.
“Well, well! But I hope it’s not natural to hold a grudge?” said Mr. Meagles, cheerfully.
‘If I had been shut up in any place to pine and suffer, I should always hate that place and wish to burn it down, or raze it to the ground. I know no more.’
‘If I had been locked up somewhere to suffer and waste away, I would always hate that place and want to burn it down or tear it apart. I know no more.’
‘Strong, sir?’ said Mr Meagles to the Frenchman; it being another of his habits to address individuals of all nations in idiomatic English, with a perfect conviction that they were bound to understand it somehow. ‘Rather forcible in our fair friend, you’ll agree with me, I think?’
‘Strong, sir?’ said Mr. Meagles to the Frenchman, as it was another one of his habits to speak to people from all nations in idiomatic English, fully believing they would understand it somehow. ‘A bit intense from our fair friend, don’t you think?’
The French gentleman courteously replied, ‘Plait-il?’ To which Mr Meagles returned with much satisfaction, ‘You are right. My opinion.’
The French gentleman politely replied, "What did you say?" To which Mr. Meagles responded with much satisfaction, "You are right. That's my opinion."
The breakfast beginning by-and-by to languish, Mr Meagles made the company a speech. It was short enough and sensible enough, considering that it was a speech at all, and hearty. It merely went to the effect that as they had all been thrown together by chance, and had all preserved a good understanding together, and were now about to disperse, and were not likely ever to find themselves all together again, what could they do better than bid farewell to one another, and give one another good-speed in a simultaneous glass of cool champagne all round the table? It was done, and with a general shaking of hands the assembly broke up for ever.
As breakfast started to wind down, Mr. Meagles addressed the group with a brief but sensible speech. He acknowledged that since they had all come together by chance, maintained a good rapport, and were now about to part ways—likely never to reunite—it would be fitting to bid each other farewell and wish each other well with a round of cool champagne for everyone at the table. They raised their glasses, and after a general shake of hands, the gathering came to an end for good.
The solitary young lady all this time had said no more. She rose with the rest, and silently withdrew to a remote corner of the great room, where she sat herself on a couch in a window, seeming to watch the reflection of the water as it made a silver quivering on the bars of the lattice. She sat, turned away from the whole length of the apartment, as if she were lonely of her own haughty choice. And yet it would have been as difficult as ever to say, positively, whether she avoided the rest, or was avoided.
The quiet young woman had not said anything more all this time. She got up with everyone else and quietly moved to a distant corner of the large room, where she took a seat on a couch by the window, appearing to watch the reflection of the water creating a silver shimmer on the bars of the lattice. She sat facing away from the entire length of the room, as if she were choosing to be solitary by her own proud decision. Yet, it would have been just as hard to say for sure whether she was avoiding others or if they were avoiding her.
The shadow in which she sat, falling like a gloomy veil across her forehead, accorded very well with the character of her beauty. One could hardly see the face, so still and scornful, set off by the arched dark eyebrows, and the folds of dark hair, without wondering what its expression would be if a change came over it. That it could soften or relent, appeared next to impossible. That it could deepen into anger or any extreme of defiance, and that it must change in that direction when it changed at all, would have been its peculiar impression upon most observers. It was dressed and trimmed into no ceremony of expression. Although not an open face, there was no pretence in it. ‘I am self-contained and self-reliant; your opinion is nothing to me; I have no interest in you, care nothing for you, and see and hear you with indifference’—this it said plainly. It said so in the proud eyes, in the lifted nostril, in the handsome but compressed and even cruel mouth. Cover either two of those channels of expression, and the third would have said so still. Mask them all, and the mere turn of the head would have shown an unsubduable nature.
The shadow she sat in draped over her forehead like a gloomy veil, matching her beauty perfectly. You could barely see her face, so still and disdainful, framed by her dark eyebrows and flowing dark hair, leaving you to wonder what her expression might be if it ever changed. It seemed impossible for her to soften or relent. Most people would think that if she did change, it would only be to display anger or extreme defiance. Her face didn’t show any elaborate expressions. Although it wasn't open, there was no pretense about it. It clearly conveyed, ‘I am self-sufficient and independent; your opinion means nothing to me; I have no interest in you, I care nothing for you, and I see and hear you with indifference’—this message was loud and clear. Her proud eyes, lifted nostril, and handsome yet tight-lipped, even cruel mouth communicated this sentiment. Cover any two of those elements, and the third would still convey the same message. Hide them all, and even the turn of her head would reveal her unyielding nature.
Pet had moved up to her (she had been the subject of remark among her family and Mr Clennam, who were now the only other occupants of the room), and was standing at her side.
Pet had moved closer to her (she had been the topic of conversation among her family and Mr. Clennam, who were now the only other people in the room), and was standing next to her.
‘Are you’—she turned her eyes, and Pet faltered—‘expecting any one to meet you here, Miss Wade?’
‘Are you’—she turned her eyes, and Pet hesitated—‘expecting anyone to meet you here, Miss Wade?’
‘I? No.’
'Me? No.'
‘Father is sending to the Poste Restante. Shall he have the pleasure of directing the messenger to ask if there are any letters for you?’
‘Dad is sending to the Poste Restante. Would he have the pleasure of telling the messenger to check if there are any letters for you?’
‘I thank him, but I know there can be none.’
‘I thank him, but I know there can be none.’
‘We are afraid,’ said Pet, sitting down beside her, shyly and half tenderly, ‘that you will feel quite deserted when we are all gone.’
‘We’re worried,’ said Pet, sitting down next to her, shyly and a bit affectionately, ‘that you’ll feel really alone when we’re all gone.’
‘Indeed!’
Absolutely!
‘Not,’ said Pet, apologetically and embarrassed by her eyes, ‘not, of course, that we are any company to you, or that we have been able to be so, or that we thought you wished it.’
“Not,” Pet said, feeling sorry and embarrassed by her gaze, “not that we are any company to you, or that we’ve been able to be, or that we thought you wanted that.”
‘I have not intended to make it understood that I did wish it.’
‘I didn’t mean to imply that I wanted it.’
‘No. Of course. But—in short,’ said Pet, timidly touching her hand as it lay impassive on the sofa between them, ‘will you not allow Father to tender you any slight assistance or service? He will be very glad.’
‘No. Of course. But—in short,’ said Pet, nervously touching her hand as it rested motionless on the sofa between them, ‘won't you let Father offer you any small help or service? He would be really happy to do it.’
‘Very glad,’ said Mr Meagles, coming forward with his wife and Clennam. ‘Anything short of speaking the language, I shall be delighted to undertake, I am sure.’
“Very glad,” said Mr. Meagles, stepping up with his wife and Clennam. “I’m sure I’ll be happy to take on anything short of speaking the language.”
‘I am obliged to you,’ she returned, ‘but my arrangements are made, and I prefer to go my own way in my own manner.’
“I appreciate it,” she replied, “but I have my plans set, and I’d rather do things my own way.”
‘Do you?’ said Mr Meagles to himself, as he surveyed her with a puzzled look. ‘Well! There’s character in that, too.’
‘Do you?’ said Mr. Meagles to himself, as he looked at her with a confused expression. ‘Well! There’s some character in that, too.’
‘I am not much used to the society of young ladies, and I am afraid I may not show my appreciation of it as others might. A pleasant journey to you. Good-bye!’
‘I’m not really used to hanging out with young ladies, and I’m afraid I might not show my appreciation for it like others do. Have a nice trip. Goodbye!’
She would not have put out her hand, it seemed, but that Mr Meagles put out his so straight before her that she could not pass it. She put hers in it, and it lay there just as it had lain upon the couch.
She wouldn’t have reached out her hand, it seemed, if Mr. Meagles hadn’t held his out right in front of her, making it impossible for her to ignore. She placed her hand in his, and it rested there just like it had on the couch.
‘Good-bye!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘This is the last good-bye upon the list, for Mother and I have just said it to Mr Clennam here, and he only waits to say it to Pet. Good-bye! We may never meet again.’
‘Goodbye!’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘This is the last goodbye on the list because Mother and I just said it to Mr. Clennam here, and he’s just waiting to say it to Pet. Goodbye! We might never meet again.’
‘In our course through life we shall meet the people who are coming to meet us, from many strange places and by many strange roads,’ was the composed reply; ‘and what it is set to us to do to them, and what it is set to them to do to us, will all be done.’
‘As we go through life, we will encounter people who are coming to meet us from all sorts of unusual places and paths,’ was the calm response; ‘and what we are meant to do for them, and what they are meant to do for us, will all happen.’
There was something in the manner of these words that jarred upon Pet’s ear. It implied that what was to be done was necessarily evil, and it caused her to say in a whisper, ‘O Father!’ and to shrink childishly, in her spoilt way, a little closer to him. This was not lost on the speaker.
There was something in the way these words sounded that unsettled Pet. It suggested that what needed to be done was inherently bad, and it made her whisper, ‘O Father!’ while retreating childishly, in her spoiled way, a bit closer to him. The speaker noticed this.
‘Your pretty daughter,’ she said, ‘starts to think of such things. Yet,’ looking full upon her, ‘you may be sure that there are men and women already on their road, who have their business to do with you, and who will do it. Of a certainty they will do it. They may be coming hundreds, thousands, of miles over the sea there; they may be close at hand now; they may be coming, for anything you know or anything you can do to prevent it, from the vilest sweepings of this very town.’
“Your beautiful daughter,” she said, “is starting to think about things like this. But,” looking directly at her, “you can be sure that there are men and women already on their way, who have business to take care of with you, and they will handle it. They absolutely will. They could be coming from hundreds, even thousands, of miles across the sea; they may already be nearby; they could be coming, for all you know or can do to stop it, from the very worst parts of this town.”
With the coldest of farewells, and with a certain worn expression on her beauty that gave it, though scarcely yet in its prime, a wasted look, she left the room.
With a cold goodbye and a tired look on her beauty that made it seem, even though she was hardly past her prime, a bit worn out, she left the room.
Now, there were many stairs and passages that she had to traverse in passing from that part of the spacious house to the chamber she had secured for her own occupation. When she had almost completed the journey, and was passing along the gallery in which her room was, she heard an angry sound of muttering and sobbing. A door stood open, and within she saw the attendant upon the girl she had just left; the maid with the curious name.
Now, there were many stairs and hallways she had to navigate to get from that part of the large house to the room she had claimed for herself. As she was almost to her destination and walking down the corridor where her room was, she heard the sound of angry muttering and sobbing. A door was open, and inside she saw the girl’s attendant, the maid with the unusual name.
She stood still, to look at this maid. A sullen, passionate girl! Her rich black hair was all about her face, her face was flushed and hot, and as she sobbed and raged, she plucked at her lips with an unsparing hand.
She stood still, looking at the maid. A moody, intense girl! Her thick black hair was all over her face, her face was flushed and warm, and as she cried and fumed, she tugged at her lips with a rough hand.
‘Selfish brutes!’ said the girl, sobbing and heaving between whiles. ‘Not caring what becomes of me! Leaving me here hungry and thirsty and tired, to starve, for anything they care! Beasts! Devils! Wretches!’
‘Selfish monsters!’ the girl cried, sobbing and gasping for breath. ‘They don't care what happens to me! Leaving me here hungry, thirsty, and tired, to starve, as if they don't care at all! Animals! Demons! Horrible people!’
‘My poor girl, what is the matter?’
"Hey sweetie, what’s wrong?"
She looked up suddenly, with reddened eyes, and with her hands suspended, in the act of pinching her neck, freshly disfigured with great scarlet blots. ‘It’s nothing to you what’s the matter. It don’t signify to any one.’
She looked up suddenly, her eyes red, and with her hands paused, in the act of pinching her neck, now marked with large red blotches. ‘It’s not your concern what’s wrong. It doesn’t matter to anyone.’
‘O yes it does; I am sorry to see you so.’
‘Oh yes it does; I’m sorry to see you like this.’
‘You are not sorry,’ said the girl. ‘You are glad. You know you are glad. I never was like this but twice over in the quarantine yonder; and both times you found me. I am afraid of you.’
‘You’re not sorry,’ the girl said. ‘You’re glad. Deep down, you know you’re glad. I’ve only felt this way twice during the quarantine over there, and both times you were the one who found me. I’m scared of you.’
‘Afraid of me?’
"Scared of me?"
‘Yes. You seem to come like my own anger, my own malice, my own—whatever it is—I don’t know what it is. But I am ill-used, I am ill-used, I am ill-used!’ Here the sobs and the tears, and the tearing hand, which had all been suspended together since the first surprise, went on together anew.
‘Yes. You feel like my own anger, my own bitterness, my own—whatever it is—I can’t quite put my finger on it. But I’m being treated unfairly, I’m being treated unfairly, I’m being treated unfairly!’ At this point, the sobs and tears, along with the clawing hand, which had all been paused since the initial shock, started up again.
The visitor stood looking at her with a strange attentive smile. It was wonderful to see the fury of the contest in the girl, and the bodily struggle she made as if she were rent by the Demons of old.
The visitor stood there, gazing at her with a strange, focused smile. It was amazing to witness the intensity of the contest within the girl and the physical struggle she displayed, as if she were tormented by ancient demons.
Original
‘I am younger than she is by two or three years, and yet it’s me that looks after her, as if I was old, and it’s she that’s always petted and called Baby! I detest the name. I hate her! They make a fool of her, they spoil her. She thinks of nothing but herself, she thinks no more of me than if I was a stock and a stone!’ So the girl went on.
‘I’m two or three years younger than she is, yet I’m the one taking care of her, like I’m the older one, and she’s the one who’s always coddled and called Baby! I can’t stand that name. I hate her! They treat her like a child and spoil her. She only thinks about herself; she doesn’t care about me any more than if I were a rock or a piece of furniture!’ So the girl continued.
‘You must have patience.’
"Be patient."
‘I won’t have patience!’
"I can't wait!"
‘If they take much care of themselves, and little or none of you, you must not mind it.’
‘If they take good care of themselves and hardly any of you, you shouldn't worry about it.’
I will mind it.’
I got it.
‘Hush! Be more prudent. You forget your dependent position.’
‘Hush! Be more careful. You’re forgetting your dependent situation.’
‘I don’t care for that. I’ll run away. I’ll do some mischief. I won’t bear it; I can’t bear it; I shall die if I try to bear it!’
‘I don’t care about that. I’ll run away. I’ll cause some trouble. I won’t put up with it; I can’t handle it; I’ll die if I try to endure it!’
The observer stood with her hand upon her own bosom, looking at the girl, as one afflicted with a diseased part might curiously watch the dissection and exposition of an analogous case.
The observer stood with her hand on her chest, watching the girl, as someone with a painful condition might closely observe the examination and explanation of a similar case.
The girl raged and battled with all the force of her youth and fulness of life, until by little and little her passionate exclamations trailed off into broken murmurs as if she were in pain. By corresponding degrees she sank into a chair, then upon her knees, then upon the ground beside the bed, drawing the coverlet with her, half to hide her shamed head and wet hair in it, and half, as it seemed, to embrace it, rather than have nothing to take to her repentant breast.
The girl fought with all the energy of her youth and vitality, until gradually her passionate cries faded into broken whispers as if she were hurting. Slowly, she sank into a chair, then onto her knees, and finally onto the floor beside the bed, pulling the blanket with her—partly to hide her embarrassed face and wet hair, and partly, it seemed, to hold onto it, rather than have nothing to cling to with her remorseful heart.
‘Go away from me, go away from me! When my temper comes upon me, I am mad. I know I might keep it off if I only tried hard enough, and sometimes I do try hard enough, and at other times I don’t and won’t. What have I said! I knew when I said it, it was all lies. They think I am being taken care of somewhere, and have all I want. They are nothing but good to me. I love them dearly; no people could ever be kinder to a thankless creature than they always are to me. Do, do go away, for I am afraid of you. I am afraid of myself when I feel my temper coming, and I am as much afraid of you. Go away from me, and let me pray and cry myself better!’
“Leave me alone, just leave me alone! When I get angry, I lose it. I know I could control it if I really tried, and sometimes I really do, but other times I don’t and I won’t. What have I just said? I knew it was all lies when I said it. They think I’m being cared for somewhere and that I have everything I need. They’re nothing but good to me. I love them so much; no one could ever be kinder to someone ungrateful than they are to me. Please, just go away, because I’m scared of you. I’m scared of myself when I feel my anger building, and I’m just as afraid of you. Please leave me alone, and let me pray and cry until I feel better!”
The day passed on; and again the wide stare stared itself out; and the hot night was on Marseilles; and through it the caravan of the morning, all dispersed, went their appointed ways. And thus ever by day and night, under the sun and under the stars, climbing the dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains, journeying by land and journeying by sea, coming and going so strangely, to meet and to act and react on one another, move all we restless travellers through the pilgrimage of life.
The day went by; the wide gaze lingered; the hot night settled over Marseilles; and through it, the morning's crowd, now scattered, went their separate ways. And so it is, day and night, under the sun and stars, climbing dusty hills and trudging across tired plains, traveling by land and by sea, coming and going in such odd ways, meeting and impacting one another, that we all, restless travelers, move through the journey of life.
CHAPTER 3. Home
It was a Sunday evening in London, gloomy, close, and stale. Maddening church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked and clear, fast and slow, made the brick-and-mortar echoes hideous. Melancholy streets, in a penitential garb of soot, steeped the souls of the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows, in dire despondency. In every thoroughfare, up almost every alley, and down almost every turning, some doleful bell was throbbing, jerking, tolling, as if the Plague were in the city and the dead-carts were going round. Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish relief to an overworked people. No pictures, no unfamiliar animals, no rare plants or flowers, no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient world—all taboo with that enlightened strictness, that the ugly South Sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home again. Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to change the brooding mind, or raise it up. Nothing for the spent toiler to do, but to compare the monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days, think what a weary life he led, and make the best of it—or the worst, according to the probabilities.
It was a gloomy Sunday evening in London, hot and stuffy. The annoying church bells, in all sorts of dissonant sounds—sharp and flat, cracked and clear, fast and slow—jumbled together, making the echoes unbearable. The sad streets, dressed in a cloak of soot, weighed down the spirits of those who were trapped inside, staring out at them in deep despair. In every street, nearly every alley, and down almost every corner, a mournful bell was ringing, as if the Plague had overtaken the city and the dead-carts were roaming around. Everything that could provide relief to the exhausted people was locked up tight. No pictures, no unfamiliar animals, no rare plants or flowers, no wonders from the ancient world—everything was taboo with such strictness that the ugly South Sea gods in the British Museum might have thought they were home again. There was nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to lift the heavy thoughts, or inspire a change. For the worn-out worker, there was nothing to do but compare the dullness of his seventh day with the dullness of his six days, reflect on how tiresome his life was, and try to make the best—or the worst—of it, depending on how things looked.
At such a happy time, so propitious to the interests of religion and morality, Mr Arthur Clennam, newly arrived from Marseilles by way of Dover, and by Dover coach the Blue-eyed Maid, sat in the window of a coffee-house on Ludgate Hill. Ten thousand responsible houses surrounded him, frowning as heavily on the streets they composed, as if they were every one inhabited by the ten young men of the Calender’s story, who blackened their faces and bemoaned their miseries every night. Fifty thousand lairs surrounded him where people lived so unwholesomely that fair water put into their crowded rooms on Saturday night, would be corrupt on Sunday morning; albeit my lord, their county member, was amazed that they failed to sleep in company with their butcher’s meat. Miles of close wells and pits of houses, where the inhabitants gasped for air, stretched far away towards every point of the compass. Through the heart of the town a deadly sewer ebbed and flowed, in the place of a fine fresh river. What secular want could the million or so of human beings whose daily labour, six days in the week, lay among these Arcadian objects, from the sweet sameness of which they had no escape between the cradle and the grave—what secular want could they possibly have upon their seventh day? Clearly they could want nothing but a stringent policeman.
At such a joyful time, so favorable to the interests of religion and morality, Mr. Arthur Clennam, who had just arrived from Marseilles via Dover, sat in the window of a coffee shop on Ludgate Hill. He was surrounded by thousands of imposing buildings that seemed to scowl at the streets they lined, as if each one housed the ten young men from the story of the Calenders, who darkened their faces and lamented their hardships every night. There were countless homes around him where people lived in such poor conditions that clean water placed in their cramped rooms on Saturday night would go bad by Sunday morning; even though their county representative was baffled that they didn’t seem to sleep with their butcher's meat. Miles of tightly packed houses and cramped living spaces extended in all directions, where residents struggled for fresh air. A polluting sewer ran through the heart of the town instead of a clear, fresh river. What earthly need could the million or so people, whose daily work six days a week revolved around these dreary surroundings, from which they had no escape from birth to death—what could they possibly want on their seventh day? Clearly, all they could need was a strict police officer.
Mr Arthur Clennam sat in the window of the coffee-house on Ludgate Hill, counting one of the neighbouring bells, making sentences and burdens of songs out of it in spite of himself, and wondering how many sick people it might be the death of in the course of the year. As the hour approached, its changes of measure made it more and more exasperating. At the quarter, it went off into a condition of deadly-lively importunity, urging the populace in a voluble manner to Come to church, Come to church, Come to church! At the ten minutes, it became aware that the congregation would be scanty, and slowly hammered out in low spirits, They won’t come, they won’t come, they won’t come! At the five minutes, it abandoned hope, and shook every house in the neighbourhood for three hundred seconds, with one dismal swing per second, as a groan of despair.
Mr. Arthur Clennam sat by the window of the coffee shop on Ludgate Hill, counting one of the nearby bells, unintentionally creating sentences and song lyrics from it, and wondering how many sick people it might lead to death over the year. As the hour drew near, its changing tones became increasingly irritating. At the quarter, it burst into a relentless plea, urging everyone to Come to church, Come to church, Come to church! At the ten-minute mark, it realized that the attendance would be low and sadly drummed out, They won’t come, they won’t come, they won’t come! At the five-minute mark, it lost all hope and rattled every house in the neighborhood for three hundred seconds, with one mournful toll per second, as a cry of despair.
‘Thank Heaven!’ said Clennam, when the hour struck, and the bell stopped.
“Thank goodness!” said Clennam, when the hour struck, and the bell stopped.
But its sound had revived a long train of miserable Sundays, and the procession would not stop with the bell, but continued to march on. ‘Heaven forgive me,’ said he, ‘and those who trained me. How I have hated this day!’
But its sound brought back a long series of miserable Sundays, and the procession didn’t stop with the bell; it kept going. “Heaven forgive me,” he said, “and those who trained me. How I have loathed this day!”
There was the dreary Sunday of his childhood, when he sat with his hands before him, scared out of his senses by a horrible tract which commenced business with the poor child by asking him in its title, why he was going to Perdition?—a piece of curiosity that he really, in a frock and drawers, was not in a condition to satisfy—and which, for the further attraction of his infant mind, had a parenthesis in every other line with some such hiccupping reference as 2 Ep. Thess. c. iii, v. 6 & 7. There was the sleepy Sunday of his boyhood, when, like a military deserter, he was marched to chapel by a picquet of teachers three times a day, morally handcuffed to another boy; and when he would willingly have bartered two meals of indigestible sermon for another ounce or two of inferior mutton at his scanty dinner in the flesh. There was the interminable Sunday of his nonage; when his mother, stern of face and unrelenting of heart, would sit all day behind a Bible—bound, like her own construction of it, in the hardest, barest, and straitest boards, with one dinted ornament on the cover like the drag of a chain, and a wrathful sprinkling of red upon the edges of the leaves—as if it, of all books! were a fortification against sweetness of temper, natural affection, and gentle intercourse. There was the resentful Sunday of a little later, when he sat down glowering and glooming through the tardy length of the day, with a sullen sense of injury in his heart, and no more real knowledge of the beneficent history of the New Testament than if he had been bred among idolaters. There was a legion of Sundays, all days of unserviceable bitterness and mortification, slowly passing before him.
There was the dull Sunday of his childhood, when he sat with his hands in front of him, completely terrified by a dreadful pamphlet that started off by asking him in its title why he was heading to hell—a curiosity he certainly, dressed in a little suit, wasn’t in a position to answer—and which, to further capture his young mind, had a parenthesis every other line referencing something like 2 Ep. Thess. c. iii, v. 6 & 7. There was the boring Sunday of his boyhood, when, like a soldier trying to escape, he was led to chapel by a group of teachers three times a day, morally shackled to another boy; and when he would gladly have given up two meals worth of tedious sermons for an extra ounce or two of cheap mutton at his meager dinner. There was the never-ending Sunday of his youth; when his mother, with a stern look and a hard heart, would sit all day behind a Bible—bound, like her own version of it, in the hardest, simplest, and tightest covers, with one dented decoration on the cover like the link of a chain, and a furious sprinkling of red on the edges of the pages—as if it, of all books! was a barrier against kindness, natural affection, and gentle interactions. There was the bitter Sunday of a little later, when he sat down sulking and frowning through the slow hours of the day, with a deep feeling of hurt in his heart, and no true understanding of the uplifting stories of the New Testament, as if he had been raised among idol worshippers. There was a multitude of Sundays, all days of useless bitterness and humiliation, dragging slowly past him.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said a brisk waiter, rubbing the table. ‘Wish see bed-room?’
"Excuse me, sir," said a quick waiter, wiping the table. "Would you like to see the bedroom?"
‘Yes. I have just made up my mind to do it.’
‘Yes. I’ve just decided to go for it.’
‘Chaymaid!’ cried the waiter. ‘Gelen box num seven wish see room!’
‘Chaymaid!’ yelled the waiter. ‘Room seven wants to see you!’
‘Stay!’ said Clennam, rousing himself. ‘I was not thinking of what I said; I answered mechanically. I am not going to sleep here. I am going home.’
‘Stay!’ Clennam said, pulling himself together. ‘I wasn't really considering what I said; I responded without thinking. I'm not going to sleep here. I'm going home.’
‘Deed, sir? Chaymaid! Gelen box num seven, not go sleep here, gome.’
‘Indeed, sir? Waitress! Get box number seven, don’t sleep here, go.’
He sat in the same place as the day died, looking at the dull houses opposite, and thinking, if the disembodied spirits of former inhabitants were ever conscious of them, how they must pity themselves for their old places of imprisonment. Sometimes a face would appear behind the dingy glass of a window, and would fade away into the gloom as if it had seen enough of life and had vanished out of it. Presently the rain began to fall in slanting lines between him and those houses, and people began to collect under cover of the public passage opposite, and to look out hopelessly at the sky as the rain dropped thicker and faster. Then wet umbrellas began to appear, draggled skirts, and mud. What the mud had been doing with itself, or where it came from, who could say? But it seemed to collect in a moment, as a crowd will, and in five minutes to have splashed all the sons and daughters of Adam. The lamplighter was going his rounds now; and as the fiery jets sprang up under his touch, one might have fancied them astonished at being suffered to introduce any show of brightness into such a dismal scene.
He sat in the same spot as the day faded away, staring at the dull houses across the street and wondering, if the spirits of former residents were ever aware of these places, how they must feel sorry for their old prisons. Sometimes a face would show up behind the grimy glass of a window, only to disappear into the shadows as if it had seen enough of life and decided to leave. Soon, the rain started to pour in slanted lines between him and those houses, and people began to gather under the cover of the public passage across the way, looking out hopelessly at the sky as the rain came down harder. Then soaked umbrellas started to appear along with soggy skirts and mud. Who could say what the mud had been doing or where it came from? But it seemed to accumulate quickly, just like a crowd, and in five minutes it had splattered all the sons and daughters of Adam. The lamplighter was making his rounds now, and as the bright flames sprang up at his touch, one might have thought they were surprised to be allowed to bring a little light into such a dreary scene.
Mr Arthur Clennam took up his hat and buttoned his coat, and walked out. In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents, and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful form of growth or life. In the city, it developed only foul stale smells, and was a sickly, lukewarm, dirt-stained, wretched addition to the gutters.
Mr. Arthur Clennam grabbed his hat, buttoned up his coat, and stepped outside. In the country, the rain would have brought out a thousand new scents, and each drop would have reminded him of some beautiful aspect of growth or life. In the city, it only created nasty, stale odors and became a disgusting, lukewarm, dirt-covered addition to the gutters.
He crossed by St Paul’s and went down, at a long angle, almost to the water’s edge, through some of the crooked and descending streets which lie (and lay more crookedly and closely then) between the river and Cheapside. Passing, now the mouldy hall of some obsolete Worshipful Company, now the illuminated windows of a Congregationless Church that seemed to be waiting for some adventurous Belzoni to dig it out and discover its history; passing silent warehouses and wharves, and here and there a narrow alley leading to the river, where a wretched little bill, FOUND DROWNED, was weeping on the wet wall; he came at last to the house he sought. An old brick house, so dingy as to be all but black, standing by itself within a gateway. Before it, a square court-yard where a shrub or two and a patch of grass were as rank (which is saying much) as the iron railings enclosing them were rusty; behind it, a jumble of roots. It was a double house, with long, narrow, heavily-framed windows. Many years ago, it had had it in its mind to slide down sideways; it had been propped up, however, and was leaning on some half-dozen gigantic crutches: which gymnasium for the neighbouring cats, weather-stained, smoke-blackened, and overgrown with weeds, appeared in these latter days to be no very sure reliance.
He walked past St Paul’s and headed down at a steep angle, nearly reaching the water's edge, through some of the winding and sloping streets that lie (and lay even more crookedly and closely then) between the river and Cheapside. He passed by the musty hall of an outdated Worshipful Company, then the lit windows of a Church that seemed to be waiting for some daring explorer like Belzoni to dig it out and uncover its history; he moved past quiet warehouses and docks, and here and there a narrow alley leading to the river, where a pitiful little bill, FOUND DROWNED, was forlornly stuck on the wet wall; he finally arrived at the house he was looking for. It was an old brick house, so grimy it was almost black, standing alone within a gateway. In front of it was a square courtyard with a few scraggly shrubs and a patch of grass that were as overgrown (which is saying a lot) as the rusty iron railings surrounding them; behind it was a mess of roots. It was a double house, with long, narrow, heavily-framed windows. Many years ago, it had seemed like it might slide down sideways; however, it had been propped up and was leaning on about six gigantic crutches, which, weather-beaten, soot-stained, and overrun with weeds, no longer looked like a reliable support.
‘Nothing changed,’ said the traveller, stopping to look round. ‘Dark and miserable as ever. A light in my mother’s window, which seems never to have been extinguished since I came home twice a year from school, and dragged my box over this pavement. Well, well, well!’
‘Nothing's changed,’ said the traveler, pausing to look around. ‘Dark and dreary as always. There’s a light in my mother’s window that seems like it’s never been turned off since I came home twice a year from school, dragging my suitcase over this pavement. Well, well, well!’
He went up to the door, which had a projecting canopy in carved work of festooned jack-towels and children’s heads with water on the brain, designed after a once-popular monumental pattern, and knocked. A shuffling step was soon heard on the stone floor of the hall, and the door was opened by an old man, bent and dried, but with keen eyes.
He approached the door, which had a decorative canopy featuring intricate designs of draped towels and children's heads with water on their minds, created in a style that was once popular. He knocked. Soon, a shuffling sound was heard on the stone floor of the hallway, and the door was opened by an old man, hunched and wrinkled, but with sharp eyes.
He had a candle in his hand, and he held it up for a moment to assist his keen eyes. ‘Ah, Mr Arthur?’ he said, without any emotion, ‘you are come at last? Step in.’
He had a candle in his hand, and he raised it for a moment to help his sharp eyes. ‘Oh, Mr. Arthur?’ he said, without any emotion, ‘you’ve finally arrived? Come in.’
Mr Arthur stepped in and shut the door.
Mr. Arthur walked in and closed the door.
‘Your figure is filled out, and set,’ said the old man, turning to look at him with the light raised again, and shaking his head; ‘but you don’t come up to your father in my opinion. Nor yet your mother.’
“Your build is solid and defined,” said the old man, turning to look at him with the light raised again and shaking his head. “But you don’t measure up to your father, in my opinion. Nor to your mother either.”
‘How is my mother?’
‘How's my mom?’
‘She is as she always is now. Keeps her room when not actually bedridden, and hasn’t been out of it fifteen times in as many years, Arthur.’ They had walked into a spare, meagre dining-room. The old man had put the candlestick upon the table, and, supporting his right elbow with his left hand, was smoothing his leathern jaws while he looked at the visitor. The visitor offered his hand. The old man took it coldly enough, and seemed to prefer his jaws, to which he returned as soon as he could.
‘She is just as she always is now. She keeps her room when she’s not actually bedridden, and she hasn’t left it more than fifteen times in as many years, Arthur.’ They had walked into a sparse, bare dining room. The old man had placed the candlestick on the table, supporting his right elbow with his left hand, smoothing his leathery cheeks as he looked at the visitor. The visitor extended his hand. The old man took it rather coldly and seemed to prefer focusing on his cheeks, which he returned to as soon as he could.
‘I doubt if your mother will approve of your coming home on the Sabbath, Arthur,’ he said, shaking his head warily.
‘I don’t think your mom will be okay with you coming home on Sunday, Arthur,’ he said, shaking his head cautiously.
‘You wouldn’t have me go away again?’
'You wouldn't want me to leave again?'
‘Oh! I? I? I am not the master. It’s not what I would have. I have stood between your father and mother for a number of years. I don’t pretend to stand between your mother and you.’
‘Oh! Me? I’m not the master. That’s not what I would want. I’ve been stuck in the middle of your father and mother for quite a while. I’m not trying to come between you and your mother.’
‘Will you tell her that I have come home?’
‘Will you let her know that I’m back home?’
‘Yes, Arthur, yes. Oh, to be sure! I’ll tell her that you have come home. Please to wait here. You won’t find the room changed.’ He took another candle from a cupboard, lighted it, left the first on the table, and went upon his errand. He was a short, bald old man, in a high-shouldered black coat and waistcoat, drab breeches, and long drab gaiters. He might, from his dress, have been either clerk or servant, and in fact had long been both. There was nothing about him in the way of decoration but a watch, which was lowered into the depths of its proper pocket by an old black ribbon, and had a tarnished copper key moored above it, to show where it was sunk. His head was awry, and he had a one-sided, crab-like way with him, as if his foundations had yielded at about the same time as those of the house, and he ought to have been propped up in a similar manner.
“Yeah, Arthur, definitely. I’ll let her know you’re home. Please wait here. You won’t find the room changed.” He took another candle from a cupboard, lit it, left the first one on the table, and went on his way. He was a short, bald old man, wearing a high-shouldered black coat and waistcoat, drab breeches, and long drab gaiters. From his attire, he could have been either a clerk or a servant, and in fact, he had been both for a long time. There was nothing decorative about him except for a watch, which was lowered into the depths of its pocket by an old black ribbon, with a tarnished copper key attached above it to indicate where it was. His head was tilted, and he moved in a lopsided, crab-like manner, as if his foundations had given way around the same time as the house, and he needed to be propped up in a similar way.
‘How weak am I,’ said Arthur Clennam, when he was gone, ‘that I could shed tears at this reception! I, who have never experienced anything else; who have never expected anything else.’
‘How weak am I,’ said Arthur Clennam, when he was gone, ‘that I could shed tears at this reception! I, who have never experienced anything else; who have never expected anything else.’
He not only could, but did. It was the momentary yielding of a nature that had been disappointed from the dawn of its perceptions, but had not quite given up all its hopeful yearnings yet. He subdued it, took up the candle, and examined the room. The old articles of furniture were in their old places; the Plagues of Egypt, much the dimmer for the fly and smoke plagues of London, were framed and glazed upon the walls. There was the old cellaret with nothing in it, lined with lead, like a sort of coffin in compartments; there was the old dark closet, also with nothing in it, of which he had been many a time the sole contents, in days of punishment, when he had regarded it as the veritable entrance to that bourne to which the tract had found him galloping. There was the large, hard-featured clock on the sideboard, which he used to see bending its figured brows upon him with a savage joy when he was behind-hand with his lessons, and which, when it was wound up once a week with an iron handle, used to sound as if it were growling in ferocious anticipation of the miseries into which it would bring him. But here was the old man come back, saying, ‘Arthur, I’ll go before and light you.’
He not only could, but he did. It was a brief moment when a nature that had been let down since he first understood the world gave in a little, but still held onto some hope. He pushed it aside, picked up the candle, and looked around the room. The old furniture was in its usual spots; the Plagues of Egypt, now much dimmed by the soot and grime of London, were framed and hanging on the walls. There was the old cellaret, empty and lined with lead, like a kind of coffin divided into compartments; there was the dark closet, also empty, which he had often filled with himself during punishments, when he had seen it as the true gateway to the place he had often sped toward. There stood the large, stern clock on the sideboard, which used to leer at him with a kind of wicked pleasure whenever he fell behind in his lessons, and which, when wound up with a heavy iron handle each week, would sound like it was growling in eager anticipation of the troubles it would bring him. But now the old man was back, saying, ‘Arthur, I’ll go ahead and light your way.’
Arthur followed him up the staircase, which was panelled off into spaces like so many mourning tablets, into a dim bed-chamber, the floor of which had gradually so sunk and settled, that the fire-place was in a dell. On a black bier-like sofa in this hollow, propped up behind with one great angular black bolster like the block at a state execution in the good old times, sat his mother in a widow’s dress.
Arthur followed him up the staircase, which was divided into sections like mourning plaques, into a dimly lit bedroom. The floor had gradually sunk so much that the fireplace was in a dip. On a black, coffin-like sofa in this sunken area, propped up behind by a large angular black pillow like the block used for executions back in the day, sat his mother in a widow’s dress.
She and his father had been at variance from his earliest remembrance. To sit speechless himself in the midst of rigid silence, glancing in dread from the one averted face to the other, had been the peacefullest occupation of his childhood. She gave him one glassy kiss, and four stiff fingers muffled in worsted. This embrace concluded, he sat down on the opposite side of her little table. There was a fire in the grate, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a kettle on the hob, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a little mound of damped ashes on the top of the fire, and another little mound swept together under the grate, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a smell of black dye in the airless room, which the fire had been drawing out of the crape and stuff of the widow’s dress for fifteen months, and out of the bier-like sofa for fifteen years.
She and his father had never gotten along for as long as he could remember. Sitting there in complete silence, glancing nervously between their turned-away faces, was the most peaceful thing he did as a kid. She gave him a cold kiss and wrapped his small hand in her stiff fingers covered with wool. Once that awkward hug was over, he took a seat on the other side of her tiny table. There was a fire in the fireplace, as there had been day and night for fifteen years. There was a kettle on the stove, as there had been day and night for fifteen years. There was a small pile of damp ashes on the fire, and another little pile swept together under the grate, just like there had been day and night for fifteen years. The air was filled with the smell of black dye, which the fire had been pulling out of the widow’s crape dress for fifteen months and out of the sofa that looked like a coffin for fifteen years.
‘Mother, this is a change from your old active habits.’
‘Mom, this is a shift from your usual active routine.’
‘The world has narrowed to these dimensions, Arthur,’ she replied, glancing round the room. ‘It is well for me that I never set my heart upon its hollow vanities.’
‘The world has shrunk to these limits, Arthur,’ she said, looking around the room. ‘I’m lucky that I never got too attached to its empty illusions.’
The old influence of her presence and her stern strong voice, so gathered about her son, that he felt conscious of a renewal of the timid chill and reserve of his childhood.
The familiar weight of her presence and her commanding voice surrounded her son, making him aware of a return to the shy unease and distance he felt during his childhood.
‘Do you never leave your room, mother?’
‘Do you never leave your room, Mom?’
‘What with my rheumatic affection, and what with its attendant debility or nervous weakness—names are of no matter now—I have lost the use of my limbs. I never leave my room. I have not been outside this door for—tell him for how long,’ she said, speaking over her shoulder.
‘With my rheumatic condition and the accompanying weakness—names don’t really matter now—I’ve lost the use of my limbs. I never leave my room. I haven’t been outside this door for—tell him how long,’ she said, looking over her shoulder.
‘A dozen year next Christmas,’ returned a cracked voice out of the dimness behind.
"A year from this Christmas," said a raspy voice from the shadowy background.
‘Is that Affery?’ said Arthur, looking towards it.
‘Is that Affery?’ Arthur said, looking over at it.
The cracked voice replied that it was Affery: and an old woman came forward into what doubtful light there was, and kissed her hand once; then subsided again into the dimness.
The shaky voice responded that it was Affery: and an old woman stepped into the little bit of light that was there, kissed her hand once, and then faded back into the shadows.
‘I am able,’ said Mrs Clennam, with a slight motion of her worsted-muffled right hand toward a chair on wheels, standing before a tall writing cabinet close shut up, ‘I am able to attend to my business duties, and I am thankful for the privilege. It is a great privilege. But no more of business on this day. It is a bad night, is it not?’
‘I can,’ said Mrs. Clennam, making a small gesture with her wool-covered right hand towards a wheeled chair in front of a tall, closed writing cabinet, ‘I can handle my work responsibilities, and I’m grateful for the opportunity. It’s a huge privilege. But no more work today. It’s a rough night, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, mother.’
“Sure, mom.”
‘Does it snow?’
"Is it snowing?"
‘Snow, mother? And we only yet in September?’
‘Snow, Mom? And it's only September?’
‘All seasons are alike to me,’ she returned, with a grim kind of luxuriousness. ‘I know nothing of summer and winter, shut up here. The Lord has been pleased to put me beyond all that.’ With her cold grey eyes and her cold grey hair, and her immovable face, as stiff as the folds of her stony head-dress,—her being beyond the reach of the seasons seemed but a fit sequence to her being beyond the reach of all changing emotions.
"‘All seasons are the same to me,’ she replied, with a grim sort of luxury. ‘I don’t know anything about summer and winter, being stuck here. The Lord has decided to keep me away from all that.’ With her cold gray eyes and cold gray hair, and her unyielding face, as stiff as the folds of her stone-like headdress, her existence beyond the changing seasons seemed just a natural extension of her being beyond the reach of all shifting emotions."
On her little table lay two or three books, her handkerchief, a pair of steel spectacles newly taken off, and an old-fashioned gold watch in a heavy double case. Upon this last object her son’s eyes and her own now rested together.
On her small table were a couple of books, her handkerchief, a pair of steel glasses just removed, and an old-fashioned gold watch in a heavy double case. Both her son and she now looked at this last item together.
‘I see that you received the packet I sent you on my father’s death, safely, mother.’
"I see you got the packet I sent you about my father's death, safely, mom."
‘You see.’
"You see."
‘I never knew my father to show so much anxiety on any subject, as that his watch should be sent straight to you.’
‘I never saw my dad so worried about anything as he was about his watch getting sent straight to you.’
‘I keep it here as a remembrance of your father.’
‘I keep it here as a reminder of your father.’
‘It was not until the last, that he expressed the wish; when he could only put his hand upon it, and very indistinctly say to me “your mother.” A moment before, I thought him wandering in his mind, as he had been for many hours—I think he had no consciousness of pain in his short illness—when I saw him turn himself in his bed and try to open it.’
‘It wasn’t until the end that he expressed his wish; when he could only place his hand on it and barely say to me “your mother.” A moment earlier, I thought he was out of his mind, as he had been for many hours—I believe he wasn’t aware of the pain in his brief illness—when I saw him turn in his bed and try to open it.’
‘Was your father, then, not wandering in his mind when he tried to open it?’
‘Was your father not confused when he tried to open it?’
‘No. He was quite sensible at that time.’
'No. He was pretty rational at that time.'
Mrs Clennam shook her head; whether in dismissal of the deceased or opposing herself to her son’s opinion, was not clearly expressed.
Mrs. Clennam shook her head; it wasn't clear whether she was dismissing the deceased or contradicting her son’s opinion.
‘After my father’s death I opened it myself, thinking there might be, for anything I knew, some memorandum there. However, as I need not tell you, mother, there was nothing but the old silk watch-paper worked in beads, which you found (no doubt) in its place between the cases, where I found and left it.’
‘After my father passed away, I opened it myself, thinking there might be some notes inside, but as you know, mom, there was nothing but the old silk watch-paper decorated with beads, which you probably found in its spot between the cases, the same place where I found it and left it.’
Mrs Clennam signified assent; then added, ‘No more of business on this day,’ and then added, ‘Affery, it is nine o’clock.’
Mrs. Clennam nodded in agreement and then said, “No more business for today,” and then added, “Affery, it’s nine o’clock.”
Upon this, the old woman cleared the little table, went out of the room, and quickly returned with a tray on which was a dish of little rusks and a small precise pat of butter, cool, symmetrical, white, and plump. The old man who had been standing by the door in one attitude during the whole interview, looking at the mother up-stairs as he had looked at the son down-stairs, went out at the same time, and, after a longer absence, returned with another tray on which was the greater part of a bottle of port wine (which, to judge by his panting, he had brought from the cellar), a lemon, a sugar-basin, and a spice box. With these materials and the aid of the kettle, he filled a tumbler with a hot and odorous mixture, measured out and compounded with as much nicety as a physician’s prescription. Into this mixture Mrs Clennam dipped certain of the rusks, and ate them; while the old woman buttered certain other of the rusks, which were to be eaten alone. When the invalid had eaten all the rusks and drunk all the mixture, the two trays were removed; and the books and the candle, watch, handkerchief, and spectacles were replaced upon the table. She then put on the spectacles and read certain passages aloud from a book—sternly, fiercely, wrathfully—praying that her enemies (she made them by her tone and manner expressly hers) might be put to the edge of the sword, consumed by fire, smitten by plagues and leprosy, that their bones might be ground to dust, and that they might be utterly exterminated. As she read on, years seemed to fall away from her son like the imaginings of a dream, and all the old dark horrors of his usual preparation for the sleep of an innocent child to overshadow him.
After this, the old woman cleared the small table, left the room, and quickly came back with a tray that had a plate of little rusks and a neat, cool, white pat of butter. The old man, who had been standing by the door in the same position throughout the whole conversation, looking up at the mother as he had looked down at the son, went out at the same time. After a longer absence, he returned with another tray that held most of a bottle of port wine (which, judging by his heavy breathing, he had brought up from the cellar), a lemon, a sugar bowl, and a spice box. Using these ingredients and the kettle, he mixed a hot, aromatic drink in a tumbler, measuring and combining it as precisely as a doctor’s prescription. Mrs. Clennam dipped some of the rusks into this mixture and ate them, while the old woman buttered some of the other rusks to be eaten plain. Once the invalid had finished all the rusks and drunk everything in the tumbler, the two trays were taken away, and the books, candle, watch, handkerchief, and glasses were put back on the table. She then put on her glasses and read certain passages aloud from a book—sternly, fiercely, and angrily—praying that her enemies (who she made distinctly hers through her tone and manner) would be put to the edge of the sword, burned, struck down by plagues and leprosy, that their bones would be ground to dust, and that they would be completely wiped out. As she continued reading, it seemed like years fell away from her son like the fading illusions of a dream, and all the old, dark terrors of his usual bedtime routine for an innocent child loomed over him.
She shut the book and remained for a little time with her face shaded by her hand. So did the old man, otherwise still unchanged in attitude; so, probably, did the old woman in her dimmer part of the room. Then the sick woman was ready for bed.
She closed the book and held her face in her hand for a moment. The old man did the same, still holding his usual posture; likely, the old woman in her darker corner of the room did too. Then the sick woman was ready for bed.
‘Good night, Arthur. Affery will see to your accommodation. Only touch me, for my hand is tender.’ He touched the worsted muffling of her hand—that was nothing; if his mother had been sheathed in brass there would have been no new barrier between them—and followed the old man and woman down-stairs.
‘Good night, Arthur. Affery will take care of your accommodations. Just be gentle with me, as my hand is sensitive.’ He touched the woolen covering of her hand—that was nothing; if his mother had been covered in brass, there would have been no new barrier between them—and he followed the older man and woman downstairs.
The latter asked him, when they were alone together among the heavy shadows of the dining-room, would he have some supper?
The latter asked him, when they were alone together in the dim shadows of the dining room, if he wanted some supper.
‘No, Affery, no supper.’
'No, Affery, no dinner.'
‘You shall if you like,’ said Affery. ‘There’s her tomorrow’s partridge in the larder—her first this year; say the word and I’ll cook it.’
“You can if you want,” said Affery. “There’s her partridge for tomorrow in the pantry—her first of the year; just say the word and I’ll cook it.”
No, he had not long dined, and could eat nothing.
No, he hadn't eaten long ago, and couldn't eat anything.
‘Have something to drink, then,’ said Affery; ‘you shall have some of her bottle of port, if you like. I’ll tell Jeremiah that you ordered me to bring it you.’
"Have something to drink, then," said Affery; "you can have some of her bottle of port, if you want. I'll tell Jeremiah that you asked me to bring it to you."
No; nor would he have that, either.
No, he wouldn't want that either.
‘It’s no reason, Arthur,’ said the old woman, bending over him to whisper, ‘that because I am afeared of my life of ‘em, you should be. You’ve got half the property, haven’t you?’
‘That’s no reason, Arthur,’ said the old woman, leaning over him to whisper, ‘just because I’m scared for my life of them, you should be too. You’ve got half the property, right?’
‘Yes, yes.’
"Yeah, yeah."
‘Well then, don’t you be cowed. You’re clever, Arthur, an’t you?’
‘Well then, don’t let them intimidate you. You’re smart, Arthur, right?’
He nodded, as she seemed to expect an answer in the affirmative.
He nodded, as she appeared to be looking for a yes.
‘Then stand up against them! She’s awful clever, and none but a clever one durst say a word to her. He’s a clever one—oh, he’s a clever one!—and he gives it her when he has a mind to’t, he does!’
‘Then stand up to them! She's really sharp, and only someone smart would dare to say anything to her. He's sharp—oh, he's sharp!—and he puts her in her place when he feels like it, he does!’
‘Your husband does?’
"Your husband does?"
‘Does? It makes me shake from head to foot, to hear him give it her. My husband, Jeremiah Flintwinch, can conquer even your mother. What can he be but a clever one to do that!’
‘Does? It makes me tremble all over to hear him talk to her like that. My husband, Jeremiah Flintwinch, can even outsmart your mother. What else could he be but clever to pull that off!’
His shuffling footstep coming towards them caused her to retreat to the other end of the room. Though a tall, hard-favoured, sinewy old woman, who in her youth might have enlisted in the Foot Guards without much fear of discovery, she collapsed before the little keen-eyed crab-like old man.
His shuffling footsteps approaching made her move to the other end of the room. She was a tall, tough-looking, wiry old woman who, in her younger days, could have easily joined the Foot Guards without anyone suspecting a thing, but she crumbled in front of the small, sharp-eyed, crabby old man.
‘Now, Affery,’ said he, ‘now, woman, what are you doing? Can’t you find Master Arthur something or another to pick at?’
‘Now, Affery,’ he said, ‘now, woman, what are you doing? Can’t you find Master Arthur something to nibble on?’
Master Arthur repeated his recent refusal to pick at anything.
Master Arthur reiterated his recent decision not to bother with anything.
‘Very well, then,’ said the old man; ‘make his bed. Stir yourself.’ His neck was so twisted that the knotted ends of his white cravat usually dangled under one ear; his natural acerbity and energy, always contending with a second nature of habitual repression, gave his features a swollen and suffused look; and altogether, he had a weird appearance of having hanged himself at one time or other, and of having gone about ever since, halter and all, exactly as some timely hand had cut him down.
‘Alright, then,’ said the old man; ‘make his bed. Hurry up.’ His neck was so twisted that the knotted ends of his white cravat usually hung under one ear; his natural sharpness and energy, always battling with a second nature of habitual restraint, gave his features a bloated and reddened look; and overall, he had an odd appearance as if he had hanged himself at some point and had been walking around ever since, rope and all, just as if some timely hand had set him free.
‘You’ll have bitter words together to-morrow, Arthur; you and your mother,’ said Jeremiah. ‘Your having given up the business on your father’s death—which she suspects, though we have left it to you to tell her—won’t go off smoothly.’
‘You’re going to have a tough conversation tomorrow, Arthur; you and your mom,’ said Jeremiah. ‘The fact that you gave up the business after your father's death—which she suspects, even though we decided to let you tell her—won’t go over well.’
‘I have given up everything in life for the business, and the time came for me to give up that.’
‘I have sacrificed everything in life for the business, and now it’s time for me to let that go.’
‘Good!’ cried Jeremiah, evidently meaning Bad. ‘Very good! only don’t expect me to stand between your mother and you, Arthur. I stood between your mother and your father, fending off this, and fending off that, and getting crushed and pounded betwixt em; and I’ve done with such work.’
‘Good!’ shouted Jeremiah, clearly meaning Bad. ‘Very good! Just don’t expect me to get in the middle of things between you and your mother, Arthur. I got in between your mother and your father, dealing with this and handling that, and getting crushed and beaten in the process; and I’m done with that kind of work.’
‘You will never be asked to begin it again for me, Jeremiah.’
‘You’ll never have to start it over for me, Jeremiah.’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear it; because I should have had to decline it, if I had been. That’s enough—as your mother says—and more than enough of such matters on a Sabbath night. Affery, woman, have you found what you want yet?’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear that; because I would have had to turn it down if I hadn’t. That’s enough—as your mother says—and more than enough of that kind of stuff on a Sunday night. Affery, have you found what you’re looking for yet?’
She had been collecting sheets and blankets from a press, and hastened to gather them up, and to reply, ‘Yes, Jeremiah.’ Arthur Clennam helped her by carrying the load himself, wished the old man good night, and went up-stairs with her to the top of the house.
She had been grabbing sheets and blankets from a cabinet and quickly piled them up, responding, ‘Yes, Jeremiah.’ Arthur Clennam helped her by carrying the load himself, wished the old man good night, and went upstairs with her to the top of the house.
They mounted up and up, through the musty smell of an old close house, little used, to a large garret bed-room. Meagre and spare, like all the other rooms, it was even uglier and grimmer than the rest, by being the place of banishment for the worn-out furniture. Its movables were ugly old chairs with worn-out seats, and ugly old chairs without any seats; a threadbare patternless carpet, a maimed table, a crippled wardrobe, a lean set of fire-irons like the skeleton of a set deceased, a washing-stand that looked as if it had stood for ages in a hail of dirty soapsuds, and a bedstead with four bare atomies of posts, each terminating in a spike, as if for the dismal accommodation of lodgers who might prefer to impale themselves. Arthur opened the long low window, and looked out upon the old blasted and blackened forest of chimneys, and the old red glare in the sky, which had seemed to him once upon a time but a nightly reflection of the fiery environment that was presented to his childish fancy in all directions, let it look where it would.
They climbed higher and higher, through the musty smell of an old, rarely used house, to a large attic bedroom. Thin and bare, like all the other rooms, it was even uglier and gloomier than the rest because it was where the tired furniture was sent to die. The furniture consisted of ugly old chairs with worn-out seats and ugly old chairs without any seats; a threadbare, patternless carpet; a damaged table; a broken wardrobe; a skinny set of fire-irons like the remains of a long-gone set; a washing stand that looked like it had survived ages of dirty soapsuds; and a bed frame with four bare, tiny posts, each ending in a spike, as if for the grim accommodation of lodgers who might want to impale themselves. Arthur opened the long, low window and looked out at the old, blasted, and blackened forest of chimneys and the red glow in the sky, which had once seemed to him just a nightly echo of the fiery surroundings that filled his childish imagination in every direction he looked.
He drew in his head again, sat down at the bedside, and looked on at Affery Flintwinch making the bed.
He pulled his head back in, sat down at the bedside, and watched Affery Flintwinch making the bed.
‘Affery, you were not married when I went away.’
‘Affery, you weren't married when I left.’
She screwed her mouth into the form of saying ‘No,’ shook her head, and proceeded to get a pillow into its case.
She twisted her mouth to say ‘No,’ shook her head, and went on to put a pillow into its case.
‘How did it happen?’
‘How did it happen?’
‘Why, Jeremiah, o’ course,’ said Affery, with an end of the pillow-case between her teeth.
‘Why, Jeremiah, of course,’ said Affery, with the end of the pillowcase between her teeth.
‘Of course he proposed it, but how did it all come about? I should have thought that neither of you would have married; least of all should I have thought of your marrying each other.’
'Of course he suggested it, but how did everything happen? I would have never thought that either of you would get married; least of all did I think you two would marry each other.'
‘No more should I,’ said Mrs Flintwinch, tying the pillow tightly in its case.
‘No more should I,’ said Mrs. Flintwinch, tying the pillow tightly in its case.
‘That’s what I mean. When did you begin to think otherwise?’
‘That’s what I mean. When did you start to think differently?’
‘Never begun to think otherwise at all,’ said Mrs Flintwinch.
‘I've never thought about it any differently,’ said Mrs. Flintwinch.
Seeing, as she patted the pillow into its place on the bolster, that he was still looking at her as if waiting for the rest of her reply, she gave it a great poke in the middle, and asked, ‘How could I help myself?’
Seeing him still staring at her, as she fluffed the pillow into position on the bolster, she gave it a big poke in the center and asked, ‘How could I help myself?’
‘How could you help yourself from being married!’
‘How could you stop yourself from getting married!’
‘O’ course,’ said Mrs Flintwinch. ‘It was no doing o’ mine. I’d never thought of it. I’d got something to do, without thinking, indeed! She kept me to it (as well as he) when she could go about, and she could go about then.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs. Flintwinch. ‘It wasn’t my doing. I never would have thought of it. I had something to do, without even thinking about it, really! She kept me on it (just like him) when she was able to move around, and she could move around back then.’
‘Well?’
"What's up?"
‘Well?’ echoed Mrs Flintwinch. ‘That’s what I said myself. Well! What’s the use of considering? If them two clever ones have made up their minds to it, what’s left for me to do? Nothing.’
‘Well?’ echoed Mrs. Flintwinch. ‘That’s what I said myself. Well! What’s the point of thinking about it? If those two smart ones have decided on this, what’s left for me to do? Nothing.’
‘Was it my mother’s project, then?’
‘Was it my mom's project, then?’
‘The Lord bless you, Arthur, and forgive me the wish!’ cried Affery, speaking always in a low tone. ‘If they hadn’t been both of a mind in it, how could it ever have been? Jeremiah never courted me; t’ant likely that he would, after living in the house with me and ordering me about for as many years as he’d done. He said to me one day, he said, “Affery,” he said, “now I am going to tell you something. What do you think of the name of Flintwinch?” “What do I think of it?” I says. “Yes,” he said, “because you’re going to take it,” he said. “Take it?” I says. “Jere-mi-ah?” Oh! he’s a clever one!’
‘The Lord bless you, Arthur, and forgive me for wishing it!’ cried Affery, always speaking in a low tone. ‘If they hadn’t both wanted it, how could it have happened? Jeremiah never pursued me; it’s unlikely he would have, after living in the house with me and bossing me around for so many years. One day, he said to me, “Affery,” he said, “I’m going to tell you something. What do you think of the name Flintwinch?” “What do I think of it?” I replied. “Yes,” he said, “because you’re going to take it,” he said. “Take it?” I said. “Jere-mi-ah?” Oh! he’s a clever one!’
Mrs Flintwinch went on to spread the upper sheet over the bed, and the blanket over that, and the counterpane over that, as if she had quite concluded her story.
Mrs. Flintwinch continued to lay the top sheet over the bed, followed by the blanket, and then the bedspread, as if she had completely wrapped up her tale.
‘Well?’ said Arthur again.
"Well?" Arthur asked again.
‘Well?’ echoed Mrs Flintwinch again. ‘How could I help myself? He said to me, “Affery, you and me must be married, and I’ll tell you why. She’s failing in health, and she’ll want pretty constant attendance up in her room, and we shall have to be much with her, and there’ll be nobody about now but ourselves when we’re away from her, and altogether it will be more convenient. She’s of my opinion,” he said, “so if you’ll put your bonnet on next Monday morning at eight, we’ll get it over.”’ Mrs Flintwinch tucked up the bed.
‘Well?’ echoed Mrs. Flintwinch again. ‘How could I help myself? He told me, “Affery, you and I need to get married, and here’s why. She’s not well, and she’ll need pretty constant help in her room, and we’ll have to spend a lot of time with her, and there won’t be anyone else around when we’re away from her, so it’ll be more convenient. She agrees with me,” he said, “so if you put on your bonnet next Monday morning at eight, we’ll get it done.”’ Mrs. Flintwinch tucked up the bed.
‘Well?’
"What's up?"
‘Well?’ repeated Mrs Flintwinch, ‘I think so! I sits me down and says it. Well!—Jeremiah then says to me, “As to banns, next Sunday being the third time of asking (for I’ve put ‘em up a fortnight), is my reason for naming Monday. She’ll speak to you about it herself, and now she’ll find you prepared, Affery.” That same day she spoke to me, and she said, “So, Affery, I understand that you and Jeremiah are going to be married. I am glad of it, and so are you, with reason. It is a very good thing for you, and very welcome under the circumstances to me. He is a sensible man, and a trustworthy man, and a persevering man, and a pious man.” What could I say when it had come to that? Why, if it had been—a smothering instead of a wedding,’ Mrs Flintwinch cast about in her mind with great pains for this form of expression, ‘I couldn’t have said a word upon it, against them two clever ones.’
"Well?" Mrs. Flintwinch repeated, "I think so! I sit down and say it. Well!—Then Jeremiah tells me, 'As for the banns, next Sunday will be the third time they're announced (since I've put them up for two weeks), which is why I'm naming Monday. She’ll talk to you about it herself, and now she’ll find you ready, Affery.' That same day, she spoke to me and said, 'So, Affery, I hear you and Jeremiah are getting married. I'm happy for you, and you should be too, for good reason. It’s a great opportunity for you, and very welcome to me given the circumstances. He’s a sensible man, a trustworthy man, a persistent man, and a devout man.' What could I say when it came to that? Honestly, if it had been—a suffocation instead of a wedding," Mrs. Flintwinch struggled to come up with this phrasing, "I wouldn’t have had a single word against those two clever ones."
‘In good faith, I believe so.’
"Honestly, I think that's true."
‘And so you may, Arthur.’
"Go ahead, Arthur."
‘Affery, what girl was that in my mother’s room just now?’
‘Affery, which girl was in my mother’s room just now?’
‘Girl?’ said Mrs Flintwinch in a rather sharp key.
‘Girl?’ asked Mrs. Flintwinch in a rather harsh tone.
‘It was a girl, surely, whom I saw near you—almost hidden in the dark corner?’
‘It was definitely a girl I saw near you—almost concealed in the dark corner?’
‘Oh! She? Little Dorrit? She’s nothing; she’s a whim of—hers.’ It was a peculiarity of Affery Flintwinch that she never spoke of Mrs Clennam by name. ‘But there’s another sort of girls than that about. Have you forgot your old sweetheart? Long and long ago, I’ll be bound.’
‘Oh! Her? Little Dorrit? She’s nothing; she’s just a fancy of—hers.’ It was a quirk of Affery Flintwinch that she never referred to Mrs Clennam by name. ‘But there are different kinds of girls around. Have you forgotten your old crush? It’s been ages, I bet.’
‘I suffered enough from my mother’s separating us, to remember her. I recollect her very well.’
‘I suffered enough from my mom separating us to remember her. I remember her very well.’
‘Have you got another?’
"Do you have another one?"
‘No.’
'No.'
‘Here’s news for you, then. She’s well to do now, and a widow. And if you like to have her, why you can.’
‘Here's some news for you, then. She's doing well now, and she's a widow. And if you want her, then you can have her.’
‘And how do you know that, Affery?’
‘And how do you know that, Affery?’
‘Them two clever ones have been speaking about it.—There’s Jeremiah on the stairs!’ She was gone in a moment.
‘Those two smart ones have been talking about it.—There’s Jeremiah on the stairs!’ She was gone in an instant.
Mrs Flintwinch had introduced into the web that his mind was busily weaving, in that old workshop where the loom of his youth had stood, the last thread wanting to the pattern. The airy folly of a boy’s love had found its way even into that house, and he had been as wretched under its hopelessness as if the house had been a castle of romance. Little more than a week ago at Marseilles, the face of the pretty girl from whom he had parted with regret, had had an unusual interest for him, and a tender hold upon him, because of some resemblance, real or imagined, to this first face that had soared out of his gloomy life into the bright glories of fancy. He leaned upon the sill of the long low window, and looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys again, began to dream; for it had been the uniform tendency of this man’s life—so much was wanting in it to think about, so much that might have been better directed and happier to speculate upon—to make him a dreamer, after all.
Mrs. Flintwinch had woven into the fabric of his thoughts, in that old workshop where the loom of his youth had stood, the final thread needed for the pattern. The light-hearted foolishness of a boy's love had even crept into that house, and he had felt as miserable under its hopeless weight as if the house had been a romantic castle. Just over a week ago in Marseille, the face of the pretty girl he had parted from with regret had held a unique significance for him and a tender grip on him, due to some resemblance, whether real or imagined, to that first face that had lifted out of his dreary life into the bright dreams of imagination. He rested on the sill of the long low window and gazed out at the soot-stained forest of chimneys, beginning to dream again; for it had been a consistent pattern in this man's life—there was so little to ponder, so much that could have been better focused on and happier to think about—that it had turned him into a dreamer after all.
CHAPTER 4. Mrs Flintwinch has a Dream
When Mrs Flintwinch dreamed, she usually dreamed, unlike the son of her old mistress, with her eyes shut. She had a curiously vivid dream that night, and before she had left the son of her old mistress many hours. In fact it was not at all like a dream; it was so very real in every respect. It happened in this wise.
When Mrs. Flintwinch dreamed, she typically did so with her eyes closed, unlike the son of her former mistress. That night, she had an unusually vivid dream, and it wasn’t long before she left the son of her old mistress. In fact, it didn’t feel like a dream at all; it was incredibly real in every way. Here’s how it happened.
The bed-chamber occupied by Mr and Mrs Flintwinch was within a few paces of that to which Mrs Clennam had been so long confined. It was not on the same floor, for it was a room at the side of the house, which was approached by a steep descent of a few odd steps, diverging from the main staircase nearly opposite to Mrs Clennam’s door. It could scarcely be said to be within call, the walls, doors, and panelling of the old place were so cumbrous; but it was within easy reach, in any undress, at any hour of the night, in any temperature. At the head of the bed and within a foot of Mrs Flintwinch’s ear, was a bell, the line of which hung ready to Mrs Clennam’s hand. Whenever this bell rang, up started Affery, and was in the sick room before she was awake.
The bedroom occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Flintwinch was just a few steps away from the one where Mrs. Clennam had been confined for so long. It wasn’t on the same floor, as it was a room at the side of the house, accessed by a steep set of steps that branched off from the main staircase almost directly across from Mrs. Clennam’s door. It could hardly be considered within reach since the walls, doors, and paneling of the old building were so heavy; however, it was easily accessible in any state of undress, at any hour of the night, regardless of the temperature. At the head of the bed and just a foot away from Mrs. Flintwinch’s ear was a bell, the cord of which was always within Mrs. Clennam’s grasp. Whenever this bell rang, Affery would jump up and be in the sick room before Mrs. Flintwinch even had a chance to wake up.
Having got her mistress into bed, lighted her lamp, and given her good night, Mrs Flintwinch went to roost as usual, saving that her lord had not yet appeared. It was her lord himself who became—unlike the last theme in the mind, according to the observation of most philosophers—the subject of Mrs Flintwinch’s dream.
Having put her mistress to bed, lit her lamp, and said goodnight, Mrs. Flintwinch went to sleep as usual, except that her husband hadn’t shown up yet. It was her husband himself who became—unlike the last thought in the mind, according to most philosophers—the focus of Mrs. Flintwinch’s dream.
It seemed to her that she awoke after sleeping some hours, and found Jeremiah not yet abed. That she looked at the candle she had left burning, and, measuring the time like King Alfred the Great, was confirmed by its wasted state in her belief that she had been asleep for some considerable period. That she arose thereupon, muffled herself up in a wrapper, put on her shoes, and went out on the staircase, much surprised, to look for Jeremiah.
It seemed to her that she woke up after sleeping for a few hours and found Jeremiah still not in bed. She looked at the candle she had left burning and, like King Alfred the Great, figured out the time by its burned-down state, confirming her belief that she had been asleep for quite a while. She then got up, wrapped herself in a robe, put on her shoes, and went out to the staircase, surprised as she searched for Jeremiah.
The staircase was as wooden and solid as need be, and Affery went straight down it without any of those deviations peculiar to dreams. She did not skim over it, but walked down it, and guided herself by the banisters on account of her candle having died out. In one corner of the hall, behind the house-door, there was a little waiting-room, like a well-shaft, with a long narrow window in it as if it had been ripped up. In this room, which was never used, a light was burning.
The staircase was sturdy and solid, just as it needed to be, and Affery went straight down it without any of the strange twists typical of dreams. She didn’t glide down, but walked carefully, using the banisters for support because her candle had gone out. In one corner of the hall, behind the front door, there was a small waiting room that looked like a well shaft, with a long, narrow window as if it had been torn open. In this room, which was never used, a light was on.
Mrs Flintwinch crossed the hall, feeling its pavement cold to her stockingless feet, and peeped in between the rusty hinges on the door, which stood a little open. She expected to see Jeremiah fast asleep or in a fit, but he was calmly seated in a chair, awake, and in his usual health. But what—hey?—Lord forgive us!—Mrs Flintwinch muttered some ejaculation to this effect, and turned giddy.
Mrs. Flintwinch walked across the hall, feeling the cold floor against her bare feet, and peeked through the rusty hinges of the slightly open door. She expected to find Jeremiah either fast asleep or having a fit, but he was sitting calmly in a chair, awake and in his usual health. But what—wait!—Lord help us!—Mrs. Flintwinch muttered something like this and felt dizzy.
For, Mr Flintwinch awake, was watching Mr Flintwinch asleep. He sat on one side of the small table, looking keenly at himself on the other side with his chin sunk on his breast, snoring. The waking Flintwinch had his full front face presented to his wife; the sleeping Flintwinch was in profile. The waking Flintwinch was the old original; the sleeping Flintwinch was the double, just as she might have distinguished between a tangible object and its reflection in a glass, Affery made out this difference with her head going round and round.
Because Mr. Flintwinch was awake, he was watching Mr. Flintwinch sleep. He sat on one side of the small table, keenly observing himself on the other side, chin dropped on his chest, snoring. The awake Flintwinch had his full face turned toward his wife; the sleeping Flintwinch was in profile. The awake Flintwinch was the original; the sleeping Flintwinch was the copy, just as she might have distinguished between a real object and its reflection in a mirror. Affery recognized this difference with her head spinning around.
If she had had any doubt which was her own Jeremiah, it would have been resolved by his impatience. He looked about him for an offensive weapon, caught up the snuffers, and, before applying them to the cabbage-headed candle, lunged at the sleeper as though he would have run him through the body.
If she had any doubt about which Jeremiah was hers, it would have been cleared up by his impatience. He looked around for something to use as a weapon, grabbed the snuffers, and, before using them on the cabbage-headed candle, lunged at the sleeper as if he was going to stab him.
‘Who’s that? What’s the matter?’ cried the sleeper, starting.
‘Who’s that? What’s going on?’ shouted the sleeper, startled.
Mr Flintwinch made a movement with the snuffers, as if he would have enforced silence on his companion by putting them down his throat; the companion, coming to himself, said, rubbing his eyes, ‘I forgot where I was.’
Mr. Flintwinch moved the snuffers like he was about to silence his companion by shoving them down his throat; the companion, coming to his senses, said, rubbing his eyes, “I forgot where I was.”
‘You have been asleep,’ snarled Jeremiah, referring to his watch, ‘two hours. You said you would be rested enough if you had a short nap.’
“You’ve been sleeping,” snapped Jeremiah, glancing at his watch, “for two hours. You said you’d feel rested after a quick nap.”
‘I have had a short nap,’ said Double.
‘I took a quick nap,’ said Double.
‘Half-past two o’clock in the morning,’ muttered Jeremiah. ‘Where’s your hat? Where’s your coat? Where’s the box?’
‘It’s two-thirty in the morning,’ mumbled Jeremiah. ‘Where’s your hat? Where’s your coat? Where’s the box?’
‘All here,’ said Double, tying up his throat with sleepy carefulness in a shawl. ‘Stop a minute. Now give me the sleeve—not that sleeve, the other one. Ha! I’m not as young as I was.’ Mr Flintwinch had pulled him into his coat with vehement energy. ‘You promised me a second glass after I was rested.’
‘All set,’ said Double, wrapping his throat in a shawl with sleepy care. ‘Hold on a sec. Now hand me the sleeve—not that one, the other one. Ha! I’m not as young as I used to be.’ Mr. Flintwinch had energetically helped him into his coat. ‘You promised me a second drink once I was rested.’
‘Drink it!’ returned Jeremiah, ‘and—choke yourself, I was going to say—but go, I mean.’ At the same time he produced the identical port-wine bottle, and filled a wine-glass.
‘Drink it!’ Jeremiah shot back, ‘and—choke on it, I was going to say—but go, I mean.’ At the same time, he pulled out the same bottle of port wine and filled a wine glass.
‘Her port-wine, I believe?’ said Double, tasting it as if he were in the Docks, with hours to spare. ‘Her health.’
‘Her port-wine, I think?’ said Double, sipping it as if he had all the time in the world. ‘To her health.’
He took a sip.
He took a drink.
‘Your health!’
"Cheers to your health!"
He took another sip.
He took another drink.
‘His health!’
"His health!"
He took another sip.
He took another drink.
‘And all friends round St Paul’s.’ He emptied and put down the wine-glass half-way through this ancient civic toast, and took up the box. It was an iron box some two feet square, which he carried under his arms pretty easily. Jeremiah watched his manner of adjusting it, with jealous eyes; tried it with his hands, to be sure that he had a firm hold of it; bade him for his life be careful what he was about; and then stole out on tiptoe to open the door for him. Affery, anticipating the last movement, was on the staircase. The sequence of things was so ordinary and natural, that, standing there, she could hear the door open, feel the night air, and see the stars outside.
‘And all friends around St Paul’s.’ He emptied and set down the wine glass halfway through this old civic toast and picked up the box. It was an iron box about two feet square, which he carried under his arms quite easily. Jeremiah watched him adjust it with envious eyes; he tried it with his hands to make sure he had a good grip; warned him to be careful with it; and then quietly went to the door to open it for him. Affery, expecting this last move, was already on the staircase. The situation felt so ordinary and natural that, standing there, she could hear the door open, feel the night air, and see the stars outside.
But now came the most remarkable part of the dream. She felt so afraid of her husband, that being on the staircase, she had not the power to retreat to her room (which she might easily have done before he had fastened the door), but stood there staring. Consequently when he came up the staircase to bed, candle in hand, he came full upon her. He looked astonished, but said not a word. He kept his eyes upon her, and kept advancing; and she, completely under his influence, kept retiring before him. Thus, she walking backward and he walking forward, they came into their own room. They were no sooner shut in there, than Mr Flintwinch took her by the throat, and shook her until she was black in the face.
But now came the most astonishing part of the dream. She felt so scared of her husband that while on the staircase, she couldn't bring herself to go back to her room (which she could have easily done before he locked the door), and just stood there staring. So when he came up the stairs to go to bed, holding a candle, he walked right into her. He looked shocked but didn’t say anything. He kept his eyes fixed on her and kept moving closer, and she, completely under his control, kept backing away from him. So, with her walking backward and him walking forward, they entered their own room. As soon as they were shut in there, Mr. Flintwinch grabbed her by the throat and shook her until her face turned black.
‘Why, Affery, woman—Affery!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘What have you been dreaming of? Wake up, wake up! What’s the matter?’
‘Why, Affery, woman—Affery!’ said Mr. Flintwinch. ‘What have you been dreaming about? Wake up, wake up! What’s going on?’
‘The—the matter, Jeremiah?’ gasped Mrs Flintwinch, rolling her eyes.
‘The—the issue, Jeremiah?’ gasped Mrs. Flintwinch, rolling her eyes.
‘Why, Affery, woman—Affery! You have been getting out of bed in your sleep, my dear! I come up, after having fallen asleep myself, below, and find you in your wrapper here, with the nightmare. Affery, woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with a friendly grin on his expressive countenance, ‘if you ever have a dream of this sort again, it’ll be a sign of your being in want of physic. And I’ll give you such a dose, old woman—such a dose!’
‘Why, Affery, woman—Affery! You’ve been getting out of bed in your sleep, my dear! I come up, after having fallen asleep myself downstairs, and find you in your robe here, having a nightmare. Affery, woman,’ said Mr. Flintwinch, with a friendly grin on his expressive face, ‘if you ever have a dream like this again, it’ll mean you need some medicine. And I’ll give you a big dose, old woman—such a dose!’
Mrs Flintwinch thanked him and crept into bed.
Mrs. Flintwinch thanked him and snuck into bed.
CHAPTER 5. Family Affairs
As the city clocks struck nine on Monday morning, Mrs Clennam was wheeled by Jeremiah Flintwinch of the cut-down aspect to her tall cabinet. When she had unlocked and opened it, and had settled herself at its desk, Jeremiah withdrew—as it might be, to hang himself more effectually—and her son appeared.
As the city clocks hit nine on Monday morning, Mrs. Clennam was pushed by Jeremiah Flintwinch, who had a somewhat rough appearance, to her tall cabinet. After she unlocked and opened it, and got comfortable at its desk, Jeremiah stepped back—as if to make himself more unobtrusive—and her son showed up.
‘Are you any better this morning, mother?’
‘Are you feeling any better this morning, Mom?’
She shook her head, with the same austere air of luxuriousness that she had shown over-night when speaking of the weather. ‘I shall never be better any more. It is well for me, Arthur, that I know it and can bear it.’
She shook her head, carrying that same serious vibe of elegance she had shown last night while talking about the weather. "I will never get better again. It's good for me, Arthur, that I understand this and can accept it."
Sitting with her hands laid separately upon the desk, and the tall cabinet towering before her, she looked as if she were performing on a dumb church organ. Her son thought so (it was an old thought with him), while he took his seat beside it.
Sitting with her hands placed separately on the desk and the tall cabinet looming in front of her, she looked like she was playing a silent church organ. Her son thought so (it was a long-held thought for him) as he sat down beside it.
She opened a drawer or two, looked over some business papers, and put them back again. Her severe face had no thread of relaxation in it, by which any explorer could have been guided to the gloomy labyrinth of her thoughts.
She opened a couple of drawers, glanced at some business papers, and put them back. Her stern expression showed no sign of relaxation, leaving no clue for anyone trying to navigate the dark maze of her thoughts.
‘Shall I speak of our affairs, mother? Are you inclined to enter upon business?’
‘Should I talk about our matters, mom? Are you open to discussing business?’
‘Am I inclined, Arthur? Rather, are you? Your father has been dead a year and more. I have been at your disposal, and waiting your pleasure, ever since.’
‘Am I interested, Arthur? More like, are you? Your father has been dead for over a year. I've been available for you and waiting for you to decide what you want all this time.’
‘There was much to arrange before I could leave; and when I did leave, I travelled a little for rest and relief.’
‘There was a lot to organize before I could leave; and when I finally left, I traveled a bit to relax and unwind.’
She turned her face towards him, as not having heard or understood his last words.
She turned her face toward him, as if she hadn’t heard or understood his last words.
‘For rest and relief.’
"To relax and unwind."
She glanced round the sombre room, and appeared from the motion of her lips to repeat the words to herself, as calling it to witness how little of either it afforded her.
She looked around the gloomy room and seemed to be repeating the words to herself, as if to highlight how little of either it offered her.
‘Besides, mother, you being sole executrix, and having the direction and management of the estate, there remained little business, or I might say none, that I could transact, until you had had time to arrange matters to your satisfaction.’
‘Besides, Mom, since you are the only executor and in charge of managing the estate, there wasn’t much for me to do, or I might say nothing, until you’ve had time to sort things out to your liking.’
‘The accounts are made out,’ she returned. ‘I have them here. The vouchers have all been examined and passed. You can inspect them when you like, Arthur; now, if you please.’
‘The accounts are ready,’ she said. ‘I have them here. The vouchers have all been checked and approved. You can review them whenever you want, Arthur; now, if you don’t mind.’
‘It is quite enough, mother, to know that the business is completed. Shall I proceed then?’
‘That's all I need to know, Mom, that the job is done. Should I go ahead then?’
‘Why not?’ she said, in her frozen way.
‘Why not?’ she said, in her icy tone.
‘Mother, our House has done less and less for some years past, and our dealings have been progressively on the decline. We have never shown much confidence, or invited much; we have attached no people to us; the track we have kept is not the track of the time; and we have been left far behind. I need not dwell on this to you, mother. You know it necessarily.’
‘Mom, our household has done less and less over the past few years, and our business has been gradually declining. We’ve never shown much confidence, or invited many people in; we haven’t built any connections; the path we’ve followed isn’t the one that’s relevant anymore, and we’ve been left far behind. I don’t need to go into detail about this with you, mom. You already know it.’
‘I know what you mean,’ she answered, in a qualified tone.
"I know what you mean," she replied, with a measured tone.
‘Even this old house in which we speak,’ pursued her son, ‘is an instance of what I say. In my father’s earlier time, and in his uncle’s time before him, it was a place of business—really a place of business, and business resort. Now, it is a mere anomaly and incongruity here, out of date and out of purpose. All our consignments have long been made to Rovinghams’ the commission-merchants; and although, as a check upon them, and in the stewardship of my father’s resources, your judgment and watchfulness have been actively exerted, still those qualities would have influenced my father’s fortunes equally, if you had lived in any private dwelling: would they not?’
"Even this old house we're talking about," her son continued, "is an example of what I mean. Back in my father's day, and in his uncle's time before him, it was a real place of business—a hub for trade. Now, it feels completely out of place and purpose. All our shipments have long been sent to Rovinghams, the commission merchants; and while your judgment and keen oversight have effectively kept an eye on my father's resources, those same qualities would have shaped his fortunes just as well if you had lived in any regular home, wouldn't you agree?"
‘Do you consider,’ she returned, without answering his question, ‘that a house serves no purpose, Arthur, in sheltering your infirm and afflicted—justly infirm and righteously afflicted—mother?’
‘Do you think,’ she replied, ignoring his question, ‘that a house is useless, Arthur, in providing shelter for your sick and troubled—rightfully sick and justly troubled—mother?’
‘I was speaking only of business purposes.’
‘I was just talking about business.’
‘With what object?’
'What's the purpose?'
‘I am coming to it.’
"I'm on my way."
‘I foresee,’ she returned, fixing her eyes upon him, ‘what it is. But the Lord forbid that I should repine under any visitation. In my sinfulness I merit bitter disappointment, and I accept it.’
“I can see,” she replied, looking him in the eyes, “what it is. But God forbid that I should complain about any hardship. I deserve harsh disappointment because of my sins, and I accept it.”
‘Mother, I grieve to hear you speak like this, though I have had my apprehensions that you would—’
‘Mom, it hurts me to hear you say that, even though I was worried you would—’
‘You knew I would. You knew me,’ she interrupted.
‘You knew I would. You knew me,’ she cut in.
Her son paused for a moment. He had struck fire out of her, and was surprised. ‘Well!’ she said, relapsing into stone. ‘Go on. Let me hear.’
Her son stopped for a moment. He had ignited something in her, and was taken aback. ‘Well!’ she said, going back to being closed off. ‘Go on. I want to hear.’
‘You have anticipated, mother, that I decide for my part, to abandon the business. I have done with it. I will not take upon myself to advise you; you will continue it, I see. If I had any influence with you, I would simply use it to soften your judgment of me in causing you this disappointment: to represent to you that I have lived the half of a long term of life, and have never before set my own will against yours. I cannot say that I have been able to conform myself, in heart and spirit, to your rules; I cannot say that I believe my forty years have been profitable or pleasant to myself, or any one; but I have habitually submitted, and I only ask you to remember it.’
"You've probably guessed, Mom, that I’ve decided to walk away from the business. I’m done with it. I won’t tell you what to do; I see you’ll carry on without me. If I had any sway over you, I’d use it just to ask you to be a little easier on me for letting you down like this: to remind you that I've lived a long time and have never really gone against your wishes before. I can’t say that I’ve fully embraced your rules in my heart and mind; I can’t say that my forty years have been fulfilling or happy for me or anyone else; but I’ve always gone along with it, and I just ask you to keep that in mind."
Woe to the suppliant, if such a one there were or ever had been, who had any concession to look for in the inexorable face at the cabinet. Woe to the defaulter whose appeal lay to the tribunal where those severe eyes presided. Great need had the rigid woman of her mystical religion, veiled in gloom and darkness, with lightnings of cursing, vengeance, and destruction, flashing through the sable clouds. Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors, was a prayer too poor in spirit for her. Smite Thou my debtors, Lord, wither them, crush them; do Thou as I would do, and Thou shalt have my worship: this was the impious tower of stone she built up to scale Heaven.
Woe to the person begging for mercy, if such a person existed or ever did, who expected any kindness from the unyielding face in the office. Woe to the one who owed money and sought help from the court where those harsh eyes watched over. The strict woman desperately needed her gloomy, mystical faith, filled with curses, vengeance, and destruction, striking through the dark clouds. "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors" was a prayer too humble for her. "Strike my debtors, Lord; wither them, crush them; do as I would do, and you'll earn my devotion": this was the blasphemous monument of stone she created to reach Heaven.
‘Have you finished, Arthur, or have you anything more to say to me? I think there can be nothing else. You have been short, but full of matter!’
‘Have you finished, Arthur, or do you have anything else to say to me? I think there’s nothing more. You’ve been brief, but packed with content!’
‘Mother, I have yet something more to say. It has been upon my mind, night and day, this long time. It is far more difficult to say than what I have said. That concerned myself; this concerns us all.’
‘Mom, there's something else I need to say. It's been on my mind, day and night, for a long time. It's much harder to say than what I've already said. That was about me; this is about all of us.’
‘Us all! Who are us all?’
‘All of us! Who are all of us?’
‘Yourself, myself, my dead father.’
'You, me, my dead dad.'
She took her hands from the desk; folded them in her lap; and sat looking towards the fire, with the impenetrability of an old Egyptian sculpture.
She pulled her hands away from the desk, folded them in her lap, and sat staring at the fire, with the same unyielding expression as an ancient Egyptian statue.
‘You knew my father infinitely better than I ever knew him; and his reserve with me yielded to you. You were much the stronger, mother, and directed him. As a child, I knew it as well as I know it now. I knew that your ascendancy over him was the cause of his going to China to take care of the business there, while you took care of it here (though I do not even now know whether these were really terms of separation that you agreed upon); and that it was your will that I should remain with you until I was twenty, and then go to him as I did. You will not be offended by my recalling this, after twenty years?’
‘You knew my father way better than I ever did, and he opened up to you in ways he never did with me. You were stronger, Mom, and you guided him. Even as a kid, I understood that, and I still do now. I realized that your influence over him led to him going to China to handle the business there while you managed things here (though even now I’m not sure if those were actually the terms of separation you both agreed on); and that it was your decision for me to stay with you until I turned twenty and then go to him like I did. You won’t mind me bringing this up after twenty years, will you?’
‘I am waiting to hear why you recall it.’
‘I’m waiting to hear why you remember it.’
He lowered his voice, and said, with manifest reluctance, and against his will:
He lowered his voice and said, clearly hesitant and against his will:
‘I want to ask you, mother, whether it ever occurred to you to suspect—’
‘I want to ask you, Mom, did it ever cross your mind to suspect—’
At the word Suspect, she turned her eyes momentarily upon her son, with a dark frown. She then suffered them to seek the fire, as before; but with the frown fixed above them, as if the sculptor of old Egypt had indented it in the hard granite face, to frown for ages.
At the word "Suspect," she glanced briefly at her son with a grim expression. Then she let her eyes wander to the fire again, but the frown remained above them, as if an ancient Egyptian sculptor had carved it into the hard granite face to frown for eternity.
‘—that he had any secret remembrance which caused him trouble of mind—remorse? Whether you ever observed anything in his conduct suggesting that; or ever spoke to him upon it, or ever heard him hint at such a thing?’
‘—that he had any secret memory that troubled him—remorse? Did you ever notice anything in his behavior that suggested that, or ever talked to him about it, or heard him imply such a thing?’
‘I do not understand what kind of secret remembrance you mean to infer that your father was a prey to,’ she returned, after a silence. ‘You speak so mysteriously.’
‘I don’t get what kind of secret memory you’re suggesting your father had,’ she replied after a pause. ‘You talk so mysteriously.’
‘Is it possible, mother,’ her son leaned forward to be the nearer to her while he whispered it, and laid his hand nervously upon her desk, ‘is it possible, mother, that he had unhappily wronged any one, and made no reparation?’
‘Is it possible, mom,’ her son leaned forward to be closer to her while he whispered, and laid his hand anxiously on her desk, ‘is it possible, mom, that he had unfortunately wronged someone and didn’t make amends?’
Looking at him wrathfully, she bent herself back in her chair to keep him further off, but gave him no reply.
Looking at him angrily, she leaned back in her chair to put more distance between them, but didn't say anything.
‘I am deeply sensible, mother, that if this thought has never at any time flashed upon you, it must seem cruel and unnatural in me, even in this confidence, to breathe it. But I cannot shake it off. Time and change (I have tried both before breaking silence) do nothing to wear it out. Remember, I was with my father. Remember, I saw his face when he gave the watch into my keeping, and struggled to express that he sent it as a token you would understand, to you. Remember, I saw him at the last with the pencil in his failing hand, trying to write some word for you to read, but to which he could give no shape. The more remote and cruel this vague suspicion that I have, the stronger the circumstances that could give it any semblance of probability to me. For Heaven’s sake, let us examine sacredly whether there is any wrong entrusted to us to set right. No one can help towards it, mother, but you.’
“I am very aware, Mom, that if this thought has never crossed your mind, it might seem harsh and unnatural for me to bring it up, even in this moment of honesty. But I can’t shake it. Time and change (I’ve attempted both before breaking my silence) don’t seem to lessen it. Remember, I was with my dad. Remember, I saw his face when he handed over the watch to me, trying to show that he sent it as a sign you would understand, for you. Remember, I saw him at the end with the pencil in his weak hand, struggling to write something for you to read, but he couldn’t give it any form. The more distant and cruel this vague suspicion I have, the stronger the circumstances that give it any semblance of truth for me. For heaven’s sake, let’s seriously consider if there’s any wrong that we need to fix. No one can help with this but you, Mom.”
Still so recoiling in her chair that her overpoised weight moved it, from time to time, a little on its wheels, and gave her the appearance of a phantom of fierce aspect gliding away from him, she interposed her left arm, bent at the elbow with the back of her hand towards her face, between herself and him, and looked at him in a fixed silence.
Still so far back in her chair that her tense weight occasionally shifted it a bit on its wheels, giving her the look of a fierce ghost slipping away from him, she raised her left arm, bent at the elbow with the back of her hand toward her face, between herself and him, and stared at him in silence.
‘In grasping at money and in driving hard bargains—I have begun, and I must speak of such things now, mother—some one may have been grievously deceived, injured, ruined. You were the moving power of all this machinery before my birth; your stronger spirit has been infused into all my father’s dealings for more than two score years. You can set these doubts at rest, I think, if you will really help me to discover the truth. Will you, mother?’
‘In reaching for money and pushing for tough deals—I’ve started to talk about this now, Mom—someone might have been seriously misled, hurt, or destroyed. You were the driving force behind all this before I was born; your stronger spirit has influenced all my father’s business dealings for more than twenty years. I believe you can help clear up these doubts if you truly assist me in uncovering the truth. Will you, Mom?’
He stopped in the hope that she would speak. But her grey hair was not more immovable in its two folds, than were her firm lips.
He paused, hoping she would say something. But her grey hair was just as unyielding in its two folds as her tightly pressed lips.
‘If reparation can be made to any one, if restitution can be made to any one, let us know it and make it. Nay, mother, if within my means, let me make it. I have seen so little happiness come of money; it has brought within my knowledge so little peace to this house, or to any one belonging to it, that it is worth less to me than to another. It can buy me nothing that will not be a reproach and misery to me, if I am haunted by a suspicion that it darkened my father’s last hours with remorse, and that it is not honestly and justly mine.’
'If there's a way to make things right for anyone, if we can give back to anyone, let us know and do it. No, mom, if I can, I want to do it myself. I've seen so little happiness come from money; it has brought hardly any peace to this house or to anyone connected to it, so it means less to me than to others. It can buy me nothing that won't bring me shame and sadness if I'm burdened by the thought that it made my father’s last days filled with regret and that it doesn’t truly belong to me.'
There was a bell-rope hanging on the panelled wall, some two or three yards from the cabinet. By a swift and sudden action of her foot, she drove her wheeled chair rapidly back to it and pulled it violently—still holding her arm up in its shield-like posture, as if he were striking at her, and she warding off the blow.
There was a bell-rope hanging on the paneled wall, a couple of yards from the cabinet. With a quick, sudden movement of her foot, she pushed her wheeled chair back to it and yanked it hard—still keeping her arm up in a protective position, as if he were about to hit her, and she was blocking the strike.
A girl came hurrying in, frightened.
A girl rushed in, looking scared.
‘Send Flintwinch here!’
"Send Flintwinch over!"
In a moment the girl had withdrawn, and the old man stood within the door. ‘What! You’re hammer and tongs, already, you two?’ he said, coolly stroking his face. ‘I thought you would be. I was pretty sure of it.’
In a moment, the girl stepped back, and the old man stood in the doorway. ‘What! You two are already at it, huh?’ he said, calmly rubbing his face. ‘I figured you would be. I was pretty sure of it.’
‘Flintwinch!’ said the mother, ‘look at my son. Look at him!’
‘Flintwinch!’ the mother said, ‘look at my son. Look at him!’
‘Well, I am looking at him,’ said Flintwinch.
‘Well, I am looking at him,’ said Flintwinch.
She stretched out the arm with which she had shielded herself, and as she went on, pointed at the object of her anger.
She stretched out the arm she had used to shield herself and, as she continued, pointed at the source of her anger.
‘In the very hour of his return almost—before the shoe upon his foot is dry—he asperses his father’s memory to his mother! Asks his mother to become, with him, a spy upon his father’s transactions through a lifetime! Has misgivings that the goods of this world which we have painfully got together early and late, with wear and tear and toil and self-denial, are so much plunder; and asks to whom they shall be given up, as reparation and restitution!’
‘Almost immediately upon his return—before the shoes on his feet are even dry—he insults his father's memory to his mother! He asks his mother to join him in spying on his father's actions over a lifetime! He doubts that the things we've worked hard for, with all our effort and sacrifice, are anything but stolen goods; and he questions to whom we should hand them over as compensation and restitution!’
Although she said this raging, she said it in a voice so far from being beyond her control that it was even lower than her usual tone. She also spoke with great distinctness.
Although she said this angrily, her voice was surprisingly calm, even lower than her usual tone. She also spoke very clearly.
‘Reparation!’ said she. ‘Yes, truly! It is easy for him to talk of reparation, fresh from journeying and junketing in foreign lands, and living a life of vanity and pleasure. But let him look at me, in prison, and in bonds here. I endure without murmuring, because it is appointed that I shall so make reparation for my sins. Reparation! Is there none in this room? Has there been none here this fifteen years?’
‘Reparation!’ she said. ‘Yes, really! It's easy for him to talk about reparation, just coming back from his travels and enjoying himself in foreign countries, living a life of vanity and pleasure. But let him look at me, here in prison and in chains. I endure this without complaint, because it's my fate to make reparation for my sins. Reparation! Is there none in this room? Has there been none here for the last fifteen years?’
Thus was she always balancing her bargains with the Majesty of heaven, posting up the entries to her credit, strictly keeping her set-off, and claiming her due. She was only remarkable in this, for the force and emphasis with which she did it. Thousands upon thousands do it, according to their varying manner, every day.
Thus, she was always balancing her deals with the Majesty of heaven, keeping track of her credits, meticulously managing her offsets, and claiming what was rightfully hers. What made her stand out was the intensity and conviction with which she did it. Thousands upon thousands do this in their own ways every day.
‘Flintwinch, give me that book!’
“Flintwinch, hand me that book!”
The old man handed it to her from the table. She put two fingers between the leaves, closed the book upon them, and held it up to her son in a threatening way.
The old man handed it to her from the table. She slipped two fingers between the pages, closed the book on them, and raised it up to her son in a menacing way.
‘In the days of old, Arthur, treated of in this commentary, there were pious men, beloved of the Lord, who would have cursed their sons for less than this: who would have sent them forth, and sent whole nations forth, if such had supported them, to be avoided of God and man, and perish, down to the baby at the breast. But I only tell you that if you ever renew that theme with me, I will renounce you; I will so dismiss you through that doorway, that you had better have been motherless from your cradle. I will never see or know you more. And if, after all, you were to come into this darkened room to look upon me lying dead, my body should bleed, if I could make it, when you came near me.’
‘In ancient times, Arthur, discussed in this commentary, there were devout men, favored by the Lord, who would have cursed their sons for even less than this: who would have sent them out, and sent entire nations out, if those nations had supported them, to be shunned by God and man, and perish, even down to the infant at the breast. But I’m telling you that if you ever bring that topic up with me again, I will cut ties with you; I will dismiss you through that doorway in such a way that you’d have been better off motherless since birth. I will never see or know you again. And if, after all, you were to enter this darkened room to look at me lying dead, my body would bleed, if I could make it happen, when you came near me.’
In part relieved by the intensity of this threat, and in part (monstrous as the fact is) by a general impression that it was in some sort a religious proceeding, she handed back the book to the old man, and was silent.
Partly relieved by the intensity of this threat, and partly (monstrous as it is) by a general feeling that it was some kind of religious ritual, she handed the book back to the old man and stayed quiet.
‘Now,’ said Jeremiah; ‘premising that I’m not going to stand between you two, will you let me ask (as I have been called in, and made a third) what is all this about?’
“Now,” said Jeremiah, “since I’m not going to get in the middle of you two, can I ask (since I’ve been brought in as a third party) what’s going on?”
Original
‘Take your version of it,’ returned Arthur, finding it left to him to speak, ‘from my mother. Let it rest there. What I have said, was said to my mother only.’
"Take your version of it," Arthur replied, realizing he had to speak, "from my mom. Let it stay there. What I said was only meant for her."
‘Oh!’ returned the old man. ‘From your mother? Take it from your mother? Well! But your mother mentioned that you had been suspecting your father. That’s not dutiful, Mr Arthur. Who will you be suspecting next?’
‘Oh!’ replied the old man. ‘From your mother? Taking it from your mother? Well! But your mother said you had been suspecting your father. That’s not respectful, Mr. Arthur. Who will you suspect next?’
‘Enough,’ said Mrs Clennam, turning her face so that it was addressed for the moment to the old man only. ‘Let no more be said about this.’
‘Enough,’ said Mrs. Clennam, turning her face so that it was directed for the moment at the old man only. ‘Let’s not discuss this any further.’
‘Yes, but stop a bit, stop a bit,’ the old man persisted. ‘Let us see how we stand. Have you told Mr Arthur that he mustn’t lay offences at his father’s door? That he has no right to do it? That he has no ground to go upon?’
‘Yes, but hold on a moment, hold on a moment,’ the old man insisted. ‘Let’s assess the situation. Have you informed Mr. Arthur that he shouldn’t blame his father for his troubles? That he has no right to do that? That he has no basis for his claims?’
‘I tell him so now.’
“I’m telling him that now.”
‘Ah! Exactly,’ said the old man. ‘You tell him so now. You hadn’t told him so before, and you tell him so now. Ay, ay! That’s right! You know I stood between you and his father so long, that it seems as if death had made no difference, and I was still standing between you. So I will, and so in fairness I require to have that plainly put forward. Arthur, you please to hear that you have no right to mistrust your father, and have no ground to go upon.’
‘Ah! Exactly,’ said the old man. ‘You tell him that now. You didn’t say it before, and now you’re saying it. Yes, yes! That’s right! You know I stood between you and his father for so long that it feels like death hasn’t changed anything, and I’m still standing between you. So I will, and I insist that this needs to be made clear. Arthur, you should understand that you have no reason to distrust your father and have no basis for it.’
He put his hands to the back of the wheeled chair, and muttering to himself, slowly wheeled his mistress back to her cabinet. ‘Now,’ he resumed, standing behind her: ‘in case I should go away leaving things half done, and so should be wanted again when you come to the other half and get into one of your flights, has Arthur told you what he means to do about the business?’
He placed his hands on the back of the wheelchair and, mumbling to himself, slowly pushed his boss back to her office. "Now," he continued, standing behind her, "just in case I leave things half-finished and you need me again when you tackle the other half and get into one of your moods, has Arthur mentioned what he plans to do about the situation?"
‘He has relinquished it.’
‘He has given it up.’
‘In favour of nobody, I suppose?’
‘In favor of no one, I guess?’
Mrs Clennam glanced at her son, leaning against one of the windows. He observed the look and said, ‘To my mother, of course. She does what she pleases.’
Mrs. Clennam glanced at her son, who was leaning against one of the windows. He noticed her expression and said, “To my mother, obviously. She does what she wants.”
‘And if any pleasure,’ she said after a short pause, ‘could arise for me out of the disappointment of my expectations that my son, in the prime of his life, would infuse new youth and strength into it, and make it of great profit and power, it would be in advancing an old and faithful servant. Jeremiah, the captain deserts the ship, but you and I will sink or float with it.’
‘And if any pleasure,’ she said after a brief pause, ‘could come from my disappointment that my son, in the prime of his life, wouldn’t bring new energy and strength to it, making it profitable and powerful, it would be in rewarding an old and loyal servant. Jeremiah, the captain may abandon the ship, but you and I will rise or fall with it.’
Jeremiah, whose eyes glistened as if they saw money, darted a sudden look at the son, which seemed to say, ‘I owe you no thanks for this; you have done nothing towards it!’ and then told the mother that he thanked her, and that Affery thanked her, and that he would never desert her, and that Affery would never desert her. Finally, he hauled up his watch from its depths, and said, ‘Eleven. Time for your oysters!’ and with that change of subject, which involved no change of expression or manner, rang the bell.
Jeremiah, whose eyes sparkled as if he saw dollar signs, shot a quick glance at his son, which seemed to say, ‘I don't owe you anything for this; you haven't contributed at all!’ He then told the mother that he appreciated her, and that Affery appreciated her, and that he would never abandon her, and that Affery would never abandon her. Finally, he pulled out his watch and said, ‘Eleven. Time for your oysters!’ With that shift in topic, which showed no change in his expression or demeanor, he rang the bell.
But Mrs Clennam, resolved to treat herself with the greater rigour for having been supposed to be unacquainted with reparation, refused to eat her oysters when they were brought. They looked tempting; eight in number, circularly set out on a white plate on a tray covered with a white napkin, flanked by a slice of buttered French roll, and a little compact glass of cool wine and water; but she resisted all persuasions, and sent them down again—placing the act to her credit, no doubt, in her Eternal Day-Book.
But Mrs. Clennam, determined to be harder on herself for being thought to be unaware of the need for atonement, refused to eat her oysters when they were served. They looked inviting; there were eight of them, arranged in a circle on a white plate on a tray covered with a white napkin, alongside a slice of buttered French roll and a small glass of cool wine and water. However, she ignored all encouragement and sent them back—surely noting the act in her Eternal Day-Book for future reference.
This refection of oysters was not presided over by Affery, but by the girl who had appeared when the bell was rung; the same who had been in the dimly-lighted room last night. Now that he had an opportunity of observing her, Arthur found that her diminutive figure, small features, and slight spare dress, gave her the appearance of being much younger than she was. A woman, probably of not less than two-and-twenty, she might have been passed in the street for little more than half that age. Not that her face was very youthful, for in truth there was more consideration and care in it than naturally belonged to her utmost years; but she was so little and light, so noiseless and shy, and appeared so conscious of being out of place among the three hard elders, that she had all the manner and much of the appearance of a subdued child.
This serving of oysters wasn’t managed by Affery, but by the girl who showed up when the bell rang; the same one who had been in the dimly lit room the night before. Now that he had the chance to observe her, Arthur realized that her small figure, delicate features, and lightly worn dress made her look much younger than she actually was. A woman, probably at least twenty-two, she could easily be mistaken for someone barely over half that age on the street. Her face wasn’t particularly youthful, as it showed more thought and care than would typically be expected for someone her age; yet she was so petite and light, so quiet and shy, and seemed so aware of being out of place among the three older, more hardened individuals, that she carried herself like a subdued child.
In a hard way, and in an uncertain way that fluctuated between patronage and putting down, the sprinkling from a watering-pot and hydraulic pressure, Mrs Clennam showed an interest in this dependent. Even in the moment of her entrance, upon the violent ringing of the bell, when the mother shielded herself with that singular action from the son, Mrs Clennam’s eyes had had some individual recognition in them, which seemed reserved for her. As there are degrees of hardness in the hardest metal, and shades of colour in black itself, so, even in the asperity of Mrs Clennam’s demeanour towards all the rest of humanity and towards Little Dorrit, there was a fine gradation.
In a tough and uncertain way that alternated between support and criticism, Mrs. Clennam showed interest in this person who relied on her. Even at the moment she walked in, just as the bell rang violently and the mother instinctively tried to protect herself from her son, Mrs. Clennam's eyes revealed a special recognition that seemed directed solely at her. Just as there are varying degrees of hardness in the toughest metal and shades of color in black itself, there was a subtle distinction even in Mrs. Clennam's stern attitude towards everyone else and towards Little Dorrit.
Little Dorrit let herself out to do needlework. At so much a day—or at so little—from eight to eight, Little Dorrit was to be hired. Punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit appeared; punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit vanished. What became of Little Dorrit between the two eights was a mystery.
Little Dorrit went out to do some sewing. For a certain amount per day—or really, for very little—from eight in the morning to eight in the evening, Little Dorrit was available for hire. Right on time, Little Dorrit showed up; and right on time, she disappeared. What happened to Little Dorrit during those hours was a mystery.
Another of the moral phenomena of Little Dorrit. Besides her consideration money, her daily contract included meals. She had an extraordinary repugnance to dining in company; would never do so, if it were possible to escape. Would always plead that she had this bit of work to begin first, or that bit of work to finish first; and would, of a certainty, scheme and plan—not very cunningly, it would seem, for she deceived no one—to dine alone. Successful in this, happy in carrying off her plate anywhere, to make a table of her lap, or a box, or the ground, or even as was supposed, to stand on tip-toe, dining moderately at a mantel-shelf; the great anxiety of Little Dorrit’s day was set at rest.
Another moral quirk of Little Dorrit. Along with her thoughts about money, her daily routine included meals. She had an intense dislike for dining with others; she would always try to avoid it if she could. She’d claim she had some work to start or finish first, and she would definitely scheme and plan—not very cleverly, it seemed, since she fooled no one—to eat alone. When she succeeded in this, she felt happy carrying her plate anywhere, setting up a table on her lap, or on a box, or on the ground, or even, as it was rumored, standing on tiptoe while dining modestly off a mantel. That was the main worry of Little Dorrit’s day that was set at ease.
It was not easy to make out Little Dorrit’s face; she was so retiring, plied her needle in such removed corners, and started away so scared if encountered on the stairs. But it seemed to be a pale transparent face, quick in expression, though not beautiful in feature, its soft hazel eyes excepted. A delicately bent head, a tiny form, a quick little pair of busy hands, and a shabby dress—it must needs have been very shabby to look at all so, being so neat—were Little Dorrit as she sat at work.
It was hard to see Little Dorrit’s face; she was so shy, worked in such hidden spots, and jumped in surprise if she ran into someone on the stairs. But it looked like a pale, delicate face, full of expression, though not traditionally beautiful—except for her soft hazel eyes. With her gently bent head, small frame, a quick pair of busy hands, and a worn-out dress—it had to be quite shabby to look that way, considering how neat she was—this was Little Dorrit as she sat working.
For these particulars or generalities concerning Little Dorrit, Mr Arthur was indebted in the course of the day to his own eyes and to Mrs Affery’s tongue. If Mrs Affery had had any will or way of her own, it would probably have been unfavourable to Little Dorrit. But as ‘them two clever ones’—Mrs Affery’s perpetual reference, in whom her personality was swallowed up—were agreed to accept Little Dorrit as a matter of course, she had nothing for it but to follow suit. Similarly, if the two clever ones had agreed to murder Little Dorrit by candlelight, Mrs Affery, being required to hold the candle, would no doubt have done it.
For these details or general observations about Little Dorrit, Mr. Arthur relied throughout the day on his own observations and Mrs. Affery’s chatter. If Mrs. Affery had had her own opinions or preferences, they would likely have been negative toward Little Dorrit. However, since “those two clever ones”—Mrs. Affery’s constant reference, which dominated her personality—decided to accept Little Dorrit as normal, she had no choice but to go along with it. Similarly, if the two clever ones had decided to kill Little Dorrit by candlelight, Mrs. Affery, tasked with holding the candle, would surely have gone through with it.
In the intervals of roasting the partridge for the invalid chamber, and preparing a baking-dish of beef and pudding for the dining-room, Mrs Affery made the communications above set forth; invariably putting her head in at the door again after she had taken it out, to enforce resistance to the two clever ones. It appeared to have become a perfect passion with Mrs Flintwinch, that the only son should be pitted against them.
In the gaps between roasting the partridge for the sickroom and getting a baking dish of beef and pudding ready for the dining room, Mrs. Affery shared the updates mentioned above, always poking her head back in the door after she had stepped out to reinforce the need to stand up to the two clever ones. It seemed that Mrs. Flintwinch was completely obsessed with the idea that her only son should be set against them.
In the course of the day, too, Arthur looked through the whole house. Dull and dark he found it. The gaunt rooms, deserted for years upon years, seemed to have settled down into a gloomy lethargy from which nothing could rouse them again. The furniture, at once spare and lumbering, hid in the rooms rather than furnished them, and there was no colour in all the house; such colour as had ever been there, had long ago started away on lost sunbeams—got itself absorbed, perhaps, into flowers, butterflies, plumage of birds, precious stones, what not. There was not one straight floor from the foundation to the roof; the ceilings were so fantastically clouded by smoke and dust, that old women might have told fortunes in them better than in grouts of tea; the dead-cold hearths showed no traces of having ever been warmed but in heaps of soot that had tumbled down the chimneys, and eddied about in little dusky whirlwinds when the doors were opened. In what had once been a drawing-room, there were a pair of meagre mirrors, with dismal processions of black figures carrying black garlands, walking round the frames; but even these were short of heads and legs, and one undertaker-like Cupid had swung round on its own axis and got upside down, and another had fallen off altogether. The room Arthur Clennam’s deceased father had occupied for business purposes, when he first remembered him, was so unaltered that he might have been imagined still to keep it invisibly, as his visible relict kept her room up-stairs; Jeremiah Flintwinch still going between them negotiating.
During the day, Arthur explored the entire house. He found it dull and dark. The empty rooms, abandoned for years, seemed to be stuck in a gloomy lethargy from which nothing could wake them. The furniture, both sparse and bulky, seemed to hide in the rooms rather than actually furnish them, and there was no color anywhere in the house; any color that had ever existed had long ago faded away, perhaps absorbed by flowers, butterflies, birds’ plumage, gemstones, and the like. Not a single floor was straight from the foundation to the roof; the ceilings were so obscured by smoke and dust that old women could have predicted fortunes in them better than in tea leaves; the cold hearths showed no signs of ever being warmed, only piles of soot that had fallen from the chimneys and swirled into little dusty whirlwinds when the doors were opened. In what used to be a drawing-room, there were a pair of thin mirrors, featuring gloomy processions of black figures carrying black garlands, marching around the frames; but even these were missing heads and legs, and one undertaker-like Cupid had turned around on its axis and ended up upside down, while another had completely fallen off. The room that Arthur Clennam’s late father had used for business when Arthur first remembered him was so unchanged that it felt as though he could still be occupying it invisibly, just as his visible widow maintained her room upstairs; with Jeremiah Flintwinch still going back and forth between them to negotiate.
Original
His picture, dark and gloomy, earnestly speechless on the wall, with the eyes intently looking at his son as they had looked when life departed from them, seemed to urge him awfully to the task he had attempted; but as to any yielding on the part of his mother, he had now no hope, and as to any other means of setting his distrust at rest, he had abandoned hope a long time. Down in the cellars, as up in the bed-chambers, old objects that he well remembered were changed by age and decay, but were still in their old places; even to empty beer-casks hoary with cobwebs, and empty wine-bottles with fur and fungus choking up their throats. There, too, among unusual bottle-racks and pale slants of light from the yard above, was the strong room stored with old ledgers, which had as musty and corrupt a smell as if they were regularly balanced, in the dead small hours, by a nightly resurrection of old book-keepers.
His picture, dark and gloomy, silently hung on the wall, with eyes fixed on his son as they had been when life left them, seemed to hauntingly urge him toward the task he had taken on; but he had no hope for any change on his mother’s part, and he had long since given up on finding any other way to ease his distrust. Down in the cellars, just like in the bedrooms, old items he remembered well had changed with age and decay but remained in their usual spots; even empty beer kegs covered in cobwebs and empty wine bottles with mold choking their openings. There, too, among unusual bottle racks and pale shafts of light from the yard above, was the strong room filled with old ledgers, which smelled just as musty and rotten as if they were regularly balanced during the dead of night by a nightly resurrection of old bookkeepers.
The baking-dish was served up in a penitential manner on a shrunken cloth at an end of the dining-table, at two o’clock, when he dined with Mr Flintwinch, the new partner. Mr Flintwinch informed him that his mother had recovered her equanimity now, and that he need not fear her again alluding to what had passed in the morning. ‘And don’t you lay offences at your father’s door, Mr Arthur,’ added Jeremiah, ‘once for all, don’t do it! Now, we have done with the subject.’
The baking dish was brought to the table in a solemn way on a wrinkled cloth at one end of the dining table, at two o’clock, when he had lunch with Mr. Flintwinch, the new partner. Mr. Flintwinch let him know that his mother had calmed down now, and that he didn’t have to worry about her bringing up what happened in the morning again. “And don’t blame your father for anything, Mr. Arthur,” Jeremiah added, “just don’t do it! Now, we’re done with this topic.”
Mr Flintwinch had been already rearranging and dusting his own particular little office, as if to do honour to his accession to new dignity. He resumed this occupation when he was replete with beef, had sucked up all the gravy in the baking-dish with the flat of his knife, and had drawn liberally on a barrel of small beer in the scullery. Thus refreshed, he tucked up his shirt-sleeves and went to work again; and Mr Arthur, watching him as he set about it, plainly saw that his father’s picture, or his father’s grave, would be as communicative with him as this old man.
Mr. Flintwinch had already started rearranging and dusting his own little office, as if to celebrate his new status. He went back to this task after he was full from the beef, had soaked up all the gravy in the baking dish with the flat side of his knife, and had generously helped himself to a barrel of small beer in the scullery. Feeling refreshed, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and got back to work; and Mr. Arthur, watching him, could clearly see that his father's portrait or his father's grave would be just as talkative as this old man.
‘Now, Affery, woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch, as she crossed the hall. ‘You hadn’t made Mr Arthur’s bed when I was up there last. Stir yourself. Bustle.’
‘Now, Affery, woman,’ said Mr. Flintwinch, as she crossed the hall. ‘You hadn’t made Mr. Arthur’s bed when I was up there last. Get moving. Hurry up.’
But Mr Arthur found the house so blank and dreary, and was so unwilling to assist at another implacable consignment of his mother’s enemies (perhaps himself among them) to mortal disfigurement and immortal ruin, that he announced his intention of lodging at the coffee-house where he had left his luggage. Mr Flintwinch taking kindly to the idea of getting rid of him, and his mother being indifferent, beyond considerations of saving, to most domestic arrangements that were not bounded by the walls of her own chamber, he easily carried this point without new offence. Daily business hours were agreed upon, which his mother, Mr Flintwinch, and he, were to devote together to a necessary checking of books and papers; and he left the home he had so lately found, with depressed heart.
But Mr. Arthur found the house to be so empty and gloomy, and he was so reluctant to be part of yet another harsh punishment for his mother’s enemies (possibly including himself) that he decided to stay at the coffee house where he had left his luggage. Mr. Flintwinch was happy with the idea of getting rid of him, and his mother didn’t care much about domestic matters that didn’t affect her own room, so this plan was easily accepted without causing any further problems. They agreed on daily business hours when his mother, Mr. Flintwinch, and he would work together to sort through books and papers that needed attention, and he left the home he had just recently found, feeling very disheartened.
But Little Dorrit?
But Little Dorrit?
The business hours, allowing for intervals of invalid regimen of oysters and partridges, during which Clennam refreshed himself with a walk, were from ten to six for about a fortnight. Sometimes Little Dorrit was employed at her needle, sometimes not, sometimes appeared as a humble visitor: which must have been her character on the occasion of his arrival. His original curiosity augmented every day, as he watched for her, saw or did not see her, and speculated about her. Influenced by his predominant idea, he even fell into a habit of discussing with himself the possibility of her being in some way associated with it. At last he resolved to watch Little Dorrit and know more of her story.
The business hours, allowing for breaks when oysters and partridges weren’t in season, during which Clennam took a refreshing walk, were from ten to six for about two weeks. Sometimes Little Dorrit was busy with her sewing, sometimes she wasn’t, and sometimes she showed up as a quiet visitor: that must have been her role when he first arrived. His initial curiosity grew every day as he waited for her, noticed whether she was there or not, and wondered about her. Driven by this prevailing thought, he even started to think about the possibility of her being connected to it in some way. Finally, he decided to keep an eye on Little Dorrit to learn more about her story.
CHAPTER 6. The Father of the Marshalsea
Thirty years ago there stood, a few doors short of the church of Saint George, in the borough of Southwark, on the left-hand side of the way going southward, the Marshalsea Prison. It had stood there many years before, and it remained there some years afterwards; but it is gone now, and the world is none the worse without it.
Thirty years ago, just a few doors down from the church of Saint George, on the left side of the road heading south in Southwark, was the Marshalsea Prison. It had been there for many years and stayed for a while after that, but it's gone now, and the world is better off without it.
It was an oblong pile of barrack building, partitioned into squalid houses standing back to back, so that there were no back rooms; environed by a narrow paved yard, hemmed in by high walls duly spiked at top. Itself a close and confined prison for debtors, it contained within it a much closer and more confined jail for smugglers. Offenders against the revenue laws, and defaulters to excise or customs who had incurred fines which they were unable to pay, were supposed to be incarcerated behind an iron-plated door closing up a second prison, consisting of a strong cell or two, and a blind alley some yard and a half wide, which formed the mysterious termination of the very limited skittle-ground in which the Marshalsea debtors bowled down their troubles.
It was a long, rectangular barracks, divided into run-down houses that were built back to back, leaving no rear rooms; surrounded by a narrow paved yard, enclosed by tall walls topped with spikes. It served as a tight and cramped prison for debtors, but inside, there was an even tighter and more confined jail for smugglers. Those who broke revenue laws and owed fines they couldn't pay were meant to be locked away behind an iron-plated door leading to a second prison, which consisted of a strong cell or two and a dead-end alley about a yard and a half wide, marking the mysterious end of the very small area where the Marshalsea debtors tried to bowl away their troubles.
Supposed to be incarcerated there, because the time had rather outgrown the strong cells and the blind alley. In practice they had come to be considered a little too bad, though in theory they were quite as good as ever; which may be observed to be the case at the present day with other cells that are not at all strong, and with other blind alleys that are stone-blind. Hence the smugglers habitually consorted with the debtors (who received them with open arms), except at certain constitutional moments when somebody came from some Office, to go through some form of overlooking something which neither he nor anybody else knew anything about. On these truly British occasions, the smugglers, if any, made a feint of walking into the strong cells and the blind alley, while this somebody pretended to do his something: and made a reality of walking out again as soon as he hadn’t done it—neatly epitomising the administration of most of the public affairs in our right little, tight little, island.
Supposed to be locked up there, since the time had really surpassed the strong cells and the blind alley. In reality, they were seen as a little too rough, although in theory they were just as good as ever; which can be observed today with other cells that are not very strong, and with other blind alleys that are completely blind. So, the smugglers usually hung out with the debtors (who welcomed them with open arms), except during certain official moments when someone came from some office to conduct some form of inspection that neither he nor anyone else knew anything about. During these very British moments, the smugglers, if any were around, pretended to walk into the strong cells and the blind alley, while this someone pretended to be doing his job: and then made a show of walking out again as soon as he hadn’t done it—perfectly summarizing the management of most public affairs in our tightly-knit little island.
There had been taken to the Marshalsea Prison, long before the day when the sun shone on Marseilles and on the opening of this narrative, a debtor with whom this narrative has some concern.
There had been taken to the Marshalsea Prison, long before the day when the sun shone on Marseilles and on the beginning of this story, a debtor who is connected to this story.
He was, at that time, a very amiable and very helpless middle-aged gentleman, who was going out again directly. Necessarily, he was going out again directly, because the Marshalsea lock never turned upon a debtor who was not. He brought in a portmanteau with him, which he doubted its being worth while to unpack; he was so perfectly clear—like all the rest of them, the turnkey on the lock said—that he was going out again directly.
He was, at that moment, a very friendly and quite helpless middle-aged man, who was about to go out again right away. He had to go out again immediately, because the Marshalsea lock never opened for a debtor who wasn't. He brought in a suitcase with him, which he wasn't sure was worth unpacking; he was completely convinced—like all the others, the lock's keeper said—that he was going out again right away.
He was a shy, retiring man; well-looking, though in an effeminate style; with a mild voice, curling hair, and irresolute hands—rings upon the fingers in those days—which nervously wandered to his trembling lip a hundred times in the first half-hour of his acquaintance with the jail. His principal anxiety was about his wife.
He was a shy, reserved guy; good-looking, but in a delicate way; with a gentle voice, wavy hair, and unsteady hands—wearing rings on his fingers back then—which nervously moved to his quivering lip a hundred times in the first half-hour of his time at the jail. His main worry was about his wife.
‘Do you think, sir,’ he asked the turnkey, ‘that she will be very much shocked, if she should come to the gate to-morrow morning?’
‘Do you think, sir,’ he asked the guard, ‘that she will be very shocked if she comes to the gate tomorrow morning?’
The turnkey gave it as the result of his experience that some of ‘em was and some of ‘em wasn’t. In general, more no than yes. ‘What like is she, you see?’ he philosophically asked: ‘that’s what it hinges on.’
The handyman shared from his experience that some of them were and some of them weren’t. Overall, more no than yes. “What’s she like, you know?” he asked thoughtfully, “that’s what it comes down to.”
‘She is very delicate and inexperienced indeed.’
‘She is very fragile and inexperienced, for sure.’
‘That,’ said the turnkey, ‘is agen her.’
‘That,’ said the jailer, ‘is her again.’
‘She is so little used to go out alone,’ said the debtor, ‘that I am at a loss to think how she will ever make her way here, if she walks.’
'She's so not used to going out alone,' said the debtor, 'that I'm not sure how she'll ever find her way here if she walks.'
‘P’raps,’ quoth the turnkey, ‘she’ll take a ackney coach.’
“Maybe,” said the jailer, “she’ll take a hackney coach.”
‘Perhaps.’ The irresolute fingers went to the trembling lip. ‘I hope she will. She may not think of it.’
‘Maybe.’ The uncertain fingers moved to the trembling lip. ‘I hope she will. She might not consider it.’
‘Or p’raps,’ said the turnkey, offering his suggestions from the the top of his well-worn wooden stool, as he might have offered them to a child for whose weakness he felt a compassion, ‘p’raps she’ll get her brother, or her sister, to come along with her.’
‘Or maybe,’ said the jailer, suggesting from the top of his old wooden stool, as if he were talking to a child he felt sorry for, ‘maybe she’ll get her brother or sister to come with her.’
‘She has no brother or sister.’
"She has no brothers or sisters."
‘Niece, nevy, cousin, serwant, young ‘ooman, greengrocer.—Dash it! One or another on ‘em,’ said the turnkey, repudiating beforehand the refusal of all his suggestions.
‘Niece, nephew, cousin, servant, young woman, greengrocer.—Darn it! One or another of them,’ said the jailer, dismissing in advance the rejection of all his ideas.
‘I fear—I hope it is not against the rules—that she will bring the children.’
‘I’m worried—I hope this isn’t against the rules—that she will bring the kids.’
‘The children?’ said the turnkey. ‘And the rules? Why, lord set you up like a corner pin, we’ve a reg’lar playground o’ children here. Children! Why we swarm with ‘em. How many a you got?’
‘The kids?’ said the jailer. ‘And the rules? Goodness, we’ve got a regular playground full of kids here. Kids! We're overflowing with them. How many do you have?’
‘Two,’ said the debtor, lifting his irresolute hand to his lip again, and turning into the prison.
‘Two,’ said the debtor, hesitatingly lifting his hand to his lips again and turning into the prison.
The turnkey followed him with his eyes. ‘And you another,’ he observed to himself, ‘which makes three on you. And your wife another, I’ll lay a crown. Which makes four on you. And another coming, I’ll lay half-a-crown. Which’ll make five on you. And I’ll go another seven and sixpence to name which is the helplessest, the unborn baby or you!’
The doorman watched him closely. “And you’re another,” he thought to himself, “which makes three of you. And your wife is another, I bet a crown. That makes four of you. And there’s another coming, I’ll bet half a crown. That’ll make five. And I’ll wager another seven and sixpence to decide who’s more helpless, the unborn baby or you!”
He was right in all his particulars. She came next day with a little boy of three years old, and a little girl of two, and he stood entirely corroborated.
He was right about everything. She came the next day with a three-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl, and he was completely validated.
‘Got a room now; haven’t you?’ the turnkey asked the debtor after a week or two.
‘You have a room now, don’t you?’ the jailer asked the debtor after a week or two.
‘Yes, I have got a very good room.’
‘Yes, I have a really nice room.’
‘Any little sticks a coming to furnish it?’ said the turnkey.
‘Are any little sticks coming to provide it?’ said the turnkey.
‘I expect a few necessary articles of furniture to be delivered by the carrier, this afternoon.’
'I expect a few essential pieces of furniture to be delivered by the carrier this afternoon.'
‘Missis and little ‘uns a coming to keep you company?’ asked the turnkey.
"Are the missus and the little ones coming to keep you company?" asked the jailer.
‘Why, yes, we think it better that we should not be scattered, even for a few weeks.’
‘Yeah, we think it’s better if we don’t get separated, even for a few weeks.’
‘Even for a few weeks, of course,’ replied the turnkey. And he followed him again with his eyes, and nodded his head seven times when he was gone.
‘Even for a few weeks, of course,’ replied the jailer. And he watched him leave, nodding his head seven times after he was gone.
The affairs of this debtor were perplexed by a partnership, of which he knew no more than that he had invested money in it; by legal matters of assignment and settlement, conveyance here and conveyance there, suspicion of unlawful preference of creditors in this direction, and of mysterious spiriting away of property in that; and as nobody on the face of the earth could be more incapable of explaining any single item in the heap of confusion than the debtor himself, nothing comprehensible could be made of his case. To question him in detail, and endeavour to reconcile his answers; to closet him with accountants and sharp practitioners, learned in the wiles of insolvency and bankruptcy; was only to put the case out at compound interest and incomprehensibility. The irresolute fingers fluttered more and more ineffectually about the trembling lip on every such occasion, and the sharpest practitioners gave him up as a hopeless job.
The debtor's situation was complicated by a partnership he barely understood, knowing only that he had put money into it; he faced legal issues involving assignments and settlements, transfers here and transfers there, suspicions of unfairly favoring creditors in one direction, and a mysterious disappearance of assets in another. Since no one in the world was more incapable of explaining any part of this chaotic mess than the debtor himself, his case made no sense at all. Questioning him in detail and trying to make sense of his answers, or putting him in a room with accountants and sharp lawyers experienced in insolvency and bankruptcy, only multiplied the confusion and complexity. Each time, his shaky hands would flutter more and more aimlessly around his quivering lips, and the most skilled lawyers eventually gave up on him as a lost cause.
‘Out?’ said the turnkey, ‘he’ll never get out, unless his creditors take him by the shoulders and shove him out.’
‘Out?’ said the guard, ‘he’ll never get out, unless his creditors grab him by the shoulders and push him out.’
He had been there five or six months, when he came running to this turnkey one forenoon to tell him, breathless and pale, that his wife was ill.
He had been there for five or six months when he ran to the guard one morning, breathless and pale, to tell him that his wife was sick.
‘As anybody might a known she would be,’ said the turnkey.
‘As anyone might have known she would be,’ said the guard.
‘We intended,’ he returned, ‘that she should go to a country lodging only to-morrow. What am I to do! Oh, good heaven, what am I to do!’
‘We planned,’ he replied, ‘for her to go to a country house tomorrow. What should I do! Oh, good heavens, what should I do!’
‘Don’t waste your time in clasping your hands and biting your fingers,’ responded the practical turnkey, taking him by the elbow, ‘but come along with me.’
“Don’t waste your time folding your hands and biting your nails,” replied the practical turnkey, grabbing him by the elbow. “Just come with me.”
The turnkey conducted him—trembling from head to foot, and constantly crying under his breath, What was he to do! while his irresolute fingers bedabbled the tears upon his face—up one of the common staircases in the prison to a door on the garret story. Upon which door the turnkey knocked with the handle of his key.
The guard led him—shaking all over and quietly muttering, What am I going to do! as his unsure fingers smudged the tears on his face—up one of the regular stairways in the prison to a door on the top floor. The guard then knocked on that door with the end of his key.
‘Come in!’ cried a voice inside.
‘Come in!’ shouted a voice from inside.
The turnkey, opening the door, disclosed in a wretched, ill-smelling little room, two hoarse, puffy, red-faced personages seated at a rickety table, playing at all-fours, smoking pipes, and drinking brandy.
The custodian, opening the door, revealed a shabby, foul-smelling little room, where two hoarse, puffy, red-faced individuals were sitting at a wobbly table, playing cards, smoking pipes, and drinking brandy.
‘Doctor,’ said the turnkey, ‘here’s a gentleman’s wife in want of you without a minute’s loss of time!’
‘Doctor,’ said the guard, ‘there’s a gentleman’s wife who needs you right away!’
The doctor’s friend was in the positive degree of hoarseness, puffiness, red-facedness, all-fours, tobacco, dirt, and brandy; the doctor in the comparative—hoarser, puffier, more red-faced, more all-fourey, tobaccoer, dirtier, and brandier. The doctor was amazingly shabby, in a torn and darned rough-weather sea-jacket, out at elbows and eminently short of buttons (he had been in his time the experienced surgeon carried by a passenger ship), the dirtiest white trousers conceivable by mortal man, carpet slippers, and no visible linen. ‘Childbed?’ said the doctor. ‘I’m the boy!’ With that the doctor took a comb from the chimney-piece and stuck his hair upright—which appeared to be his way of washing himself—produced a professional chest or case, of most abject appearance, from the cupboard where his cup and saucer and coals were, settled his chin in the frowsy wrapper round his neck, and became a ghastly medical scarecrow.
The doctor’s friend was really hoarse, puffy, red-faced, and a total mess, reeking of tobacco and dirt, and had clearly been drinking brandy; the doctor was even worse—hoarser, puffier, more red-faced, more of a mess, more tobacco-stained, dirtier, and way more drunk. The doctor looked shockingly shabby, wearing a torn and patched-up sea jacket that had seen better days, with frayed sleeves and missing buttons (he had once been an experienced surgeon on a passenger ship), the dirtiest white trousers anyone could imagine, carpet slippers, and no clean clothes in sight. ‘Childbed?’ said the doctor. ‘I’m the man for that!’ With that, he took a comb from the mantelpiece and stuck his hair up—his way of cleaning himself—pulled out a very shabby-looking medical kit from the cupboard where his cup and saucer and coals were, adjusted the scruffy scarf around his neck, and turned into a ghastly medical scarecrow.
The doctor and the debtor ran down-stairs, leaving the turnkey to return to the lock, and made for the debtor’s room. All the ladies in the prison had got hold of the news, and were in the yard. Some of them had already taken possession of the two children, and were hospitably carrying them off; others were offering loans of little comforts from their own scanty store; others were sympathising with the greatest volubility. The gentlemen prisoners, feeling themselves at a disadvantage, had for the most part retired, not to say sneaked, to their rooms; from the open windows of which some of them now complimented the doctor with whistles as he passed below, while others, with several stories between them, interchanged sarcastic references to the prevalent excitement.
The doctor and the debtor rushed down the stairs, leaving the guard to go back to the lock, and headed for the debtor’s room. All the women in the prison had heard the news and gathered in the yard. Some of them had already taken the two children and were kindly carrying them away; others were offering to lend small comforts from their meager supplies; and some were expressing their sympathy with a lot of chatter. The male prisoners, feeling out of place, had mostly retreated, if not sneaked, back to their rooms; from the open windows, some of them whistled compliments to the doctor as he passed by, while others, separated by several stories, shared sarcastic comments about the ongoing excitement.
It was a hot summer day, and the prison rooms were baking between the high walls. In the debtor’s confined chamber, Mrs Bangham, charwoman and messenger, who was not a prisoner (though she had been once), but was the popular medium of communication with the outer world, had volunteered her services as fly-catcher and general attendant. The walls and ceiling were blackened with flies. Mrs Bangham, expert in sudden device, with one hand fanned the patient with a cabbage leaf, and with the other set traps of vinegar and sugar in gallipots; at the same time enunciating sentiments of an encouraging and congratulatory nature, adapted to the occasion.
It was a hot summer day, and the prison cells were sweltering between the tall walls. In the debtor's small room, Mrs. Bangham, a cleaner and messenger, who wasn't a prisoner (though she had been at one point), but was the go-to person for communication with the outside world, had offered her help as a fly-catcher and general helper. The walls and ceiling were covered in flies. Mrs. Bangham, resourceful in a pinch, fanned the inmate with a cabbage leaf in one hand and set out traps of vinegar and sugar in jars with the other; meanwhile, she was expressing encouraging and congratulatory sentiments suited to the situation.
‘The flies trouble you, don’t they, my dear?’ said Mrs Bangham. ‘But p’raps they’ll take your mind off of it, and do you good. What between the buryin ground, the grocer’s, the waggon-stables, and the paunch trade, the Marshalsea flies gets very large. P’raps they’re sent as a consolation, if we only know’d it. How are you now, my dear? No better? No, my dear, it ain’t to be expected; you’ll be worse before you’re better, and you know it, don’t you? Yes. That’s right! And to think of a sweet little cherub being born inside the lock! Now ain’t it pretty, ain’t that something to carry you through it pleasant? Why, we ain’t had such a thing happen here, my dear, not for I couldn’t name the time when. And you a crying too?’ said Mrs Bangham, to rally the patient more and more. ‘You! Making yourself so famous! With the flies a falling into the gallipots by fifties! And everything a going on so well! And here if there ain’t,’ said Mrs Bangham as the door opened, ‘if there ain’t your dear gentleman along with Dr Haggage! And now indeed we are complete, I think!’
"The flies are bothering you, aren’t they, my dear?" said Mrs. Bangham. "But maybe they'll help take your mind off things and do you some good. With the graveyard, the grocery store, the wagon stables, and the butchering, the Marshalsea flies get pretty big. Maybe they're sent as some kind of comfort, if we only knew it. How are you feeling now, my dear? Not any better? No, darling, that's not surprising; you’ll feel worse before you feel better, and you know that, right? Yes. Exactly! And to think of a sweet little cherub being born right in the lock! Isn’t that lovely, isn’t that something to help you get through this? We haven’t had anything like this happen here, my dear, I can’t even remember when. And you’re crying too?" said Mrs. Bangham, trying to cheer the patient up even more. "You! Making quite the scene! With the flies dropping into the jars by the dozens! And everything going so well! And look, there’s your dear gentleman along with Dr. Haggage! Now we truly are complete, I think!"
The doctor was scarcely the kind of apparition to inspire a patient with a sense of absolute completeness, but as he presently delivered the opinion, ‘We are as right as we can be, Mrs Bangham, and we shall come out of this like a house afire;’ and as he and Mrs Bangham took possession of the poor helpless pair, as everybody else and anybody else had always done, the means at hand were as good on the whole as better would have been. The special feature in Dr Haggage’s treatment of the case, was his determination to keep Mrs Bangham up to the mark. As thus:
The doctor wasn’t exactly the kind of person to make a patient feel totally secure, but when he confidently stated, “We’re as good as we can be, Mrs. Bangham, and we’ll get through this like a breeze,” and as he and Mrs. Bangham took charge of the poor, helpless couple, just like everyone else always had, the resources available were as good as anything could have been. The unique aspect of Dr. Haggage’s approach to the case was his commitment to keeping Mrs. Bangham on track. Here’s how:
‘Mrs Bangham,’ said the doctor, before he had been there twenty minutes, ‘go outside and fetch a little brandy, or we shall have you giving in.’
‘Mrs. Bangham,’ said the doctor, before he had been there twenty minutes, ‘go outside and get some brandy, or you'll end up collapsing.’
‘Thank you, sir. But none on my accounts,’ said Mrs Bangham.
“Thank you, sir. But nothing on my accounts,” said Mrs. Bangham.
‘Mrs Bangham,’ returned the doctor, ‘I am in professional attendance on this lady, and don’t choose to allow any discussion on your part. Go outside and fetch a little brandy, or I foresee that you’ll break down.’
‘Mrs. Bangham,’ the doctor replied, ‘I’m here to care for this lady and I won’t allow any discussion from you. Please go outside and get some brandy, or I can see you’ll start to lose it.’
‘You’re to be obeyed, sir,’ said Mrs Bangham, rising. ‘If you was to put your own lips to it, I think you wouldn’t be the worse, for you look but poorly, sir.’
‘You need to be obeyed, sir,’ said Mrs. Bangham, standing up. ‘If you were to put your own lips to it, I think you wouldn’t be worse off, because you look quite unwell, sir.’
‘Mrs Bangham,’ returned the doctor, ‘I am not your business, thank you, but you are mine. Never you mind me, if you please. What you have got to do, is, to do as you are told, and to go and get what I bid you.’
‘Mrs. Bangham,’ the doctor replied, ‘I’m not your concern, thanks, but you are mine. Don’t worry about me, if you don’t mind. What you need to do is follow my instructions and go get what I asked for.’
Mrs Bangham submitted; and the doctor, having administered her potion, took his own. He repeated the treatment every hour, being very determined with Mrs Bangham. Three or four hours passed; the flies fell into the traps by hundreds; and at length one little life, hardly stronger than theirs, appeared among the multitude of lesser deaths.
Mrs. Bangham complied, and the doctor, after giving her the potion, took his own. He repeated the treatment every hour, being very firm with Mrs. Bangham. Three or four hours went by; the flies fell into the traps by the hundreds; and finally, one tiny life, barely stronger than theirs, emerged among the many smaller deaths.
‘A very nice little girl indeed,’ said the doctor; ‘little, but well-formed. Halloa, Mrs Bangham! You’re looking queer! You be off, ma’am, this minute, and fetch a little more brandy, or we shall have you in hysterics.’
"A really nice little girl, for sure," said the doctor; "small, but well-formed. Hey there, Mrs. Bangham! You look a bit off! You should go right now and get some more brandy, or we’ll have you in hysterics."
By this time, the rings had begun to fall from the debtor’s irresolute hands, like leaves from a wintry tree. Not one was left upon them that night, when he put something that chinked into the doctor’s greasy palm. In the meantime Mrs Bangham had been out on an errand to a neighbouring establishment decorated with three golden balls, where she was very well known.
By this time, the rings had started to slip from the debtor’s unsteady hands, like leaves from a bare tree in winter. Not a single one remained on them that night when he placed something that jingled into the doctor’s greasy palm. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bangham had been out running an errand to a nearby shop adorned with three golden balls, where she was quite well-known.
‘Thank you,’ said the doctor, ‘thank you. Your good lady is quite composed. Doing charmingly.’
"Thank you," said the doctor, "thank you. Your wife is very calm. She's doing wonderfully."
‘I am very happy and very thankful to know it,’ said the debtor, ‘though I little thought once, that—’
‘I’m really happy and grateful to know it,’ said the debtor, ‘even though I never thought once that—’
‘That a child would be born to you in a place like this?’ said the doctor. ‘Bah, bah, sir, what does it signify? A little more elbow-room is all we want here. We are quiet here; we don’t get badgered here; there’s no knocker here, sir, to be hammered at by creditors and bring a man’s heart into his mouth. Nobody comes here to ask if a man’s at home, and to say he’ll stand on the door mat till he is. Nobody writes threatening letters about money to this place. It’s freedom, sir, it’s freedom! I have had to-day’s practice at home and abroad, on a march, and aboard ship, and I’ll tell you this: I don’t know that I have ever pursued it under such quiet circumstances as here this day. Elsewhere, people are restless, worried, hurried about, anxious respecting one thing, anxious respecting another. Nothing of the kind here, sir. We have done all that—we know the worst of it; we have got to the bottom, we can’t fall, and what have we found? Peace. That’s the word for it. Peace.’ With this profession of faith, the doctor, who was an old jail-bird, and was more sodden than usual, and had the additional and unusual stimulus of money in his pocket, returned to his associate and chum in hoarseness, puffiness, red-facedness, all-fours, tobacco, dirt, and brandy.
"‘You really think a child would be born to you in a place like this?’ asked the doctor. ‘Come on, what does it matter? All we need is a little more space here. We’re peaceful, we don’t get bothered here; there’s no one knocking at the door, harassing us for money and making our hearts race. Nobody comes here to ask if someone’s home and then just stands on the doormat waiting. No one sends threatening letters about money to this place. It’s freedom, pure freedom! I’ve been practicing today—at home and abroad, on the march, and on a ship—and I’ll tell you this: I’ve never had such a peaceful experience as I have today right here. Everywhere else, people are restless, stressed, rushing about, worried about one thing or another. Not here, not at all. We’ve been through it all—we know the worst; we’ve hit rock bottom, we can’t go any lower, and what have we found? Peace. That’s what it is. Peace.’ With this declaration, the doctor, who was a seasoned ex-convict and was feeling more washed out than usual, with the added unusual boost of money in his pocket, went back to his partner in weariness, puffiness, redness, grime, tobacco, and booze."
Now, the debtor was a very different man from the doctor, but he had already begun to travel, by his opposite segment of the circle, to the same point. Crushed at first by his imprisonment, he had soon found a dull relief in it. He was under lock and key; but the lock and key that kept him in, kept numbers of his troubles out. If he had been a man with strength of purpose to face those troubles and fight them, he might have broken the net that held him, or broken his heart; but being what he was, he languidly slipped into this smooth descent, and never more took one step upward.
Now, the debtor was a very different man from the doctor, but he had already started traveling, in his opposite direction, towards the same destination. Initially crushed by his imprisonment, he soon found a dull comfort in it. He was locked away; however, the lock and key that kept him in also kept many of his problems out. If he had been someone with the determination to face those issues and fight back, he might have broken free from the trap that held him, or he might have shattered his spirit; but being who he was, he lazily slipped into this smooth decline and never took another step upward.
When he was relieved of the perplexed affairs that nothing would make plain, through having them returned upon his hands by a dozen agents in succession who could make neither beginning, middle, nor end of them or him, he found his miserable place of refuge a quieter refuge than it had been before. He had unpacked the portmanteau long ago; and his elder children now played regularly about the yard, and everybody knew the baby, and claimed a kind of proprietorship in her.
When he was freed from the complicated issues that no one could clarify, after a dozen agents had passed them back to him without finding any sense in them or in him, he found his dismal hideout quieter than it had been before. He had unpacked the suitcase a while ago, and his older kids now played around the yard regularly, and everyone knew the baby and felt a sense of ownership over her.
‘Why, I’m getting proud of you,’ said his friend the turnkey, one day. ‘You’ll be the oldest inhabitant soon. The Marshalsea wouldn’t be like the Marshalsea now, without you and your family.’
‘Why, I’m becoming proud of you,’ said his friend the jailer one day. ‘You’ll soon be the oldest resident. The Marshalsea wouldn’t feel like the Marshalsea now, without you and your family.’
The turnkey really was proud of him. He would mention him in laudatory terms to new-comers, when his back was turned. ‘You took notice of him,’ he would say, ‘that went out of the lodge just now?’
The doorman was really proud of him. He would talk about him in glowing terms to newcomers when he thought no one was listening. “Did you notice him?” he would say, “the one who just left the lodge?”
New-comer would probably answer Yes.
Newcomer would probably answer yes.
‘Brought up as a gentleman, he was, if ever a man was. Ed’cated at no end of expense. Went into the Marshal’s house once to try a new piano for him. Played it, I understand, like one o’clock—beautiful! As to languages—speaks anything. We’ve had a Frenchman here in his time, and it’s my opinion he knowed more French than the Frenchman did. We’ve had an Italian here in his time, and he shut him up in about half a minute. You’ll find some characters behind other locks, I don’t say you won’t; but if you want the top sawyer in such respects as I’ve mentioned, you must come to the Marshalsea.’
‘He was raised like a true gentleman, if anyone ever was. Educated without limit. He once went into the Marshal’s house to try out a new piano for him. Played it, I hear, amazingly—absolutely beautiful! As for languages—he can speak just about anything. We had a Frenchman here once, and I believe he knew more French than the Frenchman did. We also had an Italian here, and he silenced him in no time. You might find some interesting characters behind other doors, I’m not saying you won’t; but if you want the best in those respects I've mentioned, you have to come to the Marshalsea.’
When his youngest child was eight years old, his wife, who had long been languishing away—of her own inherent weakness, not that she retained any greater sensitiveness as to her place of abode than he did—went upon a visit to a poor friend and old nurse in the country, and died there. He remained shut up in his room for a fortnight afterwards; and an attorney’s clerk, who was going through the Insolvent Court, engrossed an address of condolence to him, which looked like a Lease, and which all the prisoners signed. When he appeared again he was greyer (he had soon begun to turn grey); and the turnkey noticed that his hands went often to his trembling lips again, as they had used to do when he first came in. But he got pretty well over it in a month or two; and in the meantime the children played about the yard as regularly as ever, but in black.
When his youngest child was eight years old, his wife, who had been suffering for a long time—due to her own frailty, not because she was any more aware of her living situation than he was—went to visit a poor friend and old nurse in the country, and passed away there. He stayed locked in his room for two weeks afterward; an attorney’s clerk, who was dealing with Insolvency Court, drafted a condolence message for him that looked like a lease, which all the inmates signed. When he finally came out again, he had grayed a bit (he had started to turn gray quickly); and the jailer noticed that his hands frequently went to his trembling lips again, just like when he first arrived. But he managed to cope pretty well within a month or two; meanwhile, the kids played in the yard just like always, but dressed in black.
Then Mrs Bangham, long popular medium of communication with the outer world, began to be infirm, and to be found oftener than usual comatose on pavements, with her basket of purchases spilt, and the change of her clients ninepence short. His son began to supersede Mrs Bangham, and to execute commissions in a knowing manner, and to be of the prison prisonous, of the streets streety.
Then Mrs. Bangham, who had long been a popular medium for connecting with the outside world, started to get weak and was found more often than usual unconscious on the sidewalks, her shopping basket spilled, and her clients’ change was ninepence short. His son began to take over for Mrs. Bangham, carrying out tasks in a confident way, and becoming familiar with the streets.
Time went on, and the turnkey began to fail. His chest swelled, and his legs got weak, and he was short of breath. The well-worn wooden stool was ‘beyond him,’ he complained. He sat in an arm-chair with a cushion, and sometimes wheezed so, for minutes together, that he couldn’t turn the key. When he was overpowered by these fits, the debtor often turned it for him.
Time passed, and the jailer started to struggle. His chest tightened, his legs felt weak, and he had trouble breathing. He complained that the old wooden stool was too much for him. Instead, he sat in an armchair with a cushion, sometimes wheezing for so long that he couldn’t turn the key. Whenever he was overwhelmed by these spells, the debtor often turned it for him.
‘You and me,’ said the turnkey, one snowy winter’s night when the lodge, with a bright fire in it, was pretty full of company, ‘is the oldest inhabitants. I wasn’t here myself above seven year before you. I shan’t last long. When I’m off the lock for good and all, you’ll be the Father of the Marshalsea.’
‘You and I,’ said the turnkey, one snowy winter night when the lodge, with a bright fire in it, was pretty full of people, ‘are the oldest inhabitants. I wasn’t here myself more than seven years before you. I won’t last much longer. When I’m gone for good, you’ll be the Father of the Marshalsea.’
The turnkey went off the lock of this world next day. His words were remembered and repeated; and tradition afterwards handed down from generation to generation—a Marshalsea generation might be calculated as about three months—that the shabby old debtor with the soft manner and the white hair, was the Father of the Marshalsea.
The turnkey left this world the next day. His words were remembered and shared, and tradition later passed down from generation to generation—a Marshalsea generation might be thought of as about three months—that the shabby old debtor with the gentle manner and the white hair was the Father of the Marshalsea.
And he grew to be proud of the title. If any impostor had arisen to claim it, he would have shed tears in resentment of the attempt to deprive him of his rights. A disposition began to be perceived in him to exaggerate the number of years he had been there; it was generally understood that you must deduct a few from his account; he was vain, the fleeting generations of debtors said.
And he became proud of the title. If any pretender had come forward to claim it, he would have cried out in anger at the effort to take away what was rightfully his. People started to notice that he had a tendency to inflate the number of years he had been there; it was commonly accepted that you needed to subtract a few from his tally; he was conceited, the passing generations of debtors said.
All new-comers were presented to him. He was punctilious in the exaction of this ceremony. The wits would perform the office of introduction with overcharged pomp and politeness, but they could not easily overstep his sense of its gravity. He received them in his poor room (he disliked an introduction in the mere yard, as informal—a thing that might happen to anybody), with a kind of bowed-down beneficence. They were welcome to the Marshalsea, he would tell them. Yes, he was the Father of the place. So the world was kind enough to call him; and so he was, if more than twenty years of residence gave him a claim to the title. It looked small at first, but there was very good company there—among a mixture—necessarily a mixture—and very good air.
All newcomers were introduced to him. He was very strict about this ceremony. The clever ones would put on a show of grand introductions, but they could never quite ignore how serious he took it. He welcomed them into his small room (he preferred not to do introductions in the yard, as that felt too casual—a thing that could happen to anyone), with a sort of humble kindness. They were welcome to the Marshalsea, he would say. Yes, he was the Father of the place. That’s how the world kindly referred to him; and so he was, considering he had lived there for over twenty years. It seemed small at first, but the company was quite good there—among a mix—inevitably a mix—and the air was very nice.
It became a not unusual circumstance for letters to be put under his door at night, enclosing half-a-crown, two half-crowns, now and then at long intervals even half-a-sovereign, for the Father of the Marshalsea. ‘With the compliments of a collegian taking leave.’ He received the gifts as tributes, from admirers, to a public character. Sometimes these correspondents assumed facetious names, as the Brick, Bellows, Old Gooseberry, Wideawake, Snooks, Mops, Cutaway, the Dogs-meat Man; but he considered this in bad taste, and was always a little hurt by it.
It became pretty common for letters to be slipped under his door at night, often including half a crown, two half crowns, and occasionally, after a long while, even half a sovereign, all for the Father of the Marshalsea. "With compliments from a collegian taking their leave." He saw these gifts as tributes from fans of his public persona. Sometimes, these correspondents used funny names like the Brick, Bellows, Old Gooseberry, Wideawake, Snooks, Mops, Cutaway, and the Dogs-meat Man; but he thought this was in poor taste and it always bothered him a little.
In the fulness of time, this correspondence showing signs of wearing out, and seeming to require an effort on the part of the correspondents to which in the hurried circumstances of departure many of them might not be equal, he established the custom of attending collegians of a certain standing, to the gate, and taking leave of them there. The collegian under treatment, after shaking hands, would occasionally stop to wrap up something in a bit of paper, and would come back again calling ‘Hi!’
In time, this communication was starting to fade, and it seemed like it required more effort from the correspondents than many could manage in the rush of leaving. So, he started the practice of seeing off students of a certain level at the gate and saying goodbye there. The student being seen off would sometimes pause to wrap something in a piece of paper and would return, calling out, ‘Hi!’
He would look round surprised.‘Me?’ he would say, with a smile.
He would look around in surprise. “Me?” he would say, smiling.
By this time the collegian would be up with him, and he would paternally add, ‘What have you forgotten? What can I do for you?’
By this time, the college student would be with him, and he would kindly ask, ‘What have you forgotten? How can I help you?’
‘I forgot to leave this,’ the collegian would usually return, ‘for the Father of the Marshalsea.’
‘I forgot to leave this,’ the student would usually reply, ‘for the Father of the Marshalsea.’
‘My good sir,’ he would rejoin, ‘he is infinitely obliged to you.’ But, to the last, the irresolute hand of old would remain in the pocket into which he had slipped the money during two or three turns about the yard, lest the transaction should be too conspicuous to the general body of collegians.
‘My good sir,’ he would reply, ‘he is extremely thankful to you.’ But, in the end, the uncertain hand of the old man would stay in the pocket where he had tucked away the money after walking around the yard a couple of times, afraid that the transaction would be too obvious to the rest of the students.
One afternoon he had been doing the honours of the place to a rather large party of collegians, who happened to be going out, when, as he was coming back, he encountered one from the poor side who had been taken in execution for a small sum a week before, had ‘settled’ in the course of that afternoon, and was going out too. The man was a mere Plasterer in his working dress; had his wife with him, and a bundle; and was in high spirits.
One afternoon, he had been showing a large group of college students around when, on his way back, he ran into someone from the less fortunate side of town. This person had been taken to court for a small debt a week earlier, had settled it that afternoon, and was also heading out. The man was just a plasterer in his work clothes, accompanied by his wife and carrying a bundle, and he was in great spirits.
‘God bless you, sir,’ he said in passing.
"God bless you, sir," he said as he walked by.
‘And you,’ benignantly returned the Father of the Marshalsea.
‘And you,’ kindly replied the Father of the Marshalsea.
They were pretty far divided, going their several ways, when the Plasterer called out, ‘I say!—sir!’ and came back to him.
They were pretty far apart, going their separate ways, when the Plasterer called out, "Hey!—sir!" and returned to him.
‘It ain’t much,’ said the Plasterer, putting a little pile of halfpence in his hand, ‘but it’s well meant.’
“It’s not much,” said the Plasterer, placing a small handful of coins in his hand, “but it’s the thought that counts.”
The Father of the Marshalsea had never been offered tribute in copper yet. His children often had, and with his perfect acquiescence it had gone into the common purse to buy meat that he had eaten, and drink that he had drunk; but fustian splashed with white lime, bestowing halfpence on him, front to front, was new.
The Father of the Marshalsea had never been given money in coins before. His kids often had, and with his full approval, it had gone into the family pot to buy food he had eaten and drinks he had drunk; but being handed coins directly, face to face, while wearing a shabby outfit stained with white lime, was a first for him.
‘How dare you!’ he said to the man, and feebly burst into tears.
“How could you!” he said to the man, and weakly started to cry.
The Plasterer turned him towards the wall, that his face might not be seen; and the action was so delicate, and the man was so penetrated with repentance, and asked pardon so honestly, that he could make him no less acknowledgment than, ‘I know you meant it kindly. Say no more.’
The Plasterer turned him toward the wall so that his face wouldn’t be seen; the gesture was so gentle, and the man felt so deeply sorry and asked for forgiveness so sincerely that he could only respond, ‘I know you had good intentions. That's enough.’
‘Bless your soul, sir,’ urged the Plasterer, ‘I did indeed. I’d do more by you than the rest of ‘em do, I fancy.’
‘Bless your soul, sir,’ the Plasterer insisted, ‘I really did. I’d do more for you than the others would, I think.’
‘What would you do?’ he asked.
‘What would you do?’ he asked.
‘I’d come back to see you, after I was let out.’
‘I’d come back to see you once I got out.’
‘Give me the money again,’ said the other, eagerly, ‘and I’ll keep it, and never spend it. Thank you for it, thank you! I shall see you again?’
‘Give me the money again,’ said the other, eagerly, ‘and I’ll keep it and never spend it. Thank you for it, thank you! Will I see you again?’
‘If I live a week you shall.’
‘If I live for a week, you will too.’
They shook hands and parted. The collegians, assembled in Symposium in the Snuggery that night, marvelled what had happened to their Father; he walked so late in the shadows of the yard, and seemed so downcast.
They shook hands and went their separate ways. The students, gathered at the Symposium in the Snuggery that night, wondered what had happened to their Father; he wandered alone in the yard for so long and looked so dejected.
CHAPTER 7. The Child of the Marshalsea
The baby whose first draught of air had been tinctured with Doctor Haggage’s brandy, was handed down among the generations of collegians, like the tradition of their common parent. In the earlier stages of her existence, she was handed down in a literal and prosaic sense; it being almost a part of the entrance footing of every new collegian to nurse the child who had been born in the college.
The baby who took her first breath mixed with Doctor Haggage’s brandy was passed down through generations of students, much like the legacy of their shared beginnings. In the earlier days of her life, she was literally passed around; it became almost a rite of passage for every new student to care for the child who had been born at the college.
‘By rights,’ remarked the turnkey when she was first shown to him, ‘I ought to be her godfather.’
‘Honestly,’ the jailer said when she was first introduced to him, ‘I should be her godfather.’
The debtor irresolutely thought of it for a minute, and said, ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t object to really being her godfather?’
The debtor hesitated for a moment and said, “Maybe you wouldn’t mind actually being her godfather?”
‘Oh! I don’t object,’ replied the turnkey, ‘if you don’t.’
‘Oh! I don’t mind,’ replied the guard, ‘if you don’t.’
Thus it came to pass that she was christened one Sunday afternoon, when the turnkey, being relieved, was off the lock; and that the turnkey went up to the font of Saint George’s Church, and promised and vowed and renounced on her behalf, as he himself related when he came back, ‘like a good ‘un.’
Thus it happened that she was baptized one Sunday afternoon, when the jailer, having been relieved, was away from his post; and the jailer went up to the baptismal font at Saint George’s Church, and made promises and vows and renounced things on her behalf, just as he himself described when he returned, ‘like a good guy.’
This invested the turnkey with a new proprietary share in the child, over and above his former official one. When she began to walk and talk, he became fond of her; bought a little arm-chair and stood it by the high fender of the lodge fire-place; liked to have her company when he was on the lock; and used to bribe her with cheap toys to come and talk to him. The child, for her part, soon grew so fond of the turnkey that she would come climbing up the lodge-steps of her own accord at all hours of the day. When she fell asleep in the little armchair by the high fender, the turnkey would cover her with his pocket-handkerchief; and when she sat in it dressing and undressing a doll which soon came to be unlike dolls on the other side of the lock, and to bear a horrible family resemblance to Mrs Bangham—he would contemplate her from the top of his stool with exceeding gentleness. Witnessing these things, the collegians would express an opinion that the turnkey, who was a bachelor, had been cut out by nature for a family man. But the turnkey thanked them, and said, ‘No, on the whole it was enough to see other people’s children there.’
This gave the turnkey a new personal connection with the child, in addition to his previous official role. When she started to walk and talk, he grew fond of her; he bought a little armchair and placed it by the fireplace in the lodge; he enjoyed having her around while he worked at the lock and would bribe her with cheap toys to come and chat with him. The child, for her part, quickly became so attached to the turnkey that she would climb up the lodge steps of her own accord at all times of the day. When she fell asleep in the little armchair by the fireplace, the turnkey would cover her with his handkerchief; and when she sat in it dressing and undressing a doll that soon looked nothing like the dolls on the other side of the lock and instead bore a startling resemblance to Mrs. Bangham—he would watch her from the top of his stool with great tenderness. Watching all this, the college students would say that the turnkey, who was single, seemed destined by nature to have a family. But the turnkey would thank them and replied, “No, it's really enough to see other people’s kids around.”
At what period of her early life the little creature began to perceive that it was not the habit of all the world to live locked up in narrow yards surrounded by high walls with spikes at the top, would be a difficult question to settle. But she was a very, very little creature indeed, when she had somehow gained the knowledge that her clasp of her father’s hand was to be always loosened at the door which the great key opened; and that while her own light steps were free to pass beyond it, his feet must never cross that line. A pitiful and plaintive look, with which she had begun to regard him when she was still extremely young, was perhaps a part of this discovery.
At what point in her early life the little girl started to realize that not everyone lived in tiny yards surrounded by high walls with spikes on top would be a tough question to answer. But she was very, very young when she somehow figured out that her father's hand would always loosen when they reached the door opened by the big key; and that while her own light steps were free to go beyond it, he could never cross that line. A sad and longing look that she had begun to give him when she was still quite young might have been part of this realization.
With a pitiful and plaintive look for everything, indeed, but with something in it for only him that was like protection, this Child of the Marshalsea and the child of the Father of the Marshalsea, sat by her friend the turnkey in the lodge, kept the family room, or wandered about the prison-yard, for the first eight years of her life. With a pitiful and plaintive look for her wayward sister; for her idle brother; for the high blank walls; for the faded crowd they shut in; for the games of the prison children as they whooped and ran, and played at hide-and-seek, and made the iron bars of the inner gateway ‘Home.’
With a sad and sorrowful look for everything, but with something in it that felt like protection just for him, this Child of the Marshalsea and the child of the Father of the Marshalsea sat by her friend the turnkey in the lodge, stayed in the family room, or wandered around the prison yard for the first eight years of her life. With a sad and sorrowful look for her rebellious sister; for her lazy brother; for the tall blank walls; for the faded crowd they trapped inside; for the games of the prison children as they shouted and ran, played hide-and-seek, and made the iron bars of the inner gateway feel like ‘Home.’
Wistful and wondering, she would sit in summer weather by the high fender in the lodge, looking up at the sky through the barred window, until, when she turned her eyes away, bars of light would arise between her and her friend, and she would see him through a grating, too.
Wistful and curious, she would sit in the summer sun by the high fender in the lodge, gazing up at the sky through the barred window. When she finally looked away, bars of light would appear between her and her friend, and she would see him through the grate, too.
‘Thinking of the fields,’ the turnkey said once, after watching her, ‘ain’t you?’
‘Thinking about the fields,’ the guard said one time, after watching her, ‘aren’t you?’
‘Where are they?’ she inquired.
"Where are they?" she asked.
‘Why, they’re—over there, my dear,’ said the turnkey, with a vague flourish of his key. ‘Just about there.’
"Well, they're—over there, my dear," said the guard, waving his key vaguely. "Right about there."
‘Does anybody open them, and shut them? Are they locked?’
‘Does anyone open them and close them? Are they locked?’
The turnkey was discomfited. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Not in general.’
The doorkeeper was uneasy. "Well," he said. "Not really."
‘Are they very pretty, Bob?’ She called him Bob, by his own particular request and instruction.
‘Are they very pretty, Bob?’ She called him Bob, based on his own specific request and instruction.
‘Lovely. Full of flowers. There’s buttercups, and there’s daisies, and there’s’—the turnkey hesitated, being short of floral nomenclature—‘there’s dandelions, and all manner of games.’
‘Lovely. Full of flowers. There are buttercups, and there are daisies, and there’s’—the turnkey paused, lacking flower knowledge—‘there are dandelions, and all kinds of games.’
‘Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?’
‘Is it nice to be there, Bob?’
‘Prime,’ said the turnkey.
“Prime,” said the jailer.
‘Was father ever there?’
“Was Dad ever there?”
‘Hem!’ coughed the turnkey. ‘O yes, he was there, sometimes.’
‘Ahem!’ coughed the prison officer. ‘Oh yes, he was there, occasionally.’
‘Is he sorry not to be there now?’
'Is he regretting that he’s not there now?'
‘N-not particular,’ said the turnkey.
"Not really particular," said the turnkey.
‘Nor any of the people?’ she asked, glancing at the listless crowd within. ‘O are you quite sure and certain, Bob?’
‘So, none of the people?’ she asked, looking at the indifferent crowd inside. ‘Oh, are you absolutely sure about that, Bob?’
At this difficult point of the conversation Bob gave in, and changed the subject to hard-bake: always his last resource when he found his little friend getting him into a political, social, or theological corner. But this was the origin of a series of Sunday excursions that these two curious companions made together. They used to issue from the lodge on alternate Sunday afternoons with great gravity, bound for some meadows or green lanes that had been elaborately appointed by the turnkey in the course of the week; and there she picked grass and flowers to bring home, while he smoked his pipe. Afterwards, there were tea-gardens, shrimps, ale, and other delicacies; and then they would come back hand in hand, unless she was more than usually tired, and had fallen asleep on his shoulder.
At this tough moment in the conversation, Bob gave in and switched the topic to hard-bake, which was always his go-to move when he felt his little friend cornering him on political, social, or theological matters. However, this was the start of a series of Sunday outings that these two curious companions took together. They would leave the lodge on alternate Sunday afternoons in a serious manner, heading to meadows or green lanes that the turnkey had carefully chosen during the week. There, she would gather grass and flowers to bring home while he smoked his pipe. Afterward, they enjoyed tea gardens, shrimp, ale, and other treats, and then they would walk back hand in hand, unless she was especially tired and had fallen asleep on his shoulder.
In those early days, the turnkey first began profoundly to consider a question which cost him so much mental labour, that it remained undetermined on the day of his death. He decided to will and bequeath his little property of savings to his godchild, and the point arose how could it be so ‘tied up’ as that only she should have the benefit of it? His experience on the lock gave him such an acute perception of the enormous difficulty of ‘tying up’ money with any approach to tightness, and contrariwise of the remarkable ease with which it got loose, that through a series of years he regularly propounded this knotty point to every new insolvent agent and other professional gentleman who passed in and out.
In those early days, the turnkey started to deeply contemplate a question that troubled him so much that it remained unresolved by the time he died. He decided to leave his small savings to his godchild, but he began to wonder how he could make sure that only she would benefit from it. His experience with the lock gave him a keen understanding of just how difficult it was to securely “tie up” money, and conversely, how easily it could become unbound. Over the years, he consistently posed this tricky question to every new bankrupt agent and other professionals who came and went.
‘Supposing,’ he would say, stating the case with his key on the professional gentleman’s waistcoat; ‘supposing a man wanted to leave his property to a young female, and wanted to tie it up so that nobody else should ever be able to make a grab at it; how would you tie up that property?’
‘Let’s say,’ he would say, pointing to the professional gentleman’s waistcoat with his key; ‘let’s say a man wanted to leave his property to a young woman, and he wanted to secure it so that no one else could ever lay claim to it; how would you secure that property?’
‘Settle it strictly on herself,’ the professional gentleman would complacently answer.
"She should deal with it herself," the professional man would reply with a sense of self-satisfaction.
‘But look here,’ quoth the turnkey. ‘Supposing she had, say a brother, say a father, say a husband, who would be likely to make a grab at that property when she came into it—how about that?’
‘But look here,’ said the jailer. ‘Supposing she had, let’s say, a brother, a father, or a husband, who might try to take that property when she inherits it—what about that?’
‘It would be settled on herself, and they would have no more legal claim on it than you,’ would be the professional answer.
‘It would be settled on herself, and they would have no more legal claim on it than you,’ would be the professional answer.
‘Stop a bit,’ said the turnkey. ‘Supposing she was tender-hearted, and they came over her. Where’s your law for tying it up then?’
‘Hold on a second,’ said the prison officer. ‘What if she had a soft heart and they got to her? Where’s your rule for handling that then?’
The deepest character whom the turnkey sounded, was unable to produce his law for tying such a knot as that. So, the turnkey thought about it all his life, and died intestate after all.
The most complex character that the jailer questioned couldn't come up with a way to tie such a knot. So, the jailer pondered this for the rest of his life and ended up dying without a will.
But that was long afterwards, when his god-daughter was past sixteen. The first half of that space of her life was only just accomplished, when her pitiful and plaintive look saw her father a widower. From that time the protection that her wondering eyes had expressed towards him, became embodied in action, and the Child of the Marshalsea took upon herself a new relation towards the Father.
But that was long after, when his goddaughter was past sixteen. The first half of her life had just passed when her sad and sorrowful look saw her father as a widower. From that moment, the protection that her curious eyes had shown toward him turned into action, and the Child of the Marshalsea took on a new role towards her Father.
At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with him, deserting her livelier place by the high fender, and quietly watching him. But this made her so far necessary to him that he became accustomed to her, and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there. Through this little gate, she passed out of childhood into the care-laden world.
At first, the baby could do little more than sit with him, leaving her lively spot by the high fender, and quietly watching him. But this made her essential to him, to the point where he got used to her and started to notice when she wasn’t around. Through this little gate, she moved from childhood into a world filled with responsibilities.
What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in her sister, in her brother, in the jail; how much, or how little of the wretched truth it pleased God to make visible to her; lies hidden with many mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to be something which was not what the rest were, and to be that something, different and laborious, for the sake of the rest. Inspired? Yes. Shall we speak of the inspiration of a poet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled by love and self-devotion to the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life!
What her pitiful gaze noticed, at that early time, in her father, her sister, her brother, and in the jail; how much, or how little of the sad truth it pleased God to reveal to her; remains shrouded in many mysteries. It’s enough that she felt driven to become something different from the rest and to pursue that challenging path for the sake of others. Inspired? Absolutely. Should we only discuss the inspiration of a poet or a priest, and not the heart moved by love and devotion to take on the humblest tasks in the simplest way of life!
With no earthly friend to help her, or so much as to see her, but the one so strangely assorted; with no knowledge even of the common daily tone and habits of the common members of the free community who are not shut up in prisons; born and bred in a social condition, false even with a reference to the falsest condition outside the walls; drinking from infancy of a well whose waters had their own peculiar stain, their own unwholesome and unnatural taste; the Child of the Marshalsea began her womanly life.
With no friends around to help her or even to see her, except for one who was an unusual match; with no understanding of the everyday ways and habits of the free people outside of prisons; raised in a social environment that was fake, even compared to the most false conditions outside the walls; drinking from a young age from a well that had its own unique taint, its own unhealthy and unnatural taste; the Child of the Marshalsea began her life as a woman.
No matter through what mistakes and discouragements, what ridicule (not unkindly meant, but deeply felt) of her youth and little figure, what humble consciousness of her own babyhood and want of strength, even in the matter of lifting and carrying; through how much weariness and hopelessness, and how many secret tears; she drudged on, until recognised as useful, even indispensable. That time came. She took the place of eldest of the three, in all things but precedence; was the head of the fallen family; and bore, in her own heart, its anxieties and shames.
No matter how many mistakes and setbacks she faced, or the ridicule she received (which wasn’t meant to be unkind, but was still felt deeply) about her youth and small stature, or how aware she was of her own childhood and lack of strength – even when it came to lifting and carrying things; through countless exhaustion and hopelessness, and many quiet tears; she kept pushing through until she was seen as valuable, even essential. That moment arrived. She became the eldest of the three in every way except for official ranking; she was the leader of the fallen family and carried its worries and humiliations in her own heart.
At thirteen, she could read and keep accounts, that is, could put down in words and figures how much the bare necessaries that they wanted would cost, and how much less they had to buy them with. She had been, by snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, and got her sister and brother sent to day-schools by desultory starts, during three or four years. There was no instruction for any of them at home; but she knew well—no one better—that a man so broken as to be the Father of the Marshalsea, could be no father to his own children.
At thirteen, she could read and do basic accounting, meaning she could write down in words and numbers how much the essential things they needed would cost and how much money they had to buy them with. She had attended an evening school for short periods, a few weeks at a time, and managed to get her sister and brother into day schools through sporadic efforts for about three or four years. There was no education for any of them at home, but she understood better than anyone that a man so defeated as to be the Father of the Marshalsea could not be a father to his own children.
To these scanty means of improvement, she added another of her own contriving. Once, among the heterogeneous crowd of inmates there appeared a dancing-master. Her sister had a great desire to learn the dancing-master’s art, and seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteen years old, the Child of the Marshalsea presented herself to the dancing-master, with a little bag in her hand, and preferred her humble petition.
To these limited ways of improving her situation, she added one that she came up with herself. One day, amidst the diverse group of residents, a dance instructor showed up. Her sister was really eager to learn how to dance and seemed to have a knack for it. At thirteen years old, the Girl from the Marshalsea approached the dance instructor, holding a small bag in her hand, and made her simple request.
‘If you please, I was born here, sir.’
'If you don't mind, I was born here, sir.'
‘Oh! You are the young lady, are you?’ said the dancing-master, surveying the small figure and uplifted face.
‘Oh! So you’re the young lady, huh?’ said the dancing teacher, looking over the small figure and upturned face.
‘Yes, sir.’
"Yes, sir."
‘And what can I do for you?’ said the dancing-master.
'And what can I help you with?' said the dance instructor.
‘Nothing for me, sir, thank you,’ anxiously undrawing the strings of the little bag; ‘but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to teach my sister cheap—’
‘Nothing for me, sir, thank you,’ she said nervously as she pulled the strings of the little bag open; ‘but if, while you’re here, you could be so kind as to teach my sister for free—’
‘My child, I’ll teach her for nothing,’ said the dancing-master, shutting up the bag. He was as good-natured a dancing-master as ever danced to the Insolvent Court, and he kept his word. The sister was so apt a pupil, and the dancing-master had such abundant leisure to bestow upon her (for it took him a matter of ten weeks to set to his creditors, lead off, turn the Commissioners, and right and left back to his professional pursuits), that wonderful progress was made. Indeed the dancing-master was so proud of it, and so wishful to display it before he left to a few select friends among the collegians, that at six o’clock on a certain fine morning, a minuet de la cour came off in the yard—the college-rooms being of too confined proportions for the purpose—in which so much ground was covered, and the steps were so conscientiously executed, that the dancing-master, having to play the kit besides, was thoroughly blown.
"My child, I'll teach her for free," said the dancing master, packing up his bag. He was the friendliest dancing master you'd ever meet, and he kept his promise. The sister was such a quick learner, and the dancing master had plenty of time to devote to her (it took him about ten weeks to deal with his creditors, lead off, turn the commissioners, and then return to his dancing career), that they made amazing progress. In fact, the dancing master was so proud of it and eager to show it off to a few select friends among the college students before he left, that at six o'clock on a beautiful morning, a minuet de la cour took place in the yard—the college rooms were too small for the occasion—in which they covered so much ground and executed the steps so carefully that the dancing master, having to play the fiddle as well, was completely out of breath.
The success of this beginning, which led to the dancing-master’s continuing his instruction after his release, emboldened the poor child to try again. She watched and waited months for a seamstress. In the fulness of time a milliner came in, and to her she repaired on her own behalf.
The success of this start, which allowed the dancing teacher to keep teaching after his release, gave the poor child the confidence to try again. She watched and waited for months for a seamstress. Eventually, a milliner showed up, and she went to her on her own behalf.
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ she said, looking timidly round the door of the milliner, whom she found in tears and in bed: ‘but I was born here.’
"I’m sorry to bother you, ma'am," she said, peeking shyly around the door of the milliner, who was found in bed, crying. "But I was born here."
Everybody seemed to hear of her as soon as they arrived; for the milliner sat up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just as the dancing-master had said:
Everybody seemed to hear about her as soon as they arrived; because the milliner was sitting up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just like the dancing teacher had said:
‘Oh! You are the child, are you?’
‘Oh! You are the kid, right?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
"Yes, ma'am."
‘I am sorry I haven’t got anything for you,’ said the milliner, shaking her head.
"I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you," said the milliner, shaking her head.
‘It’s not that, ma’am. If you please I want to learn needle-work.’
‘It’s not that, ma'am. If you don’t mind, I’d like to learn needlework.’
‘Why should you do that,’ returned the milliner, ‘with me before you? It has not done me much good.’
‘Why would you do that,’ replied the milliner, ‘with me right here? It hasn’t helped me much.’
‘Nothing—whatever it is—seems to have done anybody much good who comes here,’ she returned in all simplicity; ‘but I want to learn just the same.’
‘Nothing—whatever it is—seems to have done anyone much good who comes here,’ she replied plainly; ‘but I still want to learn.’
‘I am afraid you are so weak, you see,’ the milliner objected.
"I’m afraid you’re just too weak, you see," the milliner said.
‘I don’t think I am weak, ma’am.’
‘I don’t think I’m weak, ma’am.’
‘And you are so very, very little, you see,’ the milliner objected.
‘And you are so very, very small, you see,’ the milliner objected.
‘Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed,’ returned the Child of the Marshalsea; and so began to sob over that unfortunate defect of hers, which came so often in her way. The milliner—who was not morose or hard-hearted, only newly insolvent—was touched, took her in hand with goodwill, found her the most patient and earnest of pupils, and made her a cunning work-woman in course of time.
‘Yes, I’m afraid I’m very small indeed,’ replied the Child of the Marshalsea, and then she started to cry about that unfortunate shortcoming of hers, which got in her way so often. The milliner—who wasn’t grumpy or unkind, just recently broke—felt sympathetic, took her under her wing with kindness, discovered she was the most dedicated and eager student, and eventually made her a skilled worker over time.
In course of time, and in the very self-same course of time, the Father of the Marshalsea gradually developed a new flower of character. The more Fatherly he grew as to the Marshalsea, and the more dependent he became on the contributions of his changing family, the greater stand he made by his forlorn gentility. With the same hand that he pocketed a collegian’s half-crown half an hour ago, he would wipe away the tears that streamed over his cheeks if any reference were made to his daughters’ earning their bread. So, over and above other daily cares, the Child of the Marshalsea had always upon her the care of preserving the genteel fiction that they were all idle beggars together.
As time went on, the Father of the Marshalsea gradually developed a new side to his character. The more fatherly he became toward the Marshalsea, and the more he relied on the contributions from his ever-changing family, the more he clung to his lost sense of gentility. With the same hand that he had just pocketed a student’s half-crown with, he would wipe away the tears streaming down his face if anyone brought up his daughters earning a living. So, on top of other daily worries, the Child of the Marshalsea always had the burden of maintaining the genteel illusion that they were all just idle beggars together.
The sister became a dancer. There was a ruined uncle in the family group—ruined by his brother, the Father of the Marshalsea, and knowing no more how than his ruiner did, but accepting the fact as an inevitable certainty—on whom her protection devolved. Naturally a retired and simple man, he had shown no particular sense of being ruined at the time when that calamity fell upon him, further than that he left off washing himself when the shock was announced, and never took to that luxury any more. He had been a very indifferent musical amateur in his better days; and when he fell with his brother, resorted for support to playing a clarionet as dirty as himself in a small Theatre Orchestra. It was the theatre in which his niece became a dancer; he had been a fixture there a long time when she took her poor station in it; and he accepted the task of serving as her escort and guardian, just as he would have accepted an illness, a legacy, a feast, starvation—anything but soap.
The sister became a dancer. The family had an uncle who was a mess—brought down by his brother, the Father of the Marshalsea, and he didn't know any better than his brother did, but accepted it as an unavoidable reality—who she now needed to look after. He was a quiet and simple man, and he hadn’t really shown much sign of being ruined when it happened, other than that he stopped washing himself when the news hit and never indulged in that luxury again. He had been a pretty mediocre amateur musician in his better days, and when he fell along with his brother, he started playing a clarinet as grimy as he was in a small theater orchestra. It was the same theater where his niece became a dancer; he had been a constant there for a long time by the time she took her unfortunate place in it, and he accepted the role of her escort and guardian, just like he would have accepted an illness, an inheritance, a feast, starvation—anything but soap.
To enable this girl to earn her few weekly shillings, it was necessary for the Child of the Marshalsea to go through an elaborate form with the Father.
To help this girl earn her few weekly shillings, it was necessary for the Child of the Marshalsea to go through a complicated process with the Father.
‘Fanny is not going to live with us just now, father. She will be here a good deal in the day, but she is going to live outside with uncle.’
‘Fanny isn’t going to live with us right now, Dad. She’ll be here a lot during the day, but she’s going to stay outside with Uncle.’
‘You surprise me. Why?’
"You surprise me. Why?"
‘I think uncle wants a companion, father. He should be attended to, and looked after.’
‘I think Uncle needs a companion, Dad. He should be taken care of and looked after.’
‘A companion? He passes much of his time here. And you attend to him and look after him, Amy, a great deal more than ever your sister will. You all go out so much; you all go out so much.’
‘A companion? He spends a lot of his time here. And you take care of him and look after him, Amy, way more than your sister ever will. You all go out so much; you all go out so much.’
This was to keep up the ceremony and pretence of his having no idea that Amy herself went out by the day to work.
This was to maintain the formality and the illusion that he had no idea that Amy actually went out to work during the day.
‘But we are always glad to come home, father; now, are we not? And as to Fanny, perhaps besides keeping uncle company and taking care of him, it may be as well for her not quite to live here, always. She was not born here as I was, you know, father.’
‘But we’re always happy to come home, Dad; right? And as for Fanny, maybe it’s better for her not to live here all the time, in addition to keeping uncle company and looking after him. She wasn’t born here like I was, you know, Dad.’
‘Well, Amy, well. I don’t quite follow you, but it’s natural I suppose that Fanny should prefer to be outside, and even that you often should, too. So, you and Fanny and your uncle, my dear, shall have your own way. Good, good. I’ll not meddle; don’t mind me.’
‘Well, Amy, well. I don’t completely understand you, but I guess it's natural that Fanny would want to be outside, and that you often would, too. So, you, Fanny, and your uncle, my dear, can do as you like. That’s fine, that’s fine. I won’t get involved; just ignore me.’
To get her brother out of the prison; out of the succession to Mrs Bangham in executing commissions, and out of the slang interchange with very doubtful companions consequent upon both; was her hardest task. At eighteen he would have dragged on from hand to mouth, from hour to hour, from penny to penny, until eighty. Nobody got into the prison from whom he derived anything useful or good, and she could find no patron for him but her old friend and godfather.
To get her brother out of prison; away from the inheritance from Mrs. Bangham in carrying out her requests, and away from the questionable exchanges with shady friends that came with both; was her toughest challenge. At eighteen, he would have struggled just to get by, day to day, penny to penny, all the way until eighty. No one who ended up in prison brought him anything useful or good, and she could only think of one person to help him—her old friend and godfather.
‘Dear Bob,’ said she, ‘what is to become of poor Tip?’ His name was Edward, and Ted had been transformed into Tip, within the walls.
‘Dear Bob,’ she said, ‘what’s going to happen to poor Tip?’ His name was Edward, and Ted had been turned into Tip, within the walls.
The turnkey had strong private opinions as to what would become of poor Tip, and had even gone so far with the view of averting their fulfilment, as to sound Tip in reference to the expediency of running away and going to serve his country. But Tip had thanked him, and said he didn’t seem to care for his country.
The doorman had strong personal thoughts about what would happen to poor Tip and had even gone so far as to suggest that Tip consider running away to serve his country in order to prevent those thoughts from becoming a reality. But Tip had thanked him and said he didn't really care about his country.
‘Well, my dear,’ said the turnkey, ‘something ought to be done with him. Suppose I try and get him into the law?’
‘Well, my dear,’ said the guard, ‘something needs to be done with him. How about I try to get him into law?’
‘That would be so good of you, Bob!’
‘That would be really great of you, Bob!’
The turnkey had now two points to put to the professional gentlemen as they passed in and out. He put this second one so perseveringly that a stool and twelve shillings a week were at last found for Tip in the office of an attorney in a great National Palladium called the Palace Court; at that time one of a considerable list of everlasting bulwarks to the dignity and safety of Albion, whose places know them no more.
The doorkeeper now had two things to bring up with the professionals as they came and went. He pushed the second point so insistently that a stool and twelve shillings a week were finally secured for Tip in the office of a lawyer at a major National Landmark called the Palace Court; back then, it was one of many longstanding defenses of Britain's dignity and safety, which are no longer around.
Tip languished in Clifford’s Inns for six months, and at the expiration of that term sauntered back one evening with his hands in his pockets, and incidentally observed to his sister that he was not going back again.
Tip hung around Clifford’s Inns for six months, and when that time was up, he strolled back one evening with his hands in his pockets and casually mentioned to his sister that he wasn’t planning to go back again.
‘Not going back again?’ said the poor little anxious Child of the Marshalsea, always calculating and planning for Tip, in the front rank of her charges.
‘Are you not going back again?’ said the nervous little Child of the Marshalsea, always calculating and planning for Tip, at the front of her group.
‘I am so tired of it,’ said Tip, ‘that I have cut it.’
‘I am so tired of it,’ Tip said, ‘that I’ve chopped it off.’
Tip tired of everything. With intervals of Marshalsea lounging, and Mrs Bangham succession, his small second mother, aided by her trusty friend, got him into a warehouse, into a market garden, into the hop trade, into the law again, into an auctioneers, into a brewery, into a stockbroker’s, into the law again, into a coach office, into a waggon office, into the law again, into a general dealer’s, into a distillery, into the law again, into a wool house, into a dry goods house, into the Billingsgate trade, into the foreign fruit trade, and into the docks. But whatever Tip went into, he came out of tired, announcing that he had cut it. Wherever he went, this foredoomed Tip appeared to take the prison walls with him, and to set them up in such trade or calling; and to prowl about within their narrow limits in the old slip-shod, purposeless, down-at-heel way; until the real immovable Marshalsea walls asserted their fascination over him, and brought him back.
Tip was exhausted by everything. With breaks of relaxing in Marshalsea and the influence of Mrs. Bangham, his small second mother, who was supported by her loyal friend, he found himself in a warehouse, then in a market garden, involved in the hop trade, back into law, at an auction house, in a brewery, with a stockbroker, back into law again, at a coaching office, at a wagon office, back into law, in a general store, at a distillery, back into law, in a wool business, in a dry goods store, in the Billingsgate trade, in the foreign fruit business, and at the docks. But no matter what Tip got into, he came out feeling worn out, declaring that he had quit. Wherever he went, this doomed Tip seemed to carry the prison walls with him, setting them up in whatever trade or job he tried; and he wandered aimlessly within those limited confines in the same old sloppy, aimless, down-on-his-luck way, until the real, unyielding walls of Marshalsea exerted their pull over him and drew him back.
Nevertheless, the brave little creature did so fix her heart on her brother’s rescue, that while he was ringing out these doleful changes, she pinched and scraped enough together to ship him for Canada. When he was tired of nothing to do, and disposed in its turn to cut even that, he graciously consented to go to Canada. And there was grief in her bosom over parting with him, and joy in the hope of his being put in a straight course at last.
Nevertheless, the brave little creature was so focused on rescuing her brother that while he was lamenting, she managed to save up enough to send him to Canada. When he grew tired of doing nothing and was ready to leave that behind, he finally agreed to go to Canada. There was sadness in her heart about saying goodbye, but also joy in the hope that he would finally find a better path.
‘God bless you, dear Tip. Don’t be too proud to come and see us, when you have made your fortune.’
'God bless you, dear Tip. Don’t be too proud to come and see us when you've made your fortune.'
‘All right!’ said Tip, and went.
"Alright!" said Tip, and left.
But not all the way to Canada; in fact, not further than Liverpool. After making the voyage to that port from London, he found himself so strongly impelled to cut the vessel, that he resolved to walk back again. Carrying out which intention, he presented himself before her at the expiration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and much more tired than ever.
But not all the way to Canada; in fact, not further than Liverpool. After making the trip to that port from London, he felt such a strong urge to leave the ship that he decided to walk back instead. Following through with that plan, he showed up before her a month later, in rags, without shoes, and way more exhausted than ever.
At length, after another interval of successorship to Mrs Bangham, he found a pursuit for himself, and announced it.
At last, after another period of succeeding Mrs. Bangham, he found a goal for himself and shared it.
‘Amy, I have got a situation.’
"Amy, I have a problem."
‘Have you really and truly, Tip?’
‘Have you really and truly, Tip?’
‘All right. I shall do now. You needn’t look anxious about me any more, old girl.’
‘All right. I'll do it now. You don’t have to worry about me anymore, old girl.’
‘What is it, Tip?’
"What's up, Tip?"
‘Why, you know Slingo by sight?’
‘Oh, do you know Slingo by sight?’
‘Not the man they call the dealer?’
‘Not the guy they call the dealer?’
‘That’s the chap. He’ll be out on Monday, and he’s going to give me a berth.’
‘That’s the guy. He’ll be out on Monday, and he’s going to give me a job.’
‘What is he a dealer in, Tip?’
‘What does he deal in, Tip?’
‘Horses. All right! I shall do now, Amy.’
‘Horses. All right! I'm going to do it now, Amy.’
She lost sight of him for months afterwards, and only heard from him once. A whisper passed among the elder collegians that he had been seen at a mock auction in Moorfields, pretending to buy plated articles for massive silver, and paying for them with the greatest liberality in bank notes; but it never reached her ears. One evening she was alone at work—standing up at the window, to save the twilight lingering above the wall—when he opened the door and walked in.
She didn't see him for months afterward, and only heard from him once. A rumor spread among the older students that he had been spotted at a fake auction in Moorfields, pretending to buy plated items as if they were solid silver, and paying for them very generously with banknotes; but she never heard about it. One evening, she was working alone—standing at the window to soak in the twilight lingering above the wall—when he walked in through the door.
She kissed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any questions. He saw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry.
She kissed him and welcomed him, but was nervous to ask him anything. He noticed how anxious and shy she was, and looked regretful.
‘I am afraid, Amy, you’ll be vexed this time. Upon my life I am!’
‘I’m afraid, Amy, you’re going to be annoyed this time. I really am!’
‘I am very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you come back?’
'I’m really sorry to hear you say that, Tip. Did you come back?'
‘Why—yes.’
"Yeah, sure."
‘Not expecting this time that what you had found would answer very well, I am less surprised and sorry than I might have been, Tip.’
'Not expecting this time that what you found would work very well, I am less surprised and sorry than I could have been, Tip.'
‘Ah! But that’s not the worst of it.’
‘Ah! But that’s not even the worst part.’
‘Not the worst of it?’
"Not the worst part?"
‘Don’t look so startled. No, Amy, not the worst of it. I have come back, you see; but—don’t look so startled—I have come back in what I may call a new way. I am off the volunteer list altogether. I am in now, as one of the regulars.’
‘Don’t look so shocked. No, Amy, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I’ve come back, you see; but—don’t look so shocked—I’ve come back in what I can call a new way. I’m off the volunteer list completely. I’m in now, as one of the regulars.’
‘Oh! Don’t say you are a prisoner, Tip! Don’t, don’t!’
‘Oh! Please don’t say you’re a prisoner, Tip! Don’t, don’t!’
‘Well, I don’t want to say it,’ he returned in a reluctant tone; ‘but if you can’t understand me without my saying it, what am I to do? I am in for forty pound odd.’
"Well, I don’t want to say it," he replied reluctantly, "but if you can't understand me without me saying it, what am I supposed to do? I'm in for over forty pounds."
For the first time in all those years, she sunk under her cares. She cried, with her clasped hands lifted above her head, that it would kill their father if he ever knew it; and fell down at Tip’s graceless feet.
For the first time in all those years, she collapsed under her worries. She cried, with her hands clasped and lifted above her head, that it would kill their father if he ever found out; and fell down at Tip’s ungraceful feet.
It was easier for Tip to bring her to her senses than for her to bring him to understand that the Father of the Marshalsea would be beside himself if he knew the truth. The thing was incomprehensible to Tip, and altogether a fanciful notion. He yielded to it in that light only, when he submitted to her entreaties, backed by those of his uncle and sister. There was no want of precedent for his return; it was accounted for to the father in the usual way; and the collegians, with a better comprehension of the pious fraud than Tip, supported it loyally.
It was easier for Tip to get her to see reason than for her to make him understand that the Father of the Marshalsea would be furious if he knew the truth. This idea was completely baffling to Tip and seemed totally unrealistic. He only agreed to it because of her pleas, which were supported by his uncle and sister. There was no shortage of reasons for his return; it was explained to the father in the typical way, and the college students, who understood the pious deception better than Tip, backed it up wholeheartedly.
This was the life, and this the history, of the child of the Marshalsea at twenty-two. With a still surviving attachment to the one miserable yard and block of houses as her birthplace and home, she passed to and fro in it shrinkingly now, with a womanly consciousness that she was pointed out to every one. Since she had begun to work beyond the walls, she had found it necessary to conceal where she lived, and to come and go as secretly as she could, between the free city and the iron gates, outside of which she had never slept in her life. Her original timidity had grown with this concealment, and her light step and her little figure shunned the thronged streets while they passed along them.
This was the life and story of the child of the Marshalsea at twenty-two. With a lingering connection to the depressing yard and block of houses that was her birthplace and home, she moved back and forth through it now with a womanly awareness that everyone noticed her. Ever since she started working outside the walls, she felt it necessary to hide where she lived and to come and go as discreetly as possible between the free city and the iron gates, beyond which she had never slept in her life. Her original shyness had intensified with this secrecy, and her light step and small frame avoided the crowded streets even as she walked along them.
Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocent in all things else. Innocent, in the mist through which she saw her father, and the prison, and the turbid living river that flowed through it and flowed on.
Worldly wise in tough and lacking circumstances, she was naïve in every other aspect. Naïve, in the haze through which she viewed her father, the prison, and the murky river that ran through it and continued onward.
This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit; now going home upon a dull September evening, observed at a distance by Arthur Clennam. This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit; turning at the end of London Bridge, recrossing it, going back again, passing on to Saint George’s Church, turning back suddenly once more, and flitting in at the open outer gate and little court-yard of the Marshalsea.
This was the life and story of Little Dorrit; now heading home on a dreary September evening, seen from afar by Arthur Clennam. This was the life and story of Little Dorrit; turning at the end of London Bridge, crossing it again, going back, passing on to Saint George’s Church, suddenly turning back once more, and darting into the open outer gate and small courtyard of the Marshalsea.
CHAPTER 8. The Lock
Arthur Clennam stood in the street, waiting to ask some passer-by what place that was. He suffered a few people to pass him in whose face there was no encouragement to make the inquiry, and still stood pausing in the street, when an old man came up and turned into the courtyard.
Arthur Clennam stood on the street, waiting to ask someone what place this was. He let a few people walk by without feeling encouraged to ask, and he continued to linger in the street when an old man approached and walked into the courtyard.
He stooped a good deal, and plodded along in a slow pre-occupied manner, which made the bustling London thoroughfares no very safe resort for him. He was dirtily and meanly dressed, in a threadbare coat, once blue, reaching to his ankles and buttoned to his chin, where it vanished in the pale ghost of a velvet collar. A piece of red cloth with which that phantom had been stiffened in its lifetime was now laid bare, and poked itself up, at the back of the old man’s neck, into a confusion of grey hair and rusty stock and buckle which altogether nearly poked his hat off. A greasy hat it was, and a napless; impending over his eyes, cracked and crumpled at the brim, and with a wisp of pocket-handkerchief dangling out below it. His trousers were so long and loose, and his shoes so clumsy and large, that he shuffled like an elephant; though how much of this was gait, and how much trailing cloth and leather, no one could have told. Under one arm he carried a limp and worn-out case, containing some wind instrument; in the same hand he had a pennyworth of snuff in a little packet of whitey-brown paper, from which he slowly comforted his poor blue old nose with a lengthened-out pinch, as Arthur Clennam looked at him.
He hunched over a lot and trudged along in a slow, distracted way, making the busy streets of London a pretty unsafe place for him. He was dressed in dirty and shabby clothes, wearing a frayed coat that used to be blue, reaching down to his ankles and buttoned up to his chin, where it faded into a pale, ghostly velvet collar. A piece of red fabric that used to stiffen that collar in its prime was now exposed and sticking up at the back of the old man's neck, tangled in a mess of gray hair and a worn stock and buckle that almost knocked his hat off. It was a greasy, flat hat, drooping over his eyes, cracked and crumpled at the brim, with a wisp of pocket-handkerchief hanging out beneath it. His trousers were so long and baggy, and his shoes so clumsy and oversized, that he shuffled along like an elephant; though no one could tell how much was due to his walk and how much to the trailing fabric and leather. Under one arm, he carried a sagging, worn-out case that held some wind instrument; in the same hand, he had a small packet of snuff wrapped in brown paper, from which he slowly treated his poor, blue old nose to a long pinch as Arthur Clennam watched him.
To this old man crossing the court-yard, he preferred his inquiry, touching him on the shoulder. The old man stopped and looked round, with the expression in his weak grey eyes of one whose thoughts had been far off, and who was a little dull of hearing also.
To the old man walking across the courtyard, he liked to ask his question by touching him on the shoulder. The old man stopped and looked around, his weak grey eyes reflecting the expression of someone whose thoughts were elsewhere, and who was also a bit hard of hearing.
‘Pray, sir,’ said Arthur, repeating his question, ‘what is this place?’
“Please, sir,” Arthur said, asking again, “what is this place?”
‘Ay! This place?’ returned the old man, staying his pinch of snuff on its road, and pointing at the place without looking at it. ‘This is the Marshalsea, sir.’
‘Oh! This place?’ the old man replied, pausing to hold his pinch of snuff, and gesturing at the location without looking at it. ‘This is the Marshalsea, sir.’
‘The debtors’ prison?’
'The debtor's prison?'
‘Sir,’ said the old man, with the air of deeming it not quite necessary to insist upon that designation, ‘the debtors’ prison.’
‘Sir,’ said the old man, as if he thought it unnecessary to insist on that title, ‘the debtor’s prison.’
He turned himself about, and went on.
He turned around and continued walking.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Arthur, stopping him once more, ‘but will you allow me to ask you another question? Can any one go in here?’
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Arthur said, stopping him again, “but can I ask you another question? Is anyone allowed to go in here?”
‘Any one can go in,’ replied the old man; plainly adding by the significance of his emphasis, ‘but it is not every one who can go out.’
‘Anyone can go in,’ replied the old man, clearly adding with his emphasis, ‘but not everyone can go out.’
‘Pardon me once more. Are you familiar with the place?’
‘Excuse me again. Do you know this place?’
‘Sir,’ returned the old man, squeezing his little packet of snuff in his hand, and turning upon his interrogator as if such questions hurt him. ‘I am.’
‘Sir,’ replied the old man, squeezing his small packet of snuff in his hand and turning to his questioner as if such questions pained him. ‘I am.’
‘I beg you to excuse me. I am not impertinently curious, but have a good object. Do you know the name of Dorrit here?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you. I’m not being nosy, but I have a good reason. Do you know the name of Dorrit here?’
‘My name, sir,’ replied the old man most unexpectedly, ‘is Dorrit.’
‘My name, sir,’ replied the old man quite unexpectedly, ‘is Dorrit.’
Arthur pulled off his hat to him. ‘Grant me the favour of half-a-dozen words. I was wholly unprepared for your announcement, and hope that assurance is my sufficient apology for having taken the liberty of addressing you. I have recently come home to England after a long absence. I have seen at my mother’s—Mrs Clennam in the city—a young woman working at her needle, whom I have only heard addressed or spoken of as Little Dorrit. I have felt sincerely interested in her, and have had a great desire to know something more about her. I saw her, not a minute before you came up, pass in at that door.’
Arthur took off his hat to him. "Could you spare me a few words? I wasn’t at all ready for your announcement, and I hope my honesty serves as a good enough apology for approaching you. I’ve just returned to England after a long time away. I visited my mother—Mrs. Clennam in the city—and saw a young woman sewing, who everyone seems to call Little Dorrit. I’ve become genuinely interested in her and would love to learn more about her. Just a moment before you arrived, I saw her walk through that door."
The old man looked at him attentively. ‘Are you a sailor, sir?’ he asked. He seemed a little disappointed by the shake of the head that replied to him. ‘Not a sailor? I judged from your sunburnt face that you might be. Are you in earnest, sir?’
The old man watched him closely. ‘Are you a sailor, sir?’ he asked. He looked a bit let down by the head shake that answered him. ‘Not a sailor? I figured from your sunburned face that you might be. Are you serious, sir?’
‘I do assure you that I am, and do entreat you to believe that I am, in plain earnest.’
‘I assure you that I am, and I ask you to believe that I am, totally serious.’
‘I know very little of the world, sir,’ returned the other, who had a weak and quavering voice. ‘I am merely passing on, like the shadow over the sun-dial. It would be worth no man’s while to mislead me; it would really be too easy—too poor a success, to yield any satisfaction. The young woman whom you saw go in here is my brother’s child. My brother is William Dorrit; I am Frederick. You say you have seen her at your mother’s (I know your mother befriends her), you have felt an interest in her, and you wish to know what she does here. Come and see.’
"I don't know much about the world, sir," the other person replied, his voice weak and shaky. "I'm just passing through, like a shadow on a sundial. It wouldn’t benefit anyone to mislead me; it would be far too easy—too little of an accomplishment to bring any satisfaction. The young woman you saw come in here is my brother's daughter. My brother is William Dorrit; I'm Frederick. You mentioned you've seen her at your mother's place (I know your mother looks out for her), you’re interested in her, and you want to know what she's doing here. Come and take a look."
He went on again, and Arthur accompanied him.
He continued on, and Arthur went with him.
‘My brother,’ said the old man, pausing on the step and slowly facing round again, ‘has been here many years; and much that happens even among ourselves, out of doors, is kept from him for reasons that I needn’t enter upon now. Be so good as to say nothing of my niece’s working at her needle. Be so good as to say nothing that goes beyond what is said among us. If you keep within our bounds, you cannot well be wrong. Now! Come and see.’
‘My brother,’ said the old man, stopping on the step and slowly turning back, ‘has been here for many years, and a lot of what happens, even among us, outside, is kept from him for reasons I don't need to go into right now. Please don’t mention my niece’s sewing. Please keep everything to what’s shared among us. If you stay within our limits, you can’t really go wrong. Now! Come and see.’
Arthur followed him down a narrow entry, at the end of which a key was turned, and a strong door was opened from within. It admitted them into a lodge or lobby, across which they passed, and so through another door and a grating into the prison. The old man always plodding on before, turned round, in his slow, stiff, stooping manner, when they came to the turnkey on duty, as if to present his companion. The turnkey nodded; and the companion passed in without being asked whom he wanted.
Arthur followed him down a narrow hallway, where a key was turned, and a heavy door was opened from the inside. They entered a small lodge or lobby, crossed it, then went through another door and a grate into the prison. The old man, always trudging ahead, turned around in his slow, stiff, hunched way when they reached the guard on duty, as if to introduce his companion. The guard nodded, and the companion entered without being asked who he was looking for.
The night was dark; and the prison lamps in the yard, and the candles in the prison windows faintly shining behind many sorts of wry old curtain and blind, had not the air of making it lighter. A few people loitered about, but the greater part of the population was within doors. The old man, taking the right-hand side of the yard, turned in at the third or fourth doorway, and began to ascend the stairs. ‘They are rather dark, sir, but you will not find anything in the way.’
The night was dark, and the prison lights in the yard, along with the candles flickering in the windows behind various old curtains and blinds, didn’t make it feel any brighter. A few people hung around outside, but most of the population was indoors. The old man walked along the right side of the yard, entered through the third or fourth doorway, and started to climb the stairs. “They’re a bit dark, sir, but you won’t run into anything on the way.”
He paused for a moment before opening a door on the second story. He had no sooner turned the handle than the visitor saw Little Dorrit, and saw the reason of her setting so much store by dining alone.
He paused for a moment before opening a door on the second floor. He had barely turned the handle when the visitor saw Little Dorrit and understood why she valued dining alone so much.
She had brought the meat home that she should have eaten herself, and was already warming it on a gridiron over the fire for her father, clad in an old grey gown and a black cap, awaiting his supper at the table. A clean cloth was spread before him, with knife, fork, and spoon, salt-cellar, pepper-box, glass, and pewter ale-pot. Such zests as his particular little phial of cayenne pepper and his pennyworth of pickles in a saucer, were not wanting.
She had brought home the meat that she should have eaten herself and was already warming it on a grill over the fire for her father, who was in an old gray gown and a black cap, waiting for his dinner at the table. A clean cloth was laid out in front of him, along with a knife, fork, and spoon, salt shaker, pepper shaker, glass, and a pewter ale pot. His favorite extras, like his small bottle of cayenne pepper and his cheap pickles in a saucer, were all there too.
She started, coloured deeply, and turned white. The visitor, more with his eyes than by the slight impulsive motion of his hand, entreated her to be reassured and to trust him.
She jumped, her face turning bright red and then pale. The visitor, using mostly his eyes rather than the small, quick motion of his hand, urged her to relax and trust him.
‘I found this gentleman,’ said the uncle—‘Mr Clennam, William, son of Amy’s friend—at the outer gate, wishful, as he was going by, of paying his respects, but hesitating whether to come in or not. This is my brother William, sir.’
‘I found this guy,’ said the uncle—‘Mr. Clennam, William, son of Amy’s friend—at the outer gate, wanting, as he was passing by, to pay his respects, but unsure whether to come in or not. This is my brother William, sir.’
‘I hope,’ said Arthur, very doubtful what to say, ‘that my respect for your daughter may explain and justify my desire to be presented to you, sir.’
“I hope,” Arthur said, uncertain about how to express himself, “that my respect for your daughter can explain and justify my wish to meet you, sir.”
‘Mr Clennam,’ returned the other, rising, taking his cap off in the flat of his hand, and so holding it, ready to put on again, ‘you do me honour. You are welcome, sir;’ with a low bow. ‘Frederick, a chair. Pray sit down, Mr Clennam.’
‘Mr. Clennam,’ replied the other, standing up and holding his cap in his hand, ready to put it back on, ‘you honor me. You’re welcome, sir;’ with a slight bow. ‘Frederick, please get a chair. Do take a seat, Mr. Clennam.’
He put his black cap on again as he had taken it off, and resumed his own seat. There was a wonderful air of benignity and patronage in his manner. These were the ceremonies with which he received the collegians.
He put his black cap back on, just like he had taken it off, and returned to his seat. There was a great sense of kindness and superiority in how he acted. These were the rituals he followed to welcome the students.
‘You are welcome to the Marshalsea, sir. I have welcomed many gentlemen to these walls. Perhaps you are aware—my daughter Amy may have mentioned that I am the Father of this place.’
'Welcome to the Marshalsea, sir. I've welcomed many gentlemen to these walls. You might know—my daughter Amy may have mentioned that I'm the Father of this place.'
‘I—so I have understood,’ said Arthur, dashing at the assertion.
"I—so I get it," said Arthur, rushing at the claim.
‘You know, I dare say, that my daughter Amy was born here. A good girl, sir, a dear girl, and long a comfort and support to me. Amy, my dear, put this dish on; Mr Clennam will excuse the primitive customs to which we are reduced here. Is it a compliment to ask you if you would do me the honour, sir, to—’
‘You know, I must say that my daughter Amy was born here. She's a good girl, sir, a dear girl, and has long been a comfort and support to me. Amy, my dear, please pass this dish; Mr. Clennam will forgive the simple customs we have here. Would it be too forward to ask you if you would do me the honor, sir, to—’
‘Thank you,’ returned Arthur. ‘Not a morsel.’
"Thanks," Arthur replied. "Not a bite."
He felt himself quite lost in wonder at the manner of the man, and that the probability of his daughter’s having had a reserve as to her family history, should be so far out of his mind.
He felt completely amazed by the man's behavior, and that the possibility of his daughter having held back information about her family history was so far from his thoughts.
She filled his glass, put all the little matters on the table ready to his hand, and then sat beside him while he ate his supper. Evidently in observance of their nightly custom, she put some bread before herself, and touched his glass with her lips; but Arthur saw she was troubled and took nothing. Her look at her father, half admiring him and proud of him, half ashamed for him, all devoted and loving, went to his inmost heart.
She filled his glass, placed all the little things on the table within his reach, and then sat next to him while he had his dinner. Clearly following their nightly routine, she set some bread in front of herself and lightly touched his glass with her lips; but Arthur noticed she was upset and didn’t eat anything. Her gaze at her father—partly admiring and proud of him, partly embarrassed for him, but completely devoted and loving—touched his deepest feelings.
The Father of the Marshalsea condescended towards his brother as an amiable, well-meaning man; a private character, who had not arrived at distinction. ‘Frederick,’ said he, ‘you and Fanny sup at your lodgings to-night, I know. What have you done with Fanny, Frederick?’
The Father of the Marshalsea looked down at his brother as a nice, well-meaning guy; a regular person who hadn’t achieved any recognition. ‘Frederick,’ he said, ‘you and Fanny are having dinner at your place tonight, right? What’s going on with Fanny, Frederick?’
‘She is walking with Tip.’
"She's walking with Tip."
‘Tip—as you may know—is my son, Mr Clennam. He has been a little wild, and difficult to settle, but his introduction to the world was rather’—he shrugged his shoulders with a faint sigh, and looked round the room—‘a little adverse. Your first visit here, sir?’
‘Tip—as you may know—is my son, Mr. Clennam. He’s been a bit wild and tough to manage, but his entry into the world was somewhat’—he shrugged his shoulders with a light sigh and glanced around the room—‘a bit challenging. Is this your first visit here, sir?’
‘My first.’
‘My first one.’
‘You could hardly have been here since your boyhood without my knowledge. It very seldom happens that anybody—of any pretensions—any pretensions—comes here without being presented to me.’
'You could hardly have been here since you were a kid without me knowing. It rarely happens that anyone—who thinks highly of themselves—comes here without being introduced to me.'
‘As many as forty or fifty in a day have been introduced to my brother,’ said Frederick, faintly lighting up with a ray of pride.
‘As many as forty or fifty in a day have been introduced to my brother,’ said Frederick, faintly glowing with a sense of pride.
‘Yes!’ the Father of the Marshalsea assented. ‘We have even exceeded that number. On a fine Sunday in term time, it is quite a Levee—quite a Levee. Amy, my dear, I have been trying half the day to remember the name of the gentleman from Camberwell who was introduced to me last Christmas week by that agreeable coal-merchant who was remanded for six months.’
‘Yes!’ the Father of the Marshalsea agreed. ‘We’ve even surpassed that number. On a nice Sunday during term time, it’s really like a gathering—quite a gathering. Amy, my dear, I’ve been trying for half the day to remember the name of the gentleman from Camberwell who was introduced to me last Christmas week by that friendly coal merchant who was sentenced to six months.’
‘I don’t remember his name, father.’
‘I don’t remember his name, Dad.’
‘Frederick, do you remember his name?’
"Frederick, do you remember his name?"
Frederick doubted if he had ever heard it. No one could doubt that Frederick was the last person upon earth to put such a question to, with any hope of information.
Frederick questioned whether he had ever heard it. No one could argue that Frederick was the last person in the world to ask such a question, hoping for information.
‘I mean,’ said his brother, ‘the gentleman who did that handsome action with so much delicacy. Ha! Tush! The name has quite escaped me. Mr Clennam, as I have happened to mention handsome and delicate action, you may like, perhaps, to know what it was.’
‘I mean,’ said his brother, ‘the guy who did that nice thing with such grace. Ha! Oh! The name has totally slipped my mind. Mr. Clennam, since I’ve brought up that nice and graceful action, you might be interested to know what it was.’
‘Very much,’ said Arthur, withdrawing his eyes from the delicate head beginning to droop and the pale face with a new solicitude stealing over it.
"Very much," Arthur said, pulling his eyes away from the delicate head that was starting to droop and the pale face that was showing a new concern.
‘It is so generous, and shows so much fine feeling, that it is almost a duty to mention it. I said at the time that I always would mention it on every suitable occasion, without regard to personal sensitiveness. A—well—a—it’s of no use to disguise the fact—you must know, Mr Clennam, that it does sometimes occur that people who come here desire to offer some little—Testimonial—to the Father of the place.’
‘It’s so generous and shows such great thoughtfulness that it almost feels like a duty to bring it up. I mentioned before that I would always bring it up on every appropriate occasion, regardless of personal feelings. Well, I can't hide the truth—you should know, Mr. Clennam, that it sometimes happens that people who come here want to give a small—testimonial—to the Father of this place.’
To see her hand upon his arm in mute entreaty half-repressed, and her timid little shrinking figure turning away, was to see a sad, sad sight.
To see her hand on his arm in a silent plea, holding back her emotions, and her small, timid figure turning away was a really sad sight.
‘Sometimes,’ he went on in a low, soft voice, agitated, and clearing his throat every now and then; ‘sometimes—hem—it takes one shape and sometimes another; but it is generally—ha—Money. And it is, I cannot but confess it, it is too often—hem—acceptable. This gentleman that I refer to, was presented to me, Mr Clennam, in a manner highly gratifying to my feelings, and conversed not only with great politeness, but with great—ahem—information.’ All this time, though he had finished his supper, he was nervously going about his plate with his knife and fork, as if some of it were still before him. ‘It appeared from his conversation that he had a garden, though he was delicate of mentioning it at first, as gardens are—hem—are not accessible to me. But it came out, through my admiring a very fine cluster of geranium—beautiful cluster of geranium to be sure—which he had brought from his conservatory. On my taking notice of its rich colour, he showed me a piece of paper round it, on which was written, “For the Father of the Marshalsea,” and presented it to me. But this was—hem—not all. He made a particular request, on taking leave, that I would remove the paper in half an hour. I—ha—I did so; and I found that it contained—ahem—two guineas. I assure you, Mr Clennam, I have received—hem—Testimonials in many ways, and of many degrees of value, and they have always been—ha—unfortunately acceptable; but I never was more pleased than with this—ahem—this particular Testimonial.’
“Sometimes,” he continued in a low, soft voice, clearly agitated and clearing his throat every so often, “sometimes—uh—it takes one form and sometimes another; but it’s usually—uh—money. And I have to admit, it’s too often—uh—acceptable. The gentleman I’m talking about was introduced to me, Mr. Clennam, in a way that was very satisfying to me, and he spoke not just with great politeness, but also with—uh—great knowledge.” All this time, even though he had finished his dinner, he was nervously rearranging his plate with his knife and fork, as if he still had food in front of him. “It turned out from our conversation that he had a garden, although he was hesitant to mention it at first, as gardens are—uh—not something I have access to. But it came up when I admired a beautiful cluster of geraniums he had brought from his greenhouse. When I commented on its rich color, he showed me a piece of paper wrapped around it, which said, ‘For the Father of the Marshalsea,’ and he gave it to me. But that wasn’t—uh—all. He specifically asked me, when he was leaving, to remove the paper in half an hour. I—uh—I did, and I found that it contained—uh—two guineas. I assure you, Mr. Clennam, I have received—uh—recognitions in many ways and of many values, and they have always been—uh—unfortunately acceptable; but I have never been more pleased than with this—uh—particular recognition.”
Arthur was in the act of saying the little he could say on such a theme, when a bell began to ring, and footsteps approached the door. A pretty girl of a far better figure and much more developed than Little Dorrit, though looking much younger in the face when the two were observed together, stopped in the doorway on seeing a stranger; and a young man who was with her, stopped too.
Arthur was just about to say the little he could on the subject when a bell rang, and footsteps came towards the door. A pretty girl, with a much better figure and more developed than Little Dorrit, although appearing much younger in the face when the two were seen together, paused in the doorway at the sight of a stranger; and a young man accompanying her stopped as well.
‘Mr Clennam, Fanny. My eldest daughter and my son, Mr Clennam. The bell is a signal for visitors to retire, and so they have come to say good night; but there is plenty of time, plenty of time. Girls, Mr Clennam will excuse any household business you may have together. He knows, I dare say, that I have but one room here.’
‘Mr. Clennam, Fanny. This is my eldest daughter and my son, Mr. Clennam. The bell is the signal for guests to leave, so they’ve come to say goodnight; but there’s plenty of time, plenty of time. Girls, Mr. Clennam will excuse any household matters you need to discuss. He probably knows that I only have one room here.’
‘I only want my clean dress from Amy, father,’ said the second girl.
'I only want my clean dress from Amy, Dad,' said the second girl.
‘And I my clothes,’ said Tip.
‘And I my clothes,’ said Tip.
Amy opened a drawer in an old piece of furniture that was a chest of drawers above and a bedstead below, and produced two little bundles, which she handed to her brother and sister. ‘Mended and made up?’ Clennam heard the sister ask in a whisper. To which Amy answered ‘Yes.’ He had risen now, and took the opportunity of glancing round the room. The bare walls had been coloured green, evidently by an unskilled hand, and were poorly decorated with a few prints. The window was curtained, and the floor carpeted; and there were shelves and pegs, and other such conveniences, that had accumulated in the course of years. It was a close, confined room, poorly furnished; and the chimney smoked to boot, or the tin screen at the top of the fireplace was superfluous; but constant pains and care had made it neat, and even, after its kind, comfortable.
Amy opened a drawer in an old piece of furniture that was a chest of drawers on top and a bed underneath, and pulled out two small bundles, which she handed to her brother and sister. “Did you fix them up?” Clennam heard the sister ask in a whisper. To which Amy replied, “Yes.” He had stood up now and took the chance to look around the room. The bare walls were painted green, clearly done by someone without much skill, and there were a few prints that were poorly hung. The window had curtains, and the floor was carpeted; there were shelves and hooks, and other such conveniences that had built up over the years. It was a small, cramped room with sparse furniture, and the chimney smoked too, or the tin screen at the top of the fireplace was unnecessary; but constant effort and care had kept it tidy, and even somewhat comfortable in its own way.
All the while the bell was ringing, and the uncle was anxious to go. ‘Come, Fanny, come, Fanny,’ he said, with his ragged clarionet case under his arm; ‘the lock, child, the lock!’
All the while the bell was ringing, and the uncle was eager to leave. ‘Come on, Fanny, come on, Fanny,’ he said, with his worn clarinet case under his arm; ‘the lock, kid, the lock!’
Fanny bade her father good night, and whisked off airily. Tip had already clattered down-stairs. ‘Now, Mr Clennam,’ said the uncle, looking back as he shuffled out after them, ‘the lock, sir, the lock.’
Fanny said goodnight to her father and left with a light step. Tip had already rushed down the stairs. “Now, Mr. Clennam,” the uncle said, glancing back as he shuffled after them, “the lock, sir, the lock.”
Mr Clennam had two things to do before he followed; one, to offer his testimonial to the Father of the Marshalsea, without giving pain to his child; the other to say something to that child, though it were but a word, in explanation of his having come there.
Mr. Clennam had two things to do before he followed; first, to give his testimonial to the Father of the Marshalsea without hurting his child; second, to say something to that child, even if it was just a word, to explain why he had come.
‘Allow me,’ said the Father, ‘to see you down-stairs.’
‘Let me,’ said the Father, ‘walk you downstairs.’
She had slipped out after the rest, and they were alone. ‘Not on any account,’ said the visitor, hurriedly. ‘Pray allow me to—’ chink, chink, chink.
She had sneaked out after the others, and they were alone. ‘On no account,’ said the visitor quickly. ‘Please let me—’ chink, chink, chink.
‘Mr Clennam,’ said the Father, ‘I am deeply, deeply—’ But his visitor had shut up his hand to stop the clinking, and had gone down-stairs with great speed.
‘Mr. Clennam,’ said the Father, ‘I am really, really—’ But his visitor had clenched his hand to silence the clinking and had hurried downstairs with great speed.
He saw no Little Dorrit on his way down, or in the yard. The last two or three stragglers were hurrying to the lodge, and he was following, when he caught sight of her in the doorway of the first house from the entrance. He turned back hastily.
He didn't see Little Dorrit on his way down or in the yard. The last couple of stragglers were rushing to the lodge, and he was following them when he noticed her in the doorway of the first house by the entrance. He quickly turned back.
‘Pray forgive me,’ he said, ‘for speaking to you here; pray forgive me for coming here at all! I followed you to-night. I did so, that I might endeavour to render you and your family some service. You know the terms on which I and my mother are, and may not be surprised that I have preserved our distant relations at her house, lest I should unintentionally make her jealous, or resentful, or do you any injury in her estimation. What I have seen here, in this short time, has greatly increased my heartfelt wish to be a friend to you. It would recompense me for much disappointment if I could hope to gain your confidence.’
"Please forgive me," he said, "for talking to you here; please forgive me for coming here at all! I followed you tonight. I did this so I could try to help you and your family. You know the situation between my mother and me, so you might not be surprised that I’ve kept our distant relationship at her house, so I wouldn't unintentionally make her jealous or upset, or put you in a bad light in her eyes. What I’ve seen here, in such a short time, has really strengthened my genuine desire to be your friend. It would mean a lot to me if I could expect to earn your trust."
She was scared at first, but seemed to take courage while he spoke to her.
She was scared at first, but seemed to find her courage as he talked to her.
‘You are very good, sir. You speak very earnestly to me. But I—but I wish you had not watched me.’
‘You’re really great, sir. You speak very sincerely to me. But I—but I wish you hadn’t been watching me.’
He understood the emotion with which she said it, to arise in her father’s behalf; and he respected it, and was silent.
He understood the feeling behind her words, which came from her concern for her father; he respected that and stayed quiet.
‘Mrs Clennam has been of great service to me; I don’t know what we should have done without the employment she has given me; I am afraid it may not be a good return to become secret with her; I can say no more to-night, sir. I am sure you mean to be kind to us. Thank you, thank you.’
‘Mrs. Clennam has been really helpful to me; I don't know what we would have done without the work she provided; I'm worried it might not be fair to become secretive with her; I can't say any more tonight, sir. I know you mean well for us. Thank you, thank you.’
‘Let me ask you one question before I leave. Have you known my mother long?’
‘Can I ask you one question before I go? Have you known my mom for a long time?’
‘I think two years, sir,—The bell has stopped.’
‘I think it’s been two years, sir—the bell has stopped.’
‘How did you know her first? Did she send here for you?’
‘How did you get to know her first? Did she send for you?’
‘No. She does not even know that I live here. We have a friend, father and I—a poor labouring man, but the best of friends—and I wrote out that I wished to do needlework, and gave his address. And he got what I wrote out displayed at a few places where it cost nothing, and Mrs Clennam found me that way, and sent for me. The gate will be locked, sir!’
‘No. She doesn’t even know I live here. We have a friend, my father and I—a poor laborer, but the greatest friend—and I wrote out that I wanted to do needlework and gave his address. He got what I wrote displayed in a few places where it didn’t cost anything, and that's how Mrs. Clennam found me and sent for me. The gate will be locked, sir!’
She was so tremulous and agitated, and he was so moved by compassion for her, and by deep interest in her story as it dawned upon him, that he could scarcely tear himself away. But the stoppage of the bell, and the quiet in the prison, were a warning to depart; and with a few hurried words of kindness he left her gliding back to her father.
She was shaking and anxious, and he felt such compassion for her, along with a strong interest in her story as it unfolded, that he could hardly pull himself away. But the silence of the bell and the stillness in the prison signaled it was time to go; so, with a few rushed words of kindness, he left her, slipping back to her father.
But he remained too late. The inner gate was locked, and the lodge closed. After a little fruitless knocking with his hand, he was standing there with the disagreeable conviction upon him that he had got to get through the night, when a voice accosted him from behind.
But he stayed out too late. The inner gate was locked, and the lodge was closed. After knocking fruitlessly with his hand for a bit, he was standing there with the unpleasant realization that he had to spend the night out there when a voice called out to him from behind.
‘Caught, eh?’ said the voice. ‘You won’t go home till morning. Oh! It’s you, is it, Mr Clennam?’
‘Caught, huh?’ said the voice. ‘You won’t be going home until morning. Oh! It’s you, Mr. Clennam, isn’t it?’
The voice was Tip’s; and they stood looking at one another in the prison-yard, as it began to rain.
The voice was Tip’s, and they stood facing each other in the prison yard as it started to rain.
‘You’ve done it,’ observed Tip; ‘you must be sharper than that next time.’
"You've done it," Tip noted. "You need to be sharper than that next time."
‘But you are locked in too,’ said Arthur.
‘But you’re locked in too,’ said Arthur.
‘I believe I am!’ said Tip, sarcastically. ‘About! But not in your way. I belong to the shop, only my sister has a theory that our governor must never know it. I don’t see why, myself.’
"I'm sure I am!" tip replied, sarcastically. "About! But not in your way. I belong to the shop, but my sister thinks our boss should never find out. I don't see why, though."
‘Can I get any shelter?’ asked Arthur. ‘What had I better do?’
‘Can I get any shelter?’ asked Arthur. ‘What should I do?’
‘We had better get hold of Amy first of all,’ said Tip, referring any difficulty to her as a matter of course.
‘We should contact Amy first,’ said Tip, naturally assigning any difficulties to her.
‘I would rather walk about all night—it’s not much to do—than give that trouble.’
"I would rather walk around all night—it's not a big deal—than cause that hassle."
‘You needn’t do that, if you don’t mind paying for a bed. If you don’t mind paying, they’ll make you up one on the Snuggery table, under the circumstances. If you’ll come along, I’ll introduce you there.’
‘You don’t have to do that if you’re okay with paying for a bed. If you don’t mind paying, they’ll set one up for you on the Snuggery table, given the situation. If you come with me, I’ll introduce you there.’
As they passed down the yard, Arthur looked up at the window of the room he had lately left, where the light was still burning. ‘Yes, sir,’ said Tip, following his glance. ‘That’s the governor’s. She’ll sit with him for another hour reading yesterday’s paper to him, or something of that sort; and then she’ll come out like a little ghost, and vanish away without a sound.’
As they walked through the yard, Arthur glanced up at the window of the room he had just left, where the light was still on. "Yeah," Tip said, following his gaze. "That's the governor's room. She'll sit with him for another hour, reading yesterday's paper or something like that; and then she'll come out like a little ghost and disappear without a sound."
‘I don’t understand you.’
"I don't get you."
‘The governor sleeps up in the room, and she has a lodging at the turnkey’s. First house there,’ said Tip, pointing out the doorway into which she had retired. ‘First house, sky parlour. She pays twice as much for it as she would for one twice as good outside. But she stands by the governor, poor dear girl, day and night.’
‘The governor is sleeping up in her room, and she has a place at the turnkey’s. First house there,’ Tip said, pointing to the doorway where she had gone in. ‘First house, top floor. She pays double what she would for one that’s twice as nice outside. But she supports the governor, poor dear girl, day and night.’
This brought them to the tavern-establishment at the upper end of the prison, where the collegians had just vacated their social evening club. The apartment on the ground-floor in which it was held, was the Snuggery in question; the presidential tribune of the chairman, the pewter-pots, glasses, pipes, tobacco-ashes, and general flavour of members, were still as that convivial institution had left them on its adjournment. The Snuggery had two of the qualities popularly held to be essential to grog for ladies, in respect that it was hot and strong; but in the third point of analogy, requiring plenty of it, the Snuggery was defective; being but a cooped-up apartment.
This brought them to the tavern at the far end of the prison, where the college students had just finished their evening gathering. The room on the ground floor where it was held was the Snuggery; the chairman's podium, pewter mugs, glasses, pipes, tobacco ashes, and the overall vibe of the members were still exactly how they had left them after their meeting ended. The Snuggery had two qualities that people commonly thought were essential for ladies’ drinks: it was hot and strong. However, it was lacking in one important aspect—having plenty of space—since it was just a cramped room.
The unaccustomed visitor from outside, naturally assumed everybody here to be prisoners—landlord, waiter, barmaid, potboy, and all. Whether they were or not, did not appear; but they all had a weedy look. The keeper of a chandler’s shop in a front parlour, who took in gentlemen boarders, lent his assistance in making the bed. He had been a tailor in his time, and had kept a phaeton, he said. He boasted that he stood up litigiously for the interests of the college; and he had undefined and undefinable ideas that the marshal intercepted a ‘Fund,’ which ought to come to the collegians. He liked to believe this, and always impressed the shadowy grievance on new-comers and strangers; though he could not, for his life, have explained what Fund he meant, or how the notion had got rooted in his soul. He had fully convinced himself, notwithstanding, that his own proper share of the Fund was three and ninepence a week; and that in this amount he, as an individual collegian, was swindled by the marshal, regularly every Monday. Apparently, he helped to make the bed, that he might not lose an opportunity of stating this case; after which unloading of his mind, and after announcing (as it seemed he always did, without anything coming of it) that he was going to write a letter to the papers and show the marshal up, he fell into miscellaneous conversation with the rest. It was evident from the general tone of the whole party, that they had come to regard insolvency as the normal state of mankind, and the payment of debts as a disease that occasionally broke out.
The unfamiliar visitor from outside naturally assumed that everyone here was a prisoner—landlord, waiter, barmaid, potboy, and all. Whether they actually were or not wasn’t clear, but they all had a scruffy appearance. The owner of a convenience store in the front parlor, who took in gentlemen boarders, helped make the bed. He used to be a tailor and claimed he had once owned a carriage. He bragged about how he legally defended the college's interests and had vague ideas that the marshal was intercepting a ‘Fund’ that should go to the college students. He liked to believe this and always shared his obscure grievance with newcomers and strangers, even though he couldn't explain what Fund he was talking about or how the idea became so ingrained in his mind. Still, he firmly believed that his rightful share of the Fund was three shillings and nine pence a week, and that the marshal swindled him out of that amount every Monday. Apparently, he helped make the bed just to take the chance to state his case; after getting that off his chest, and after announcing (as he seemed to always do, without any results) that he was going to write a letter to the papers to expose the marshal, he engaged in random conversation with the rest. It was clear from the overall attitude of the group that they had come to see insolvency as the normal state of people, and paying off debts as a condition that occasionally flared up.
In this strange scene, and with these strange spectres flitting about him, Arthur Clennam looked on at the preparations as if they were part of a dream. Pending which, the long-initiated Tip, with an awful enjoyment of the Snuggery’s resources, pointed out the common kitchen fire maintained by subscription of collegians, the boiler for hot water supported in like manner, and other premises generally tending to the deduction that the way to be healthy, wealthy, and wise, was to come to the Marshalsea.
In this strange scene, with these odd apparitions moving around him, Arthur Clennam watched the preparations as if they were part of a dream. Meanwhile, the long-accustomed Tip, reveling in the Snuggery’s offerings, pointed out the communal kitchen fire funded by the contributions of students, the boiler for hot water similarly supported, and other facilities that generally suggested the idea that the path to being healthy, wealthy, and wise was to come to the Marshalsea.
The two tables put together in a corner, were, at length, converted into a very fair bed; and the stranger was left to the Windsor chairs, the presidential tribune, the beery atmosphere, sawdust, pipe-lights, spittoons and repose. But the last item was long, long, long, in linking itself to the rest. The novelty of the place, the coming upon it without preparation, the sense of being locked up, the remembrance of that room up-stairs, of the two brothers, and above all of the retiring childish form, and the face in which he now saw years of insufficient food, if not of want, kept him waking and unhappy.
The two tables pushed together in a corner finally made a decent bed, while the stranger was left with the Windsor chairs, the makeshift podium, the boozy atmosphere, sawdust, pipe lights, spittoons, and some peace. But that last part took a long time to connect with everything else. The newness of the place, finding it unexpectedly, the feeling of being trapped, the memory of that room upstairs, the two brothers, and especially the frail childlike figure and the face showing years of not enough food—if not outright hunger—kept him awake and uneasy.
Speculations, too, bearing the strangest relations towards the prison, but always concerning the prison, ran like nightmares through his mind while he lay awake. Whether coffins were kept ready for people who might die there, where they were kept, how they were kept, where people who died in the prison were buried, how they were taken out, what forms were observed, whether an implacable creditor could arrest the dead? As to escaping, what chances there were of escape? Whether a prisoner could scale the walls with a cord and grapple, how he would descend upon the other side? whether he could alight on a housetop, steal down a staircase, let himself out at a door, and get lost in the crowd? As to Fire in the prison, if one were to break out while he lay there?
Speculations, with the strangest connections to the prison but always focused on it, raced like nightmares through his mind while he lay awake. Were coffins kept ready for people who might die there? Where were they stored? How were they kept? Where were people who died in the prison buried? How were they taken out, and what procedures were followed? Could an unyielding creditor seize the dead? When it came to escape, what chances existed? Could a prisoner climb the walls using a rope and a grappling hook? How would he get down on the other side? Could he land on a rooftop, sneak down a staircase, exit through a door, and disappear into the crowd? And what about a fire in the prison—what if it broke out while he lay there?
And these involuntary starts of fancy were, after all, but the setting of a picture in which three people kept before him. His father, with the steadfast look with which he had died, prophetically darkened forth in the portrait; his mother, with her arm up, warding off his suspicion; Little Dorrit, with her hand on the degraded arm, and her drooping head turned away.
And these sudden bursts of imagination were really just the background for a picture featuring three people. His father, with the unwavering gaze he had when he died, ominously stood out in the portrait; his mother, with her arm raised, trying to dispel his doubt; and Little Dorrit, with her hand on the degraded arm, looking away with her head lowered.
What if his mother had an old reason she well knew for softening to this poor girl! What if the prisoner now sleeping quietly—Heaven grant it!—by the light of the great Day of judgment should trace back his fall to her. What if any act of hers and of his father’s, should have even remotely brought the grey heads of those two brothers so low!
What if his mom had a deep-seated reason she understood for being kind to this poor girl? What if the prisoner, now resting peacefully—hopefully!—under the light of the great Day of Judgment, could trace his downfall back to her? What if anything she or his dad did had even the slightest role in bringing those two brothers so low?
A swift thought shot into his mind. In that long imprisonment here, and in her own long confinement to her room, did his mother find a balance to be struck? ‘I admit that I was accessory to that man’s captivity. I have suffered for it in kind. He has decayed in his prison: I in mine. I have paid the penalty.’
A quick thought flashed through his mind. During her long time stuck in her room and his lengthy imprisonment here, did his mother find a way to balance things? 'I acknowledge that I played a part in that man's captivity. I've suffered for it in my own way. He’s withered away in his prison; I've withered away in mine. I've paid the price.'
When all the other thoughts had faded out, this one held possession of him. When he fell asleep, she came before him in her wheeled chair, warding him off with this justification. When he awoke, and sprang up causelessly frightened, the words were in his ears, as if her voice had slowly spoken them at his pillow, to break his rest: ‘He withers away in his prison; I wither away in mine; inexorable justice is done; what do I owe on this score!’
When all the other thoughts faded away, this one took over him. When he fell asleep, she appeared before him in her wheelchair, pushing him away with this reasoning. When he woke up, suddenly scared for no reason, the words echoed in his ears, as if her voice had softly spoken them at his pillow, interrupting his sleep: ‘He’s wasting away in his prison; I’m wasting away in mine; relentless justice is served; what do I owe for this!’
CHAPTER 9. Little Mother
The morning light was in no hurry to climb the prison wall and look in at the Snuggery windows; and when it did come, it would have been more welcome if it had come alone, instead of bringing a rush of rain with it. But the equinoctial gales were blowing out at sea, and the impartial south-west wind, in its flight, would not neglect even the narrow Marshalsea. While it roared through the steeple of St George’s Church, and twirled all the cowls in the neighbourhood, it made a swoop to beat the Southwark smoke into the jail; and, plunging down the chimneys of the few early collegians who were yet lighting their fires, half suffocated them.
The morning light was in no rush to rise above the prison wall and peek into the Snuggery windows; and when it finally arrived, it would have been more appreciated if it had come by itself, instead of bringing a downpour along with it. But the autumn storms were raging out at sea, and the unbiased south-west wind, in its journey, wouldn’t ignore even the narrow Marshalsea. As it roared through the steeple of St George’s Church and whipped around all the hoods in the area, it swooped down to push the Southwark smoke into the jail, and diving into the chimneys of the few early students still lighting their fires, it nearly choked them.
Arthur Clennam would have been little disposed to linger in bed, though his bed had been in a more private situation, and less affected by the raking out of yesterday’s fire, the kindling of to-day’s under the collegiate boiler, the filling of that Spartan vessel at the pump, the sweeping and sawdusting of the common room, and other such preparations. Heartily glad to see the morning, though little rested by the night, he turned out as soon as he could distinguish objects about him, and paced the yard for two heavy hours before the gate was opened.
Arthur Clennam wasn’t the type to stay in bed, even if his room had been more private and less disturbed by the cleanup of yesterday’s fire, the lighting of today’s under the college boiler, filling that tough container at the pump, sweeping, and putting down sawdust in the common room, along with other preparations. He was really happy to see the morning, even if he hadn’t rested much overnight. He got up as soon as he could see clearly and walked around the yard for two long hours before the gate opened.
The walls were so near to one another, and the wild clouds hurried over them so fast, that it gave him a sensation like the beginning of sea-sickness to look up at the gusty sky. The rain, carried aslant by flaws of wind, blackened that side of the central building which he had visited last night, but left a narrow dry trough under the lee of the wall, where he walked up and down among the waits of straw and dust and paper, the waste droppings of the pump, and the stray leaves of yesterday’s greens. It was as haggard a view of life as a man need look upon.
The walls were so close together, and the wild clouds raced over them so quickly, that looking up at the turbulent sky made him feel a bit queasy, like the start of seasickness. The rain, blown sideways by gusts of wind, darkened the side of the central building he had visited the night before, but left a narrow dry strip against the wall where he walked back and forth among the piles of straw, dust, and paper, the leftover bits from the pump, and the stray leaves from yesterday's greens. It was a weary sight of life, as grim as one could imagine.
Nor was it relieved by any glimpse of the little creature who had brought him there. Perhaps she glided out of her doorway and in at that where her father lived, while his face was turned from both; but he saw nothing of her. It was too early for her brother; to have seen him once, was to have seen enough of him to know that he would be sluggish to leave whatever frowsy bed he occupied at night; so, as Arthur Clennam walked up and down, waiting for the gate to open, he cast about in his mind for future rather than for present means of pursuing his discoveries.
Nor was it eased by any sight of the little creature who had brought him there. Maybe she slipped out of her doorway and into her father's place while his back was turned; but he saw nothing of her. It was too early for her brother; once you’d seen him, you’d know that he would be slow to get out of whatever messy bed he slept in at night. So, as Arthur Clennam walked back and forth, waiting for the gate to open, he thought about future rather than present ways to continue his search.
At last the lodge-gate turned, and the turnkey, standing on the step, taking an early comb at his hair, was ready to let him out. With a joyful sense of release he passed through the lodge, and found himself again in the little outer court-yard where he had spoken to the brother last night.
At last, the lodge gate opened, and the guard, standing on the step and giving his hair an early comb, was ready to let him out. With a joyful feeling of freedom, he walked through the lodge and found himself back in the small outer courtyard where he had talked to his brother the night before.
There was a string of people already straggling in, whom it was not difficult to identify as the nondescript messengers, go-betweens, and errand-bearers of the place. Some of them had been lounging in the rain until the gate should open; others, who had timed their arrival with greater nicety, were coming up now, and passing in with damp whitey-brown paper bags from the grocers, loaves of bread, lumps of butter, eggs, milk, and the like. The shabbiness of these attendants upon shabbiness, the poverty of these insolvent waiters upon insolvency, was a sight to see. Such threadbare coats and trousers, such fusty gowns and shawls, such squashed hats and bonnets, such boots and shoes, such umbrellas and walking-sticks, never were seen in Rag Fair. All of them wore the cast-off clothes of other men and women, were made up of patches and pieces of other people’s individuality, and had no sartorial existence of their own proper. Their walk was the walk of a race apart. They had a peculiar way of doggedly slinking round the corner, as if they were eternally going to the pawnbroker’s. When they coughed, they coughed like people accustomed to be forgotten on doorsteps and in draughty passages, waiting for answers to letters in faded ink, which gave the recipients of those manuscripts great mental disturbance and no satisfaction. As they eyed the stranger in passing, they eyed him with borrowing eyes—hungry, sharp, speculative as to his softness if they were accredited to him, and the likelihood of his standing something handsome. Mendicity on commission stooped in their high shoulders, shambled in their unsteady legs, buttoned and pinned and darned and dragged their clothes, frayed their button-holes, leaked out of their figures in dirty little ends of tape, and issued from their mouths in alcoholic breathings.
A group of people was already wandering in, easily identifiable as the ordinary messengers, intermediaries, and errand-runners in the area. Some had been waiting in the rain until the gate opened; others, who had timed their arrival more precisely, were coming up now, entering with damp brown paper bags from the grocery store, loaves of bread, slabs of butter, eggs, milk, and similar items. The shabbiness of these attendants of shabbiness, the poverty of these broke waiters on insolvency, was striking. Such threadbare coats and pants, such musty dresses and shawls, such squashed hats and bonnets, such boots and shoes, such umbrellas and walking sticks have never been seen at Rag Fair. They all wore hand-me-down clothes from others, made up of patches and pieces of someone else’s identity, with no style of their own. Their walk was distinctive, as if they belonged to a different race. They had a peculiar way of sneaking around the corner, as if they were always heading to the pawnshop. When they coughed, it was the cough of people used to being forgotten on doorsteps and in drafty corridors, waiting for replies to letters written in faded ink, which caused great mental anguish and no satisfaction. As they glanced at the stranger passing by, they looked with eyes that seemed to borrow—hungry, sharp, and calculating about how generous he could be. Poverty weighed heavily on their hunched shoulders, their unsteady legs shuffled, and their clothes were patched, pinned, and torn, with frayed buttonholes, worn edges, and the scent of alcohol trailing from them.
As these people passed him standing still in the court-yard, and one of them turned back to inquire if he could assist him with his services, it came into Arthur Clennam’s mind that he would speak to Little Dorrit again before he went away. She would have recovered her first surprise, and might feel easier with him. He asked this member of the fraternity (who had two red herrings in his hand, and a loaf and a blacking brush under his arm), where was the nearest place to get a cup of coffee at. The nondescript replied in encouraging terms, and brought him to a coffee-shop in the street within a stone’s throw.
As these people walked past him standing still in the courtyard, one of them turned back to ask if he needed any help. It occurred to Arthur Clennam that he should talk to Little Dorrit again before he left. She would have gotten over her initial shock and might feel more comfortable with him. He asked the guy (who was holding two red herrings in one hand and a loaf of bread and a blacking brush under his arm) where he could find the nearest place to get a cup of coffee. The man replied in a friendly manner and directed him to a coffee shop just a short distance away.
‘Do you know Miss Dorrit?’ asked the new client.
“Do you know Miss Dorrit?” asked the new client.
The nondescript knew two Miss Dorrits; one who was born inside—That was the one! That was the one? The nondescript had known her many years. In regard of the other Miss Dorrit, the nondescript lodged in the same house with herself and uncle.
The nondescript knew two Miss Dorrits; one who was born inside—That was the one! That was the one? The nondescript had known her for many years. As for the other Miss Dorrit, the nondescript lived in the same house with her and her uncle.
This changed the client’s half-formed design of remaining at the coffee-shop until the nondescript should bring him word that Dorrit had issued forth into the street. He entrusted the nondescript with a confidential message to her, importing that the visitor who had waited on her father last night, begged the favour of a few words with her at her uncle’s lodging; he obtained from the same source full directions to the house, which was very near; dismissed the nondescript gratified with half-a-crown; and having hastily refreshed himself at the coffee-shop, repaired with all speed to the clarionet-player’s dwelling.
This changed the client's vague plan of staying at the coffee shop until the stranger came back with news that Dorrit had left the house. He gave the stranger a private message to deliver to her, saying that the visitor who had seen her father last night was hoping to speak with her at her uncle's place. He also got clear directions to the house, which was nearby; he sent the stranger off, pleased with a half-crown; and after quickly grabbing a bite at the coffee shop, he hurried to the clarinet player's home.
There were so many lodgers in this house that the doorpost seemed to be as full of bell-handles as a cathedral organ is of stops. Doubtful which might be the clarionet-stop, he was considering the point, when a shuttlecock flew out of the parlour window, and alighted on his hat. He then observed that in the parlour window was a blind with the inscription, MR CRIPPLES’s ACADEMY; also in another line, EVENING TUITION; and behind the blind was a little white-faced boy, with a slice of bread-and-butter and a battledore. The window being accessible from the footway, he looked in over the blind, returned the shuttlecock, and put his question.
There were so many renters in this house that the doorframe seemed to have as many doorbells as a cathedral organ has stops. Unsure which one might be like the clarinet stop, he was thinking about it when a shuttlecock flew out of the parlor window and landed on his hat. He then noticed that the parlor window had a blind that read, MR CRIPPLES’s ACADEMY; and in another line, EVENING TUITION; and behind the blind was a little boy with a pale face, holding a slice of bread and butter and a battledore. Since the window was accessible from the sidewalk, he looked in over the blind, returned the shuttlecock, and asked his question.
‘Dorrit?’ said the little white-faced boy (Master Cripples in fact). ‘Mr Dorrit? Third bell and one knock.’
‘Dorrit?’ said the little pale-faced boy (Master Cripples, actually). ‘Mr Dorrit? Third bell and one knock.’
The pupils of Mr Cripples appeared to have been making a copy-book of the street-door, it was so extensively scribbled over in pencil. The frequency of the inscriptions, ‘Old Dorrit,’ and ‘Dirty Dick,’ in combination, suggested intentions of personality on the part Of Mr Cripples’s pupils. There was ample time to make these observations before the door was opened by the poor old man himself.
The students of Mr. Cripples seemed to have turned the street door into a makeshift notebook, as it was covered in pencil scribbles. The repeated phrases "Old Dorrit" and "Dirty Dick" hinted that Mr. Cripples's students were trying to express their personalities. There was plenty of time to notice all this before the poor old man himself opened the door.
‘Ha!’ said he, very slowly remembering Arthur, ‘you were shut in last night?’
‘Ha!’ he said, slowly recalling Arthur, ‘were you locked in last night?’
‘Yes, Mr Dorrit. I hope to meet your niece here presently.’
‘Yes, Mr. Dorrit. I hope to meet your niece here soon.’
‘Oh!’ said he, pondering. ‘Out of my brother’s way? True. Would you come up-stairs and wait for her?’
‘Oh!’ he said, thinking. ‘Out of my brother’s way? That’s true. Would you come upstairs and wait for her?’
‘Thank you.’
Thanks.
Turning himself as slowly as he turned in his mind whatever he heard or said, he led the way up the narrow stairs. The house was very close, and had an unwholesome smell. The little staircase windows looked in at the back windows of other houses as unwholesome as itself, with poles and lines thrust out of them, on which unsightly linen hung; as if the inhabitants were angling for clothes, and had had some wretched bites not worth attending to. In the back garret—a sickly room, with a turn-up bedstead in it, so hastily and recently turned up that the blankets were boiling over, as it were, and keeping the lid open—a half-finished breakfast of coffee and toast for two persons was jumbled down anyhow on a rickety table.
Turning himself as slowly as he processed everything he heard or said, he led the way up the narrow stairs. The house was very cramped and had a bad smell. The little staircase windows looked into the back windows of other equally shabby houses, with poles and lines sticking out of them, hanging ugly laundry; it was as if the residents were trying to fish for clothes and had caught some sad bits that weren’t worth the trouble. In the back attic—a sickly room, with a fold-up bed in it, hastily folded so recently that the blankets seemed to be boiling over and keeping the mattress propped open—a half-eaten breakfast of coffee and toast for two was carelessly piled on a rickety table.
There was no one there. The old man mumbling to himself, after some consideration, that Fanny had run away, went to the next room to fetch her back. The visitor, observing that she held the door on the inside, and that, when the uncle tried to open it, there was a sharp adjuration of ‘Don’t, stupid!’ and an appearance of loose stocking and flannel, concluded that the young lady was in an undress. The uncle, without appearing to come to any conclusion, shuffled in again, sat down in his chair, and began warming his hands at the fire; not that it was cold, or that he had any waking idea whether it was or not.
There was no one there. The old man, mumbling to himself and realizing that Fanny had run away, went to the next room to bring her back. The visitor noticed that she was holding the door from the inside and that when the uncle tried to open it, he heard a sharp “Don’t, stupid!” along with a glimpse of loose stockings and flannel. He figured that the young lady was not fully dressed. The uncle, without seeming to reach any conclusion, shuffled back in, sat down in his chair, and started warming his hands by the fire; not that it was cold, or that he had any idea whether it was or not.
‘What did you think of my brother, sir?’ he asked, when he by-and-by discovered what he was doing, left off, reached over to the chimney-piece, and took his clarionet case down.
‘What did you think of my brother, sir?’ he asked, when he eventually realized what he was doing, stopped, reached over to the mantel, and took down his clarinet case.
‘I was glad,’ said Arthur, very much at a loss, for his thoughts were on the brother before him; ‘to find him so well and cheerful.’
“I was glad,” Arthur said, feeling quite confused, as his mind was on the brother in front of him, “to see him so healthy and happy.”
‘Ha!’ muttered the old man, ‘yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!’
‘Ha!’ muttered the old man, ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!’
Arthur wondered what he could possibly want with the clarionet case. He did not want it at all. He discovered, in due time, that it was not the little paper of snuff (which was also on the chimney-piece), put it back again, took down the snuff instead, and solaced himself with a pinch. He was as feeble, spare, and slow in his pinches as in everything else, but a certain little trickling of enjoyment of them played in the poor worn nerves about the corners of his eyes and mouth.
Arthur wondered why he would even want the clarinet case. He really didn’t want it at all. Eventually, he realized it wasn’t the small packet of snuff (which was also on the mantelpiece), put it aside, grabbed the snuff instead, and treated himself to a pinch. He was as weak, thin, and slow with his pinches as he was with everything else, but there was a slight hint of enjoyment that flickered in the tired nerves around his eyes and mouth.
‘Amy, Mr Clennam. What do you think of her?’
‘Amy, Mr. Clennam. What do you think of her?’
‘I am much impressed, Mr Dorrit, by all that I have seen of her and thought of her.’
‘I’m really impressed, Mr. Dorrit, by everything I’ve seen of her and thought about her.’
‘My brother would have been quite lost without Amy,’ he returned. ‘We should all have been lost without Amy. She is a very good girl, Amy. She does her duty.’
‘My brother would have been totally lost without Amy,’ he replied. ‘We all would have been lost without Amy. She’s a really good person, Amy. She does what needs to be done.’
Arthur fancied that he heard in these praises a certain tone of custom, which he had heard from the father last night with an inward protest and feeling of antagonism. It was not that they stinted her praises, or were insensible to what she did for them; but that they were lazily habituated to her, as they were to all the rest of their condition. He fancied that although they had before them, every day, the means of comparison between her and one another and themselves, they regarded her as being in her necessary place; as holding a position towards them all which belonged to her, like her name or her age. He fancied that they viewed her, not as having risen away from the prison atmosphere, but as appertaining to it; as being vaguely what they had a right to expect, and nothing more.
Arthur thought he detected in their praise a certain tone of familiarity, similar to what he had heard from his father the night before, which stirred up a feeling of resistance in him. It wasn't that they held back on complimenting her or didn't appreciate what she did for them; it was just that they were lazily used to her, just like they were to everything else in their lives. He imagined that even though they had daily opportunities to compare her with each other and themselves, they viewed her as simply filling her designated role; her position seemed as fixed as her name or age. He believed they saw her not as someone who had escaped the oppressive environment, but as someone who belonged to it; as if she represented a vague expectation they had every right to make, and nothing more.
Her uncle resumed his breakfast, and was munching toast sopped in coffee, oblivious of his guest, when the third bell rang. That was Amy, he said, and went down to let her in; leaving the visitor with as vivid a picture on his mind of his begrimed hands, dirt-worn face, and decayed figure, as if he were still drooping in his chair.
Her uncle went back to his breakfast, munching on toast soaked in coffee, completely unaware of his guest, when the third bell rang. "That’s Amy," he said, and went downstairs to let her in, leaving the visitor with a clear image in his mind of his dirty hands, worn-out face, and shabby appearance, as if he were still slumped in his chair.
She came up after him, in the usual plain dress, and with the usual timid manner. Her lips were a little parted, as if her heart beat faster than usual.
She approached him, wearing her usual simple dress and with her typical shy demeanor. Her lips were slightly parted, as if her heart was racing more than usual.
‘Mr Clennam, Amy,’ said her uncle, ‘has been expecting you some time.’
‘Mr. Clennam, Amy,’ her uncle said, ‘has been waiting for you for a while.’
‘I took the liberty of sending you a message.’
‘I took the liberty of sending you a message.’
‘I received the message, sir.’
"I got the message, sir."
‘Are you going to my mother’s this morning? I think not, for it is past your usual hour.’
‘Are you going to my mom’s this morning? I don’t think so, because it’s past your usual time.’
‘Not to-day, sir. I am not wanted to-day.’
‘Not today, sir. I’m not needed today.’
‘Will you allow Me to walk a little way in whatever direction you may be going? I can then speak to you as we walk, both without detaining you here, and without intruding longer here myself.’
‘Will you let Me walk with you for a bit, wherever you're headed? I can talk to you while we walk, without holding you up here, and without overstaying my welcome myself.’
She looked embarrassed, but said, if he pleased. He made a pretence of having mislaid his walking-stick, to give her time to set the bedstead right, to answer her sister’s impatient knock at the wall, and to say a word softly to her uncle. Then he found it, and they went down-stairs; she first, he following; the uncle standing at the stair-head, and probably forgetting them before they had reached the ground floor.
She looked embarrassed but said, if it was okay with him. He pretended to have lost his walking stick to give her time to fix the bed, respond to her sister’s impatient knock on the wall, and say a few words softly to her uncle. Then he found it, and they went downstairs; she went first, and he followed. The uncle stood at the top of the stairs, likely forgetting about them before they reached the ground floor.
Mr Cripples’s pupils, who were by this time coming to school, desisted from their morning recreation of cuffing one another with bags and books, to stare with all the eyes they had at a stranger who had been to see Dirty Dick. They bore the trying spectacle in silence, until the mysterious visitor was at a safe distance; when they burst into pebbles and yells, and likewise into reviling dances, and in all respects buried the pipe of peace with so many savage ceremonies, that, if Mr Cripples had been the chief of the Cripplewayboo tribe with his war-paint on, they could scarcely have done greater justice to their education.
Mr. Cripples’s students, who were arriving at school by this time, stopped their morning fun of playfully hitting each other with bags and books to stare with all their eyes at a stranger who had visited Dirty Dick. They endured the unusual sight in silence until the mysterious visitor was out of range; then they erupted into pebbles and screams, along with mocking dances, completely burying the hatchet with so many wild antics that, if Mr. Cripples had been the leader of the Cripplewayboo tribe in his war paint, they could hardly have shown off their education any better.
In the midst of this homage, Mr Arthur Clennam offered his arm to Little Dorrit, and Little Dorrit took it. ‘Will you go by the Iron Bridge,’ said he, ‘where there is an escape from the noise of the street?’ Little Dorrit answered, if he pleased, and presently ventured to hope that he would ‘not mind’ Mr Cripples’s boys, for she had herself received her education, such as it was, in Mr Cripples’s evening academy. He returned, with the best will in the world, that Mr Cripples’s boys were forgiven out of the bottom of his soul. Thus did Cripples unconsciously become a master of the ceremonies between them, and bring them more naturally together than Beau Nash might have done if they had lived in his golden days, and he had alighted from his coach and six for the purpose.
In the middle of this tribute, Mr. Arthur Clennam offered his arm to Little Dorrit, and she accepted it. “Shall we go by the Iron Bridge,” he suggested, “where we can escape the noise of the street?” Little Dorrit replied that it was fine with her and then nervously hoped he wouldn’t mind Mr. Cripples’s boys, since she had received her education, such as it was, at Mr. Cripples’s evening school. He assured her, with all sincerity, that he had no grudges against Mr. Cripples’s boys at all. In this way, Cripples unknowingly became the host between them, bringing them together more naturally than Beau Nash could have if they had lived in his glamorous era and he had stepped down from his grand carriage for the occasion.
The morning remained squally, and the streets were miserably muddy, but no rain fell as they walked towards the Iron Bridge. The little creature seemed so young in his eyes, that there were moments when he found himself thinking of her, if not speaking to her, as if she were a child. Perhaps he seemed as old in her eyes as she seemed young in his.
The morning was still stormy, and the streets were frustratingly muddy, but no rain fell as they walked toward the Iron Bridge. The little creature appeared so young to him that there were times he caught himself thinking of her, if not talking to her, as if she were a child. Maybe he seemed as old to her as she seemed young to him.
‘I am sorry to hear you were so inconvenienced last night, sir, as to be locked in. It was very unfortunate.’
“I’m sorry to hear you had such a tough time last night, sir, being locked in. That was really unfortunate.”
It was nothing, he returned. He had had a very good bed.
It was nothing, he replied. He had a really nice bed.
‘Oh yes!’ she said quickly; ‘she believed there were excellent beds at the coffee-house.’ He noticed that the coffee-house was quite a majestic hotel to her, and that she treasured its reputation.
‘Oh yes!’ she said quickly; ‘she believed there were great beds at the coffee house.’ He noticed that the coffee house seemed like a grand hotel to her, and that she cherished its reputation.
‘I believe it is very expensive,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘but my father has told me that quite beautiful dinners may be got there. And wine,’ she added timidly.
"I think it's really expensive," said Little Dorrit, "but my father told me that you can get really nice dinners there. And wine,” she added shyly.
‘Were you ever there?’
"Have you ever been there?"
‘Oh no! Only into the kitchen to fetch hot water.’
'Oh no! Just going into the kitchen to grab hot water.'
To think of growing up with a kind of awe upon one as to the luxuries of that superb establishment, the Marshalsea Hotel!
To grow up with a sense of wonder about the luxuries of that amazing place, the Marshalsea Hotel!
‘I asked you last night,’ said Clennam, ‘how you had become acquainted with my mother. Did you ever hear her name before she sent for you?’
‘I asked you last night,’ Clennam said, ‘how you got to know my mother. Had you ever heard her name before she reached out to you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you think your father ever did?’
‘Do you think your dad ever did?’
‘No, sir.’
'No, sir.'
He met her eyes raised to his with so much wonder in them (she was scared when the encounter took place, and shrunk away again), that he felt it necessary to say:
He met her gaze, which was filled with so much wonder (she was scared during their encounter and pulled back again), that he felt he had to say:
‘I have a reason for asking, which I cannot very well explain; but you must, on no account, suppose it to be of a nature to cause you the least alarm or anxiety. Quite the reverse. And you think that at no time of your father’s life was my name of Clennam ever familiar to him?’
‘I have a reason for asking, which I can’t really explain; but you must, under no circumstances, think it’s anything that would cause you any alarm or worry. Quite the opposite. And you don’t think that at any point in your father’s life my name, Clennam, was ever familiar to him?’
‘No, sir.’
'No, thanks.'
He felt, from the tone in which she spoke, that she was glancing up at him with those parted lips; therefore he looked before him, rather than make her heart beat quicker still by embarrassing her afresh.
He sensed from her tone that she was looking up at him with her lips slightly parted; so, he chose to look ahead instead of making her heart race even more by embarrassing her again.
Thus they emerged upon the Iron Bridge, which was as quiet after the roaring streets as though it had been open country. The wind blew roughly, the wet squalls came rattling past them, skimming the pools on the road and pavement, and raining them down into the river. The clouds raced on furiously in the lead-coloured sky, the smoke and mist raced after them, the dark tide ran fierce and strong in the same direction. Little Dorrit seemed the least, the quietest, and weakest of Heaven’s creatures.
Thus they arrived at the Iron Bridge, which was as peaceful after the noisy streets as if it were open countryside. The wind blew harshly, with wet gusts swirling around them, splashing through the puddles on the road and pavement, and pouring them into the river. The clouds raced across the lead-colored sky, the smoke and mist chased after them, and the dark tide surged fiercely in the same direction. Little Dorrit appeared the smallest, the quietest, and the most fragile of Heaven’s creations.
‘Let me put you in a coach,’ said Clennam, very nearly adding ‘my poor child.’
"Let me get you a carriage," said Clennam, almost adding "my poor child."
She hurriedly declined, saying that wet or dry made little difference to her; she was used to go about in all weathers. He knew it to be so, and was touched with more pity; thinking of the slight figure at his side, making its nightly way through the damp dark boisterous streets to such a place of rest.
She quickly said no, mentioning that it didn’t matter whether it was wet or dry; she was used to being out in any weather. He knew that was true and felt a deeper compassion, thinking about the small figure next to him, making its way through the damp, dark, noisy streets to find a place to rest.
‘You spoke so feelingly to me last night, sir, and I found afterwards that you had been so generous to my father, that I could not resist your message, if it was only to thank you; especially as I wished very much to say to you—’ she hesitated and trembled, and tears rose in her eyes, but did not fall.
‘You spoke so passionately to me last night, sir, and I later realized that you had been so kind to my father that I couldn’t ignore your message, even if it was just to thank you; especially since I really wanted to tell you—’ she hesitated and trembled, and tears welled up in her eyes, but didn’t fall.
‘To say to me—?’
"Are you saying to me—?"
‘That I hope you will not misunderstand my father. Don’t judge him, sir, as you would judge others outside the gates. He has been there so long! I never saw him outside, but I can understand that he must have grown different in some things since.’
‘I hope you won’t misjudge my father. Don’t see him, sir, like you would see others outside the gates. He’s been there for so long! I’ve never seen him outside, but I can imagine he must have changed in some ways since then.’
‘My thoughts will never be unjust or harsh towards him, believe me.’
'You can trust that my thoughts will never be unfair or harsh toward him.'
‘Not,’ she said, with a prouder air, as the misgiving evidently crept upon her that she might seem to be abandoning him, ‘not that he has anything to be ashamed of for himself, or that I have anything to be ashamed of for him. He only requires to be understood. I only ask for him that his life may be fairly remembered. All that he said was quite true. It all happened just as he related it. He is very much respected. Everybody who comes in, is glad to know him. He is more courted than anyone else. He is far more thought of than the Marshal is.’
“Not,” she said, with a sense of pride, as the worry clearly crept over her that she might look like she was abandoning him, “not that he has anything to be ashamed of for himself, or that I have anything to be ashamed of for him. He just needs to be understood. I only want people to remember his life fairly. Everything he said was completely true. It all happened just as he described it. He is very well respected. Everyone who comes in is happy to know him. He is sought after more than anyone else. People think about him far more than they do the Marshal.”
If ever pride were innocent, it was innocent in Little Dorrit when she grew boastful of her father.
If pride was ever innocent, it was innocent in Little Dorrit when she became proud of her father.
‘It is often said that his manners are a true gentleman’s, and quite a study. I see none like them in that place, but he is admitted to be superior to all the rest. This is quite as much why they make him presents, as because they know him to be needy. He is not to be blamed for being in need, poor love. Who could be in prison a quarter of a century, and be prosperous!’
"It’s often said that his manners are those of a true gentleman and quite remarkable. I don't see anyone else like him around here, but everyone agrees he’s better than the rest. This is just as much the reason why they give him gifts as it is because they know he’s struggling. He can’t be blamed for being in need, poor thing. Who could spend a quarter of a century in prison and come out doing well?"
What affection in her words, what compassion in her repressed tears, what a great soul of fidelity within her, how true the light that shed false brightness round him!
What love in her words, what compassion in her hidden tears, what a great soul of loyalty within her, how genuine the light that cast a deceptive glow around him!
‘If I have found it best to conceal where my home is, it is not because I am ashamed of him. God forbid! Nor am I so much ashamed of the place itself as might be supposed. People are not bad because they come there. I have known numbers of good, persevering, honest people come there through misfortune. They are almost all kind-hearted to one another. And it would be ungrateful indeed in me, to forget that I have had many quiet, comfortable hours there; that I had an excellent friend there when I was quite a baby, who was very very fond of me; that I have been taught there, and have worked there, and have slept soundly there. I think it would be almost cowardly and cruel not to have some little attachment for it, after all this.’
"If I've chosen to keep my home a secret, it’s not because I’m ashamed of it. God forbid! I’m not really ashamed of the place itself as much as people might think. Just because someone comes from there doesn’t make them bad. I’ve met plenty of good, hardworking, honest people who ended up there due to hard times. They’re mostly kind to each other. It would be pretty ungrateful of me to forget that I’ve had many peaceful, happy moments there; that I had a great friend there when I was just a kid, who really cared about me; that I learned there, worked there, and slept soundly there. I think it’d be a bit cowardly and cruel not to have some affection for it, considering all of that."
She had relieved the faithful fulness of her heart, and modestly said, raising her eyes appealingly to her new friend’s, ‘I did not mean to say so much, nor have I ever but once spoken about this before. But it seems to set it more right than it was last night. I said I wished you had not followed me, sir. I don’t wish it so much now, unless you should think—indeed I don’t wish it at all, unless I should have spoken so confusedly, that—that you can scarcely understand me, which I am afraid may be the case.’
She had expressed the full feelings of her heart and modestly said, raising her eyes in a hopeful way to her new friend’s, “I didn’t mean to say so much, and I’ve only talked about this once before. But it seems like it makes things clearer than they were last night. I said I wished you hadn’t followed me, sir. I don’t feel that way anymore, unless you think—actually, I don’t wish it at all, unless I’ve spoken so confusingly that you can hardly understand me, which I’m afraid might be true.”
He told her with perfect truth that it was not the case; and putting himself between her and the sharp wind and rain, sheltered her as well as he could.
He told her honestly that it wasn't true; and by standing between her and the biting wind and rain, he sheltered her as best as he could.
‘I feel permitted now,’ he said, ‘to ask you a little more concerning your father. Has he many creditors?’
'I feel like I can ask you a bit more about your father now,' he said. 'Does he have many creditors?'
‘Oh! a great number.’
“Wow! So many.”
‘I mean detaining creditors, who keep him where he is?’
‘I mean holding back creditors, who keep him stuck where he is?’
‘Oh yes! a great number.’
“Oh yeah! A ton.”
‘Can you tell me—I can get the information, no doubt, elsewhere, if you cannot—who is the most influential of them?’
‘Can you tell me—I can definitely find the information somewhere else if you can't—who is the most influential of them?’
Little Dorrit said, after considering a little, that she used to hear long ago of Mr Tite Barnacle as a man of great power. He was a commissioner, or a board, or a trustee, ‘or something.’ He lived in Grosvenor Square, she thought, or very near it. He was under Government—high in the Circumlocution Office. She appeared to have acquired, in her infancy, some awful impression of the might of this formidable Mr Tite Barnacle of Grosvenor Square, or very near it, and the Circumlocution Office, which quite crushed her when she mentioned him.
Little Dorrit said, after thinking for a bit, that she used to hear a long time ago about Mr. Tite Barnacle as a man of great power. He was a commissioner, or part of a board, or a trustee, "or something." She thought he lived in Grosvenor Square, or very close to it. He was with the Government—high up in the Circumlocution Office. It seemed she had picked up some terrible impression of the power of this formidable Mr. Tite Barnacle from Grosvenor Square, or very near it, and the Circumlocution Office, which completely overwhelmed her when she mentioned him.
‘It can do no harm,’ thought Arthur, ‘if I see this Mr Tite Barnacle.’
‘It won't hurt,’ Arthur thought, ‘if I meet this Mr. Tite Barnacle.’
The thought did not present itself so quietly but that her quickness intercepted it. ‘Ah!’ said Little Dorrit, shaking her head with the mild despair of a lifetime. ‘Many people used to think once of getting my poor father out, but you don’t know how hopeless it is.’
The thought didn’t come to her quietly, but her quick mind caught it. “Ah!” said Little Dorrit, shaking her head with the gentle despair of a lifetime. “Many people used to think about getting my poor father out, but you don’t know how hopeless it is.”
She forgot to be shy at the moment, in honestly warning him away from the sunken wreck he had a dream of raising; and looked at him with eyes which assuredly, in association with her patient face, her fragile figure, her spare dress, and the wind and rain, did not turn him from his purpose of helping her.
She momentarily forgot to be shy as she honestly warned him away from the sunken wreck he dreamed of raising. She looked at him with eyes that, along with her patient expression, delicate frame, simple dress, and the wind and rain, didn't deter him from his intention to help her.
‘Even if it could be done,’ said she—‘and it never can be done now—where could father live, or how could he live? I have often thought that if such a change could come, it might be anything but a service to him now. People might not think so well of him outside as they do there. He might not be so gently dealt with outside as he is there. He might not be so fit himself for the life outside as he is for that.’
“Even if it were possible,” she said, “which it really isn’t anymore—where would Dad live, or how would he manage? I’ve often thought that if such a change were to happen, it might actually be harmful to him now. People might not view him as positively outside as they do there. He might not be treated as kindly outside as he is there. He might not be as suited for life outside as he is for that.”
Here for the first time she could not restrain her tears from falling; and the little thin hands he had watched when they were so busy, trembled as they clasped each other.
Here for the first time, she couldn't hold back her tears any longer; and the little thin hands he had watched while they were so busy trembled as they held onto each other.
‘It would be a new distress to him even to know that I earn a little money, and that Fanny earns a little money. He is so anxious about us, you see, feeling helplessly shut up there. Such a good, good father!’
‘It would be a new worry for him just to know that I make a little money, and that Fanny makes a little money too. He is so concerned about us, you see, feeling helplessly stuck there. Such a wonderful, wonderful father!’
He let the little burst of feeling go by before he spoke. It was soon gone. She was not accustomed to think of herself, or to trouble any one with her emotions. He had but glanced away at the piles of city roofs and chimneys among which the smoke was rolling heavily, and at the wilderness of masts on the river, and the wilderness of steeples on the shore, indistinctly mixed together in the stormy haze, when she was again as quiet as if she had been plying her needle in his mother’s room.
He let the brief wave of emotion pass before he spoke. It quickly faded. She wasn't used to thinking about herself or bothering anyone with her feelings. He only glanced away at the clusters of city rooftops and chimneys where the smoke was thick, and at the jumble of masts on the river and the sea of steeples on the shore, all blurred together in the stormy haze, when she became as calm as if she were sewing in his mother's room.
‘You would be glad to have your brother set at liberty?’
‘You would be happy to have your brother freed?’
‘Oh very, very glad, sir!’
‘Oh so glad, sir!’
‘Well, we will hope for him at least. You told me last night of a friend you had?’
‘Well, we’ll at least hope for him. You mentioned a friend you have last night?’
His name was Plornish, Little Dorrit said.
His name was Plornish, said Little Dorrit.
And where did Plornish live? Plornish lived in Bleeding Heart Yard. He was ‘only a plasterer,’ Little Dorrit said, as a caution to him not to form high social expectations of Plornish. He lived at the last house in Bleeding Heart Yard, and his name was over a little gateway.
And where did Plornish live? Plornish lived in Bleeding Heart Yard. He was ‘just a plasterer,’ Little Dorrit said, as a warning to him not to have lofty social expectations of Plornish. He lived in the last house in Bleeding Heart Yard, and his name was above a small gate.
Arthur took down the address and gave her his. He had now done all he sought to do for the present, except that he wished to leave her with a reliance upon him, and to have something like a promise from her that she would cherish it.
Arthur wrote down the address and gave her his. He had now accomplished everything he aimed to for the moment, except that he wanted to leave her feeling secure about him and to get some sort of promise from her that she would hold onto it.
‘There is one friend!’ he said, putting up his pocketbook. ‘As I take you back—you are going back?’
‘There’s one friend!’ he said, pulling out his wallet. ‘As I take you back—you’re heading back, right?’
‘Oh yes! going straight home.’
"Yeah! Heading straight home."
‘—As I take you back,’ the word home jarred upon him, ‘let me ask you to persuade yourself that you have another friend. I make no professions, and say no more.’
‘—As I take you back,’ the word home unsettled him, ‘let me ask you to convince yourself that you have another friend. I won’t make any big declarations, and I’ll say no more.’
‘You are truly kind to me, sir. I am sure I need no more.’
'You’re really kind to me, sir. I’m sure I don’t need anything more.'
They walked back through the miserable muddy streets, and among the poor, mean shops, and were jostled by the crowds of dirty hucksters usual to a poor neighbourhood. There was nothing, by the short way, that was pleasant to any of the five senses. Yet it was not a common passage through common rain, and mire, and noise, to Clennam, having this little, slender, careful creature on his arm. How young she seemed to him, or how old he to her; or what a secret either to the other, in that beginning of the destined interweaving of their stories, matters not here. He thought of her having been born and bred among these scenes, and shrinking through them now, familiar yet misplaced; he thought of her long acquaintance with the squalid needs of life, and of her innocence; of her solicitude for others, and her few years, and her childish aspect.
They walked back through the miserable, muddy streets, and among the shabby, rundown shops, jostled by the crowds of dirty street vendors typical of a poor neighborhood. There was nothing pleasant to any of the five senses along the shortcut. Yet for Clennam, it wasn't just an ordinary trek through the usual rain, muck, and noise; it was different with this delicate, careful girl on his arm. He wondered how young she appeared to him, or how old he seemed to her; or what secrets they held from each other at the start of the intertwining of their lives—none of that mattered right now. He thought about her being born and raised in this environment, now navigating it—familiar yet out of place. He considered her long experience with the harsh realities of life and her innocence; her concern for others, her few years, and her childlike demeanor.
They were come into the High Street, where the prison stood, when a voice cried, ‘Little mother, little mother!’ Little Dorrit stopping and looking back, an excited figure of a strange kind bounced against them (still crying ‘little mother’), fell down, and scattered the contents of a large basket, filled with potatoes, in the mud.
They had just arrived on the High Street, where the prison was located, when a voice shouted, “Little mother, little mother!” Little Dorrit stopped and looked back, and an animated figure of an unusual sort rushed towards them (still shouting “little mother”), tripped, and spilled the contents of a large basket filled with potatoes into the mud.
‘Oh, Maggy,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘what a clumsy child you are!’
‘Oh, Maggy,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘you're such a clumsy kid!’
Maggy was not hurt, but picked herself up immediately, and then began to pick up the potatoes, in which both Little Dorrit and Arthur Clennam helped. Maggy picked up very few potatoes and a great quantity of mud; but they were all recovered, and deposited in the basket. Maggy then smeared her muddy face with her shawl, and presenting it to Mr Clennam as a type of purity, enabled him to see what she was like.
Maggy wasn't hurt, but she got up right away and started to gather the potatoes, with help from both Little Dorrit and Arthur Clennam. Maggy picked up only a few potatoes and a lot of mud, but they managed to get everything and put it in the basket. Maggy then wiped her muddy face with her shawl and showed it to Mr. Clennam as if it were a symbol of purity, allowing him to see what she looked like.
She was about eight-and-twenty, with large bones, large features, large feet and hands, large eyes and no hair. Her large eyes were limpid and almost colourless; they seemed to be very little affected by light, and to stand unnaturally still. There was also that attentive listening expression in her face, which is seen in the faces of the blind; but she was not blind, having one tolerably serviceable eye. Her face was not exceedingly ugly, though it was only redeemed from being so by a smile; a good-humoured smile, and pleasant in itself, but rendered pitiable by being constantly there. A great white cap, with a quantity of opaque frilling that was always flapping about, apologised for Maggy’s baldness, and made it so very difficult for her old black bonnet to retain its place upon her head, that it held on round her neck like a gipsy’s baby. A commission of haberdashers could alone have reported what the rest of her poor dress was made of, but it had a strong general resemblance to seaweed, with here and there a gigantic tea-leaf. Her shawl looked particularly like a tea-leaf after long infusion.
She was about twenty-eight, with big bones, big features, big feet and hands, big eyes, and no hair. Her big eyes were clear and almost colorless; they didn’t seem to react much to light and appeared unnaturally still. There was also that attentive, listening look on her face, often seen in the faces of the blind; but she wasn’t blind, as she had one fairly functional eye. Her face wasn’t extremely ugly, though it was only saved from that by a smile; a good-natured smile that was pleasant in itself, but made her look pitiable since it was always there. A large white cap, with a lot of opaque frills that always flapped around, covered Maggy’s baldness, making it really hard for her old black bonnet to stay in place on her head, so it hung around her neck like a gypsy's baby. Only a team of haberdashers could have identified what the rest of her poor outfit was made from, but it strongly resembled seaweed, with the occasional gigantic tea leaf. Her shawl especially looked like a tea leaf after being steeped for a long time.
Arthur Clennam looked at Little Dorrit with the expression of one saying, ‘May I ask who this is?’ Little Dorrit, whose hand this Maggy, still calling her little mother, had begun to fondle, answered in words (they were under a gateway into which the majority of the potatoes had rolled).
Arthur Clennam looked at Little Dorrit with the look of someone asking, 'Who is this?' Little Dorrit, whose hand Maggy, still calling her little mother, had started to caress, replied in words (they were under a gateway where most of the potatoes had rolled).
‘This is Maggy, sir.’
"This is Maggy, sir."
Original
‘Maggy, sir,’ echoed the personage presented. ‘Little mother!’
‘Maggy, sir,’ the person introduced replied. ‘Little mother!’
‘She is the grand-daughter—’ said Little Dorrit.
‘She is the granddaughter—’ said Little Dorrit.
‘Grand-daughter,’ echoed Maggy.
"Granddaughter," echoed Maggy.
‘Of my old nurse, who has been dead a long time. Maggy, how old are you?’
‘Of my old nurse, who has been dead a long time. Maggy, how old are you?’
‘Ten, mother,’ said Maggy.
"Ten, Mom," said Maggy.
‘You can’t think how good she is, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, with infinite tenderness.
"You can’t imagine how great she is, sir," said Little Dorrit, with immense warmth.
‘Good she is,’ echoed Maggy, transferring the pronoun in a most expressive way from herself to her little mother.
‘Good she is,’ echoed Maggy, shifting the pronoun in a very expressive way from herself to her little mother.
‘Or how clever,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘She goes on errands as well as any one.’ Maggy laughed. ‘And is as trustworthy as the Bank of England.’ Maggy laughed. ‘She earns her own living entirely. Entirely, sir!’ said Little Dorrit, in a lower and triumphant tone. ‘Really does!’
‘Or how smart,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘She runs errands just like anyone else.’ Maggy laughed. ‘And she’s as reliable as the Bank of England.’ Maggy laughed. ‘She completely supports herself. Completely, sir!’ said Little Dorrit, in a quieter and triumphant tone. ‘She really does!’
‘What is her history?’ asked Clennam.
"What's her story?" asked Clennam.
‘Think of that, Maggy?’ said Little Dorrit, taking her two large hands and clapping them together. ‘A gentleman from thousands of miles away, wanting to know your history!’
‘Can you believe that, Maggy?’ said Little Dorrit, taking her two large hands and clapping them together. ‘A guy from thousands of miles away, wanting to know your story!’
‘My history?’ cried Maggy. ‘Little mother.’
‘My history?’ shouted Maggy. ‘Little mom.’
‘She means me,’ said Little Dorrit, rather confused; ‘she is very much attached to me. Her old grandmother was not so kind to her as she should have been; was she, Maggy?’
‘She means me,’ said Little Dorrit, a bit confused; ‘she is really attached to me. Her grandmother wasn’t as kind to her as she should have been; was she, Maggy?’
Maggy shook her head, made a drinking vessel of her clenched left hand, drank out of it, and said, ‘Gin.’ Then beat an imaginary child, and said, ‘Broom-handles and pokers.’
Maggy shook her head, made a cup with her clenched left hand, drank from it, and said, ‘Gin.’ Then she pretended to hit an imaginary child and said, ‘Broom handles and pokers.’
‘When Maggy was ten years old,’ said Little Dorrit, watching her face while she spoke, ‘she had a bad fever, sir, and she has never grown any older ever since.’
‘When Maggy was ten years old,’ said Little Dorrit, watching her face as she spoke, ‘she had a bad fever, sir, and she hasn’t aged a day since then.’
‘Ten years old,’ said Maggy, nodding her head. ‘But what a nice hospital! So comfortable, wasn’t it? Oh so nice it was. Such a Ev’nly place!’
‘Ten years old,’ said Maggy, nodding her head. ‘But what a nice hospital! So comfortable, right? Oh, it was so nice. Such a heavenly place!’
‘She had never been at peace before, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, turning towards Arthur for an instant and speaking low, ‘and she always runs off upon that.’
‘She had never been at peace before, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, turning towards Arthur for a moment and speaking softly, ‘and she always goes on about that.’
‘Such beds there is there!’ cried Maggy. ‘Such lemonades! Such oranges! Such d’licious broth and wine! Such Chicking! Oh, AIN’T it a delightful place to go and stop at!’
‘Such beds there are here!’ cried Maggy. ‘Such lemonades! Such oranges! Such delicious broth and wine! Such chicken! Oh, isn’t it a delightful place to go and stay at!’
‘So Maggy stopped there as long as she could,’ said Little Dorrit, in her former tone of telling a child’s story; the tone designed for Maggy’s ear, ‘and at last, when she could stop there no longer, she came out. Then, because she was never to be more than ten years old, however long she lived—’
‘So Maggy stayed there as long as she could,’ said Little Dorrit, in her previous storybook tone, meant for Maggy’s understanding, ‘and eventually, when she couldn’t stay any longer, she came out. Then, because she would never be more than ten years old, no matter how long she lived—’
‘However long she lived,’ echoed Maggy.
‘However long she lived,’ repeated Maggy.
‘—And because she was very weak; indeed was so weak that when she began to laugh she couldn’t stop herself—which was a great pity—’
‘—And because she was very weak; she was so weak that when she started to laugh, she couldn’t stop—which was a real shame—’
(Maggy mighty grave of a sudden.)
(Maggy suddenly looks very serious.)
‘—Her grandmother did not know what to do with her, and for some years was very unkind to her indeed. At length, in course of time, Maggy began to take pains to improve herself, and to be very attentive and very industrious; and by degrees was allowed to come in and out as often as she liked, and got enough to do to support herself, and does support herself. And that,’ said Little Dorrit, clapping the two great hands together again, ‘is Maggy’s history, as Maggy knows!’
‘—Her grandmother didn’t know what to do with her and, for several years, was quite unkind to her. Eventually, over time, Maggy started to work on improving herself and became very diligent and attentive; gradually, she was allowed to come and go as she pleased and found enough work to support herself, and she does support herself. And that,’ said Little Dorrit, clapping her two big hands together again, ‘is Maggy’s story, as Maggy knows it!’
Ah! But Arthur would have known what was wanting to its completeness, though he had never heard of the words Little mother; though he had never seen the fondling of the small spare hand; though he had had no sight for the tears now standing in the colourless eyes; though he had had no hearing for the sob that checked the clumsy laugh. The dirty gateway with the wind and rain whistling through it, and the basket of muddy potatoes waiting to be spilt again or taken up, never seemed the common hole it really was, when he looked back to it by these lights. Never, never!
Ah! But Arthur would have known what was missing for it to feel complete, even if he had never heard the words "Little mother"; even if he had never seen the tender touch of the small, thin hand; even if he had not noticed the tears brimming in the colorless eyes; even if he had not heard the sob that interrupted the awkward laugh. The dirty gateway where the wind and rain whistled through, and the basket of muddy potatoes waiting to be spilled again or picked up, never seemed like the ordinary place it truly was, when he looked back at it in this light. Never, never!
They were very near the end of their walk, and they now came out of the gateway to finish it. Nothing would serve Maggy but that they must stop at a grocer’s window, short of their destination, for her to show her learning. She could read after a sort; and picked out the fat figures in the tickets of prices, for the most part correctly. She also stumbled, with a large balance of success against her failures, through various philanthropic recommendations to Try our Mixture, Try our Family Black, Try our Orange-flavoured Pekoe, challenging competition at the head of Flowery Teas; and various cautions to the public against spurious establishments and adulterated articles. When he saw how pleasure brought a rosy tint into Little Dorrit’s face when Maggy made a hit, he felt that he could have stood there making a library of the grocer’s window until the rain and wind were tired.
They were just about to finish their walk when they stepped out of the gateway. Maggy insisted they stop at a grocery store window, just before reaching their destination, so she could show off what she had learned. She could read a bit and mostly picked out the big numbers on the price tags correctly. She also managed, with more successes than failures, to get through various ads encouraging customers to Try our Mixture, Try our Family Black, Try our Orange-flavored Pekoe, competing with Flowery Teas; and various warnings to the public about counterfeit shops and fake products. When he saw how joyful Little Dorrit looked whenever Maggy got it right, he felt like he could have stood there creating a whole library out of the grocery store window until the rain and wind were worn out.
The court-yard received them at last, and there he said goodbye to Little Dorrit. Little as she had always looked, she looked less than ever when he saw her going into the Marshalsea lodge passage, the little mother attended by her big child.
The courtyard welcomed them at last, and there he said goodbye to Little Dorrit. Although she had always seemed small, she looked even smaller to him as he watched her walking into the Marshalsea lodge passage, the little mother accompanied by her big child.
The cage door opened, and when the small bird, reared in captivity, had tamely fluttered in, he saw it shut again; and then he came away.
The cage door opened, and when the small bird, raised in captivity, had gently fluttered in, he saw it close again; and then he walked away.
CHAPTER 10. Containing the whole Science of Government
The Circumlocution Office was (as everybody knows without being told) the most important Department under Government. No public business of any kind could possibly be done at any time without the acquiescence of the Circumlocution Office. Its finger was in the largest public pie, and in the smallest public tart. It was equally impossible to do the plainest right and to undo the plainest wrong without the express authority of the Circumlocution Office. If another Gunpowder Plot had been discovered half an hour before the lighting of the match, nobody would have been justified in saving the parliament until there had been half a score of boards, half a bushel of minutes, several sacks of official memoranda, and a family-vault full of ungrammatical correspondence, on the part of the Circumlocution Office.
The Circumlocution Office was (as everyone knows without needing to be told) the most important department in the government. No public business of any kind could be conducted without the approval of the Circumlocution Office. It had its hand in the biggest public projects and the smallest public issues. It was just as impossible to do the simplest good or to fix the simplest wrong without direct permission from the Circumlocution Office. If another Gunpowder Plot had been uncovered half an hour before the match was lit, no one would have been allowed to save Parliament until there had been a dozen meetings, countless minutes, several piles of official memos, and a vault full of awkward letters from the Circumlocution Office.
This glorious establishment had been early in the field, when the one sublime principle involving the difficult art of governing a country, was first distinctly revealed to statesmen. It had been foremost to study that bright revelation and to carry its shining influence through the whole of the official proceedings. Whatever was required to be done, the Circumlocution Office was beforehand with all the public departments in the art of perceiving—HOW NOT TO DO IT.
This impressive institution was one of the first to emerge when the essential principle behind the challenging task of running a country was clearly understood by politicians. It was the leader in studying that enlightening discovery and ensuring its impactful presence throughout all official actions. Whenever something needed to be accomplished, the Circumlocution Office was ahead of all public departments in mastering—HOW NOT TO DO IT.
Through this delicate perception, through the tact with which it invariably seized it, and through the genius with which it always acted on it, the Circumlocution Office had risen to overtop all the public departments; and the public condition had risen to be—what it was.
Through this keen understanding, through the sensitivity with which it always grasped it, and through the talent with which it consistently acted on it, the Circumlocution Office had come to surpass all the public departments; and the state of the public had become—what it was.
It is true that How not to do it was the great study and object of all public departments and professional politicians all round the Circumlocution Office. It is true that every new premier and every new government, coming in because they had upheld a certain thing as necessary to be done, were no sooner come in than they applied their utmost faculties to discovering How not to do it. It is true that from the moment when a general election was over, every returned man who had been raving on hustings because it hadn’t been done, and who had been asking the friends of the honourable gentleman in the opposite interest on pain of impeachment to tell him why it hadn’t been done, and who had been asserting that it must be done, and who had been pledging himself that it should be done, began to devise, How it was not to be done. It is true that the debates of both Houses of Parliament the whole session through, uniformly tended to the protracted deliberation, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech at the opening of such session virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have a considerable stroke of work to do, and you will please to retire to your respective chambers, and discuss, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech, at the close of such session, virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have through several laborious months been considering with great loyalty and patriotism, How not to do it, and you have found out; and with the blessing of Providence upon the harvest (natural, not political), I now dismiss you. All this is true, but the Circumlocution Office went beyond it.
It’s true that "How Not to Do It" was the main focus for all public departments and professional politicians around the Circumlocution Office. It’s true that every new prime minister and every new government, coming in on the promise of getting something done, wasted no time in figuring out how to avoid doing it. It’s true that once a general election wrapped up, every candidate who had been passionately arguing why something should’ve been done, and who had been demanding that the opposing party explain why it hadn’t been done, and who had insisted that it must happen, started working on how it wouldn’t be done. It’s true that the debates in both Houses of Parliament throughout the session consistently revolved around the prolonged discussion of how not to do it. It’s true that the royal speech at the start of the session essentially said, "My lords and gentlemen, you have a significant amount of work ahead of you, so please retire to your individual chambers and discuss how not to do it." It’s also true that the royal speech at the end of the session effectively stated, "My lords and gentlemen, for several months you have worked diligently and patriotically on how not to do it, and you have concluded; and with the blessing of Providence on the harvest (natural, not political), I now dismiss you." All of this is true, but the Circumlocution Office took it even further.
Because the Circumlocution Office went on mechanically, every day, keeping this wonderful, all-sufficient wheel of statesmanship, How not to do it, in motion. Because the Circumlocution Office was down upon any ill-advised public servant who was going to do it, or who appeared to be by any surprising accident in remote danger of doing it, with a minute, and a memorandum, and a letter of instructions that extinguished him. It was this spirit of national efficiency in the Circumlocution Office that had gradually led to its having something to do with everything. Mechanicians, natural philosophers, soldiers, sailors, petitioners, memorialists, people with grievances, people who wanted to prevent grievances, people who wanted to redress grievances, jobbing people, jobbed people, people who couldn’t get rewarded for merit, and people who couldn’t get punished for demerit, were all indiscriminately tucked up under the foolscap paper of the Circumlocution Office.
Because the Circumlocution Office operated like a well-oiled machine every day, continuously driving this impressive, all-encompassing wheel of politics, "How not to do it," forward. Because the Circumlocution Office clamped down on any public servant who might be foolish enough to actually do it, or who seemed, by some strange chance, to be at risk of doing it, with a minute, a memorandum, and a letter of instructions that put an end to him. It was this drive for national efficiency in the Circumlocution Office that had slowly caused it to become involved in everything. Engineers, scientists, soldiers, sailors, petitioners, those who wrote memorials, people with complaints, people who wanted to prevent complaints, people seeking to correct complaints, those looking for work, those who had been hired, people who couldn’t get recognized for their hard work, and those who couldn’t be punished for their failures were all lumped together under the foolish bureaucratic umbrella of the Circumlocution Office.
Numbers of people were lost in the Circumlocution Office. Unfortunates with wrongs, or with projects for the general welfare (and they had better have had wrongs at first, than have taken that bitter English recipe for certainly getting them), who in slow lapse of time and agony had passed safely through other public departments; who, according to rule, had been bullied in this, over-reached by that, and evaded by the other; got referred at last to the Circumlocution Office, and never reappeared in the light of day. Boards sat upon them, secretaries minuted upon them, commissioners gabbled about them, clerks registered, entered, checked, and ticked them off, and they melted away. In short, all the business of the country went through the Circumlocution Office, except the business that never came out of it; and its name was Legion.
Many people got lost in the Circumlocution Office. Those unfortunate souls with grievances or plans for the greater good (and it would have been better for them to have had grievances from the start than to end up with that bitter English method for definitely ending up with them), who, over time and with great difficulty, had navigated through other public departments; who, as per the usual, had been pushed around in this one, taken advantage of in that one, and sidestepped in another; ultimately found themselves referred to the Circumlocution Office, never to be seen again. Boards held meetings about them, secretaries took notes on them, commissioners discussed them excessively, clerks logged, recorded, checked, and ticked them off, and they vanished. In short, all the business of the country passed through the Circumlocution Office, except for the business that never made it out; and its name was Legion.
Sometimes, angry spirits attacked the Circumlocution Office. Sometimes, parliamentary questions were asked about it, and even parliamentary motions made or threatened about it by demagogues so low and ignorant as to hold that the real recipe of government was, How to do it. Then would the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, in whose department it was to defend the Circumlocution Office, put an orange in his pocket, and make a regular field-day of the occasion. Then would he come down to that house with a slap upon the table, and meet the honourable gentleman foot to foot. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that the Circumlocution Office not only was blameless in this matter, but was commendable in this matter, was extollable to the skies in this matter. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that, although the Circumlocution Office was invariably right and wholly right, it never was so right as in this matter. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that it would have been more to his honour, more to his credit, more to his good taste, more to his good sense, more to half the dictionary of commonplaces, if he had left the Circumlocution Office alone, and never approached this matter. Then would he keep one eye upon a coach or crammer from the Circumlocution Office sitting below the bar, and smash the honourable gentleman with the Circumlocution Office account of this matter. And although one of two things always happened; namely, either that the Circumlocution Office had nothing to say and said it, or that it had something to say of which the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, blundered one half and forgot the other; the Circumlocution Office was always voted immaculate by an accommodating majority.
Sometimes, angry spirits would go after the Circumlocution Office. Occasionally, parliamentary questions would be raised about it, and even parliamentary motions would be proposed or threatened by demagogues so low and ignorant that they thought the real secret of government was simply knowing how to run it. Then the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, responsible for defending the Circumlocution Office would put an orange in his pocket and turn the event into a full-blown spectacle. He would come to the house, slam his hand on the table, and confront the honourable gentleman directly. He would be there to tell that honourable gentleman that the Circumlocution Office was not only innocent in this situation but actually commendable, deserving of high praise. He would assert that although the Circumlocution Office was always right and completely correct, it was never more right than in this case. He would explain that it would have been more honorable, more creditworthy, more tasteful, and more sensible—essentially, a point from half the dictionary of clichés—if the honourable gentleman had left the Circumlocution Office alone and not brought this up at all. He would keep an eye on a representative from the Circumlocution Office sitting below the bar, ready to counter the honourable gentleman with the Circumlocution Office's version of events. And even though one of two things would always happen; either the Circumlocution Office would have nothing to say and say it, or it would have something to say that the noble lord or right honourable gentleman would mess up or forget, the Circumlocution Office would always be deemed flawless by a conveniently supportive majority.
Such a nursery of statesmen had the Department become in virtue of a long career of this nature, that several solemn lords had attained the reputation of being quite unearthly prodigies of business, solely from having practised, How not to do it, as the head of the Circumlocution Office. As to the minor priests and acolytes of that temple, the result of all this was that they stood divided into two classes, and, down to the junior messenger, either believed in the Circumlocution Office as a heaven-born institution that had an absolute right to do whatever it liked; or took refuge in total infidelity, and considered it a flagrant nuisance.
The Department had become such a breeding ground for politicians through a long history like this that several important figures had gained a reputation for being incredibly inept at business, just because they had mastered the art of doing things the wrong way as heads of the Circumlocution Office. As for the junior staff and assistants in that organization, they ended up divided into two groups. Right down to the junior messenger, some believed in the Circumlocution Office as a divine establishment that could do whatever it wanted; others, however, completely rejected it and saw it as a blatant hassle.
The Barnacle family had for some time helped to administer the Circumlocution Office. The Tite Barnacle Branch, indeed, considered themselves in a general way as having vested rights in that direction, and took it ill if any other family had much to say to it. The Barnacles were a very high family, and a very large family. They were dispersed all over the public offices, and held all sorts of public places. Either the nation was under a load of obligation to the Barnacles, or the Barnacles were under a load of obligation to the nation. It was not quite unanimously settled which; the Barnacles having their opinion, the nation theirs.
The Barnacle family had been involved in running the Circumlocution Office for quite a while. The Tite Barnacle branch actually believed they had a rightful claim to that position and took offense if any other family tried to get involved. The Barnacles were a very prestigious and numerous family. They were spread across various public offices and held all kinds of governmental positions. Either the country owed a huge debt to the Barnacles, or the Barnacles owed a huge debt to the country. It was still up for debate which was true; the Barnacles had their view, and the country had its own.
The Mr Tite Barnacle who at the period now in question usually coached or crammed the statesman at the head of the Circumlocution Office, when that noble or right honourable individual sat a little uneasily in his saddle by reason of some vagabond making a tilt at him in a newspaper, was more flush of blood than money. As a Barnacle he had his place, which was a snug thing enough; and as a Barnacle he had of course put in his son Barnacle Junior in the office. But he had intermarried with a branch of the Stiltstalkings, who were also better endowed in a sanguineous point of view than with real or personal property, and of this marriage there had been issue, Barnacle junior and three young ladies. What with the patrician requirements of Barnacle junior, the three young ladies, Mrs Tite Barnacle nee Stiltstalking, and himself, Mr Tite Barnacle found the intervals between quarter day and quarter day rather longer than he could have desired; a circumstance which he always attributed to the country’s parsimony.
Mr. Tite Barnacle, who at this time often coached or prepared the politician in charge of the Circumlocution Office, especially when that honorable individual felt a bit uncomfortable due to some rogue taking shots at him in a newspaper, was more rich in blood relations than in cash. As a Barnacle, he had his stable position, which was quite comfortable; and as a Barnacle, he naturally got his son, Barnacle Junior, a job in the office. However, he had married into a branch of the Stiltstalkings, who were also more blessed in terms of family connections than with actual wealth, and from this marriage they had Barnacle Junior and three daughters. Considering the social expectations of Barnacle Junior, the three daughters, Mrs. Tite Barnacle, formerly Stiltstalking, and himself, Mr. Tite Barnacle found the time between paydays stretched out far longer than he would have liked; a situation he always blamed on the nation's stinginess.
For Mr Tite Barnacle, Mr Arthur Clennam made his fifth inquiry one day at the Circumlocution Office; having on previous occasions awaited that gentleman successively in a hall, a glass case, a waiting room, and a fire-proof passage where the Department seemed to keep its wind. On this occasion Mr Barnacle was not engaged, as he had been before, with the noble prodigy at the head of the Department; but was absent. Barnacle Junior, however, was announced as a lesser star, yet visible above the office horizon.
For Mr. Tite Barnacle, Mr. Arthur Clennam made his fifth inquiry one day at the Circumlocution Office, having previously waited for that gentleman in a hall, a glass case, a waiting room, and a fireproof hallway where the Department seemed to keep its secrets. This time, Mr. Barnacle wasn’t busy, as he had been before, with the prestigious figure at the head of the Department; instead, he was absent. However, Barnacle Junior was announced as a lesser figure, yet still visible above the office horizon.
With Barnacle junior, he signified his desire to confer; and found that young gentleman singeing the calves of his legs at the parental fire, and supporting his spine against the mantel-shelf. It was a comfortable room, handsomely furnished in the higher official manner; and presenting stately suggestions of the absent Barnacle, in the thick carpet, the leather-covered desk to sit at, the leather-covered desk to stand at, the formidable easy-chair and hearth-rug, the interposed screen, the torn-up papers, the dispatch-boxes with little labels sticking out of them, like medicine bottles or dead game, the pervading smell of leather and mahogany, and a general bamboozling air of How not to do it.
With young Barnacle, he showed that he wanted to talk, and found the young man burning the backs of his legs at the family fire, propped up against the mantel. It was a cozy room, nicely furnished in a formal style, hinting grandly at the absent Barnacle. The thick carpet, the leather-covered desks—one for sitting and one for standing—the imposing easy chair and hearth rug, the screen in between, the crumpled papers, the dispatch boxes with little labels sticking out like medicine bottles or dead game, the dominant scent of leather and mahogany, all created an overall atmosphere of How not to do it.
The present Barnacle, holding Mr Clennam’s card in his hand, had a youthful aspect, and the fluffiest little whisker, perhaps, that ever was seen. Such a downy tip was on his callow chin, that he seemed half fledged like a young bird; and a compassionate observer might have urged that, if he had not singed the calves of his legs, he would have died of cold. He had a superior eye-glass dangling round his neck, but unfortunately had such flat orbits to his eyes and such limp little eyelids that it wouldn’t stick in when he put it up, but kept tumbling out against his waistcoat buttons with a click that discomposed him very much.
The current Barnacle, holding Mr. Clennam’s card in his hand, looked youthful and had the fluffiest little whisker anyone had ever seen. The soft fuzz on his unsure chin made him seem half-grown like a young bird, and a kind observer might have suggested that, if he hadn't burned his legs, he would have frozen to death. He had a fancy eyeglass hanging around his neck, but sadly, because of his flat eye sockets and floppy eyelids, it wouldn't stay in place when he tried to use it; instead, it kept falling against his waistcoat buttons with a click that seemed to fluster him a lot.
‘Oh, I say. Look here! My father’s not in the way, and won’t be in the way to-day,’ said Barnacle Junior. ‘Is this anything that I can do?’
‘Oh, wow. Check this out! My dad’s not around, and he won’t be today,’ said Barnacle Junior. ‘Is there anything I can help with?’
(Click! Eye-glass down. Barnacle Junior quite frightened and feeling all round himself, but not able to find it.)
(Click! Glasses down. Barnacle Junior is quite scared and feeling all around himself, but he can't find them.)
‘You are very good,’ said Arthur Clennam. ‘I wish however to see Mr Barnacle.’
‘You’re really great,’ said Arthur Clennam. ‘But I’d like to see Mr. Barnacle.’
‘But I say. Look here! You haven’t got any appointment, you know,’ said Barnacle Junior.
‘But I’m telling you. Look! You don’t have an appointment, you know,’ said Barnacle Junior.
(By this time he had found the eye-glass, and put it up again.)
(By this time he had found the glasses and put them back on.)
‘No,’ said Arthur Clennam. ‘That is what I wish to have.’
‘No,’ said Arthur Clennam. ‘That’s what I want to have.’
‘But I say. Look here! Is this public business?’ asked Barnacle junior.
‘But I say. Look here! Is this public business?’ asked Barnacle junior.
(Click! Eye-glass down again. Barnacle Junior in that state of search after it that Mr Clennam felt it useless to reply at present.)
(Click! Eyeglasses down again. Barnacle Junior in that state of searching for it that Mr. Clennam felt it pointless to respond at this time.)
‘Is it,’ said Barnacle junior, taking heed of his visitor’s brown face, ‘anything about—Tonnage—or that sort of thing?’
‘Is it,’ said Barnacle junior, noticing his visitor’s brown face, ‘about—Tonnage—or something like that?’
(Pausing for a reply, he opened his right eye with his hand, and stuck his glass in it, in that inflammatory manner that his eye began watering dreadfully.)
(Pausing for a response, he opened his right eye with his hand and pressed his glass into it in that irritating way that made his eye water intensely.)
‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘it is nothing about tonnage.’
'No,' Arthur said, 'it's not about tonnage at all.'
‘Then look here. Is it private business?’
‘Then look here. Is this private business?’
‘I really am not sure. It relates to a Mr Dorrit.’
‘I honestly don’t know. It has to do with a Mr. Dorrit.’
‘Look here, I tell you what! You had better call at our house, if you are going that way. Twenty-four, Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. My father’s got a slight touch of the gout, and is kept at home by it.’
“Hey, listen! You should definitely stop by our place if you’re heading that way. It’s at 24 Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. My dad is dealing with a bit of gout, so he’s stuck at home.”
(The misguided young Barnacle evidently going blind on his eye-glass side, but ashamed to make any further alteration in his painful arrangements.)
(The misguided young Barnacle clearly going blind in his eyeglass eye, but too embarrassed to change his uncomfortable setup any further.)
‘Thank you. I will call there now. Good morning.’ Young Barnacle seemed discomfited at this, as not having at all expected him to go.
‘Thank you. I’ll call there now. Good morning.’ Young Barnacle looked unsettled by this, clearly not expecting him to leave.
‘You are quite sure,’ said Barnacle junior, calling after him when he got to the door, unwilling wholly to relinquish the bright business idea he had conceived; ‘that it’s nothing about Tonnage?’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ said Barnacle junior, calling after him as he reached the door, not wanting to completely let go of the exciting business idea he had come up with. ‘It’s not about Tonnage at all?’
‘Quite sure.’
"Pretty sure."
With such assurance, and rather wondering what might have taken place if it had been anything about tonnage, Mr Clennam withdrew to pursue his inquiries.
With that confidence, and kind of wondering what could have happened if it had been related to tonnage, Mr. Clennam stepped back to continue his inquiries.
Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, was not absolutely Grosvenor Square itself, but it was very near it. It was a hideous little street of dead wall, stables, and dunghills, with lofts over coach-houses inhabited by coachmen’s families, who had a passion for drying clothes and decorating their window-sills with miniature turnpike-gates. The principal chimney-sweep of that fashionable quarter lived at the blind end of Mews Street; and the same corner contained an establishment much frequented about early morning and twilight for the purchase of wine-bottles and kitchen-stuff. Punch’s shows used to lean against the dead wall in Mews Street, while their proprietors were dining elsewhere; and the dogs of the neighbourhood made appointments to meet in the same locality. Yet there were two or three small airless houses at the entrance end of Mews Street, which went at enormous rents on account of their being abject hangers-on to a fashionable situation; and whenever one of these fearful little coops was to be let (which seldom happened, for they were in great request), the house agent advertised it as a gentlemanly residence in the most aristocratic part of town, inhabited solely by the elite of the beau monde.
Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, wasn’t exactly Grosvenor Square itself, but it was very close. It was an ugly little street with blank walls, stables, and piles of manure, featuring lofts above coach houses where the coachmen's families lived. They loved drying their laundry and decorating their window sills with miniature toll gates. The main chimney sweep of that trendy area lived at the dead end of Mews Street, and that corner also had a shop that was popular in the early morning and at dusk for buying wine bottles and kitchen supplies. Punch's shows used to lean against the blank wall in Mews Street while their owners had dinner elsewhere, and the neighborhood dogs would arrange to meet there too. Despite all this, there were two or three small, stuffy houses at the entrance of Mews Street that rented for a fortune because they were close to a fashionable area. Whenever one of these dreadful little places became available (which was rare since they were in high demand), the real estate agent would advertise it as a gentleman's residence in the most upscale part of town, inhabited only by the elite of high society.
If a gentlemanly residence coming strictly within this narrow margin had not been essential to the blood of the Barnacles, this particular branch would have had a pretty wide selection among, let us say, ten thousand houses, offering fifty times the accommodation for a third of the money. As it was, Mr Barnacle, finding his gentlemanly residence extremely inconvenient and extremely dear, always laid it, as a public servant, at the door of the country, and adduced it as another instance of the country’s parsimony.
If a respectable home that strictly met the standards of the Barnacle family hadn't been necessary, this branch could have easily chosen from about ten thousand houses, which would provide five times the space for a third of the cost. Instead, Mr. Barnacle, finding his upscale home very inconvenient and very expensive, consistently blamed it on the country, using it as another example of the country's stinginess.
Arthur Clennam came to a squeezed house, with a ramshackle bowed front, little dingy windows, and a little dark area like a damp waistcoat-pocket, which he found to be number twenty-four, Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. To the sense of smell the house was like a sort of bottle filled with a strong distillation of Mews; and when the footman opened the door, he seemed to take the stopper out.
Arthur Clennam arrived at a cramped house with a crooked front, small dirty windows, and a dark little area that resembled a damp waistcoat pocket. This was number twenty-four, Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. The house had a smell that was like a bottle filled with a strong essence of Mews, and when the footman opened the door, it felt like he was removing the stopper.
The footman was to the Grosvenor Square footmen, what the house was to the Grosvenor Square houses. Admirable in his way, his way was a back and a bye way. His gorgeousness was not unmixed with dirt; and both in complexion and consistency he had suffered from the closeness of his pantry. A sallow flabbiness was upon him when he took the stopper out, and presented the bottle to Mr Clennam’s nose.
The footman was to the Grosvenor Square footmen what the house was to the Grosvenor Square houses. Impressive in his own way, but his way was less than direct. His elegance came with a bit of grunge; and both in skin tone and overall appearance, he had been affected by the cramped space of his pantry. A sickly, soft look was on him when he took out the stopper and held the bottle up to Mr. Clennam’s nose.
‘Be so good as to give that card to Mr Tite Barnacle, and to say that I have just now seen the younger Mr Barnacle, who recommended me to call here.’
“Please hand that card to Mr. Tite Barnacle and let him know that I just met the younger Mr. Barnacle, who suggested I stop by here.”
The footman (who had as many large buttons with the Barnacle crest upon them on the flaps of his pockets, as if he were the family strong box, and carried the plate and jewels about with him buttoned up) pondered over the card a little; then said, ‘Walk in.’ It required some judgment to do it without butting the inner hall-door open, and in the consequent mental confusion and physical darkness slipping down the kitchen stairs. The visitor, however, brought himself up safely on the door-mat.
The footman (who wore as many big buttons with the Barnacle crest on the flaps of his pockets as if he were the family safe, carrying the plate and jewels with him buttoned up) thought about the card for a moment; then said, ‘Come in.’ It took some skill to do it without slamming the inner hall door open and, in the resulting mental chaos and physical darkness, tumbling down the kitchen stairs. The visitor, however, managed to stop himself safely on the doormat.
Still the footman said ‘Walk in,’ so the visitor followed him. At the inner hall-door, another bottle seemed to be presented and another stopper taken out. This second vial appeared to be filled with concentrated provisions and extract of Sink from the pantry. After a skirmish in the narrow passage, occasioned by the footman’s opening the door of the dismal dining-room with confidence, finding some one there with consternation, and backing on the visitor with disorder, the visitor was shut up, pending his announcement, in a close back parlour. There he had an opportunity of refreshing himself with both the bottles at once, looking out at a low blinding wall three feet off, and speculating on the number of Barnacle families within the bills of mortality who lived in such hutches of their own free flunkey choice.
Still, the footman said, “Walk in,” so the visitor followed him. At the inner hall door, another bottle seemed to be presented and another stopper taken out. This second vial appeared to be filled with concentrated provisions and extract of Sink from the pantry. After a brief struggle in the narrow passage, caused by the footman confidently opening the door to the dreary dining room, only to find someone there in shock and backing into the visitor in a flurry, the visitor was shut up in a small back parlor while waiting for his announcement. There, he had a chance to refresh himself with both bottles at once, looking out at a low, blinding wall three feet away, and wondering how many Barnacle families in the death records lived in such cramped little spaces of their own choosing.
Mr Barnacle would see him. Would he walk up-stairs? He would, and he did; and in the drawing-room, with his leg on a rest, he found Mr Barnacle himself, the express image and presentment of How not to do it.
Mr. Barnacle would see him. Would he walk upstairs? He would, and he did; and in the living room, with his leg resting, he found Mr. Barnacle himself, the perfect example of how not to do it.
Mr Barnacle dated from a better time, when the country was not so parsimonious and the Circumlocution Office was not so badgered. He wound and wound folds of white cravat round his neck, as he wound and wound folds of tape and paper round the neck of the country. His wristbands and collar were oppressive; his voice and manner were oppressive. He had a large watch-chain and bunch of seals, a coat buttoned up to inconvenience, a waistcoat buttoned up to inconvenience, an unwrinkled pair of trousers, a stiff pair of boots. He was altogether splendid, massive, overpowering, and impracticable. He seemed to have been sitting for his portrait to Sir Thomas Lawrence all the days of his life.
Mr. Barnacle came from a time when the country wasn't so stingy and the Circumlocution Office wasn't so overwhelmed. He wrapped layers of white cravat around his neck just like he wrapped layers of tape and paper around the neck of the country. His wristbands and collar felt suffocating; his voice and demeanor were also suffocating. He sported a large watch-chain with a bunch of seals, a coat buttoned up uncomfortably, a waistcoat buttoned up uncomfortably, perfectly pressed trousers, and stiff boots. Overall, he was impressive, bulky, overwhelming, and impractical. It was as if he had been posing for his portrait to Sir Thomas Lawrence his entire life.
‘Mr Clennam?’ said Mr Barnacle. ‘Be seated.’
‘Mr. Clennam?’ said Mr. Barnacle. ‘Please, have a seat.’
Mr Clennam became seated.
Mr. Clennam sat down.
‘You have called on me, I believe,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘at the Circumlocution—’ giving it the air of a word of about five-and-twenty syllables—‘Office.’
‘You’ve summoned me, I think,’ said Mr. Barnacle, ‘at the Circumlocution—’ emphasizing it like it was a word with around twenty-five syllables—‘Office.’
‘I have taken that liberty.’
"I took that liberty."
Mr Barnacle solemnly bent his head as who should say, ‘I do not deny that it is a liberty; proceed to take another liberty, and let me know your business.’
Mr. Barnacle seriously lowered his head as if to say, ‘I don’t deny that it’s a favor; go ahead and take another one, and let me know what you need.’
‘Allow me to observe that I have been for some years in China, am quite a stranger at home, and have no personal motive or interest in the inquiry I am about to make.’
"Let me point out that I've been in China for several years, I'm basically a stranger back home, and I have no personal motive or interest in the investigation I'm about to undertake."
Mr Barnacle tapped his fingers on the table, and, as if he were now sitting for his portrait to a new and strange artist, appeared to say to his visitor, ‘If you will be good enough to take me with my present lofty expression, I shall feel obliged.’
Mr. Barnacle tapped his fingers on the table, and, as if he were posing for a portrait by a new and unfamiliar artist, seemed to say to his visitor, "If you’ll be nice enough to capture me with my current elevated expression, I would appreciate it."
‘I have found a debtor in the Marshalsea Prison of the name of Dorrit, who has been there many years. I wish to investigate his confused affairs so far as to ascertain whether it may not be possible, after this lapse of time, to ameliorate his unhappy condition. The name of Mr Tite Barnacle has been mentioned to me as representing some highly influential interest among his creditors. Am I correctly informed?’
‘I have found a debtor in Marshalsea Prison named Dorrit, who has been there for many years. I want to look into his complicated situation to see if it might be possible, after all this time, to improve his unfortunate condition. I've heard the name Mr. Tite Barnacle mentioned as someone who represents a very influential interest among his creditors. Is that correct?’
It being one of the principles of the Circumlocution Office never, on any account whatever, to give a straightforward answer, Mr Barnacle said, ‘Possibly.’
It’s a fundamental principle of the Circumlocution Office to never give a direct answer, so Mr. Barnacle replied, “Possibly.”
‘On behalf of the Crown, may I ask, or as private individual?’
‘On behalf of the Crown, can I ask, or as a private individual?’
‘The Circumlocution Department, sir,’ Mr Barnacle replied, ‘may have possibly recommended—possibly—I cannot say—that some public claim against the insolvent estate of a firm or copartnership to which this person may have belonged, should be enforced. The question may have been, in the course of official business, referred to the Circumlocution Department for its consideration. The Department may have either originated, or confirmed, a Minute making that recommendation.’
‘The Circumlocution Department, sir,’ Mr. Barnacle replied, ‘might have possibly suggested—possibly—I can’t be sure—that some public claim against the bankrupt estate of a company or partnership this person may have been part of should be pursued. The issue might have been brought up, during official duties, to the Circumlocution Department for their input. The Department may have either started or confirmed a note making that suggestion.’
‘I assume this to be the case, then.’
‘I assume this is the case, then.’
‘The Circumlocution Department,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘is not responsible for any gentleman’s assumptions.’
‘The Circumlocution Department,’ said Mr. Barnacle, ‘is not responsible for any man’s assumptions.’
‘May I inquire how I can obtain official information as to the real state of the case?’
‘Can I ask how I can get official information about the real situation of the case?’
‘It is competent,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘to any member of the—Public,’ mentioning that obscure body with reluctance, as his natural enemy, ‘to memorialise the Circumlocution Department. Such formalities as are required to be observed in so doing, may be known on application to the proper branch of that Department.’
“It is allowed,” said Mr. Barnacle, “for any member of the—Public,” mentioning that vague group hesitantly, as if they were his natural enemy, “to file a complaint with the Circumlocution Department. The formalities that need to be followed for this can be learned by contacting the appropriate branch of that Department.”
‘Which is the proper branch?’
'Which is the right branch?'
‘I must refer you,’ returned Mr Barnacle, ringing the bell, ‘to the Department itself for a formal answer to that inquiry.’
"I have to refer you," Mr. Barnacle replied, ringing the bell, "to the Department itself for a formal answer to that question."
‘Excuse my mentioning—’
‘Sorry for bringing up—’
‘The Department is accessible to the—Public,’ Mr Barnacle was always checked a little by that word of impertinent signification, ‘if the—Public approaches it according to the official forms; if the—Public does not approach it according to the official forms, the—Public has itself to blame.’
‘The Department is open to the Public,’ Mr. Barnacle was always slightly put off by that word with its rude implication, ‘if the Public approaches it following the official procedures; if the Public does not follow the official procedures, then the Public has only itself to blame.’
Mr Barnacle made him a severe bow, as a wounded man of family, a wounded man of place, and a wounded man of a gentlemanly residence, all rolled into one; and he made Mr Barnacle a bow, and was shut out into Mews Street by the flabby footman.
Mr. Barnacle gave him a deep bow, like a man who was hurt but still respected, a man of importance, and a gentleman who lived well, all at once; and he returned Mr. Barnacle's bow before the flabby footman closed the door on him, sending him out into Mews Street.
Having got to this pass, he resolved as an exercise in perseverance, to betake himself again to the Circumlocution Office, and try what satisfaction he could get there. So he went back to the Circumlocution Office, and once more sent up his card to Barnacle junior by a messenger who took it very ill indeed that he should come back again, and who was eating mashed potatoes and gravy behind a partition by the hall fire.
Having reached this point, he decided, as a test of perseverance, to return to the Circumlocution Office and see what satisfaction he could find there. So he went back to the Circumlocution Office and once again sent his card up to Barnacle junior via a messenger who was quite annoyed that he was coming back, and who was eating mashed potatoes and gravy behind a partition by the hallway fire.
He was readmitted to the presence of Barnacle junior, and found that young gentleman singeing his knees now, and gaping his weary way on to four o’clock.
He was allowed back in to see Barnacle junior, who was now burning his knees and tiredly making his way toward four o’clock.
‘I say. Look here. You stick to us in a devil of a manner,’ Said Barnacle junior, looking over his shoulder.
‘I say. Look here. You’re really sticking with us in a crazy way,’ said Barnacle junior, glancing back.
‘I want to know—’
"I want to know—"
‘Look here. Upon my soul you mustn’t come into the place saying you want to know, you know,’ remonstrated Barnacle junior, turning about and putting up the eye-glass.
'Look here. I swear you can't just come into this place saying you want to know, you know,' protested Barnacle junior, turning around and adjusting his eyeglass.
‘I want to know,’ said Arthur Clennam, who had made up his mind to persistence in one short form of words, ‘the precise nature of the claim of the Crown against a prisoner for debt, named Dorrit.’
"I want to know," said Arthur Clennam, who had decided to be persistent in one clear statement, "the exact nature of the Crown's claim against a debtor named Dorrit."
‘I say. Look here. You really are going it at a great pace, you know. Egad, you haven’t got an appointment,’ said Barnacle junior, as if the thing were growing serious.
“I’m telling you, look at you. You’re really moving fast, you know. Wow, you don’t have an appointment,” said Barnacle Jr., as if it were becoming serious.
‘I want to know,’ said Arthur, and repeated his case.
"I want to know," Arthur said, restating his case.
Barnacle junior stared at him until his eye-glass fell out, and then put it in again and stared at him until it fell out again. ‘You have no right to come this sort of move,’ he then observed with the greatest weakness. ‘Look here. What do you mean? You told me you didn’t know whether it was public business or not.’
Barnacle Jr. stared at him until his eyeglass fell out, then put it back in and stared until it fell out again. "You have no right to pull this kind of stunt," he then said weakly. "Look, what do you mean? You told me you didn’t know if it was public business or not."
‘I have now ascertained that it is public business,’ returned the suitor, ‘and I want to know’—and again repeated his monotonous inquiry.
‘I have now confirmed that it’s a public matter,’ replied the suitor, ‘and I want to know’—and again repeated his dull question.
Its effect upon young Barnacle was to make him repeat in a defenceless way, ‘Look here! Upon my SOUL you mustn’t come into the place saying you want to know, you know!’ The effect of that upon Arthur Clennam was to make him repeat his inquiry in exactly the same words and tone as before. The effect of that upon young Barnacle was to make him a wonderful spectacle of failure and helplessness.
Its effect on young Barnacle was to make him defensively say, “Look here! I swear you can’t come in here saying you want to know, you know!” The effect of that on Arthur Clennam was to have him repeat his question in exactly the same words and tone as before. The effect of that on young Barnacle was to turn him into a remarkable example of failure and helplessness.
‘Well, I tell you what. Look here. You had better try the Secretarial Department,’ he said at last, sidling to the bell and ringing it. ‘Jenkinson,’ to the mashed potatoes messenger, ‘Mr Wobbler!’
‘Well, I’ll tell you what. Look here. You should probably try the Secretarial Department,’ he said finally, moving over to the bell and ringing it. ‘Jenkinson,’ to the waiter carrying the mashed potatoes, ‘Mr. Wobbler!’
Arthur Clennam, who now felt that he had devoted himself to the storming of the Circumlocution Office, and must go through with it, accompanied the messenger to another floor of the building, where that functionary pointed out Mr Wobbler’s room. He entered that apartment, and found two gentlemen sitting face to face at a large and easy desk, one of whom was polishing a gun-barrel on his pocket-handkerchief, while the other was spreading marmalade on bread with a paper-knife.
Arthur Clennam, who now felt he was committed to tackling the Circumlocution Office and had to see it through, followed the messenger to another floor of the building, where the messenger indicated Mr. Wobbler’s room. He walked into that room and found two men sitting across from each other at a large, comfortable desk. One was polishing a gun barrel with his pocket handkerchief, while the other was spreading marmalade on bread with a butter knife.
‘Mr Wobbler?’ inquired the suitor.
‘Mr. Wobbler?’ asked the suitor.
Both gentlemen glanced at him, and seemed surprised at his assurance.
Both men looked at him and appeared taken aback by his confidence.
‘So he went,’ said the gentleman with the gun-barrel, who was an extremely deliberate speaker, ‘down to his cousin’s place, and took the Dog with him by rail. Inestimable Dog. Flew at the porter fellow when he was put into the dog-box, and flew at the guard when he was taken out. He got half-a-dozen fellows into a Barn, and a good supply of Rats, and timed the Dog. Finding the Dog able to do it immensely, made the match, and heavily backed the Dog. When the match came off, some devil of a fellow was bought over, Sir, Dog was made drunk, Dog’s master was cleaned out.’
“So he went,” said the gentleman with the gun-barrel, who was an extremely careful speaker, “down to his cousin’s place and took the dog with him by train. An invaluable dog. It lunged at the porter when it was placed in the dog box and lunged at the guard when it was taken out. He got half a dozen guys into a barn, along with a good supply of rats, and timed the dog. Seeing the dog perform incredibly well, he set up a match and heavily bet on the dog. When the match happened, some shady character got involved, sir; the dog was made drunk, and the dog’s owner ended up broke.”
‘Mr Wobbler?’ inquired the suitor.
‘Mr. Wobbler?’ asked the suitor.
The gentleman who was spreading the marmalade returned, without looking up from that occupation, ‘What did he call the Dog?’
The guy who was spreading the marmalade came back, still focused on what he was doing, and asked, 'What did he name the Dog?'
‘Called him Lovely,’ said the other gentleman. ‘Said the Dog was the perfect picture of the old aunt from whom he had expectations. Found him particularly like her when hocussed.’
'Called him Lovely,' said the other man. 'Said the Dog was the perfect image of the old aunt he was expecting to inherit from. Thought he looked especially like her when drugged.'
‘Mr Wobbler?’ said the suitor.
‘Mr. Wobbler?’ said the suitor.
Both gentlemen laughed for some time. The gentleman with the gun-barrel, considering it, on inspection, in a satisfactory state, referred it to the other; receiving confirmation of his views, he fitted it into its place in the case before him, and took out the stock and polished that, softly whistling.
Both guys laughed for a while. The guy with the gun barrel, after looking it over and finding it in good shape, referred it to the other guy; after getting his approval, he put it back in its spot in the case and took out the stock, polishing it while softly whistling.
‘Mr Wobbler?’ said the suitor.
‘Mr. Wobbler?’ said the suitor.
‘What’s the matter?’ then said Mr Wobbler, with his mouth full.
‘What’s wrong?’ Mr. Wobbler asked, his mouth full.
‘I want to know—’ and Arthur Clennam again mechanically set forth what he wanted to know.
‘I want to know—’ and Arthur Clennam again mindlessly stated what he wanted to know.
‘Can’t inform you,’ observed Mr Wobbler, apparently to his lunch. ‘Never heard of it. Nothing at all to do with it. Better try Mr Clive, second door on the left in the next passage.’
‘Can’t tell you,’ said Mr. Wobbler, seemingly to his lunch. ‘Never heard of it. Has nothing to do with me. You should try Mr. Clive, the second door on the left in the next hallway.’
‘Perhaps he will give me the same answer.’
‘Maybe he will give me the same answer.’
‘Very likely. Don’t know anything about it,’ said Mr Wobbler.
“Probably. I don’t know anything about it,” said Mr. Wobbler.
The suitor turned away and had left the room, when the gentleman with the gun called out ‘Mister! Hallo!’
The suitor turned away and left the room when the guy with the gun called out, “Hey! Hello!”
He looked in again.
He checked in again.
‘Shut the door after you. You’re letting in a devil of a draught here!’
‘Shut the door behind you. You’re letting in a huge draft here!’
A few steps brought him to the second door on the left in the next passage. In that room he found three gentlemen; number one doing nothing particular, number two doing nothing particular, number three doing nothing particular. They seemed, however, to be more directly concerned than the others had been in the effective execution of the great principle of the office, as there was an awful inner apartment with a double door, in which the Circumlocution Sages appeared to be assembled in council, and out of which there was an imposing coming of papers, and into which there was an imposing going of papers, almost constantly; wherein another gentleman, number four, was the active instrument.
A few steps took him to the second door on the left in the next hallway. In that room, he found three men: the first one doing nothing in particular, the second one doing nothing in particular, and the third one doing nothing in particular. However, they seemed more engaged than the others had been in effectively carrying out the main principle of the office, as there was a scary inner room with a double door where the Circumlocution Sages appeared to be holding a meeting, and from which a lot of paperwork was coming and going almost constantly; where another man, the fourth one, was actively involved.
‘I want to know,’ said Arthur Clennam,—and again stated his case in the same barrel-organ way. As number one referred him to number two, and as number two referred him to number three, he had occasion to state it three times before they all referred him to number four, to whom he stated it again.
‘I want to know,’ said Arthur Clennam,—and he repeated his case in the same mechanical way. As the first person sent him to the second, and the second sent him to the third, he had to repeat it three times before they all sent him to the fourth person, to whom he stated it again.
Number four was a vivacious, well-looking, well-dressed, agreeable young fellow—he was a Barnacle, but on the more sprightly side of the family—and he said in an easy way, ‘Oh! you had better not bother yourself about it, I think.’
Number four was a lively, attractive, well-dressed, friendly young guy—he was a Barnacle, but on the more energetic side of the family—and he casually said, ‘Oh! you’d better not worry about it, I think.’
‘Not bother myself about it?’
'Not worry about it?'
‘No! I recommend you not to bother yourself about it.’
‘No! I suggest you not worry about it.’
This was such a new point of view that Arthur Clennam found himself at a loss how to receive it.
This was such a new perspective that Arthur Clennam felt completely unsure of how to react to it.
‘You can if you like. I can give you plenty of forms to fill up. Lots of ‘em here. You can have a dozen if you like. But you’ll never go on with it,’ said number four.
'You can if you want. I can give you plenty of forms to fill out. Got a lot of them here. You can take a dozen if you want. But you'll never follow through with it,' said number four.
‘Would it be such hopeless work? Excuse me; I am a stranger in England.’
‘Would it be such a hopeless task? Sorry, I’m a stranger in England.’
‘I don’t say it would be hopeless,’ returned number four, with a frank smile. ‘I don’t express an opinion about that; I only express an opinion about you. I don’t think you’d go on with it. However, of course, you can do as you like. I suppose there was a failure in the performance of a contract, or something of that kind, was there?’
I don’t think it’s hopeless,’ replied number four, smiling honestly. ‘I’m not sharing my thoughts on that; I’m just sharing my thoughts about you. I don’t believe you’d stick with it. But of course, you can do whatever you want. I assume there was a failure in fulfilling a contract or something like that, right?’
‘I really don’t know.’
"I honestly have no idea."
‘Well! That you can find out. Then you’ll find out what Department the contract was in, and then you’ll find out all about it there.’
‘Well! You can find that out. Then you’ll find out which department the contract was in, and then you’ll learn all about it there.’
‘I beg your pardon. How shall I find out?’
‘I’m sorry. How will I find out?’
‘Why, you’ll—you’ll ask till they tell you. Then you’ll memorialise that Department (according to regular forms which you’ll find out) for leave to memorialise this Department. If you get it (which you may after a time), that memorial must be entered in that Department, sent to be registered in this Department, sent back to be signed by that Department, sent back to be countersigned by this Department, and then it will begin to be regularly before that Department. You’ll find out when the business passes through each of these stages by asking at both Departments till they tell you.’
"Well, you’ll keep asking until they give you an answer. Then you’ll submit a formal request to that Department (using the standard forms you’ll discover) to ask for permission to submit this request to another Department. If you get it (which you might after some time), that request needs to be filed in that Department, sent off to be registered in this one, sent back to be signed by that Department, sent back for this Department to countersign, and then it will finally be officially reviewed by that Department. You’ll find out when the process moves through each of these steps by checking in with both Departments until they inform you."
‘But surely this is not the way to do the business,’ Arthur Clennam could not help saying.
‘But surely this isn’t the way to handle things,’ Arthur Clennam couldn’t help but say.
This airy young Barnacle was quite entertained by his simplicity in supposing for a moment that it was. This light in hand young Barnacle knew perfectly that it was not. This touch and go young Barnacle had ‘got up’ the Department in a private secretaryship, that he might be ready for any little bit of fat that came to hand; and he fully understood the Department to be a politico-diplomatic hocus pocus piece of machinery for the assistance of the nobs in keeping off the snobs. This dashing young Barnacle, in a word, was likely to become a statesman, and to make a figure.
This carefree young Barnacle was amused by his own simplicity in thinking for a moment that it was. This lighthearted young Barnacle knew very well that it wasn’t. This quick-thinking young Barnacle had secured a position in the Department as a private secretary, so he could be ready for any little perks that came his way; and he fully understood the Department to be a political and diplomatic facade designed to help the elite keep the lower classes at bay. This ambitious young Barnacle, in short, was likely to become a statesman and make a name for himself.
‘When the business is regularly before that Department, whatever it is,’ pursued this bright young Barnacle, ‘then you can watch it from time to time through that Department. When it comes regularly before this Department, then you must watch it from time to time through this Department. We shall have to refer it right and left; and when we refer it anywhere, then you’ll have to look it up. When it comes back to us at any time, then you had better look us up. When it sticks anywhere, you’ll have to try to give it a jog. When you write to another Department about it, and then to this Department about it, and don’t hear anything satisfactory about it, why then you had better—keep on writing.’
"When the business frequently comes up in that Department, no matter what it is," said this sharp young Barnacle, "then you can monitor it from time to time through that Department. When it regularly arises in this Department, then you need to check in on it periodically through this Department. We'll have to refer it back and forth, and whenever we send it somewhere, you'll need to look it up. When it comes back to us at any time, you should definitely check in with us. If it gets stuck somewhere, you'll need to try and give it a push. When you write to another Department about it, and then to this Department as well, and don’t receive any satisfactory updates, then you’d better—keep writing."
Arthur Clennam looked very doubtful indeed. ‘But I am obliged to you at any rate,’ said he, ‘for your politeness.’
Arthur Clennam looked really uncertain. ‘But I appreciate your politeness, anyway,’ he said.
‘Not at all,’ replied this engaging young Barnacle. ‘Try the thing, and see how you like it. It will be in your power to give it up at any time, if you don’t like it. You had better take a lot of forms away with you. Give him a lot of forms!’ With which instruction to number two, this sparkling young Barnacle took a fresh handful of papers from numbers one and three, and carried them into the sanctuary to offer to the presiding Idol of the Circumlocution Office.
“Not at all,” replied this charming young Barnacle. “Give it a try and see how you feel about it. You can quit anytime if it’s not for you. You should take a bunch of forms with you. Get him a bunch of forms!” With that instruction to number two, this lively young Barnacle grabbed a new handful of papers from numbers one and three and took them into the sanctuary to present to the overseeing Idol of the Circumlocution Office.
Arthur Clennam put his forms in his pocket gloomily enough, and went his way down the long stone passage and the long stone staircase. He had come to the swing doors leading into the street, and was waiting, not over patiently, for two people who were between him and them to pass out and let him follow, when the voice of one of them struck familiarly on his ear. He looked at the speaker and recognised Mr Meagles. Mr Meagles was very red in the face—redder than travel could have made him—and collaring a short man who was with him, said, ‘come out, you rascal, come Out!’
Arthur Clennam gloomily put his forms in his pocket and walked down the long stone hallway and the long stone staircase. He reached the swing doors leading to the street and was waiting, not very patiently, for two people between him and the exit to leave so he could follow. Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice. He looked at the speaker and recognized Mr. Meagles. Mr. Meagles was very red in the face—redder than any travel could have caused—and grabbing a short man who was with him, said, “Come out, you rascal, come out!”
It was such an unexpected hearing, and it was also such an unexpected sight to see Mr Meagles burst the swing doors open, and emerge into the street with the short man, who was of an unoffending appearance, that Clennam stood still for the moment exchanging looks of surprise with the porter. He followed, however, quickly; and saw Mr Meagles going down the street with his enemy at his side. He soon came up with his old travelling companion, and touched him on the back. The choleric face which Mr Meagles turned upon him smoothed when he saw who it was, and he put out his friendly hand.
It was such an unexpected hearing, and it was also such an unexpected sight to see Mr. Meagles push the swing doors open and step into the street with the short man, who looked harmless, that Clennam stood still for a moment, exchanging surprised looks with the porter. However, he quickly followed and saw Mr. Meagles walking down the street with his adversary beside him. He soon caught up with his old travel companion and tapped him on the back. The angry expression on Mr. Meagles' face softened when he recognized who it was, and he extended his hand in friendship.
‘How are you?’ said Mr Meagles. ‘How d’ye do? I have only just come over from abroad. I am glad to see you.’
‘How are you?’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘How do you do? I just got back from overseas. I’m glad to see you.’
‘And I am rejoiced to see you.’
‘And I am happy to see you.’
‘Thank’ee. Thank’ee!’
'Thanks. Thanks!'
‘Mrs Meagles and your daughter—?’
‘Mrs. Meagles and your daughter—?’
‘Are as well as possible,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘I only wish you had come upon me in a more prepossessing condition as to coolness.’
"‘I’m doing as well as I can,’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘I just wish you had found me in a cooler state.’"
Though it was anything but a hot day, Mr Meagles was in a heated state that attracted the attention of the passersby; more particularly as he leaned his back against a railing, took off his hat and cravat, and heartily rubbed his steaming head and face, and his reddened ears and neck, without the least regard for public opinion.
Though it wasn't a hot day at all, Mr. Meagles was so worked up that it caught the attention of people passing by; especially as he leaned against a railing, took off his hat and tie, and vigorously rubbed his sweaty head and face, along with his flushed ears and neck, without caring at all about what others thought.
‘Whew!’ said Mr Meagles, dressing again. ‘That’s comfortable. Now I am cooler.’
‘Whew!’ said Mr. Meagles, getting dressed again. ‘That’s better. Now I feel cooler.’
‘You have been ruffled, Mr Meagles. What is the matter?’
‘You seem a bit on edge, Mr. Meagles. What’s wrong?’
‘Wait a bit, and I’ll tell you. Have you leisure for a turn in the Park?’
"Wait a moment, and I’ll tell you. Do you have time for a walk in the park?"
‘As much as you please.’
"At your convenience."
‘Come along then. Ah! you may well look at him.’ He happened to have turned his eyes towards the offender whom Mr Meagles had so angrily collared. ‘He’s something to look at, that fellow is.’
‘Come on then. Ah! you can definitely look at him.’ He had just glanced over at the person Mr. Meagles had so furiously grabbed. ‘He’s a sight to see, that guy is.’
He was not much to look at, either in point of size or in point of dress; being merely a short, square, practical looking man, whose hair had turned grey, and in whose face and forehead there were deep lines of cogitation, which looked as though they were carved in hard wood. He was dressed in decent black, a little rusty, and had the appearance of a sagacious master in some handicraft. He had a spectacle-case in his hand, which he turned over and over while he was thus in question, with a certain free use of the thumb that is never seen but in a hand accustomed to tools.
He wasn't much to look at, either in size or in how he was dressed; just a short, stocky, practical guy whose hair had gone gray, and whose face and forehead had deep lines that looked like they were carved in hard wood. He wore decent black clothes that were a bit worn, giving off the vibe of a wise master in some trade. He held a spectacle case in his hand, turning it over and over while being questioned, using his thumb in a casual way that only comes from someone used to working with tools.
‘You keep with us,’ said Mr Meagles, in a threatening kind of Way, ‘and I’ll introduce you presently. Now then!’
"You stick with us," Mr. Meagles said in a menacing tone, "and I'll introduce you soon. Alright then!"
Clennam wondered within himself, as they took the nearest way to the Park, what this unknown (who complied in the gentlest manner) could have been doing. His appearance did not at all justify the suspicion that he had been detected in designs on Mr Meagles’s pocket-handkerchief; nor had he any appearance of being quarrelsome or violent. He was a quiet, plain, steady man; made no attempt to escape; and seemed a little depressed, but neither ashamed nor repentant. If he were a criminal offender, he must surely be an incorrigible hypocrite; and if he were no offender, why should Mr Meagles have collared him in the Circumlocution Office? He perceived that the man was not a difficulty in his own mind alone, but in Mr Meagles’s too; for such conversation as they had together on the short way to the Park was by no means well sustained, and Mr Meagles’s eye always wandered back to the man, even when he spoke of something very different.
Clennam thought to himself, as they took the quickest route to the Park, what this stranger (who was being very compliant) could possibly have been up to. His appearance didn’t seem to support the idea that he had been caught trying to steal Mr. Meagles’s pocket-handkerchief; nor did he look like someone who was aggressive or out of control. He was a calm, unassuming, steady man; he didn’t try to run away and looked slightly downcast, but not ashamed or regretful. If he were a criminal, he would have to be an unrepentant liar; and if he wasn’t doing anything wrong, why would Mr. Meagles have grabbed him in the Circumlocution Office? Clennam realized that the man was not just causing uncertainty for himself, but for Mr. Meagles as well; their brief conversation on the way to the Park was awkward, and Mr. Meagles's gaze kept drifting back to the man, even when he was talking about something completely different.
At length they being among the trees, Mr Meagles stopped short, and said:
At last, as they were among the trees, Mr. Meagles stopped suddenly and said:
‘Mr Clennam, will you do me the favour to look at this man? His name is Doyce, Daniel Doyce. You wouldn’t suppose this man to be a notorious rascal; would you?’
‘Mr. Clennam, could you do me a favor and take a look at this man? His name is Doyce, Daniel Doyce. You wouldn’t think this guy is a notorious scoundrel, would you?’
‘I certainly should not.’ It was really a disconcerting question, with the man there.
‘I definitely should not.’ It was truly an unsettling question, with the guy there.
‘No. You would not. I know you would not. You wouldn’t suppose him to be a public offender; would you?’
‘No. You wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t think he’s a public criminal; would you?’
‘No.’
'No.'
‘No. But he is. He is a public offender. What has he been guilty of? Murder, manslaughter, arson, forgery, swindling, house-breaking, highway robbery, larceny, conspiracy, fraud? Which should you say, now?’
‘No. But he is. He is a public offender. What has he done wrong? Murder, manslaughter, arson, forgery, swindling, breaking and entering, robbery, theft, conspiracy, fraud? Which one would you say now?’
‘I should say,’ returned Arthur Clennam, observing a faint smile in Daniel Doyce’s face, ‘not one of them.’
‘I should say,’ replied Arthur Clennam, noticing a slight smile on Daniel Doyce’s face, ‘none of them.’
‘You are right,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘But he has been ingenious, and he has been trying to turn his ingenuity to his country’s service. That makes him a public offender directly, sir.’
"You’re right," said Mr. Meagles. "But he’s been clever, and he’s been trying to use his cleverness for the benefit of his country. That makes him a public offender directly, sir."
Arthur looked at the man himself, who only shook his head.
Arthur looked at the man, who just shook his head.
‘This Doyce,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘is a smith and engineer. He is not in a large way, but he is well known as a very ingenious man. A dozen years ago, he perfects an invention (involving a very curious secret process) of great importance to his country and his fellow-creatures. I won’t say how much money it cost him, or how many years of his life he had been about it, but he brought it to perfection a dozen years ago. Wasn’t it a dozen?’ said Mr Meagles, addressing Doyce. ‘He is the most exasperating man in the world; he never complains!’
‘This is Doyce,’ Mr. Meagles said, ‘a blacksmith and engineer. He’s not running a big operation, but he’s well-known as a really clever guy. About twelve years ago, he perfected an invention (involving a very unique secret process) that’s really important for his country and for people in general. I won’t say how much money it cost him, or how many years he spent on it, but he got it just right about twelve years ago. Wasn’t it twelve?’ he asked Doyce. ‘He’s the most infuriating person in the world; he never complains!’
‘Yes. Rather better than twelve years ago.’
‘Yes. Definitely better than twelve years ago.’
‘Rather better?’ said Mr Meagles, ‘you mean rather worse. Well, Mr Clennam, he addresses himself to the Government. The moment he addresses himself to the Government, he becomes a public offender! Sir,’ said Mr Meagles, in danger of making himself excessively hot again, ‘he ceases to be an innocent citizen, and becomes a culprit. He is treated from that instant as a man who has done some infernal action. He is a man to be shirked, put off, brow-beaten, sneered at, handed over by this highly-connected young or old gentleman, to that highly-connected young or old gentleman, and dodged back again; he is a man with no rights in his own time, or his own property; a mere outlaw, whom it is justifiable to get rid of anyhow; a man to be worn out by all possible means.’
“Rather better?” Mr. Meagles said. “You mean rather worse. Well, Mr. Clennam, he turns to the Government. The moment he does that, he becomes a public offender! Sir,” Mr. Meagles said, getting dangerously heated again, “he stops being an innocent citizen and becomes a criminal. From that moment on, he’s treated like someone who’s done something terrible. He’s someone to avoid, brush off, bully, mock, and pass around from one well-connected person to another; he’s a person with no rights over his own time or property; a total outlaw, whom it’s acceptable to dispose of in any way; a person who’s worn down by all possible means.”
It was not so difficult to believe, after the morning’s experience, as Mr Meagles supposed.
It wasn't as hard to believe, after the morning's experience, as Mr. Meagles thought.
‘Don’t stand there, Doyce, turning your spectacle-case over and over,’ cried Mr Meagles, ‘but tell Mr Clennam what you confessed to me.’
‘Don’t just stand there, Doyce, flipping your glasses case back and forth,’ cried Mr. Meagles, ‘but tell Mr. Clennam what you admitted to me.’
‘I undoubtedly was made to feel,’ said the inventor, ‘as if I had committed an offence. In dancing attendance at the various offices, I was always treated, more or less, as if it was a very bad offence. I have frequently found it necessary to reflect, for my own self-support, that I really had not done anything to bring myself into the Newgate Calendar, but only wanted to effect a great saving and a great improvement.’
‘I definitely felt,’ said the inventor, ‘like I had done something wrong. In running around to the different offices, I was always treated, more or less, as if it was a serious offense. I often had to remind myself, for my own reassurance, that I hadn’t really done anything to end up in the Newgate Calendar; I just wanted to make a big saving and a significant improvement.’
‘There!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Judge whether I exaggerate. Now you’ll be able to believe me when I tell you the rest of the case.’
‘There!’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘Decide if I'm exaggerating. Now you’ll be able to believe me when I tell you the rest of the story.’
With this prelude, Mr Meagles went through the narrative; the established narrative, which has become tiresome; the matter-of-course narrative which we all know by heart. How, after interminable attendance and correspondence, after infinite impertinences, ignorances, and insults, my lords made a Minute, number three thousand four hundred and seventy-two, allowing the culprit to make certain trials of his invention at his own expense. How the trials were made in the presence of a board of six, of whom two ancient members were too blind to see it, two other ancient members were too deaf to hear it, one other ancient member was too lame to get near it, and the final ancient member was too pig-headed to look at it. How there were more years; more impertinences, ignorances, and insults. How my lords then made a Minute, number five thousand one hundred and three, whereby they resigned the business to the Circumlocution Office. How the Circumlocution Office, in course of time, took up the business as if it were a bran new thing of yesterday, which had never been heard of before; muddled the business, addled the business, tossed the business in a wet blanket. How the impertinences, ignorances, and insults went through the multiplication table. How there was a reference of the invention to three Barnacles and a Stiltstalking, who knew nothing about it; into whose heads nothing could be hammered about it; who got bored about it, and reported physical impossibilities about it. How the Circumlocution Office, in a Minute, number eight thousand seven hundred and forty, ‘saw no reason to reverse the decision at which my lords had arrived.’ How the Circumlocution Office, being reminded that my lords had arrived at no decision, shelved the business. How there had been a final interview with the head of the Circumlocution Office that very morning, and how the Brazen Head had spoken, and had been, upon the whole, and under all the circumstances, and looking at it from the various points of view, of opinion that one of two courses was to be pursued in respect of the business: that was to say, either to leave it alone for evermore, or to begin it all over again.
With this introduction, Mr. Meagles went over the story; the established story that has become tedious; the routine story that we all know by heart. How, after endless meetings and emails, after countless rudeness, stupidity, and insults, my lords made Minute number three thousand four hundred and seventy-two, allowing the culprit to conduct certain trials of his invention at his own cost. How the trials were held in front of a board of six, two of whom were too blind to see it, two others were too deaf to hear it, one was too lame to get near it, and the last one was too stubborn to look at it. How there were more years; more rudeness, stupidity, and insults. How my lords then made Minute number five thousand one hundred and three, by which they handed the matter over to the Circumlocution Office. How the Circumlocution Office, eventually, took up the matter as if it were a brand new issue that had never been seen before; confused the matter, messed it up, and threw a wet blanket on it. How the rudeness, stupidity, and insults multiplied. How there was a referral of the invention to three Barnacles and a Stiltstalking, who knew nothing about it; into whose heads nothing could be hammered about it; who got bored with it and reported physical impossibilities about it. How the Circumlocution Office, in Minute number eight thousand seven hundred and forty, ‘saw no reason to reverse the decision that my lords had made.’ How the Circumlocution Office, being reminded that my lords had made no decision, shelved the matter. How there had been a final meeting with the head of the Circumlocution Office that very morning, and how the Brazen Head had spoken, and had been, overall, and under all circumstances, and looking at it from various viewpoints, of the opinion that one of two paths should be taken regarding the matter: that is to say, either to leave it alone forever or to start all over again.
‘Upon which,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘as a practical man, I then and there, in that presence, took Doyce by the collar, and told him it was plain to me that he was an infamous rascal and treasonable disturber of the government peace, and took him away. I brought him out of the office door by the collar, that the very porter might know I was a practical man who appreciated the official estimate of such characters; and here we are!’
‘So,’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘as a practical man, I right then and there, in front of everyone, grabbed Doyce by the collar and told him it was clear to me that he was a dirty rascal and a troublemaker against the government’s peace, and I took him away. I pulled him out of the office door by the collar so the porter would see that I was a practical man who recognized the official view of such people; and here we are!’
If that airy young Barnacle had been there, he would have frankly told them perhaps that the Circumlocution Office had achieved its function. That what the Barnacles had to do, was to stick on to the national ship as long as they could. That to trim the ship, lighten the ship, clean the ship, would be to knock them off; that they could but be knocked off once; and that if the ship went down with them yet sticking to it, that was the ship’s look out, and not theirs.
If that lighthearted young Barnacle had been there, he would have honestly told them that the Circumlocution Office was doing its job. That what the Barnacles needed to do was hang onto the national ship for as long as possible. That to adjust the ship, lighten it, or clean it would mean getting rid of them; they could only be removed once; and if the ship sank with them still attached, that was the ship's problem, not theirs.
‘There!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘now you know all about Doyce. Except, which I own does not improve my state of mind, that even now you don’t hear him complain.’
‘There!’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘now you know all about Doyce. Except, I have to admit, it doesn’t make me feel any better that even now you don’t hear him complain.’
‘You must have great patience,’ said Arthur Clennam, looking at him with some wonder, ‘great forbearance.’
"You must have a lot of patience," said Arthur Clennam, looking at him with some amazement, "a lot of forbearance."
‘No,’ he returned, ‘I don’t know that I have more than another man.’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘I don’t think I have any more than anyone else.’
‘By the Lord, you have more than I have, though!’ cried Mr Meagles.
“By the Lord, you have more than I do, though!” exclaimed Mr. Meagles.
Doyce smiled, as he said to Clennam, ‘You see, my experience of these things does not begin with myself. It has been in my way to know a little about them from time to time. Mine is not a particular case. I am not worse used than a hundred others who have put themselves in the same position—than all the others, I was going to say.’
Doyce smiled and said to Clennam, “You see, my experience with these things doesn’t start with me. I've picked up some knowledge about them over time. My situation isn’t unique. I’m not treated any worse than a hundred others who have found themselves in the same position—actually, worse than all the others, if I’m being honest.”
‘I don’t know that I should find that a consolation, if it were my case; but I am very glad that you do.’
‘I’m not sure I would find that comforting if I were in your situation; but I’m really glad you do.’
‘Understand me! I don’t say,’ he replied in his steady, planning way, and looking into the distance before him as if his grey eye were measuring it, ‘that it’s recompense for a man’s toil and hope; but it’s a certain sort of relief to know that I might have counted on this.’
'Understand me! I'm not saying,' he replied in his calm, thoughtful manner, and staring off into the distance as if his gray eye were sizing it up, 'that it's a reward for a man's hard work and dreams; but it's definitely a kind of relief to know that I could have relied on this.'
He spoke in that quiet deliberate manner, and in that undertone, which is often observable in mechanics who consider and adjust with great nicety. It belonged to him like his suppleness of thumb, or his peculiar way of tilting up his hat at the back every now and then, as if he were contemplating some half-finished work of his hand and thinking about it.
He spoke in that calm, intentional way and in that low voice that you often see in mechanics who focus and fine-tune things precisely. It was as much a part of him as his flexible thumb or his unique habit of tilting his hat back now and then, as if he were pondering some unfinished project he had been working on.
‘Disappointed?’ he went on, as he walked between them under the trees. ‘Yes. No doubt I am disappointed. Hurt? Yes. No doubt I am hurt. That’s only natural. But what I mean when I say that people who put themselves in the same position are mostly used in the same way—’
‘Disappointed?’ he continued, as he walked between them under the trees. ‘Yes. I’m definitely disappointed. Hurt? Yes. I’m definitely hurt. That’s completely natural. But what I mean when I say that people who put themselves in the same situation are usually treated the same way—’
‘In England,’ said Mr Meagles.
"In England," Mr. Meagles said.
‘Oh! of course I mean in England. When they take their inventions into foreign countries, that’s quite different. And that’s the reason why so many go there.’
‘Oh! of course I mean in England. When they take their inventions to other countries, that’s totally different. And that’s why so many go there.’
Mr Meagles very hot indeed again.
Mr. Meagles was really hot again.
‘What I mean is, that however this comes to be the regular way of our government, it is its regular way. Have you ever heard of any projector or inventor who failed to find it all but inaccessible, and whom it did not discourage and ill-treat?’
‘What I mean is that no matter how this becomes the standard way of our government, it is still the standard way. Have you ever heard of an inventor or innovator who didn’t find it almost impossible and who wasn’t discouraged and mistreated?’
‘I cannot say that I ever have.’
‘I can’t say that I ever have.’
‘Have you ever known it to be beforehand in the adoption of any useful thing? Ever known it to set an example of any useful kind?’
‘Have you ever seen it take the lead in adopting anything useful? Have you ever seen it set an example of any kind that’s actually helpful?’
‘I am a good deal older than my friend here,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘and I’ll answer that. Never.’
‘I’m quite a bit older than my friend here,’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘and I’ll answer that. Never.’
‘But we all three have known, I expect,’ said the inventor, ‘a pretty many cases of its fixed determination to be miles upon miles, and years upon years, behind the rest of us; and of its being found out persisting in the use of things long superseded, even after the better things were well known and generally taken up?’
‘But I think we’ve all three seen,’ said the inventor, ‘plenty of times when it stubbornly chooses to lag behind by miles and years, and keeps using stuff that has been outdated for ages, even when the better options are well known and widely adopted?’
They all agreed upon that.
They all agreed on that.
‘Well then,’ said Doyce, with a sigh, ‘as I know what such a metal will do at such a temperature, and such a body under such a pressure, so I may know (if I will only consider), how these great lords and gentlemen will certainly deal with such a matter as mine. I have no right to be surprised, with a head upon my shoulders, and memory in it, that I fall into the ranks with all who came before me. I ought to have let it alone. I have had warning enough, I am sure.’
‘Well then,’ Doyce sighed, ‘since I know what this kind of metal does at this temperature, and how this body behaves under this pressure, I should understand (if I just take a moment to think) how these powerful lords and gentlemen will definitely handle a situation like mine. I have no reason to be surprised, being a rational person with a memory, that I find myself in the same position as everyone who came before me. I really should have avoided this. I’ve had more than enough warnings, that’s for sure.’
With that he put up his spectacle-case, and said to Arthur, ‘If I don’t complain, Mr Clennam, I can feel gratitude; and I assure you that I feel it towards our mutual friend. Many’s the day, and many’s the way in which he has backed me.’
With that, he closed his glasses case and said to Arthur, “If I don’t complain, Mr. Clennam, I can still feel gratitude; and I promise you, I feel it towards our mutual friend. There have been many days and many ways he has supported me.”
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Mr Meagles.
"That’s nonsense," Mr. Meagles said.
Arthur could not but glance at Daniel Doyce in the ensuing silence. Though it was evidently in the grain of his character, and of his respect for his own case, that he should abstain from idle murmuring, it was evident that he had grown the older, the sterner, and the poorer, for his long endeavour. He could not but think what a blessed thing it would have been for this man, if he had taken a lesson from the gentlemen who were so kind as to take a nation’s affairs in charge, and had learnt How not to do it.
Arthur couldn't help but glance at Daniel Doyce in the following silence. Although it was clearly part of his character, and his respect for his own situation, that he should avoid pointless complaining, it was obvious that he had become older, harsher, and poorer from his long struggle. Arthur couldn't help but think how much better it would have been for this man if he had learned from the gentlemen who were so generous as to manage a nation's affairs, and had figured out how not to go about it.
Mr Meagles was hot and despondent for about five minutes, and then began to cool and clear up.
Mr. Meagles felt overheated and down for about five minutes, and then he started to calm down and feel better.
‘Come, come!’ said he. ‘We shall not make this the better by being grim. Where do you think of going, Dan?’
‘Come on!’ he said. ‘We won’t improve this by being gloomy. Where are you thinking of going, Dan?’
‘I shall go back to the factory,’ said Dan.
‘I’m going to head back to the factory,’ said Dan.
‘Why then, we’ll all go back to the factory, or walk in that direction,’ returned Mr Meagles cheerfully. ‘Mr Clennam won’t be deterred by its being in Bleeding Heart Yard.’
"Well then, let’s all head back to the factory or walk in that direction," Mr. Meagles replied cheerfully. "Mr. Clennam won’t be put off by the fact that it’s in Bleeding Heart Yard."
‘Bleeding Heart Yard?’ said Clennam. ‘I want to go there.’
‘Bleeding Heart Yard?’ Clennam said. ‘I want to go there.’
‘So much the better,’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Come along!’
“Great! Let’s go!” shouted Mr. Meagles. “Come on!”
As they went along, certainly one of the party, and probably more than one, thought that Bleeding Heart Yard was no inappropriate destination for a man who had been in official correspondence with my lords and the Barnacles—and perhaps had a misgiving also that Britannia herself might come to look for lodgings in Bleeding Heart Yard some ugly day or other, if she over-did the Circumlocution Office.
As they continued on, at least one person in the group, and likely more, figured that Bleeding Heart Yard was a fitting place for a man who had been in official communication with my lords and the Barnacles—and maybe had a worry that Britannia herself might come looking for a place to stay in Bleeding Heart Yard one day if she pushed the Circumlocution Office too far.
CHAPTER 11. Let Loose
A late, dull autumn night was closing in upon the river Saone. The stream, like a sullied looking-glass in a gloomy place, reflected the clouds heavily; and the low banks leaned over here and there, as if they were half curious, and half afraid, to see their darkening pictures in the water. The flat expanse of country about Chalons lay a long heavy streak, occasionally made a little ragged by a row of poplar trees against the wrathful sunset. On the banks of the river Saone it was wet, depressing, solitary; and the night deepened fast.
A late, dreary autumn night was settling over the Saone River. The water, like a tarnished mirror in a dark spot, reflected the clouds heavily; and the low banks leaned in every now and then, as if they were both curious and scared to see their darkening reflections in the water. The flat landscape around Chalons stretched out long and heavy, occasionally becoming a bit jagged with a row of poplar trees against the angry sunset. By the banks of the Saone River, it was damp, gloomy, and lonely; and the night was quickly growing darker.
One man slowly moving on towards Chalons was the only visible figure in the landscape. Cain might have looked as lonely and avoided. With an old sheepskin knapsack at his back, and a rough, unbarked stick cut out of some wood in his hand; miry, footsore, his shoes and gaiters trodden out, his hair and beard untrimmed; the cloak he carried over his shoulder, and the clothes he wore, sodden with wet; limping along in pain and difficulty; he looked as if the clouds were hurrying from him, as if the wail of the wind and the shuddering of the grass were directed against him, as if the low mysterious plashing of the water murmured at him, as if the fitful autumn night were disturbed by him.
One man slowly making his way toward Chalons was the only figure in the landscape. He looked as lonely and avoided as Cain. With an old sheepskin backpack on his back and a rough, unbarked stick in his hand, he trudged along, his feet dirty and sore, his shoes and gaiters worn out, his hair and beard unkempt. The cloak he draped over his shoulder and the clothes he wore were soaked through. Limping with pain and difficulty, he appeared as if the clouds were rushing away from him, as if the howling wind and the rustling grass were reacting against him, as if the soft, mysterious sound of the water was whispering about him, as if the restless autumn night was upset by his presence.
He glanced here, and he glanced there, sullenly but shrinkingly; and sometimes stopped and turned about, and looked all round him. Then he limped on again, toiling and muttering.
He looked around, feeling moody and small; sometimes he stopped and turned, checking his surroundings. Then he hobbled on again, working hard and mumbling to himself.
‘To the devil with this plain that has no end! To the devil with these stones that cut like knives! To the devil with this dismal darkness, wrapping itself about one with a chill! I hate you!’
‘To hell with this endless plain! To hell with these stones that cut like knives! To hell with this gloomy darkness, wrapping around me with a chill! I hate you!’
And he would have visited his hatred upon it all with the scowl he threw about him, if he could. He trudged a little further; and looking into the distance before him, stopped again.
And he would have unleashed his anger on everything around him if he could. He trudged a bit further, and when he looked into the distance in front of him, he stopped again.
‘I, hungry, thirsty, weary. You, imbeciles, where the lights are yonder, eating and drinking, and warming yourselves at fires! I wish I had the sacking of your town; I would repay you, my children!’
‘I’m hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. You fools, where the lights are over there, eating and drinking, and warming yourselves by the fires! I wish I could raid your town; I would make you pay, my children!’
But the teeth he set at the town, and the hand he shook at the town, brought the town no nearer; and the man was yet hungrier, and thirstier, and wearier, when his feet were on its jagged pavement, and he stood looking about him.
But the teeth he showed to the town, and the hand he shook at the town, brought the town no closer; and the man was still hungrier, thirstier, and more tired when his feet were on its rough pavement, and he stood looking around.
There was the hotel with its gateway, and its savoury smell of cooking; there was the cafe with its bright windows, and its rattling of dominoes; there was the dyer’s with its strips of red cloth on the doorposts; there was the silversmith’s with its earrings, and its offerings for altars; there was the tobacco dealer’s with its lively group of soldier customers coming out pipe in mouth; there were the bad odours of the town, and the rain and the refuse in the kennels, and the faint lamps slung across the road, and the huge Diligence, and its mountain of luggage, and its six grey horses with their tails tied up, getting under weigh at the coach office. But no small cabaret for a straitened traveller being within sight, he had to seek one round the dark corner, where the cabbage leaves lay thickest, trodden about the public cistern at which women had not yet left off drawing water. There, in the back street he found one, the Break of Day. The curtained windows clouded the Break of Day, but it seemed light and warm, and it announced in legible inscriptions with appropriate pictorial embellishment of billiard cue and ball, that at the Break of Day one could play billiards; that there one could find meat, drink, and lodgings, whether one came on horseback, or came on foot; and that it kept good wines, liqueurs, and brandy. The man turned the handle of the Break of Day door, and limped in.
There was the hotel with its entrance and the delicious smell of food; there was the cafe with its bright windows and the sound of dominoes clattering; there was the dyer's with its strips of red cloth hanging on the door; there was the silversmith's with its earrings and offerings for altars; there was the tobacco shop with a lively group of soldier customers coming out with pipes in their mouths; there were the unpleasant odors of the town, the rain and trash in the gutters, the dim lamps hanging across the road, and the large Diligence with its huge pile of luggage and six grey horses with their tails tied up, getting ready to depart from the coach office. But since there was no small tavern in sight for a weary traveler, he had to look for one around the dark corner, where the cabbage leaves were thickest, trampled around the public cistern where women hadn’t stopped drawing water yet. There, in the back street, he found one, the Break of Day. The curtained windows darkened the Break of Day, but it seemed light and warm, and it clearly announced with appropriate pictures of a billiard cue and ball that at the Break of Day one could play billiards; that one could find food, drinks, and lodging, whether arriving on horseback or on foot; and that it served good wines, liqueurs, and brandy. The man turned the handle of the Break of Day door and limped inside.
He touched his discoloured slouched hat, as he came in at the door, to a few men who occupied the room. Two were playing dominoes at one of the little tables; three or four were seated round the stove, conversing as they smoked; the billiard-table in the centre was left alone for the time; the landlady of the Daybreak sat behind her little counter among her cloudy bottles of syrups, baskets of cakes, and leaden drainage for glasses, working at her needle.
He adjusted his faded, slouched hat as he walked in the door and greeted a few men in the room. Two were playing dominoes at one of the small tables; three or four were gathered around the stove, chatting while they smoked; the billiard table in the center was empty for now; the landlady of the Daybreak sat behind her small counter filled with various bottles of syrups, baskets of pastries, and heavy drainage for glasses, busy with her sewing.
Making his way to an empty little table in a corner of the room behind the stove, he put down his knapsack and his cloak upon the ground. As he raised his head from stooping to do so, he found the landlady beside him.
Making his way to a small empty table in the corner of the room behind the stove, he set down his backpack and cloak on the floor. As he lifted his head from bending to do so, he noticed the landlady next to him.
‘One can lodge here to-night, madame?’
'Can I stay here tonight, ma'am?'
‘Perfectly!’ said the landlady in a high, sing-song, cheery voice.
“Absolutely!” said the landlady in a bright, cheerful tone.
‘Good. One can dine—sup—what you please to call it?’
‘Good. One can eat—have a meal—whatever you prefer to call it?’
‘Ah, perfectly!’ cried the landlady as before.
‘Oh, perfect!’ exclaimed the landlady as before.
‘Dispatch then, madame, if you please. Something to eat, as quickly as you can; and some wine at once. I am exhausted.’
‘Please send something to eat as soon as you can, ma'am; and wine, too, right away. I'm exhausted.’
‘It is very bad weather, monsieur,’ said the landlady.
“It’s really bad weather, sir,” said the landlady.
‘Cursed weather.’
‘Awful weather.’
‘And a very long road.’
"And a really long road."
‘A cursed road.’
"A haunted road."
His hoarse voice failed him, and he rested his head upon his hands until a bottle of wine was brought from the counter. Having filled and emptied his little tumbler twice, and having broken off an end from the great loaf that was set before him with his cloth and napkin, soup-plate, salt, pepper, and oil, he rested his back against the corner of the wall, made a couch of the bench on which he sat, and began to chew crust, until such time as his repast should be ready.
His raspy voice gave out, and he leaned his head on his hands until someone brought a bottle of wine from the counter. After filling and downing his small glass twice and breaking off a piece from the large loaf set in front of him along with his cloth and napkin, soup plate, salt, pepper, and oil, he leaned back against the wall corner, turned the bench he sat on into a makeshift couch, and started nibbling on the crust while waiting for his meal to be ready.
There had been that momentary interruption of the talk about the stove, and that temporary inattention to and distraction from one another, which is usually inseparable in such a company from the arrival of a stranger. It had passed over by this time; and the men had done glancing at him, and were talking again.
There had been that brief pause in the conversation about the stove, along with a momentary distraction from one another, which often happens when a new person arrives. That moment had passed; the men had stopped looking at him and were talking again.
‘That’s the true reason,’ said one of them, bringing a story he had been telling, to a close, ‘that’s the true reason why they said that the devil was let loose.’ The speaker was the tall Swiss belonging to the church, and he brought something of the authority of the church into the discussion—especially as the devil was in question.
‘That’s the real reason,’ said one of them, wrapping up a story he had been sharing, ‘that’s the real reason they said the devil was unleashed.’ The speaker was the tall Swiss man from the church, and he brought a bit of the church’s authority into the conversation—especially since the devil was involved.
The landlady having given her directions for the new guest’s entertainment to her husband, who acted as cook to the Break of Day, had resumed her needlework behind her counter. She was a smart, neat, bright little woman, with a good deal of cap and a good deal of stocking, and she struck into the conversation with several laughing nods of her head, but without looking up from her work.
The landlady, after giving her instructions for the new guest's care to her husband, who cooked for the Break of Day, had returned to her sewing behind the counter. She was a sharp, tidy, cheerful little woman, with a lot of style and a lot of energy, and she joined in the conversation with several laughing nods of her head, all while keeping her eyes on her work.
‘Ah Heaven, then,’ said she. ‘When the boat came up from Lyons, and brought the news that the devil was actually let loose at Marseilles, some fly-catchers swallowed it. But I? No, not I.’
‘Oh Heaven, then,’ she said. ‘When the boat arrived from Lyons and brought the news that the devil was actually unleashed in Marseilles, some gullible people believed it. But not me.’
‘Madame, you are always right,’ returned the tall Swiss. ‘Doubtless you were enraged against that man, madame?’
"Madam, you are always right," replied the tall Swiss. "You must have been angry with that man, madam?"
‘Ay, yes, then!’ cried the landlady, raising her eyes from her work, opening them very wide, and tossing her head on one side. ‘Naturally, yes.’
‘Yeah, right!’ the landlady exclaimed, looking up from her work, widening her eyes, and tilting her head to the side. ‘Of course, yes.’
‘He was a bad subject.’
"He was a bad influence."
‘He was a wicked wretch,’ said the landlady, ‘and well merited what he had the good fortune to escape. So much the worse.’
‘He was a terrible person,’ said the landlady, ‘and he got exactly what he deserved for what he managed to avoid. It’s all the more unfortunate.’
‘Stay, madame! Let us see,’ returned the Swiss, argumentatively turning his cigar between his lips. ‘It may have been his unfortunate destiny. He may have been the child of circumstances. It is always possible that he had, and has, good in him if one did but know how to find it out. Philosophical philanthropy teaches—’
‘Wait, ma'am! Let’s consider this,’ replied the Swiss, turning his cigar thoughtfully between his lips. ‘It could have been his unfortunate fate. He might have been shaped by his circumstances. It’s always possible that he has some goodness in him if we just knew how to uncover it. Philosophical charity teaches—’
The rest of the little knot about the stove murmured an objection to the introduction of that threatening expression. Even the two players at dominoes glanced up from their game, as if to protest against philosophical philanthropy being brought by name into the Break of Day.
The rest of the small group around the stove quietly objected to that threatening expression. Even the two people playing dominoes looked up from their game, as if to protest against the idea of philosophical philanthropy being explicitly mentioned in the Break of Day.
‘Hold there, you and your philanthropy,’ cried the smiling landlady, nodding her head more than ever. ‘Listen then. I am a woman, I. I know nothing of philosophical philanthropy. But I know what I have seen, and what I have looked in the face in this world here, where I find myself. And I tell you this, my friend, that there are people (men and women both, unfortunately) who have no good in them—none. That there are people whom it is necessary to detest without compromise. That there are people who must be dealt with as enemies of the human race. That there are people who have no human heart, and who must be crushed like savage beasts and cleared out of the way. They are but few, I hope; but I have seen (in this world here where I find myself, and even at the little Break of Day) that there are such people. And I do not doubt that this man—whatever they call him, I forget his name—is one of them.’
“Hold on there, you and your charity,” the smiling landlady exclaimed, nodding her head more vigorously. “Listen up. I’m a woman, I am. I don’t know anything about philosophical charity. But I know what I’ve seen and what I’ve faced in this world I live in. And I’m telling you, my friend, that there are people (both men and women, unfortunately) who have no goodness in them—none at all. There are people who we have to utterly detest. There are people who must be treated as enemies of humanity. There are people who have no human heart and who need to be crushed like wild beasts and removed from the equation. I hope they are few, but I have seen (in this world where I find myself, and even at the little Break of Day) that such people exist. And I have no doubt that this man—whatever they call him, I can’t remember his name—is one of them.”
The landlady’s lively speech was received with greater favour at the Break of Day, than it would have elicited from certain amiable whitewashers of the class she so unreasonably objected to, nearer Great Britain.
The landlady’s animated speech was welcomed more positively at the Break of Day than it would have been by some charming people who painted everything white and who she so unfairly disapproved of back in Great Britain.
‘My faith! If your philosophical philanthropy,’ said the landlady, putting down her work, and rising to take the stranger’s soup from her husband, who appeared with it at a side door, ‘puts anybody at the mercy of such people by holding terms with them at all, in words or deeds, or both, take it away from the Break of Day, for it isn’t worth a sou.’
‘My goodness! If your so-called charitable philosophy,’ said the landlady, putting down her work and standing up to take the stranger’s soup from her husband, who came in with it through a side door, ‘puts anyone at the mercy of people like that by engaging with them at all, in words or actions, then get rid of it from the Break of Day, because it’s not worth a penny.’
As she placed the soup before the guest, who changed his attitude to a sitting one, he looked her full in the face, and his moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache.
As she set the soup in front of the guest, who shifted to a sitting position, he looked her straight in the face, and his mustache curled up under his nose while his nose came down over his mustache.
‘Well!’ said the previous speaker, ‘let us come back to our subject. Leaving all that aside, gentlemen, it was because the man was acquitted on his trial that people said at Marseilles that the devil was let loose. That was how the phrase began to circulate, and what it meant; nothing more.’
‘Well!’ said the previous speaker, ‘let's return to our topic. Putting all that aside, gentlemen, it was because the man was found not guilty in his trial that people in Marseilles claimed that the devil was released. That’s how the phrase started to spread and what it really meant; nothing more.’
‘How do they call him?’ said the landlady. ‘Biraud, is it not?’
"What's his name?" asked the landlady. "Is it Biraud?"
‘Rigaud, madame,’ returned the tall Swiss.
'Rigaud, ma'am,' replied the tall Swiss.
‘Rigaud! To be sure.’
"Rigaud! For sure."
The traveller’s soup was succeeded by a dish of meat, and that by a dish of vegetables. He ate all that was placed before him, emptied his bottle of wine, called for a glass of rum, and smoked his cigarette with his cup of coffee. As he became refreshed, he became overbearing; and patronised the company at the Daybreak in certain small talk at which he assisted, as if his condition were far above his appearance.
The traveler’s soup was followed by a meat dish, which was then followed by a vegetable dish. He ate everything on his plate, finished his bottle of wine, ordered a glass of rum, and smoked his cigarette with his coffee. As he started to feel better, he became a bit arrogant and talked down to the people at the Daybreak with some casual chatter, as if he were much more important than he looked.
The company might have had other engagements, or they might have felt their inferiority, but in any case they dispersed by degrees, and not being replaced by other company, left their new patron in possession of the Break of Day. The landlord was clinking about in his kitchen; the landlady was quiet at her work; and the refreshed traveller sat smoking by the stove, warming his ragged feet.
The company might have had other commitments, or they might have sensed their inferiority, but in any case, they gradually dispersed, and without being replaced by others, left their new host in charge of the Break of Day. The landlord was bustling around in his kitchen; the landlady was focused on her tasks; and the refreshed traveler sat smoking by the stove, warming his worn-out feet.
‘Pardon me, madame—that Biraud.’
"Excuse me, ma'am—that Biraud."
‘Rigaud, monsieur.’
'Rigaud, sir.'
‘Rigaud. Pardon me again—has contracted your displeasure, how?’
‘Rigaud. Sorry again—how have I upset you?’
The landlady, who had been at one moment thinking within herself that this was a handsome man, at another moment that this was an ill-looking man, observed the nose coming down and the moustache going up, and strongly inclined to the latter decision. Rigaud was a criminal, she said, who had killed his wife.
The landlady, who at one moment thought to herself that this was an attractive man, and at another moment that he was an unattractive man, noticed his nose dropping and his mustache rising, and leaned heavily toward the latter opinion. Rigaud was a criminal, she said, who had killed his wife.
‘Ay, ay? Death of my life, that’s a criminal indeed. But how do you know it?’
‘Oh really? That’s something else, for sure. But how do you know that?’
‘All the world knows it.’
"Everyone knows it."
‘Hah! And yet he escaped justice?’
‘Hah! And he still got away with it?’
‘Monsieur, the law could not prove it against him to its satisfaction. So the law says. Nevertheless, all the world knows he did it. The people knew it so well, that they tried to tear him to pieces.’
‘Sir, the law couldn't prove it against him convincingly. So the law states. Still, everyone knows he did it. The people were so aware of it that they tried to tear him apart.’
‘Being all in perfect accord with their own wives?’ said the guest. ‘Haha!’
‘So they’re all completely in sync with their wives?’ said the guest. ‘Haha!’
The landlady of the Break of Day looked at him again, and felt almost confirmed in her last decision. He had a fine hand, though, and he turned it with a great show. She began once more to think that he was not ill-looking after all.
The landlady of the Break of Day looked at him again and felt more sure about her last decision. He had a nice hand, though, and he showcased it with a lot of flair. She started to think again that he wasn't bad-looking after all.
‘Did you mention, madame—or was it mentioned among the gentlemen—what became of him?’
‘Did you say, ma'am—or did the gentlemen mention—what happened to him?’
The landlady shook her head; it being the first conversational stage at which her vivacious earnestness had ceased to nod it, keeping time to what she said. It had been mentioned at the Daybreak, she remarked, on the authority of the journals, that he had been kept in prison for his own safety. However that might be, he had escaped his deserts; so much the worse.
The landlady shook her head; this was the first point in their conversation where her lively seriousness stopped bobbing along with her words. She noted that it had been mentioned at the Daybreak, based on the news articles, that he had been imprisoned for his own protection. Whatever the case, he had avoided his punishment; that was unfortunate.
The guest sat looking at her as he smoked out his final cigarette, and as she sat with her head bent over her work, with an expression that might have resolved her doubts, and brought her to a lasting conclusion on the subject of his good or bad looks if she had seen it. When she did look up, the expression was not there. The hand was smoothing his shaggy moustache.
The guest sat there, watching her as he took a drag from his last cigarette. She was focused on her work, her head bent down, with an expression that could have cleared up any doubts she had and helped her form a solid opinion about whether he was good-looking or not, if she had noticed it. When she finally looked up, that expression was gone. His hand was brushing through his messy moustache.
‘May one ask to be shown to bed, madame?’
"Could I be shown to my room, ma'am?"
Very willingly, monsieur. Hola, my husband! My husband would conduct him up-stairs. There was one traveller there, asleep, who had gone to bed very early indeed, being overpowered by fatigue; but it was a large chamber with two beds in it, and space enough for twenty. This the landlady of the Break of Day chirpingly explained, calling between whiles, ‘Hola, my husband!’ out at the side door.
Sure thing, sir. Hey there, my husband! My husband would take him upstairs. There was one traveler up there, asleep, who had gone to bed really early because he was exhausted; but it was a large room with two beds in it, and enough space for twenty. The landlady of the Break of Day cheerfully explained this, occasionally calling out, ‘Hey, my husband!’ from the side door.
My husband answered at length, ‘It is I, my wife!’ and presenting himself in his cook’s cap, lighted the traveller up a steep and narrow staircase; the traveller carrying his own cloak and knapsack, and bidding the landlady good night with a complimentary reference to the pleasure of seeing her again to-morrow. It was a large room, with a rough splintery floor, unplastered rafters overhead, and two bedsteads on opposite sides. Here ‘my husband’ put down the candle he carried, and with a sidelong look at his guest stooping over his knapsack, gruffly gave him the instruction, ‘The bed to the right!’ and left him to his repose. The landlord, whether he was a good or a bad physiognomist, had fully made up his mind that the guest was an ill-looking fellow.
My husband replied at length, “It’s me, my wife!” and, wearing his cook’s cap, led the traveler up a steep and narrow staircase. The traveler carried his own cloak and backpack, wishing the landlady good night with a nice comment about looking forward to seeing her again tomorrow. The room was large, with a rough, splintery floor, unplastered beams overhead, and two beds on opposite sides. Here, “my husband” set down the candle he was holding and, glancing at his guest who was bent over his backpack, gruffly instructed him, “The bed on the right!” before leaving him to settle in. The landlord, whether he was good or bad at reading people, was completely convinced that the guest wasn’t a pleasant-looking person.
The guest looked contemptuously at the clean coarse bedding prepared for him, and, sitting down on the rush chair at the bedside, drew his money out of his pocket, and told it over in his hand. ‘One must eat,’ he muttered to himself, ‘but by Heaven I must eat at the cost of some other man to-morrow!’
The guest looked disdainfully at the clean, rough bedding set up for him and, sitting on the rush chair by the bed, pulled out his money and counted it in his hand. "I have to eat," he mumbled to himself, "but by God, I’ll make sure I eat at someone else's expense tomorrow!"
As he sat pondering, and mechanically weighing his money in his palm, the deep breathing of the traveller in the other bed fell so regularly upon his hearing that it attracted his eyes in that direction. The man was covered up warm, and had drawn the white curtain at his head, so that he could be only heard, not seen. But the deep regular breathing, still going on while the other was taking off his worn shoes and gaiters, and still continuing when he had laid aside his coat and cravat, became at length a strong provocative to curiosity, and incentive to get a glimpse of the sleeper’s face.
As he sat thinking and absentmindedly weighing his money in his palm, the deep breathing of the traveler in the other bed was so regular that it caught his attention. The man was bundled up warm and had drawn the white curtain at his head, so he could only be heard, not seen. But the steady breathing, which continued while he took off his worn shoes and gaiters and persisted even after he laid aside his coat and tie, eventually sparked a strong curiosity and made him want to catch a glimpse of the sleeper's face.
The waking traveller, therefore, stole a little nearer, and yet a little nearer, and a little nearer to the sleeping traveller’s bed, until he stood close beside it. Even then he could not see his face, for he had drawn the sheet over it. The regular breathing still continuing, he put his smooth white hand (such a treacherous hand it looked, as it went creeping from him!) to the sheet, and gently lifted it away.
The waking traveler quietly moved closer, inching his way to the sleeping traveler’s bed until he was right next to it. Even then, he couldn’t see his face because it was covered by the sheet. As the steady breathing continued, he reached out with his smooth white hand (it looked so deceiving as it crept toward him!) and carefully lifted the sheet off.
‘Death of my soul!’ he whispered, falling back, ‘here’s Cavalletto!’
‘The death of my soul!’ he whispered, collapsing back, ‘here comes Cavalletto!’
The little Italian, previously influenced in his sleep, perhaps, by the stealthy presence at his bedside, stopped in his regular breathing, and with a long deep respiration opened his eyes. At first they were not awake, though open. He lay for some seconds looking placidly at his old prison companion, and then, all at once, with a cry of surprise and alarm, sprang out of bed.
The little Italian, possibly affected in his sleep by the quiet presence beside him, paused his regular breathing and took a deep breath before opening his eyes. At first, they were open but still not fully awake. He lay there for a few seconds, looking calmly at his old prison mate, and then suddenly, with a cry of surprise and fear, jumped out of bed.
‘Hush! What’s the matter? Keep quiet! It’s I. You know me?’ cried the other, in a suppressed voice.
‘Hush! What’s going on? Be quiet! It’s me. You remember me?’ cried the other, in a low voice.
But John Baptist, widely staring, muttering a number of invocations and ejaculations, tremblingly backing into a corner, slipping on his trousers, and tying his coat by the two sleeves round his neck, manifested an unmistakable desire to escape by the door rather than renew the acquaintance. Seeing this, his old prison comrade fell back upon the door, and set his shoulders against it.
But John Baptist, wide-eyed and muttering a series of prayers and exclamations, nervously backed into a corner, putting on his pants and tying his coat sleeves around his neck, clearly wanting to escape through the door instead of rekindling the old friendship. Seeing this, his former cellmate leaned against the door and braced himself with his shoulders.
‘Cavalletto! Wake, boy! Rub your eyes and look at me. Not the name you used to call me—don’t use that—Lagnier, say Lagnier!’
‘Cavalletto! Wake up, kid! Rub your eyes and look at me. Not the name you used to call me—don’t use that—say Lagnier, Lagnier!’
John Baptist, staring at him with eyes opened to their utmost width, made a number of those national, backhanded shakes of the right forefinger in the air, as if he were resolved on negativing beforehand everything that the other could possibly advance during the whole term of his life.
John Baptist, looking at him with his eyes wide open, made a series of those signature, dismissive gestures with his right index finger in the air, as if he was determined to reject anything the other person might say for the rest of his life.
‘Cavalletto! Give me your hand. You know Lagnier, the gentleman. Touch the hand of a gentleman!’
‘Cavalletto! Give me your hand. You know Lagnier, the gentleman. Shake hands with a gentleman!’
Submitting himself to the old tone of condescending authority, John Baptist, not at all steady on his legs as yet, advanced and put his hand in his patron’s. Monsieur Lagnier laughed; and having given it a squeeze, tossed it up and let it go.
Submitting himself to the old tone of condescending authority, John Baptist, still not very steady on his legs, stepped forward and placed his hand in his patron's. Monsieur Lagnier laughed, and after giving it a squeeze, tossed it up and let it go.
‘Then you were—’ faltered John Baptist.
‘Then you were—’ John Baptist hesitated.
‘Not shaved? No. See here!’ cried Lagnier, giving his head a twirl; ‘as tight on as your own.’
‘Not shaved? No. Look here!’ shouted Lagnier, giving his head a twirl; ‘just as tight as yours.’
John Baptist, with a slight shiver, looked all round the room as if to recall where he was. His patron took that opportunity of turning the key in the door, and then sat down upon his bed.
John Baptist, feeling a bit chilly, glanced around the room as if trying to remember where he was. His patron seized that moment to lock the door and then sat down on his bed.
‘Look!’ he said, holding up his shoes and gaiters. ‘That’s a poor trim for a gentleman, you’ll say. No matter, you shall see how soon I’ll mend it. Come and sit down. Take your old place!’
'Look!' he said, holding up his shoes and gaiters. 'That's a poor look for a gentleman, you'll say. No worries, you'll see how quickly I'll fix it. Come and sit down. Take your old spot!'
John Baptist, looking anything but reassured, sat down on the floor at the bedside, keeping his eyes upon his patron all the time.
John Baptist, looking anything but calm, sat down on the floor by the bedside, keeping his eyes on his patron the whole time.
‘That’s well!’ cried Lagnier. ‘Now we might be in the old infernal hole again, hey? How long have you been out?’
‘That’s great!’ shouted Lagnier. ‘Now we could be back in that hellhole again, right? How long have you been out?’
‘Two days after you, my master.’
‘Two days after you, my master.’
‘How do you come here?’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I was cautioned not to stay there, and so I left the town at once, and since then I have changed about. I have been doing odds and ends at Avignon, at Pont Esprit, at Lyons; upon the Rhone, upon the Saone.’ As he spoke, he rapidly mapped the places out with his sunburnt hand upon the floor.
‘I was warned not to stick around, so I left the town right away, and since then I’ve been moving around. I’ve been doing various jobs in Avignon, Pont Esprit, and Lyons; along the Rhone, along the Saone.’ As he spoke, he quickly traced the locations with his sunburned hand on the floor.
‘And where are you going?’
"Where are you headed?"
‘Going, my master?’
'Leaving, my master?'
‘Ay!’
‘Hey!’
John Baptist seemed to desire to evade the question without knowing how. ‘By Bacchus!’ he said at last, as if he were forced to the admission, ‘I have sometimes had a thought of going to Paris, and perhaps to England.’
John Baptist looked like he wanted to dodge the question but didn’t know how to do it. “By Bacchus!” he finally exclaimed, as if he had to admit it, “I’ve sometimes thought about going to Paris, and maybe even to England.”
‘Cavalletto. This is in confidence. I also am going to Paris and perhaps to England. We’ll go together.’
‘Cavalletto. This is confidential. I’m also heading to Paris and maybe to England. Let’s go together.’
The little man nodded his head, and showed his teeth; and yet seemed not quite convinced that it was a surpassingly desirable arrangement.
The little man nodded and smiled, but he still didn’t seem entirely convinced it was an especially great deal.
‘We’ll go together,’ repeated Lagnier. ‘You shall see how soon I will force myself to be recognised as a gentleman, and you shall profit by it. It is agreed? Are we one?’
“We’ll go together,” Lagnier said again. “You’ll see how quickly I will prove myself to be a gentleman, and you will benefit from it. Is that agreed? Are we in this together?”
‘Oh, surely, surely!’ said the little man.
‘Oh, definitely, definitely!’ said the little man.
‘Then you shall hear before I sleep—and in six words, for I want sleep—how I appear before you, I, Lagnier. Remember that. Not the other.’
‘Then you will hear before I sleep—and in six words, because I want to sleep—how I show up before you, I, Lagnier. Keep that in mind. Not the other.’
‘Altro, altro! Not Ri——’ Before John Baptist could finish the name, his comrade had got his hand under his chin and fiercely shut up his mouth.
‘Another, another! Not Ri——’ Before John Baptist could finish the name, his comrade had gotten his hand under his chin and violently closed his mouth.
‘Death! what are you doing? Do you want me to be trampled upon and stoned? Do you want to be trampled upon and stoned? You would be. You don’t imagine that they would set upon me, and let my prison chum go? Don’t think it!’
‘Death! What are you doing? Do you want me to be trampled and stoned? Do you want to be trampled and stoned? You would be. You don’t think they would attack me and let my prison buddy go? Don’t think that!’
There was an expression in his face as he released his grip of his friend’s jaw, from which his friend inferred that if the course of events really came to any stoning and trampling, Monsieur Lagnier would so distinguish him with his notice as to ensure his having his full share of it. He remembered what a cosmopolitan gentleman Monsieur Lagnier was, and how few weak distinctions he made.
There was a look on his face as he let go of his friend’s jaw, from which his friend figured that if things really did turn violent, Monsieur Lagnier would make sure to include him in it. He recalled how cosmopolitan Monsieur Lagnier was and how few flimsy distinctions he made.
‘I am a man,’ said Monsieur Lagnier, ‘whom society has deeply wronged since you last saw me. You know that I am sensitive and brave, and that it is my character to govern. How has society respected those qualities in me? I have been shrieked at through the streets. I have been guarded through the streets against men, and especially women, running at me armed with any weapons they could lay their hands on. I have lain in prison for security, with the place of my confinement kept a secret, lest I should be torn out of it and felled by a hundred blows. I have been carted out of Marseilles in the dead of night, and carried leagues away from it packed in straw. It has not been safe for me to go near my house; and, with a beggar’s pittance in my pocket, I have walked through vile mud and weather ever since, until my feet are crippled—look at them! Such are the humiliations that society has inflicted upon me, possessing the qualities I have mentioned, and which you know me to possess. But society shall pay for it.’
“I am a man,” said Monsieur Lagnier, “whom society has wronged deeply since you last saw me. You know I’m sensitive and brave, and that it’s in my nature to lead. How has society honored those qualities in me? I’ve been screamed at in the streets. I’ve been guarded in the streets against men, and especially women, charging at me with any weapons they could find. I’ve been locked away for safety, with the location of my confinement kept secret, so I wouldn’t be dragged out and struck down by a hundred blows. I was taken out of Marseilles in the dead of night and transported leagues away, crammed in straw. It hasn’t been safe for me to get near my house; and, with just a beggar’s pittance in my pocket, I’ve trudged through disgusting mud and terrible weather ever since, until my feet are crippled—look at them! Such are the humiliations that society has imposed upon me, possessing the qualities I’ve mentioned, and which you know I have. But society will pay for this.”
All this he said in his companion’s ear, and with his hand before his lips.
He whispered all of this in his friend’s ear, covering his mouth with his hand.
‘Even here,’ he went on in the same way, ‘even in this mean drinking-shop, society pursues me. Madame defames me, and her guests defame me. I, too, a gentleman with manners and accomplishments to strike them dead! But the wrongs society has heaped upon me are treasured in this breast.’
‘Even here,’ he continued in the same tone, ‘even in this shabby bar, society follows me. Madame slanders me, and her guests slander me. I’m also a gentleman with manners and skills that could shock them into silence! But the injustices society has thrown at me are held deep in my heart.’
To all of which John Baptist, listening attentively to the suppressed hoarse voice, said from time to time, ‘Surely, surely!’ tossing his head and shutting his eyes, as if there were the clearest case against society that perfect candour could make out.
To all of this, John Baptist, listening closely to the hushed, rough voice, would occasionally say, ‘Absolutely, absolutely!’ nodding his head and closing his eyes, as if there were a solid argument against society that complete honesty could reveal.
‘Put my shoes there,’ continued Lagnier. ‘Hang my cloak to dry there by the door. Take my hat.’ He obeyed each instruction, as it was given. ‘And this is the bed to which society consigns me, is it? Hah. Very well!’
‘Put my shoes there,’ Lagnier continued. ‘Hang my cloak to dry over there by the door. Take my hat.’ He followed each instruction as it was given. ‘And this is the bed that society has given me, huh? Hah. Fine!’
As he stretched out his length upon it, with a ragged handkerchief bound round his wicked head, and only his wicked head showing above the bedclothes, John Baptist was rather strongly reminded of what had so very nearly happened to prevent the moustache from any more going up as it did, and the nose from any more coming down as it did.
As he sprawled out on it, with a tattered handkerchief wrapped around his troubled head, and only his uneasy head sticking out from under the blankets, John Baptist was vividly reminded of what almost happened to stop his mustache from curling up like it did, and his nose from drooping down like it did.
‘Shaken out of destiny’s dice-box again into your company, eh? By Heaven! So much the better for you. You’ll profit by it. I shall need a long rest. Let me sleep in the morning.’
‘Shaken out of fate's dice-box again into your company, huh? By God! So much the better for you. You’ll benefit from it. I’ll need a long break. Let me sleep in the morning.’
John Baptist replied that he should sleep as long as he would, and wishing him a happy night, put out the candle. One might have supposed that the next proceeding of the Italian would have been to undress; but he did exactly the reverse, and dressed himself from head to foot, saving his shoes. When he had so done, he lay down upon his bed with some of its coverings over him, and his coat still tied round his neck, to get through the night.
John Baptist replied that he could sleep for as long as he wanted, and after wishing him a good night, he turned off the candle. One might have expected the Italian to undress, but he did the opposite and got fully dressed, except for his shoes. After doing that, he lay down on his bed with some covers over him and his coat still tied around his neck to get through the night.
When he started up, the Godfather Break of Day was peeping at its namesake. He rose, took his shoes in his hand, turned the key in the door with great caution, and crept downstairs. Nothing was astir there but the smell of coffee, wine, tobacco, and syrups; and madame’s little counter looked ghastly enough. But he had paid madame his little note at it over night, and wanted to see nobody—wanted nothing but to get on his shoes and his knapsack, open the door, and run away.
When he got up, the dawn was just breaking. He stood up, picked up his shoes, carefully turned the key in the door, and quietly made his way downstairs. The only thing stirring was the smell of coffee, wine, tobacco, and syrups; and the little counter looked pretty grim. But he had paid Madame his bill the night before and didn't want to see anyone—he just wanted to put on his shoes and grab his backpack, open the door, and escape.
Original
He prospered in his object. No movement or voice was heard when he opened the door; no wicked head tied up in a ragged handkerchief looked out of the upper window. When the sun had raised his full disc above the flat line of the horizon, and was striking fire out of the long muddy vista of paved road with its weary avenue of little trees, a black speck moved along the road and splashed among the flaming pools of rain-water, which black speck was John Baptist Cavalletto running away from his patron.
He succeeded in his goal. No sound was heard when he opened the door; no wicked face wrapped in a tattered handkerchief peeked out of the upper window. When the sun had fully risen above the flat horizon and was reflecting off the muddy stretch of paved road lined with tired little trees, a small black figure moved along the road and splashed through the bright puddles of rainwater. That black figure was John Baptist Cavalletto, running away from his employer.
CHAPTER 12. Bleeding Heart Yard
In London itself, though in the old rustic road towards a suburb of note where in the days of William Shakespeare, author and stage-player, there were Royal hunting-seats—howbeit no sport is left there now but for hunters of men—Bleeding Heart Yard was to be found; a place much changed in feature and in fortune, yet with some relish of ancient greatness about it. Two or three mighty stacks of chimneys, and a few large dark rooms which had escaped being walled and subdivided out of the recognition of their old proportions, gave the Yard a character. It was inhabited by poor people, who set up their rest among its faded glories, as Arabs of the desert pitch their tents among the fallen stones of the Pyramids; but there was a family sentimental feeling prevalent in the Yard, that it had a character.
In London, on the old rustic road leading to a notable suburb where, in the time of William Shakespeare, author and actor, there used to be royal hunting lodges—though now there's no sport left except for those hunting down people—Bleeding Heart Yard could be found; a place that has changed a lot in appearance and fortune, yet still carries a hint of its ancient greatness. A few large stacks of chimneys and several big dark rooms that haven't been divided up managed to keep some of their old shapes, giving the Yard its own character. It was home to poor people who made their lives among its faded glories, like desert Arabs pitching their tents among the ruins of the Pyramids; yet there was a sentimental feeling among the residents that the Yard really had its own character.
As if the aspiring city had become puffed up in the very ground on which it stood, the ground had so risen about Bleeding Heart Yard that you got into it down a flight of steps which formed no part of the original approach, and got out of it by a low gateway into a maze of shabby streets, which went about and about, tortuously ascending to the level again. At this end of the Yard and over the gateway, was the factory of Daniel Doyce, often heavily beating like a bleeding heart of iron, with the clink of metal upon metal.
It was as if the hopeful city had swelled right up from the ground beneath it; the ground around Bleeding Heart Yard had lifted so much that you had to go down a flight of steps that weren’t part of the original entrance and exit through a low gate into a tangled mess of rundown streets that twisted and turned, gradually rising back to street level. At this end of the Yard, above the gate, was Daniel Doyce’s factory, often thumping heavily like a bleeding heart made of iron, filled with the sound of metal clashing against metal.
The opinion of the Yard was divided respecting the derivation of its name. The more practical of its inmates abided by the tradition of a murder; the gentler and more imaginative inhabitants, including the whole of the tender sex, were loyal to the legend of a young lady of former times closely imprisoned in her chamber by a cruel father for remaining true to her own true love, and refusing to marry the suitor he chose for her. The legend related how that the young lady used to be seen up at her window behind the bars, murmuring a love-lorn song of which the burden was, ‘Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding away,’ until she died. It was objected by the murderous party that this Refrain was notoriously the invention of a tambour-worker, a spinster and romantic, still lodging in the Yard. But, forasmuch as all favourite legends must be associated with the affections, and as many more people fall in love than commit murder—which it may be hoped, howsoever bad we are, will continue until the end of the world to be the dispensation under which we shall live—the Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding away story, carried the day by a great majority. Neither party would listen to the antiquaries who delivered learned lectures in the neighbourhood, showing the Bleeding Heart to have been the heraldic cognisance of the old family to whom the property had once belonged. And, considering that the hour-glass they turned from year to year was filled with the earthiest and coarsest sand, the Bleeding Heart Yarders had reason enough for objecting to be despoiled of the one little golden grain of poetry that sparkled in it.
The opinion of the Yard was split about where its name came from. The more practical residents stuck to the tradition of a murder; the softer and more imaginative inhabitants, including all the women, clung to the story of a young lady from long ago who was trapped in her room by a cruel father for staying loyal to her true love and refusing to marry the suitor he picked for her. The legend said that the young lady would be seen at her window behind the bars, singing a sad love song that went, ‘Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding away,’ until she died. The murder supporters argued that this refrain was actually made up by a local tambour-worker, a single woman and romantic, still living in the Yard. But, since all cherished legends are tied to our emotions and many more people fall in love than commit murder—which we can only hope will continue until the end of time—the Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding away story won out by a large margin. Neither side would listen to the historians who gave learned lectures in the area, proving that the Bleeding Heart was the emblem of the old family that used to own the property. And, considering that the hourglass they turned year after year was filled with the most basic and coarse sand, the Bleeding Heart Yarders had every reason to resist being robbed of the one little golden grain of poetry that sparkled within it.
Down in to the Yard, by way of the steps, came Daniel Doyce, Mr Meagles, and Clennam. Passing along the Yard, and between the open doors on either hand, all abundantly garnished with light children nursing heavy ones, they arrived at its opposite boundary, the gateway. Here Arthur Clennam stopped to look about him for the domicile of Plornish, plasterer, whose name, according to the custom of Londoners, Daniel Doyce had never seen or heard of to that hour.
Down in the Yard, going down the steps, came Daniel Doyce, Mr. Meagles, and Clennam. As they walked through the Yard, passing between the open doors on either side, all filled with bright kids looking after heavier ones, they reached the other side at the gateway. Here, Arthur Clennam paused to search for the home of Plornish, the plasterer, whose name Daniel Doyce, like most Londoners, had never seen or heard before that moment.
It was plain enough, nevertheless, as Little Dorrit had said; over a lime-splashed gateway in the corner, within which Plornish kept a ladder and a barrel or two. The last house in Bleeding Heart Yard which she had described as his place of habitation, was a large house, let off to various tenants; but Plornish ingeniously hinted that he lived in the parlour, by means of a painted hand under his name, the forefinger of which hand (on which the artist had depicted a ring and a most elaborate nail of the genteelest form) referred all inquirers to that apartment.
It was pretty clear, as Little Dorrit had said; over a lime-splattered gateway in the corner, where Plornish kept a ladder and a couple of barrels. The last house in Bleeding Heart Yard that she mentioned as his home was a large building rented out to various tenants; however, Plornish cleverly suggested that he lived in the parlor, using a painted hand beside his name, with the forefinger of that hand (where the artist had drawn a ring and an elaborate nail in the most stylish form) pointing all visitors toward that room.
Parting from his companions, after arranging another meeting with Mr Meagles, Clennam went alone into the entry, and knocked with his knuckles at the parlour-door. It was opened presently by a woman with a child in her arms, whose unoccupied hand was hastily rearranging the upper part of her dress. This was Mrs Plornish, and this maternal action was the action of Mrs Plornish during a large part of her waking existence.
Parting ways with his friends after setting up another meeting with Mr. Meagles, Clennam went alone into the hallway and knocked on the parlor door. It was opened shortly by a woman holding a child in her arms, her free hand quickly adjusting the upper part of her dress. This was Mrs. Plornish, and this motherly gesture was typical of Mrs. Plornish throughout much of her waking life.
Was Mr Plornish at home? ‘Well, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish, a civil woman, ‘not to deceive you, he’s gone to look for a job.’
Was Mr. Plornish home? “Well, sir,” Mrs. Plornish, a polite woman, said, “to be honest, he’s gone to look for a job.”
‘Not to deceive you’ was a method of speech with Mrs Plornish. She would deceive you, under any circumstances, as little as might be; but she had a trick of answering in this provisional form.
‘Not to deceive you’ was a way of speaking for Mrs. Plornish. She would deceive you, in any situation, as little as possible; but she had a habit of responding in this roundabout way.
‘Do you think he will be back soon, if I wait for him?’
‘Do you think he’ll be back soon if I wait for him?’
‘I have been expecting him,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘this half an hour, at any minute of time. Walk in, sir.’
‘I’ve been expecting him,’ said Mrs. Plornish, ‘for the last half hour, at any moment. Come in, sir.’
Arthur entered the rather dark and close parlour (though it was lofty too), and sat down in the chair she placed for him.
Arthur walked into the fairly dark and cramped living room (even though it was also tall) and sat down in the chair she offered him.
‘Not to deceive you, sir, I notice it,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘and I take it kind of you.’
“I'm not trying to fool you, sir, I see it,” said Mrs. Plornish, “and I appreciate it.”
He was at a loss to understand what she meant; and by expressing as much in his looks, elicited her explanation.
He didn’t understand what she meant, and by showing this through his expression, he prompted her to explain.
‘It ain’t many that comes into a poor place, that deems it worth their while to move their hats,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘But people think more of it than people think.’
“It’s not often that someone comes into a poor place and feels it’s worth their time to take off their hats,” said Mrs. Plornish. “But people value it more than you might think.”
Clennam returned, with an uncomfortable feeling in so very slight a courtesy being unusual, Was that all! And stooping down to pinch the cheek of another young child who was sitting on the floor, staring at him, asked Mrs Plornish how old that fine boy was?
Clennam came back, feeling uneasy since such a small gesture of politeness felt out of place. Was that it? He bent down to pinch the cheek of another little kid sitting on the floor, looking up at him, and asked Mrs. Plornish how old that great boy was.
‘Four year just turned, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘He is a fine little fellow, ain’t he, sir? But this one is rather sickly.’ She tenderly hushed the baby in her arms, as she said it. ‘You wouldn’t mind my asking if it happened to be a job as you was come about, sir, would you?’ asked Mrs Plornish wistfully.
‘Four years old now, sir,’ said Mrs. Plornish. ‘He is a great little guy, isn’t he, sir? But this one seems a bit under the weather.’ She gently rocked the baby in her arms as she spoke. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking if you came here about a job, sir, would you?’ Mrs. Plornish inquired with a hint of longing.
She asked it so anxiously, that if he had been in possession of any kind of tenement, he would have had it plastered a foot deep rather than answer No. But he was obliged to answer No; and he saw a shade of disappointment on her face, as she checked a sigh, and looked at the low fire. Then he saw, also, that Mrs Plornish was a young woman, made somewhat slatternly in herself and her belongings by poverty; and so dragged at by poverty and the children together, that their united forces had already dragged her face into wrinkles.
She asked it so anxiously that if he owned any kind of property, he would have had it covered in plaster just to avoid saying No. But he had to say No, and he noticed a look of disappointment on her face as she suppressed a sigh and glanced at the low fire. Then he also saw that Mrs. Plornish was a young woman, somewhat untidy in herself and her belongings due to poverty; and the combined weight of poverty and the children had already left her face with wrinkles.
‘All such things as jobs,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘seems to me to have gone underground, they do indeed.’ (Herein Mrs Plornish limited her remark to the plastering trade, and spoke without reference to the Circumlocution Office and the Barnacle Family.)
“All jobs,” Mrs. Plornish said, “seem to have disappeared completely. They really have.” (Here, Mrs. Plornish was specifically talking about the plastering trade and wasn’t referring to the Circumlocution Office or the Barnacle Family.)
‘Is it so difficult to get work?’ asked Arthur Clennam.
‘Is it really that hard to find a job?’ asked Arthur Clennam.
‘Plornish finds it so,’ she returned. ‘He is quite unfortunate. Really he is.’
‘Plornish thinks so too,’ she replied. ‘He's really unfortunate. Honestly, he is.’
Really he was. He was one of those many wayfarers on the road of life, who seem to be afflicted with supernatural corns, rendering it impossible for them to keep up even with their lame competitors. A willing, working, soft hearted, not hard-headed fellow, Plornish took his fortune as smoothly as could be expected; but it was a rough one. It so rarely happened that anybody seemed to want him, it was such an exceptional case when his powers were in any request, that his misty mind could not make out how it happened. He took it as it came, therefore; he tumbled into all kinds of difficulties, and tumbled out of them; and, by tumbling through life, got himself considerably bruised.
Really he was. He was one of those many travelers on the road of life who seemed to be burdened with some kind of supernatural issue, making it impossible for him to keep up even with his limping rivals. A willing, hardworking, soft-hearted guy, Plornish accepted his fate as smoothly as could be expected; but it was a tough one. It was so rare for anyone to actually want him, and it was such an exceptional case when his skills were in demand, that his foggy mind couldn't figure out how it happened. So, he took life as it came; he stumbled into all kinds of troubles and managed to get out of them, but by stumbling through life, he got himself quite banged up.
‘It’s not for want of looking after jobs, I am sure,’ said Mrs Plornish, lifting up her eyebrows, and searching for a solution of the problem between the bars of the grate; ‘nor yet for want of working at them when they are to be got. No one ever heard my husband complain of work.’
“It’s not because we’re not trying to find jobs, I know that,” said Mrs. Plornish, raising her eyebrows and looking for a solution to the problem through the bars of the grate. “And it’s definitely not because he avoids working when there are jobs to be done. No one has ever heard my husband complain about work.”
Somehow or other, this was the general misfortune of Bleeding Heart Yard. From time to time there were public complaints, pathetically going about, of labour being scarce—which certain people seemed to take extraordinarily ill, as though they had an absolute right to it on their own terms—but Bleeding Heart Yard, though as willing a Yard as any in Britain, was never the better for the demand. That high old family, the Barnacles, had long been too busy with their great principle to look into the matter; and indeed the matter had nothing to do with their watchfulness in out-generalling all other high old families except the Stiltstalkings.
Somehow, this was the common misfortune of Bleeding Heart Yard. Occasionally, there were public complaints, sadly circulating, about the lack of work—something certain people seemed to take extremely badly, as if they had an undeniable right to it on their own terms—but Bleeding Heart Yard, although it was as eager as any yard in Britain, never benefited from the demand. The esteemed Barnacle family had long been too caught up in their grand principle to pay attention to the issue; and in fact, the issue had nothing to do with their effort to outsmart all other distinguished families except the Stiltstalkings.
While Mrs Plornish spoke in these words of her absent lord, her lord returned. A smooth-cheeked, fresh-coloured, sandy-whiskered man of thirty. Long in the legs, yielding at the knees, foolish in the face, flannel-jacketed, lime-whitened.
While Mrs. Plornish spoke these words about her absent husband, he returned. He was a smooth-faced, fresh-looking man with sandy whiskers, around thirty years old. He had long legs, weak knees, a silly expression, and wore a flannel jacket that was lime-colored.
‘This is Plornish, sir.’
"This is Plornish, sir."
‘I came,’ said Clennam, rising, ‘to beg the favour of a little conversation with you on the subject of the Dorrit family.’
"I've come," said Clennam, standing up, "to ask if we could have a brief chat about the Dorrit family."
Plornish became suspicious. Seemed to scent a creditor. Said, ‘Ah, yes. Well. He didn’t know what satisfaction he could give any gentleman, respecting that family. What might it be about, now?’
Plornish grew suspicious. He seemed to sense a creditor. He said, “Ah, yes. Well. He didn’t know what satisfaction he could offer any gentleman regarding that family. What could it be about, now?”
‘I know you better,’ said Clennam, smiling, ‘than you suppose.’
"I know you better," Clennam said with a smile, "than you think."
Plornish observed, not smiling in return, And yet he hadn’t the pleasure of being acquainted with the gentleman, neither.
Plornish noticed, not smiling back, and yet he didn’t have the pleasure of knowing the gentleman either.
‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘I know your kind offices at second hand, but on the best authority; through Little Dorrit.—I mean,’ he explained, ‘Miss Dorrit.’
‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘I've heard about your helpfulness from someone else, but from a reliable source; it was through Little Dorrit.—I mean,’ he clarified, ‘Miss Dorrit.’
‘Mr Clennam, is it? Oh! I’ve heard of you, Sir.’
'Mr. Clennam, right? Oh! I’ve heard of you, Sir.'
‘And I of you,’ said Arthur.
‘And I of you,’ Arthur said.
‘Please to sit down again, Sir, and consider yourself welcome.—Why, yes,’ said Plornish, taking a chair, and lifting the elder child upon his knee, that he might have the moral support of speaking to a stranger over his head, ‘I have been on the wrong side of the Lock myself, and in that way we come to know Miss Dorrit. Me and my wife, we are well acquainted with Miss Dorrit.’
"Please, have a seat again, sir, and consider yourself welcome. — Well, yes," said Plornish, taking a chair and lifting the older child onto his lap so he could feel more comfortable talking to a stranger over the child's head, "I've been on the wrong side of the Lock myself, and that's how we got to know Miss Dorrit. My wife and I are good friends with Miss Dorrit."
‘Intimate!’ cried Mrs Plornish. Indeed, she was so proud of the acquaintance, that she had awakened some bitterness of spirit in the Yard by magnifying to an enormous amount the sum for which Miss Dorrit’s father had become insolvent. The Bleeding Hearts resented her claiming to know people of such distinction.
‘Intimate!’ exclaimed Mrs. Plornish. In fact, she was so proud of the connection that she stirred up some resentment in the Yard by inflating the amount of money for which Miss Dorrit’s father had gone bankrupt. The Bleeding Hearts disliked her claiming to associate with people of such high status.
‘It was her father that I got acquainted with first. And through getting acquainted with him, you see—why—I got acquainted with her,’ said Plornish tautologically.
“It was her dad that I first got to know. And by getting to know him, you see—well—I got to know her,” said Plornish in a roundabout way.
‘I see.’
"Got it."
‘Ah! And there’s manners! There’s polish! There’s a gentleman to have run to seed in the Marshalsea jail! Why, perhaps you are not aware,’ said Plornish, lowering his voice, and speaking with a perverse admiration of what he ought to have pitied or despised, ‘not aware that Miss Dorrit and her sister dursn’t let him know that they work for a living. No!’ said Plornish, looking with a ridiculous triumph first at his wife, and then all round the room. ‘Dursn’t let him know it, they dursn’t!’
‘Ah! And there are manners! There’s refinement! There’s a gentleman who has really fallen apart in the Marshalsea jail! You might not know,’ said Plornish, lowering his voice and speaking with a strange admiration for what he should have pitied or despised, ‘not know that Miss Dorrit and her sister can’t let him find out that they work for a living. No!’ said Plornish, looking with absurd triumph first at his wife and then around the room. ‘They can’t let him know it, they can’t!’
‘Without admiring him for that,’ Clennam quietly observed, ‘I am very sorry for him.’ The remark appeared to suggest to Plornish, for the first time, that it might not be a very fine trait of character after all. He pondered about it for a moment, and gave it up.
‘Without admiring him for that,’ Clennam quietly said, ‘I feel really sorry for him.’ This comment seemed to make Plornish realize, for the first time, that it might not be such a great quality after all. He thought about it for a moment and then dropped it.
‘As to me,’ he resumed, ‘certainly Mr Dorrit is as affable with me, I am sure, as I can possibly expect. Considering the differences and distances betwixt us, more so. But it’s Miss Dorrit that we were speaking of.’
‘As for me,’ he continued, ‘Mr. Dorrit is definitely as friendly with me as I could possibly hope for. Given the differences and distances between us, even more so. But it’s Miss Dorrit that we were talking about.’
‘True. Pray how did you introduce her at my mother’s!’
‘True. How did you introduce her at my mom’s!’
Mr Plornish picked a bit of lime out of his whisker, put it between his lips, turned it with his tongue like a sugar-plum, considered, found himself unequal to the task of lucid explanation, and appealing to his wife, said, ‘Sally, you may as well mention how it was, old woman.’
Mr. Plornish picked a piece of lime out of his whiskers, put it between his lips, rolled it around with his tongue like a candy, thought about it, realized he couldn't explain it clearly, and turned to his wife, saying, ‘Sally, you might as well explain how it was, dear.’
‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Sally, hushing the baby from side to side, and laying her chin upon the little hand as it tried to disarrange the gown again, ‘came here one afternoon with a bit of writing, telling that how she wished for needlework, and asked if it would be considered any ill-conwenience in case she was to give her address here.’ (Plornish repeated, her address here, in a low voice, as if he were making responses at church.) ‘Me and Plornish says, No, Miss Dorrit, no ill-conwenience,’ (Plornish repeated, no ill-conwenience,) ‘and she wrote it in, according. Which then me and Plornish says, Ho Miss Dorrit!’ (Plornish repeated, Ho Miss Dorrit.) ‘Have you thought of copying it three or four times, as the way to make it known in more places than one? No, says Miss Dorrit, I have not, but I will. She copied it out according, on this table, in a sweet writing, and Plornish, he took it where he worked, having a job just then,’ (Plornish repeated job just then,) ‘and likewise to the landlord of the Yard; through which it was that Mrs Clennam first happened to employ Miss Dorrit.’ Plornish repeated, employ Miss Dorrit; and Mrs Plornish having come to an end, feigned to bite the fingers of the little hand as she kissed it.
“Miss Dorrit,” said Sally, rocking the baby back and forth, resting her chin on the little hand as it tried to mess up the dress again, “came here one afternoon with a note saying she wanted some needlework and asked if it would be any trouble to give her address here.” (Plornish repeated, her address here, in a low voice, like he was responding in church.) “Me and Plornish said, ‘No, Miss Dorrit, no trouble at all,’” (Plornish repeated, no trouble at all,) “and she wrote that down. Then me and Plornish said, ‘Hey, Miss Dorrit!’" (Plornish repeated, Hey Miss Dorrit.) “Have you thought about copying it three or four times to get it known in more places? ‘No,’ said Miss Dorrit, ‘I haven’t, but I will.’ She copied it down right here on this table, in lovely handwriting, and Plornish took it with him to work since he had a job at the moment,” (Plornish repeated, job at the moment,) “and also to the landlord of the Yard; that’s how Mrs. Clennam first came to hire Miss Dorrit.” Plornish repeated, hire Miss Dorrit; and when Mrs. Plornish had finished speaking, she pretended to bite the baby’s fingers as she kissed them.
‘The landlord of the Yard,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘is—’
‘The landlord of the Yard,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘is—’
‘He is Mr Casby, by name, he is,’ said Plornish, ‘and Pancks, he collects the rents. That,’ added Mr Plornish, dwelling on the subject with a slow thoughtfulness that appeared to have no connection with any specific object, and to lead him nowhere, ‘that is about what they are, you may believe me or not, as you think proper.’
‘His name is Mr. Casby,’ said Plornish, ‘and Pancks collects the rents. That,’ Mr. Plornish continued, reflecting slowly in a way that seemed unrelated to anything specific, ‘that’s pretty much who they are. You can believe me or not, it’s up to you.’
‘Ay?’ returned Clennam, thoughtful in his turn. ‘Mr Casby, too! An old acquaintance of mine, long ago!’
“Really?” Clennam replied, thinking it over. “Mr. Casby, too! An old friend of mine from a long time ago!”
Mr Plornish did not see his road to any comment on this fact, and made none. As there truly was no reason why he should have the least interest in it, Arthur Clennam went on to the present purport of his visit; namely, to make Plornish the instrument of effecting Tip’s release, with as little detriment as possible to the self-reliance and self-helpfulness of the young man, supposing him to possess any remnant of those qualities: without doubt a very wide stretch of supposition. Plornish, having been made acquainted with the cause of action from the Defendant’s own mouth, gave Arthur to understand that the Plaintiff was a ‘Chaunter’—meaning, not a singer of anthems, but a seller of horses—and that he (Plornish) considered that ten shillings in the pound ‘would settle handsome,’ and that more would be a waste of money. The Principal and instrument soon drove off together to a stable-yard in High Holborn, where a remarkably fine grey gelding, worth, at the lowest figure, seventy-five guineas (not taking into account the value of the shot he had been made to swallow for the improvement of his form), was to be parted with for a twenty-pound note, in consequence of his having run away last week with Mrs Captain Barbary of Cheltenham, who wasn’t up to a horse of his courage, and who, in mere spite, insisted on selling him for that ridiculous sum: or, in other words, on giving him away. Plornish, going up this yard alone and leaving his Principal outside, found a gentleman with tight drab legs, a rather old hat, a little hooked stick, and a blue neckerchief (Captain Maroon of Gloucestershire, a private friend of Captain Barbary); who happened to be there, in a friendly way, to mention these little circumstances concerning the remarkably fine grey gelding to any real judge of a horse and quick snapper-up of a good thing, who might look in at that address as per advertisement. This gentleman, happening also to be the Plaintiff in the Tip case, referred Mr Plornish to his solicitor, and declined to treat with Mr Plornish, or even to endure his presence in the yard, unless he appeared there with a twenty-pound note: in which case only, the gentleman would augur from appearances that he meant business, and might be induced to talk to him. On this hint, Mr Plornish retired to communicate with his Principal, and presently came back with the required credentials. Then said Captain Maroon, ‘Now, how much time do you want to make the other twenty in? Now, I’ll give you a month.’ Then said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, I’ll tell what I’ll do with you. You shall get me a good bill at four months, made payable at a banking-house, for the other twenty!’ Then said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, come; Here’s the last I’ve got to say to you. You shall give me another ten down, and I’ll run my pen clean through it.’ Then said Captain Maroon when that wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, I’ll tell you what it is, and this shuts it up; he has used me bad, but I’ll let him off for another five down and a bottle of wine; and if you mean done, say done, and if you don’t like it, leave it.’ Finally said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn’t suit either, ‘Hand over, then!’—And in consideration of the first offer, gave a receipt in full and discharged the prisoner.
Mr. Plornish didn't see any reason to comment on this fact, so he didn't. Since there was no reason for him to be interested, Arthur Clennam moved on to the purpose of his visit: to make Plornish the means of securing Tip's release with minimal impact on the young man's independence and self-sufficiency, assuming he had any left, which was a big assumption. Plornish, having heard the reason for the action from the Defendant himself, informed Arthur that the Plaintiff was a 'Chaunter'—not a singer, but a horse dealer—and that he thought ten shillings for every pound would be a reasonable settlement, and anything more would be wasting money. The Principal and Plornish soon drove off together to a stable yard in High Holborn, where a particularly fine grey gelding, worth at least seventy-five guineas (not counting the extra weight of the shot he had been fed to enhance his form), was being sold for a twenty-pound note because he had run away last week with Mrs. Captain Barbary of Cheltenham, who couldn't handle a horse like him and, out of spite, insisted on selling him for that ridiculous amount: in other words, practically giving him away. Plornish went into the yard alone, leaving his Principal outside, and met a man with tight beige trousers, an old hat, a crooked stick, and a blue neckerchief (Captain Maroon of Gloucestershire, a personal friend of Captain Barbary). This man was there, informally, to share details about the fine grey gelding with anyone who was a true horse expert and quick to seize a good deal, as advertised. This gentleman, who was also the Plaintiff in Tip's case, directed Mr. Plornish to his solicitor and refused to negotiate with him or even allow him to stay in the yard unless he showed up with a twenty-pound note: only then would the gentleman believe he was serious and might be willing to talk. Taking this cue, Mr. Plornish went back to update his Principal and soon returned with the necessary cash. Captain Maroon then said, "How much time do you need to come up with the other twenty? I'll give you a month." When that timeframe didn't work, Captain Maroon stated, "Here’s my offer. Get me a good four-month bill, payable at a bank, for the other twenty!" When that wasn't acceptable either, he said, "Alright then, here’s where we stand. Give me another ten down, and I’ll sign off on it." When that still didn't work, Captain Maroon added, "Let me tell you how it is, and this is the final word; he's treated me poorly, but I’ll let him go for another five down and a bottle of wine. If you're okay with it, say done; if not, walk away." Finally, when that didn't suit either, Captain Maroon shouted, "Hand it over, then!"—and in exchange for the initial offer, he issued a receipt in full and released the prisoner.
‘Mr Plornish,’ said Arthur, ‘I trust to you, if you please, to keep my secret. If you will undertake to let the young man know that he is free, and to tell him that you were employed to compound for the debt by some one whom you are not at liberty to name, you will not only do me a service, but may do him one, and his sister also.’
‘Mr. Plornish,’ Arthur said, ‘I’m counting on you to keep my secret, if you don’t mind. If you can let the young man know that he’s free, and explain that you were asked to settle the debt by someone you can’t name, you won’t just be doing me a favor; you might also help him and his sister as well.’
‘The last reason, sir,’ said Plornish, ‘would be quite sufficient. Your wishes shall be attended to.’
‘The last reason, sir,’ Plornish said, ‘is more than enough. We'll take care of your wishes.’
‘A Friend has obtained his discharge, you can say if you please. A Friend who hopes that for his sister’s sake, if for no one else’s, he will make good use of his liberty.’
‘A friend has been released, if you want to say so. A friend who hopes that, for his sister’s sake if for no one else’s, he will make good use of his freedom.’
‘Your wishes, sir, shall be attended to.’
"Your requests, sir, will be taken care of."
‘And if you will be so good, in your better knowledge of the family, as to communicate freely with me, and to point out to me any means by which you think I may be delicately and really useful to Little Dorrit, I shall feel under an obligation to you.’
‘And if you could be kind enough, with your greater understanding of the family, to talk openly with me and suggest any ways you think I could genuinely and sensitively help Little Dorrit, I would be grateful to you.’
‘Don’t name it, sir,’ returned Plornish, ‘it’ll be ekally a pleasure an a—it’l be ekally a pleasure and a—’ Finding himself unable to balance his sentence after two efforts, Mr Plornish wisely dropped it. He took Clennam’s card and appropriate pecuniary compliment.
“Don’t mention it, sir,” Plornish replied, “it’ll be equally a pleasure and a—” After struggling to finish his sentence twice, Mr. Plornish wisely gave up. He took Clennam’s card and the appropriate monetary compliment.
He was earnest to finish his commission at once, and his Principal was in the same mind. So his Principal offered to set him down at the Marshalsea Gate, and they drove in that direction over Blackfriars Bridge. On the way, Arthur elicited from his new friend a confused summary of the interior life of Bleeding Heart Yard. They was all hard up there, Mr Plornish said, uncommon hard up, to be sure. Well, he couldn’t say how it was; he didn’t know as anybody could say how it was; all he know’d was, that so it was. When a man felt, on his own back and in his own belly, that poor he was, that man (Mr Plornish gave it as his decided belief) know’d well that he was poor somehow or another, and you couldn’t talk it out of him, no more than you could talk Beef into him. Then you see, some people as was better off said, and a good many such people lived pretty close up to the mark themselves if not beyond it so he’d heerd, that they was ‘improvident’ (that was the favourite word) down the Yard. For instance, if they see a man with his wife and children going to Hampton Court in a Wan, perhaps once in a year, they says, ‘Hallo! I thought you was poor, my improvident friend!’ Why, Lord, how hard it was upon a man! What was a man to do? He couldn’t go mollancholy mad, and even if he did, you wouldn’t be the better for it. In Mr Plornish’s judgment you would be the worse for it. Yet you seemed to want to make a man mollancholy mad. You was always at it—if not with your right hand, with your left. What was they a doing in the Yard? Why, take a look at ‘em and see. There was the girls and their mothers a working at their sewing, or their shoe-binding, or their trimming, or their waistcoat making, day and night and night and day, and not more than able to keep body and soul together after all—often not so much. There was people of pretty well all sorts of trades you could name, all wanting to work, and yet not able to get it. There was old people, after working all their lives, going and being shut up in the workhouse, much worse fed and lodged and treated altogether, than—Mr Plornish said manufacturers, but appeared to mean malefactors. Why, a man didn’t know where to turn himself for a crumb of comfort. As to who was to blame for it, Mr Plornish didn’t know who was to blame for it. He could tell you who suffered, but he couldn’t tell you whose fault it was. It wasn’t his place to find out, and who’d mind what he said, if he did find out? He only know’d that it wasn’t put right by them what undertook that line of business, and that it didn’t come right of itself. And, in brief, his illogical opinion was, that if you couldn’t do nothing for him, you had better take nothing from him for doing of it; so far as he could make out, that was about what it come to. Thus, in a prolix, gently-growling, foolish way, did Plornish turn the tangled skein of his estate about and about, like a blind man who was trying to find some beginning or end to it; until they reached the prison gate. There, he left his Principal alone; to wonder, as he rode away, how many thousand Plornishes there might be within a day or two’s journey of the Circumlocution Office, playing sundry curious variations on the same tune, which were not known by ear in that glorious institution.
He was eager to complete his assignment immediately, and his boss felt the same way. So his boss offered to drop him off at the Marshalsea Gate, and they headed that way over Blackfriars Bridge. On the trip, Arthur got a jumbled summary from his new friend about life in Bleeding Heart Yard. Everyone there was struggling, Mr. Plornish said, really struggling, for sure. Well, he couldn’t explain why; he didn’t think anyone could explain it; all he knew was that it was true. When a guy felt, deep down in his own skin and stomach, that he was truly poor, that guy (Mr. Plornish firmly believed) knew he was somehow poor, and you couldn't talk him out of it, just like you couldn't talk food into him. Then you see, some people who were better off would say, and many of them lived pretty close to their means, if not beyond them, that they were ‘improvident’ (that was their favorite word) down in the Yard. For instance, if they saw a man with his wife and kids going to Hampton Court in a carriage, maybe once a year, they would say, ‘Hey! I thought you were poor, my improvident friend!’ Goodness, how unfair it was for a man! What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t go completely mad, and even if he did, it wouldn’t help anyone. In Mr. Plornish’s view, it would only make things worse for you. Yet it seemed like people wanted to drive a man mad. They were always at it—if not with one hand, then with the other. What were they doing in the Yard? Just look at them and see. There were the girls and their mothers working at sewing, shoe-binding, trimming, or making waistcoats, day and night, without being able to barely get by—often not even that. There were people from nearly all kinds of trades you could think of, all wanting to work, but not being able to find any. There were old folks, after working their entire lives, ending up shut away in the workhouse, much worse fed and housed and treated than—Mr. Plornish said manufacturers, but he seemed to mean criminals. Honestly, a man didn’t know where to turn for a bit of comfort. As for who was to blame, Mr. Plornish didn’t know. He could tell you who was suffering, but he couldn’t tell you whose fault it was. It wasn’t his place to figure it out, and who would care what he said if he did? He only knew that things weren’t being fixed by those in charge of it, and that it didn’t get better on its own. In short, his illogical opinion was that if you couldn’t do anything for him, you might as well take nothing from him for trying; that’s about how he saw it. So, in a long-winded, grumbling, silly way, Plornish twisted the tangled story of his life around and around, like a blind man trying to find a beginning or an end; until they reached the prison gate. There, he left his boss alone, wondering as he rode away how many thousands of Plornishes might be within a day or two's journey of the Circumlocution Office, playing various curious versions of the same tune that weren’t recognized in that glorious institution.
CHAPTER 13. Patriarchal
The mention of Mr Casby again revived in Clennam’s memory the smouldering embers of curiosity and interest which Mrs Flintwinch had fanned on the night of his arrival. Flora Casby had been the beloved of his boyhood; and Flora was the daughter and only child of wooden-headed old Christopher (so he was still occasionally spoken of by some irreverent spirits who had had dealings with him, and in whom familiarity had bred its proverbial result perhaps), who was reputed to be rich in weekly tenants, and to get a good quantity of blood out of the stones of several unpromising courts and alleys.
The mention of Mr. Casby reignited Clennam’s lingering curiosity and interest that Mrs. Flintwinch had sparked on the night he arrived. Flora Casby had been the sweetheart of his youth; and Flora was the daughter and only child of the stubborn old Christopher (as some irreverent souls, who had dealt with him, occasionally referred to him, perhaps due to the familiarity that breeds its own consequences), who was thought to be wealthy from his many tenants and was able to squeeze a decent amount of profit from the unpromising courts and alleys.
After some days of inquiry and research, Arthur Clennam became convinced that the case of the Father of the Marshalsea was indeed a hopeless one, and sorrowfully resigned the idea of helping him to freedom again. He had no hopeful inquiry to make at present, concerning Little Dorrit either; but he argued with himself that it might—for anything he knew—it might be serviceable to the poor child, if he renewed this acquaintance. It is hardly necessary to add that beyond all doubt he would have presented himself at Mr Casby’s door, if there had been no Little Dorrit in existence; for we all know how we all deceive ourselves—that is to say, how people in general, our profounder selves excepted, deceive themselves—as to motives of action.
After a few days of investigation and research, Arthur Clennam became convinced that the situation of the Father of the Marshalsea was truly hopeless, and he sadly gave up on the idea of helping him regain his freedom. He had no promising inquiries to make at the moment about Little Dorrit either; however, he reasoned with himself that it might—who knows?—be beneficial for the poor girl if he reconnected with her. It's hardly necessary to mention that without the existence of Little Dorrit, he would have definitely shown up at Mr. Casby’s door; because we all know how we deceive ourselves—that is, how people in general (excluding our deeper selves) mislead themselves about their true motives for acting.
With a comfortable impression upon him, and quite an honest one in its way, that he was still patronising Little Dorrit in doing what had no reference to her, he found himself one afternoon at the corner of Mr Casby’s street. Mr Casby lived in a street in the Gray’s Inn Road, which had set off from that thoroughfare with the intention of running at one heat down into the valley, and up again to the top of Pentonville Hill; but which had run itself out of breath in twenty yards, and had stood still ever since. There is no such place in that part now; but it remained there for many years, looking with a baulked countenance at the wilderness patched with unfruitful gardens and pimpled with eruptive summerhouses, that it had meant to run over in no time.
Feeling quite comfortable and honestly believing that he was still helping Little Dorrit by doing things unrelated to her, he found himself one afternoon at the corner of Mr. Casby’s street. Mr. Casby lived on a street off Gray’s Inn Road, which had set out with the plan of running straight down into the valley and then back up to the top of Pentonville Hill; however, it had run out of steam after just twenty yards and had been stuck ever since. There’s no such place in that area now, but it remained there for many years, staring with a frustrated expression at the wilderness filled with unproductive gardens and dotted with random summerhouses that it had hoped to cover quickly.
‘The house,’ thought Clennam, as he crossed to the door, ‘is as little changed as my mother’s, and looks almost as gloomy. But the likeness ends outside. I know its staid repose within. The smell of its jars of old rose-leaves and lavender seems to come upon me even here.’
‘The house,’ thought Clennam, as he walked to the door, ‘is just as unchanged as my mother’s, and appears almost as dark. But the similarity stops at the outside. I know its calmness inside. The scent of its jars of old rose petals and lavender seems to reach me even here.’
When his knock at the bright brass knocker of obsolete shape brought a woman-servant to the door, those faded scents in truth saluted him like wintry breath that had a faint remembrance in it of the bygone spring. He stepped into the sober, silent, air-tight house—one might have fancied it to have been stifled by Mutes in the Eastern manner—and the door, closing again, seemed to shut out sound and motion. The furniture was formal, grave, and quaker-like, but well-kept; and had as prepossessing an aspect as anything, from a human creature to a wooden stool, that is meant for much use and is preserved for little, can ever wear. There was a grave clock, ticking somewhere up the staircase; and there was a songless bird in the same direction, pecking at his cage, as if he were ticking too. The parlour-fire ticked in the grate. There was only one person on the parlour-hearth, and the loud watch in his pocket ticked audibly.
When he knocked on the shiny brass knocker, shaped in an old-fashioned way, a maid answered the door. Those faded scents truly greeted him like a chilly breath that carried a hint of the past spring. He stepped into the serious, silent, air-tight house—one could imagine it being suffocated by silence in an Eastern style—and when the door shut behind him, it seemed to block out all sound and movement. The furniture was formal, serious, and had a Quaker vibe, but it was well-maintained; it had as appealing an appearance as anything, from a person to a wooden stool, that is meant for frequent use but cared for very little, can have. There was a solemn clock ticking somewhere up the stairs, and a mute bird in the same direction was pecking at its cage, as if it were ticking too. The fire in the parlor crackled softly. There was only one person by the parlor hearth, and the loud watch in his pocket ticked clearly.
The servant-maid had ticked the two words ‘Mr Clennam’ so softly that she had not been heard; and he consequently stood, within the door she had closed, unnoticed. The figure of a man advanced in life, whose smooth grey eyebrows seemed to move to the ticking as the fire-light flickered on them, sat in an arm-chair, with his list shoes on the rug, and his thumbs slowly revolving over one another. This was old Christopher Casby—recognisable at a glance—as unchanged in twenty years and upward as his own solid furniture—as little touched by the influence of the varying seasons as the old rose-leaves and old lavender in his porcelain jars.
The servant had whispered the name 'Mr. Clennam' so quietly that no one heard her, so he stood by the closed door, unnoticed. A man, obviously advanced in years, with smooth gray eyebrows that seemed to move along with the flickering firelight, was sitting in an armchair, his light shoes resting on the rug, slowly rubbing his thumbs together. This was old Christopher Casby—instantly recognizable—unchanged after twenty years or more, as solid as his own furniture, and as little affected by the changing seasons as the old rose petals and lavender in his porcelain jars.
Perhaps there never was a man, in this troublesome world, so troublesome for the imagination to picture as a boy. And yet he had changed very little in his progress through life. Confronting him, in the room in which he sat, was a boy’s portrait, which anybody seeing him would have identified as Master Christopher Casby, aged ten: though disguised with a haymaking rake, for which he had had, at any time, as much taste or use as for a diving-bell; and sitting (on one of his own legs) upon a bank of violets, moved to precocious contemplation by the spire of a village church. There was the same smooth face and forehead, the same calm blue eye, the same placid air. The shining bald head, which looked so very large because it shone so much; and the long grey hair at its sides and back, like floss silk or spun glass, which looked so very benevolent because it was never cut; were not, of course, to be seen in the boy as in the old man. Nevertheless, in the Seraphic creature with the haymaking rake, were clearly to be discerned the rudiments of the Patriarch with the list shoes.
Maybe there has never been a person in this troublesome world who’s as hard for the imagination to picture as a boy. And yet, he had changed very little as he moved through life. Facing him in the room where he sat was a portrait of a boy, which anyone would have recognized as Master Christopher Casby at age ten: although he was awkwardly holding a haymaking rake, which he had as much interest in or use for as a diving bell; and sitting (on one of his legs) on a bank of violets, lost in early contemplation by the spire of a village church. He had the same smooth face and forehead, the same calm blue eye, and the same placid expression. The shiny bald head, which seemed so large because it was so shiny; and the long gray hair on the sides and back, like soft silk or spun glass, which looked so very kind because it was never cut; were, of course, not seen on the boy as they were on the old man. Still, in the angelic figure with the haymaking rake, you could clearly see the beginnings of the patriarch with the list slippers.
Patriarch was the name which many people delighted to give him. Various old ladies in the neighbourhood spoke of him as The Last of the Patriarchs. So grey, so slow, so quiet, so impassionate, so very bumpy in the head, Patriarch was the word for him. He had been accosted in the streets, and respectfully solicited to become a Patriarch for painters and for sculptors; with so much importunity, in sooth, that it would appear to be beyond the Fine Arts to remember the points of a Patriarch, or to invent one. Philanthropists of both sexes had asked who he was, and on being informed, ‘Old Christopher Casby, formerly Town-agent to Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle,’ had cried in a rapture of disappointment, ‘Oh! why, with that head, is he not a benefactor to his species! Oh! why, with that head, is he not a father to the orphan and a friend to the friendless!’ With that head, however, he remained old Christopher Casby, proclaimed by common report rich in house property; and with that head, he now sat in his silent parlour. Indeed it would be the height of unreason to expect him to be sitting there without that head.
People loved to call him Patriarch. Various elderly ladies in the neighborhood referred to him as The Last of the Patriarchs. So gray, so slow, so quiet, so unemotional, and so very forgetful, Patriarch seemed just right for him. He had been approached on the streets, respectfully asked to be a Patriarch for painters and sculptors; so insistently, in fact, that it seemed too much for the Fine Arts to remember what a Patriarch was or to create one. Philanthropists, both male and female, had asked who he was, and when they learned, "Old Christopher Casby, formerly Town-agent to Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle," they reacted with disappointment, saying, "Oh! Why, with that head, isn't he a benefactor to humanity? Oh! Why, with that head, isn't he a father to the orphan and a friend to the friendless?" With that head, however, he remained old Christopher Casby, believed by common knowledge to be wealthy in real estate; and with that head, he now sat in his quiet living room. Indeed, it would be unreasonable to expect him to be sitting there without that head.
Arthur Clennam moved to attract his attention, and the grey eyebrows turned towards him.
Arthur Clennam shifted to get his attention, and the gray eyebrows turned in his direction.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Clennam, ‘I fear you did not hear me announced?’
"I’m sorry," Clennam said. "I’m afraid you didn’t hear my name called?"
‘No, sir, I did not. Did you wish to see me, sir?’
‘No, sir, I didn’t. Did you want to see me, sir?’
‘I wished to pay my respects.’
'I wanted to pay my respects.'
Mr Casby seemed a feather’s weight disappointed by the last words, having perhaps prepared himself for the visitor’s wishing to pay something else. ‘Have I the pleasure, sir,’ he proceeded—‘take a chair, if you please—have I the pleasure of knowing—? Ah! truly, yes, I think I have! I believe I am not mistaken in supposing that I am acquainted with those features? I think I address a gentleman of whose return to this country I was informed by Mr Flintwinch?’
Mr. Casby looked a bit disappointed by the last words, maybe expecting the visitor to say something different. "Do I have the pleasure, sir," he continued—"please, take a seat—do I have the pleasure of knowing—? Ah! Yes, I think I do! I believe I'm not wrong in recognizing those features? I think I'm speaking to a gentleman whose return to this country I heard about from Mr. Flintwinch?"
‘That is your present visitor.’
‘That’s your current guest.’
‘Really! Mr Clennam?’
“Seriously! Mr. Clennam?”
‘No other, Mr Casby.’
'No one else, Mr Casby.'
‘Mr Clennam, I am glad to see you. How have you been since we met?’
‘Mr. Clennam, it’s great to see you. How have you been since our last meeting?’
Without thinking it worth while to explain that in the course of some quarter of a century he had experienced occasional slight fluctuations in his health and spirits, Clennam answered generally that he had never been better, or something equally to the purpose; and shook hands with the possessor of ‘that head’ as it shed its patriarchal light upon him.
Without bothering to explain that over the past twenty-five years he had gone through some ups and downs in his health and mood, Clennam replied that he had never felt better, or something similarly appropriate, and shook hands with the owner of 'that head' as its wise light shone down on him.
‘We are older, Mr Clennam,’ said Christopher Casby.
'We're older, Mr. Clennam,' said Christopher Casby.
‘We are—not younger,’ said Clennam. After this wise remark he felt that he was scarcely shining with brilliancy, and became aware that he was nervous.
‘We are—not younger,’ said Clennam. After this insightful comment, he felt that he wasn’t exactly radiating brilliance and realized he was feeling nervous.
‘And your respected father,’ said Mr Casby, ‘is no more! I was grieved to hear it, Mr Clennam, I was grieved.’
“And your respected father,” said Mr. Casby, “has passed away! I was saddened to hear it, Mr. Clennam, I was saddened.”
Arthur replied in the usual way that he felt infinitely obliged to him.
Arthur responded as he typically did, expressing that he felt incredibly grateful to him.
‘There was a time,’ said Mr Casby, ‘when your parents and myself were not on friendly terms. There was a little family misunderstanding among us. Your respected mother was rather jealous of her son, maybe; when I say her son, I mean your worthy self, your worthy self.’
‘There was a time,’ said Mr. Casby, ‘when your parents and I were not on good terms. There was a bit of a family misunderstanding between us. Your respected mother might have been a bit jealous of her son; when I say her son, I mean you, you.’
His smooth face had a bloom upon it like ripe wall-fruit. What with his blooming face, and that head, and his blue eyes, he seemed to be delivering sentiments of rare wisdom and virtue. In like manner, his physiognomical expression seemed to teem with benignity. Nobody could have said where the wisdom was, or where the virtue was, or where the benignity was; but they all seemed to be somewhere about him.
His smooth face had a glow like ripe fruit. With his radiant face, that head, and his blue eyes, he seemed to be sharing thoughts of rare wisdom and goodness. Similarly, his facial expression appeared to be full of kindness. No one could pinpoint where the wisdom was, or where the goodness was, or where the kindness was; but they all seemed to be present in his aura.
‘Those times, however,’ pursued Mr Casby, ‘are past and gone, past and gone. I do myself the pleasure of making a visit to your respected mother occasionally, and of admiring the fortitude and strength of mind with which she bears her trials, bears her trials.’
‘Those days are long gone,’ continued Mr. Casby. ‘I still enjoy visiting your esteemed mother from time to time and admire the strength and resilience with which she handles her challenges, handles her challenges.’
When he made one of these little repetitions, sitting with his hands crossed before him, he did it with his head on one side, and a gentle smile, as if he had something in his thoughts too sweetly profound to be put into words. As if he denied himself the pleasure of uttering it, lest he should soar too high; and his meekness therefore preferred to be unmeaning.
When he repeated one of these little phrases, sitting with his hands crossed in front of him, he did it with his head tilted to one side and a gentle smile, as if he had thoughts that were too beautifully deep to express. It was as if he held back the pleasure of saying it, fearing that he might rise too high; and so his humility chose to remain vague.
‘I have heard that you were kind enough on one of those occasions,’ said Arthur, catching at the opportunity as it drifted past him, ‘to mention Little Dorrit to my mother.’
"I heard you were kind enough on one of those occasions," Arthur said, seizing the opportunity as it slipped by, "to mention Little Dorrit to my mom."
‘Little—? Dorrit? That’s the seamstress who was mentioned to me by a small tenant of mine? Yes, yes. Dorrit? That’s the name. Ah, yes, yes! You call her Little Dorrit?’
‘Little—? Dorrit? That’s the seamstress who was mentioned to me by a small tenant of mine? Yes, yes. Dorrit? That’s the name. Ah, yes, yes! You call her Little Dorrit?’
No road in that direction. Nothing came of the cross-cut. It led no further.
No road that way. The shortcut didn’t lead anywhere. It stopped there.
‘My daughter Flora,’ said Mr Casby, ‘as you may have heard probably, Mr Clennam, was married and established in life, several years ago. She had the misfortune to lose her husband when she had been married a few months. She resides with me again. She will be glad to see you, if you will permit me to let her know that you are here.’
‘My daughter Flora,’ said Mr. Casby, ‘as you may have heard, Mr. Clennam, got married and settled down several years ago. Unfortunately, she lost her husband just a few months after they tied the knot. She’s living with me again. She'll be happy to see you if you allow me to let her know that you're here.’
‘By all means,’ returned Clennam. ‘I should have preferred the request, if your kindness had not anticipated me.’
"Of course," Clennam replied. "I would have preferred to make the request myself if your kindness hadn't already taken care of it."
Upon this Mr Casby rose up in his list shoes, and with a slow, heavy step (he was of an elephantine build), made for the door. He had a long wide-skirted bottle-green coat on, and a bottle-green pair of trousers, and a bottle-green waistcoat. The Patriarchs were not dressed in bottle-green broadcloth, and yet his clothes looked patriarchal.
Upon this, Mr. Casby got up in his fancy shoes, and with a slow, heavy step (he was built like an elephant), walked to the door. He was wearing a long, wide-skirted bottle-green coat, a pair of bottle-green trousers, and a bottle-green waistcoat. The Patriarchs weren't dressed in bottle-green broadcloth, but somehow his clothes had a patriarchal vibe.
He had scarcely left the room, and allowed the ticking to become audible again, when a quick hand turned a latchkey in the house-door, opened it, and shut it. Immediately afterwards, a quick and eager short dark man came into the room with so much way upon him that he was within a foot of Clennam before he could stop.
He had barely left the room, and let the ticking become audible again, when a swift hand turned the latchkey in the front door, opened it, and shut it. Right after that, a fast and eager short dark man entered the room, moving so quickly that he was just a foot away from Clennam before he could come to a stop.
‘Halloa!’ he said.
"Hey!" he said.
Clennam saw no reason why he should not say ‘Halloa!’ too.
Clennam saw no reason not to say 'Hey!' as well.
‘What’s the matter?’ said the short dark man.
‘What’s wrong?’ said the short dark man.
‘I have not heard that anything is the matter,’ returned Clennam.
‘I haven't heard that anything is wrong,’ Clennam replied.
‘Where’s Mr Casby?’ asked the short dark man, looking about.
‘Where’s Mr. Casby?’ asked the short dark man, glancing around.
‘He will be here directly, if you want him.’
‘He’ll be here soon, if you want him.’
‘I want him?’ said the short dark man. ‘Don’t you?’
‘I want him?’ said the short dark man. ‘Don’t you?’
This elicited a word or two of explanation from Clennam, during the delivery of which the short dark man held his breath and looked at him. He was dressed in black and rusty iron grey; had jet black beads of eyes; a scrubby little black chin; wiry black hair striking out from his head in prongs, like forks or hair-pins; and a complexion that was very dingy by nature, or very dirty by art, or a compound of nature and art. He had dirty hands and dirty broken nails, and looked as if he had been in the coals; he was in a perspiration, and snorted and sniffed and puffed and blew, like a little labouring steam-engine.
This prompted Clennam to explain a bit, while the short dark man held his breath and stared at him. He was dressed in black and a rusty iron grey; had jet black eyes; a scruffy little black chin; wiry black hair sticking out from his head in spikes, like forks or hairpins; and a complexion that seemed very dingy by nature, or very dirty by art, or a mix of both. His hands were dirty and his broken nails were grimy, and he looked like he had been handling coal; he was sweating and snorted, sniffed, puffed, and blew like a little struggling steam engine.
‘Oh!’ said he, when Arthur told him how he came to be there. ‘Very well. That’s right. If he should ask for Pancks, will you be so good as to say that Pancks is come in?’ And so, with a snort and a puff, he worked out by another door.
‘Oh!’ he said when Arthur explained how he ended up there. ‘Alright. That’s good. If he asks for Pancks, could you please say that Pancks has arrived?’ And then, with a huff and a puff, he made his way out through another door.
Now, in the old days at home, certain audacious doubts respecting the last of the Patriarchs, which were afloat in the air, had, by some forgotten means, come in contact with Arthur’s sensorium. He was aware of motes and specks of suspicion in the atmosphere of that time; seen through which medium, Christopher Casby was a mere Inn signpost, without any Inn—an invitation to rest and be thankful, when there was no place to put up at, and nothing whatever to be thankful for. He knew that some of these specks even represented Christopher as capable of harbouring designs in ‘that head,’ and as being a crafty impostor. Other motes there were which showed him as a heavy, selfish, drifting Booby, who, having stumbled, in the course of his unwieldy jostlings against other men, on the discovery that to get through life with ease and credit, he had but to hold his tongue, keep the bald part of his head well polished, and leave his hair alone, had had just cunning enough to seize the idea and stick to it. It was said that his being town-agent to Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle was referable, not to his having the least business capacity, but to his looking so supremely benignant that nobody could suppose the property screwed or jobbed under such a man; also, that for similar reasons he now got more money out of his own wretched lettings, unquestioned, than anybody with a less nobby and less shining crown could possibly have done. In a word, it was represented (Clennam called to mind, alone in the ticking parlour) that many people select their models, much as the painters, just now mentioned, select theirs; and that, whereas in the Royal Academy some evil old ruffian of a Dog-stealer will annually be found embodying all the cardinal virtues, on account of his eyelashes, or his chin, or his legs (thereby planting thorns of confusion in the breasts of the more observant students of nature), so, in the great social Exhibition, accessories are often accepted in lieu of the internal character.
Back in the day at home, some bold doubts about the last of the Patriarchs were floating around and somehow reached Arthur’s awareness. He felt the hints of suspicion in the atmosphere of that time; viewed through this lens, Christopher Casby was just a sign for an inn that didn’t exist—an invitation to relax and be grateful when there was nowhere to stay and nothing to be thankful for. He knew that some of these doubts even portrayed Christopher as someone capable of plotting in 'that head,' and as a sly fraud. Other hints showed him as a heavy, selfish, clueless person who, after stumbling through life, realized that to get by with ease and respect, he just had to keep quiet, polish the bald spot on his head, and let his hair be, showing just enough cleverness to grab onto that idea and stick with it. It was said that his position as town-agent for Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle was not due to any real business skills, but because he looked so incredibly friendly that no one could believe he would screw over any properties under such a nice guy; also, for similar reasons, he was now making more money from his own terrible rentals than anyone with less noble and less shiny hair could possibly do. In short, it was suggested (Clennam recalled, all alone in the ticking parlor) that many people choose their role models in much the same way that artists choose theirs; and that, just as at the Royal Academy, where each year some shady old dog-stealer might be found representing all virtues because of his eyelashes, chin, or legs (thus causing confusion among the more observant art students), so in the broader social scene, appearances are often taken as substitutes for true character.
Calling these things to mind, and ranging Mr Pancks in a row with them, Arthur Clennam leaned this day to the opinion, without quite deciding on it, that the last of the Patriarchs was the drifting Booby aforesaid, with the one idea of keeping the bald part of his head highly polished: and that, much as an unwieldy ship in the Thames river may sometimes be seen heavily driving with the tide, broadside on, stern first, in its own way and in the way of everything else, though making a great show of navigation, when all of a sudden, a little coaly steam-tug will bear down upon it, take it in tow, and bustle off with it; similarly the cumbrous Patriarch had been taken in tow by the snorting Pancks, and was now following in the wake of that dingy little craft.
Remembering these things and lining up Mr. Pancks with them, Arthur Clennam found himself leaning toward the belief, though not fully committed to it, that the last of the Patriarchs was that aimless Booby mentioned earlier, who only seemed to care about keeping the bald spot on his head shiny. Much like an unwieldy ship on the Thames might occasionally be seen awkwardly drifting along with the tide, sideways and backward, making a big show of being navigated, when suddenly a small, coal-powered tugboat would rush in, take it under tow, and hurry away with it; in a similar way, the cumbersome Patriarch had been caught up by the puffing Pancks and was now following in the wake of that dingy little vessel.
The return of Mr Casby with his daughter Flora, put an end to these meditations. Clennam’s eyes no sooner fell upon the subject of his old passion than it shivered and broke to pieces.
The return of Mr. Casby with his daughter Flora ended these thoughts. Clennam’s eyes barely landed on the subject of his past affection before it shattered into pieces.
Most men will be found sufficiently true to themselves to be true to an old idea. It is no proof of an inconstant mind, but exactly the opposite, when the idea will not bear close comparison with the reality, and the contrast is a fatal shock to it. Such was Clennam’s case. In his youth he had ardently loved this woman, and had heaped upon her all the locked-up wealth of his affection and imagination. That wealth had been, in his desert home, like Robinson Crusoe’s money; exchangeable with no one, lying idle in the dark to rust, until he poured it out for her. Ever since that memorable time, though he had, until the night of his arrival, as completely dismissed her from any association with his Present or Future as if she had been dead (which she might easily have been for anything he knew), he had kept the old fancy of the Past unchanged, in its old sacred place. And now, after all, the last of the Patriarchs coolly walked into the parlour, saying in effect, ‘Be good enough to throw it down and dance upon it. This is Flora.’
Most men are usually true to themselves enough to stay true to an old idea. It’s not a sign of an unsteady mind; in fact, it’s the opposite when the idea can’t withstand close scrutiny against reality, and that contrast hits hard. Such was Clennam’s situation. In his youth, he had passionately loved this woman, pouring out all the hidden wealth of his feelings and imagination for her. That wealth had been like Robinson Crusoe’s money in his isolated life; it couldn’t be exchanged with anyone, sitting unused in the dark to corrode, until he shared it with her. Ever since that unforgettable time, even though he had completely dismissed her from his Present or Future until the night he arrived—as if she had been dead (which he might as well not have known)—he had kept the old affection of the Past untouched, in its sacred spot. And now, after all this time, the last of the Patriarchs casually walked into the living room, basically saying, ‘Feel free to throw it down and dance on it. This is Flora.’
Flora, always tall, had grown to be very broad too, and short of breath; but that was not much. Flora, whom he had left a lily, had become a peony; but that was not much. Flora, who had seemed enchanting in all she said and thought, was diffuse and silly. That was much. Flora, who had been spoiled and artless long ago, was determined to be spoiled and artless now. That was a fatal blow.
Flora, who was always tall, had also become very broad and out of breath; but that wasn’t a big deal. Flora, whom he had once left as a delicate lily, had turned into a peony; but that wasn’t a big deal either. Flora, who used to seem charming in everything she said and thought, was now overly talkative and foolish. That was a big deal. Flora, who had been indulged and innocent long ago, was now set on being spoiled and naïve again. That was a serious blow.
This is Flora!
This is Flora!
‘I am sure,’ giggled Flora, tossing her head with a caricature of her girlish manner, such as a mummer might have presented at her own funeral, if she had lived and died in classical antiquity, ‘I am ashamed to see Mr Clennam, I am a mere fright, I know he’ll find me fearfully changed, I am actually an old woman, it’s shocking to be found out, it’s really shocking!’
‘I’m sure,’ giggled Flora, tossing her head in a playful, exaggerated way, like a performer might at their own funeral if they had lived in ancient times, ‘I’m embarrassed to see Mr. Clennam, I’m such a mess, I know he’ll think I’ve changed a lot, I’m practically an old woman, it’s awful to have it revealed, it’s just really awful!’
He assured her that she was just what he had expected and that time had not stood still with himself.
He assured her that she was exactly what he had expected and that time hadn’t stood still for him either.
‘Oh! But with a gentleman it’s so different and really you look so amazingly well that you have no right to say anything of the kind, while, as to me, you know—oh!’ cried Flora with a little scream, ‘I am dreadful!’
‘Oh! But with a guy, it’s so different and honestly, you look so amazing that you have no reason to say anything like that. As for me, you know—oh!’ Flora exclaimed with a little scream, ‘I’m terrible!’
The Patriarch, apparently not yet understanding his own part in the drama under representation, glowed with vacant serenity.
The Patriarch, seemingly still oblivious to his role in the unfolding drama, radiated a blank calm.
‘But if we talk of not having changed,’ said Flora, who, whatever she said, never once came to a full stop, ‘look at Papa, is not Papa precisely what he was when you went away, isn’t it cruel and unnatural of Papa to be such a reproach to his own child, if we go on in this way much longer people who don’t know us will begin to suppose that I am Papa’s Mama!’
‘But if we're talking about not changing,’ said Flora, who never seemed to take a break in her speech, ‘look at Dad, isn't Dad exactly the same as he was when you left? Isn’t it harsh and unnatural for Dad to be such a disappointment to his own child? If we keep this up much longer, people who don’t know us will start to think I’m Dad’s mom!’
That must be a long time hence, Arthur considered.
That must be a long time from now, Arthur thought.
‘Oh Mr Clennam you insincerest of creatures,’ said Flora, ‘I perceive already you have not lost your old way of paying compliments, your old way when you used to pretend to be so sentimentally struck you know—at least I don’t mean that, I—oh I don’t know what I mean!’ Here Flora tittered confusedly, and gave him one of her old glances.
‘Oh Mr. Clennam, you insincere creature,’ said Flora, ‘I can already see you haven’t changed your old habit of giving compliments, your old habit when you used to pretend to be so emotionally moved, you know—at least that’s not what I mean, I—oh I don’t even know what I mean!’ Here Flora laughed awkwardly and gave him one of her familiar looks.
The Patriarch, as if he now began to perceive that his part in the piece was to get off the stage as soon as might be, rose, and went to the door by which Pancks had worked out, hailing that Tug by name. He received an answer from some little Dock beyond, and was towed out of sight directly.
The Patriarch, as if he now realized that his role was to leave the stage as quickly as possible, stood up and went to the door that Pancks had used, calling out for Tug by name. He got a response from a small dock nearby and was pulled out of sight immediately.
‘You mustn’t think of going yet,’ said Flora—Arthur had looked at his hat, being in a ludicrous dismay, and not knowing what to do: ‘you could never be so unkind as to think of going, Arthur—I mean Mr Arthur—or I suppose Mr Clennam would be far more proper—but I am sure I don’t know what I am saying—without a word about the dear old days gone for ever, when I come to think of it I dare say it would be much better not to speak of them and it’s highly probable that you have some much more agreeable engagement and pray let Me be the last person in the world to interfere with it though there was a time, but I am running into nonsense again.’
"You can't be thinking of leaving yet," said Flora—Arthur had glanced at his hat, looking completely bewildered and unsure of what to do: "You could never be so unkind as to consider leaving, Arthur—I mean Mr. Arthur—or I guess Mr. Clennam would be more appropriate—but honestly, I have no idea what I'm saying—without even mentioning the wonderful old days that are gone forever. When I really think about it, I suppose it's better not to bring them up, and it's very likely that you have some much more enjoyable plans. Please let me be the last person to get in the way of that, even though there was a time, but I'm getting carried away with nonsense again."
Was it possible that Flora could have been such a chatterer in the days she referred to? Could there have been anything like her present disjointed volubility in the fascinations that had captivated him?
Was it possible that Flora could have been such a talker in the days she mentioned? Could there have been anything like her current scattered way of talking in the charms that had impressed him?
‘Indeed I have little doubt,’ said Flora, running on with astonishing speed, and pointing her conversation with nothing but commas, and very few of them, ‘that you are married to some Chinese lady, being in China so long and being in business and naturally desirous to settle and extend your connection nothing was more likely than that you should propose to a Chinese lady and nothing was more natural I am sure than that the Chinese lady should accept you and think herself very well off too, I only hope she’s not a Pagodian dissenter.’
"Honestly, I have no doubt," said Flora, speaking at an incredible pace and using mostly commas, with very few of them, "that you're married to some Chinese woman, considering you've been in China for so long and are involved in business. Naturally, you would want to settle down and expand your connections, so it makes perfect sense that you would propose to a Chinese woman. And I'm sure it's just as natural for her to accept and feel lucky too. I just hope she isn't a Pagodian dissenter."
‘I am not,’ returned Arthur, smiling in spite of himself, ‘married to any lady, Flora.’
‘I’m not,’ Arthur replied, smiling despite himself, ‘married to any lady, Flora.’
‘Oh good gracious me I hope you never kept yourself a bachelor so long on my account!’ tittered Flora; ‘but of course you never did why should you, pray don’t answer, I don’t know where I’m running to, oh do tell me something about the Chinese ladies whether their eyes are really so long and narrow always putting me in mind of mother-of-pearl fish at cards and do they really wear tails down their back and plaited too or is it only the men, and when they pull their hair so very tight off their foreheads don’t they hurt themselves, and why do they stick little bells all over their bridges and temples and hats and things or don’t they really do it?’ Flora gave him another of her old glances. Instantly she went on again, as if he had spoken in reply for some time.
“Oh my goodness, I hope you never stayed a bachelor for my sake!” Flora chuckled. “But of course you didn't, why would you? Please don’t answer that. I’m not sure where I’m going with this. Oh, can you tell me something about Chinese ladies? Are their eyes really that long and narrow? They always remind me of mother-of-pearl fish in cards. Do they actually wear tails down their backs, and are those braided too, or is that just for the men? When they pull their hair so tight off their foreheads, doesn’t it hurt? And why do they put little bells all over their bridges, temples, hats, and stuff? Or do they not really do that?” Flora shot him another one of her usual looks. Immediately, she continued as if he had replied to her for a while.
‘Then it’s all true and they really do! good gracious Arthur!—pray excuse me—old habit—Mr Clennam far more proper—what a country to live in for so long a time, and with so many lanterns and umbrellas too how very dark and wet the climate ought to be and no doubt actually is, and the sums of money that must be made by those two trades where everybody carries them and hangs them everywhere, the little shoes too and the feet screwed back in infancy is quite surprising, what a traveller you are!’
‘So it’s all true, and they really do! Good gracious, Arthur!—please excuse me—old habit—Mr. Clennam is much more appropriate—what a country to live in for such a long time, with so many lanterns and umbrellas! It must be incredibly dark and wet, and no doubt it actually is. The amount of money those two businesses must make, with everyone carrying them and hanging them everywhere, along with the little shoes and the feet that are turned back in infancy, is quite surprising. What a traveler you are!’
In his ridiculous distress, Clennam received another of the old glances without in the least knowing what to do with it.
In his absurd distress, Clennam received another of the old looks without having any idea what to do with it.
‘Dear dear,’ said Flora, ‘only to think of the changes at home Arthur—cannot overcome it, and seems so natural, Mr Clennam far more proper—since you became familiar with the Chinese customs and language which I am persuaded you speak like a Native if not better for you were always quick and clever though immensely difficult no doubt, I am sure the tea chests alone would kill me if I tried, such changes Arthur—I am doing it again, seems so natural, most improper—as no one could have believed, who could have ever imagined Mrs Finching when I can’t imagine it myself!’
“Dear me,” said Flora, “just thinking about all the changes at home, Arthur—I can’t get over it, and it feels so natural. Mr. Clennam seems much more proper now—ever since you got used to the Chinese customs and language. I’m sure you speak it like a native, if not better, because you’ve always been quick and clever, though I’m sure it’s immensely difficult. I know the tea chests alone would be enough to overwhelm me if I tried. Such changes, Arthur—I’m doing it again. It feels so natural, but it’s so improper—who would have believed it? Who could have ever imagined Mrs. Finching? I can’t even imagine it myself!”
‘Is that your married name?’ asked Arthur, struck, in the midst of all this, by a certain warmth of heart that expressed itself in her tone when she referred, however oddly, to the youthful relation in which they had stood to one another. ‘Finching?’
‘Is that your married name?’ Arthur asked, taken aback by a certain warmth in her tone when she mentioned, albeit in a strange way, the youthful relationship they had once shared. ‘Finching?’
‘Finching oh yes isn’t it a dreadful name, but as Mr F. said when he proposed to me which he did seven times and handsomely consented I must say to be what he used to call on liking twelve months, after all, he wasn’t answerable for it and couldn’t help it could he, Excellent man, not at all like you but excellent man!’
‘Finching, oh yes, isn’t it a terrible name? But as Mr. F. said when he proposed to me, which he did seven times, and he graciously agreed to what he used to call on liking for twelve months—after all, he wasn’t responsible for it and couldn’t help it, could he? Excellent man, not at all like you, but an excellent man!’
Flora had at last talked herself out of breath for one moment. One moment; for she recovered breath in the act of raising a minute corner of her pocket-handkerchief to her eye, as a tribute to the ghost of the departed Mr F., and began again.
Flora had finally talked herself out for a brief moment. Just a moment; because she caught her breath while lifting a tiny corner of her pocket handkerchief to her eye, as a mark of respect for the late Mr. F., and started talking again.
‘No one could dispute, Arthur—Mr Clennam—that it’s quite right you should be formally friendly to me under the altered circumstances and indeed you couldn’t be anything else, at least I suppose not you ought to know, but I can’t help recalling that there was a time when things were very different.’
‘No one can argue, Arthur—Mr. Clennam—that it’s completely right for you to be formally friendly with me given the changed circumstances, and honestly, you couldn’t do anything else. At least, I suppose you know that. However, I can’t help but remember that there was a time when things were very different.’
‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ Arthur began, struck by the good tone again.
‘My dear Mrs. Finching,’ Arthur began, once again impressed by the good vibe.
‘Oh not that nasty ugly name, say Flora!’
‘Oh, not that horrible, ugly name, say Flora!’
‘Flora. I assure you, Flora, I am happy in seeing you once more, and in finding that, like me, you have not forgotten the old foolish dreams, when we saw all before us in the light of our youth and hope.’
‘Flora. I promise you, Flora, I’m really happy to see you again, and to find that, like me, you haven’t forgotten those silly old dreams when we viewed everything ahead of us through the lens of our youth and hope.’
‘You don’t seem so,’ pouted Flora, ‘you take it very coolly, but however I know you are disappointed in me, I suppose the Chinese ladies—Mandarinesses if you call them so—are the cause or perhaps I am the cause myself, it’s just as likely.’
‘You don't seem that way,’ Flora pouted, ‘you act pretty relaxed about it, but I know you're disappointed in me. I guess the Chinese ladies—Mandarins, if that's what you want to call them—are to blame, or maybe it's just me causing the problem; it could be either one.’
‘No, no,’ Clennam entreated, ‘don’t say that.’
‘No, no,’ Clennam pleaded, ‘don’t say that.’
‘Oh I must you know,’ said Flora, in a positive tone, ‘what nonsense not to, I know I am not what you expected, I know that very well.’
‘Oh, I have to let you know,’ said Flora, in a definite tone, ‘it’s ridiculous not to. I know I’m not what you expected; I’m well aware of that.’
In the midst of her rapidity, she had found that out with the quick perception of a cleverer woman. The inconsistent and profoundly unreasonable way in which she instantly went on, nevertheless, to interweave their long-abandoned boy and girl relations with their present interview, made Clennam feel as if he were light-headed.
In the middle of her quickness, she had picked that up with the sharp insight of a smarter woman. The unpredictable and deeply irrational manner in which she immediately continued to mix their long-forgotten childhood relationship with their current conversation made Clennam feel a bit dizzy.
‘One remark,’ said Flora, giving their conversation, without the slightest notice and to the great terror of Clennam, the tone of a love-quarrel, ‘I wish to make, one explanation I wish to offer, when your Mama came and made a scene of it with my Papa and when I was called down into the little breakfast-room where they were looking at one another with your Mama’s parasol between them seated on two chairs like mad bulls what was I to do?’
‘One thing,’ Flora said, suddenly shifting their conversation to a tone that made Clennam uneasy, ‘I want to mention, one clarification I need to give: when your mom showed up and caused a scene with my dad, and I was called down into the little breakfast room where they were staring at each other with your mom’s parasol between them, sitting on two chairs like crazy bulls, what was I supposed to do?’
‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ urged Clennam—‘all so long ago and so long concluded, is it worth while seriously to—’
‘My dear Mrs. Finching,’ Clennam urged, ‘after everything that happened so long ago and has long been settled, is it really worth it to—’
‘I can’t Arthur,’ returned Flora, ‘be denounced as heartless by the whole society of China without setting myself right when I have the opportunity of doing so, and you must be very well aware that there was Paul and Virginia which had to be returned and which was returned without note or comment, not that I mean to say you could have written to me watched as I was but if it had only come back with a red wafer on the cover I should have known that it meant Come to Pekin Nankeen and What’s the third place, barefoot.’
"I can’t, Arthur," Flora replied. "I can't be labeled as heartless by all of society in China without taking the chance to clear my name when I can. You must know that there was Paul and Virginia, which needed to be returned and was returned without any note or comment. I'm not saying you could have written to me while I was being watched, but if it had just come back with a red wax seal on the cover, I would have understood that it meant 'Come to Beijing, Nankeen, and what’s the third place, barefoot.'"
‘My dear Mrs Finching, you were not to blame, and I never blamed you. We were both too young, too dependent and helpless, to do anything but accept our separation.—Pray think how long ago,’ gently remonstrated Arthur.
‘My dear Mrs. Finching, you weren't at fault, and I never held it against you. We were both too young, too dependent and helpless, to do anything but accept our separation. —Please think about how long ago that was,’ Arthur gently pointed out.
‘One more remark,’ proceeded Flora with unslackened volubility, ‘I wish to make, one more explanation I wish to offer, for five days I had a cold in the head from crying which I passed entirely in the back drawing-room—there is the back drawing-room still on the first floor and still at the back of the house to confirm my words—when that dreary period had passed a lull succeeded years rolled on and Mr F. became acquainted with us at a mutual friend’s, he was all attention he called next day he soon began to call three evenings a week and to send in little things for supper it was not love on Mr F.‘s part it was adoration, Mr F. proposed with the full approval of Papa and what could I do?’
“One more thing,” Flora continued without hesitation, “I want to mention something else. For five days, I had a cold from crying, and I spent all that time in the back drawing room—there’s still a back drawing room on the first floor and at the back of the house to back me up—when that gloomy time was over, a calm set in, and years went by. Mr. F. got to know us through a mutual friend; he was completely attentive. He came by the next day and soon started visiting three nights a week, bringing little things for supper. It wasn’t love from Mr. F.; it was adoration. Mr. F. proposed with my father's full approval, and what could I do?”
‘Nothing whatever,’ said Arthur, with the cheerfulest readiness, ‘but what you did. Let an old friend assure you of his full conviction that you did quite right.’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Arthur, with the most cheerful readiness, ‘except for what you did. Let an old friend assure you of his complete belief that you did absolutely the right thing.’
‘One last remark,’ proceeded Flora, rejecting commonplace life with a wave of her hand, ‘I wish to make, one last explanation I wish to offer, there was a time ere Mr F. first paid attentions incapable of being mistaken, but that is past and was not to be, dear Mr Clennam you no longer wear a golden chain you are free I trust you may be happy, here is Papa who is always tiresome and putting in his nose everywhere where he is not wanted.’
"One last thing," Flora said, dismissing ordinary life with a wave of her hand. "I want to give one final explanation. There was a time before Mr. F. showed interest that couldn't be misunderstood, but that's behind us now, dear Mr. Clennam. You no longer wear a golden chain; you are free. I hope you find happiness. Here comes Dad, who is always annoying and sticking his nose in places where he isn't wanted."
With these words, and with a hasty gesture fraught with timid caution—such a gesture had Clennam’s eyes been familiar with in the old time—poor Flora left herself at eighteen years of age, a long long way behind again; and came to a full stop at last.
With these words, and with a quick, nervous gesture that Clennam's eyes had recognized from the past—poor Flora found herself at eighteen years old, a long way back once more; and finally came to a complete stop.
Or rather, she left about half of herself at eighteen years of age behind, and grafted the rest on to the relict of the late Mr F.; thus making a moral mermaid of herself, which her once boy-lover contemplated with feelings wherein his sense of the sorrowful and his sense of the comical were curiously blended.
Or rather, she left about half of herself behind at eighteen, and attached the rest to what was left of the late Mr. F.; thus transforming herself into a moral mermaid, which her former boy-lover observed with feelings that strangely mixed sadness and humor.
For example. As if there were a secret understanding between herself and Clennam of the most thrilling nature; as if the first of a train of post-chaises and four, extending all the way to Scotland, were at that moment round the corner; and as if she couldn’t (and wouldn’t) have walked into the Parish Church with him, under the shade of the family umbrella, with the Patriarchal blessing on her head, and the perfect concurrence of all mankind; Flora comforted her soul with agonies of mysterious signalling, expressing dread of discovery. With the sensation of becoming more and more light-headed every minute, Clennam saw the relict of the late Mr F. enjoying herself in the most wonderful manner, by putting herself and him in their old places, and going through all the old performances—now, when the stage was dusty, when the scenery was faded, when the youthful actors were dead, when the orchestra was empty, when the lights were out. And still, through all this grotesque revival of what he remembered as having once been prettily natural to her, he could not but feel that it revived at sight of him, and that there was a tender memory in it.
For example. It was as if there was a secret understanding between her and Clennam that was incredibly thrilling; as if a long line of fancy carriages heading to Scotland was just around the corner; and as if she couldn’t (and wouldn’t) walk into the Parish Church with him, sheltered under the family umbrella, with a blessing on her head and the perfect agreement of everyone around. Flora filled her mind with intense, mysterious signals, feeling scared of being found out. As Clennam felt more and more lightheaded, he saw the widow of the late Mr. F. enjoying herself in an amazing way, by putting themselves back in their old roles and going through all the familiar routines—now, when the stage was dusty, the scenery was faded, the young actors were gone, the orchestra was silent, and the lights were out. Yet, despite this strange revival of what he remembered as once being sweetly natural to her, he couldn’t help but feel that it came alive at the sight of him and that there was a tender memory in it.
The Patriarch insisted on his staying to dinner, and Flora signalled ‘Yes!’ Clennam so wished he could have done more than stay to dinner—so heartily wished he could have found the Flora that had been, or that never had been—that he thought the least atonement he could make for the disappointment he almost felt ashamed of, was to give himself up to the family desire. Therefore, he stayed to dinner.
The Patriarch insisted that he stay for dinner, and Flora signaled 'Yes!' Clennam wished he could do more than just stay for dinner—he desperately wished he could find the Flora that once was, or that never existed at all—that he thought the least he could do to make up for the disappointment he felt almost ashamed of was to give in to the family's wishes. So, he stayed for dinner.
Pancks dined with them. Pancks steamed out of his little dock at a quarter before six, and bore straight down for the Patriarch, who happened to be then driving, in an inane manner, through a stagnant account of Bleeding Heart Yard. Pancks instantly made fast to him and hauled him out.
Pancks had dinner with them. He set off from his small dock at a quarter to six and headed straight for the Patriarch, who was oddly meandering through a dull report about Bleeding Heart Yard. Pancks quickly caught up to him and pulled him out.
‘Bleeding Heart Yard?’ said Pancks, with a puff and a snort. ‘It’s a troublesome property. Don’t pay you badly, but rents are very hard to get there. You have more trouble with that one place than with all the places belonging to you.’
‘Bleeding Heart Yard?’ said Pancks, huffing and snorting. ‘It’s a real pain of a property. It doesn’t pay too badly, but collecting rent is really difficult there. You have more issues with that one spot than with all the properties you own.’
Just as the big ship in tow gets the credit, with most spectators, of being the powerful object, so the Patriarch usually seemed to have said himself whatever Pancks said for him.
Just like how the large ship being towed gets the recognition, in the eyes of most onlookers, for being the powerful force, the Patriarch often appeared to have expressed whatever Pancks said on his behalf.
‘Indeed?’ returned Clennam, upon whom this impression was so efficiently made by a mere gleam of the polished head that he spoke the ship instead of the Tug. ‘The people are so poor there?’
‘Really?’ Clennam replied, as the sight of the shiny head left such an impression on him that he mentioned the ship instead of the Tug. ‘Are the people really that poor there?’
‘You can’t say, you know,’ snorted Pancks, taking one of his dirty hands out of his rusty iron-grey pockets to bite his nails, if he could find any, and turning his beads of eyes upon his employer, ‘whether they’re poor or not. They say they are, but they all say that. When a man says he’s rich, you’re generally sure he isn’t. Besides, if they are poor, you can’t help it. You’d be poor yourself if you didn’t get your rents.’
‘You can't really say, you know,’ snorted Pancks, pulling one of his dirty hands out of his rusty iron-grey pockets to bite his nails, if he could find any, and directing his beady eyes at his employer, ‘whether they’re actually poor or not. They claim they are, but everyone claims that. When a man says he's rich, you can usually bet he isn't. Plus, if they are poor, there's nothing you can do about it. You’d be poor too if you weren’t collecting your rents.’
‘True enough,’ said Arthur.
"That's true," said Arthur.
‘You’re not going to keep open house for all the poor of London,’ pursued Pancks. ‘You’re not going to lodge ‘em for nothing. You’re not going to open your gates wide and let ‘em come free. Not if you know it, you ain’t.’
‘You’re not going to keep your doors open for all the poor people in London,’ Pancks continued. ‘You’re not going to give them a place to stay for free. You’re not going to open your gates wide and let them come in for nothing. Not if you know what’s good for you.’
Mr Casby shook his head, in Placid and benignant generality.
Mr. Casby shook his head, in a calm and kind way.
‘If a man takes a room of you at half-a-crown a week, and when the week comes round hasn’t got the half-crown, you say to that man, Why have you got the room, then? If you haven’t got the one thing, why have you got the other? What have you been and done with your money? What do you mean by it? What are you up to? That’s what you say to a man of that sort; and if you didn’t say it, more shame for you!’ Mr Pancks here made a singular and startling noise, produced by a strong blowing effort in the region of the nose, unattended by any result but that acoustic one.
‘If a guy rents a room from you for two shillings and six pence a week, and when the week comes around he doesn’t have the money, you ask him, Why did you even take the room? If you can’t pay for one thing, why do you have the other? Where has your money gone? What are you trying to say? What are you up to? That’s what you ask someone like that; and if you don’t, then shame on you!’ Mr. Pancks then made a peculiar and surprising sound, caused by a strong blowing effort in his nose, having no result other than that noise.
‘You have some extent of such property about the east and north-east here, I believe?’ said Clennam, doubtful which of the two to address.
‘You have some property around the east and north-east here, I think?’ said Clennam, unsure which of the two to speak to.
‘Oh, pretty well,’ said Pancks. ‘You’re not particular to east or north-east, any point of the compass will do for you. What you want is a good investment and a quick return. You take it where you can find it. You ain’t nice as to situation—not you.’
‘Oh, pretty good,’ said Pancks. ‘You’re not picky about east or north-east; any direction on the compass works for you. What you want is a solid investment and a fast return. You take it wherever you can find it. You’re not fussy about location—not you.’
There was a fourth and most original figure in the Patriarchal tent, who also appeared before dinner. This was an amazing little old woman, with a face like a staring wooden doll too cheap for expression, and a stiff yellow wig perched unevenly on the top of her head, as if the child who owned the doll had driven a tack through it anywhere, so that it only got fastened on. Another remarkable thing in this little old woman was, that the same child seemed to have damaged her face in two or three places with some blunt instrument in the nature of a spoon; her countenance, and particularly the tip of her nose, presenting the phenomena of several dints, generally answering to the bowl of that article. A further remarkable thing in this little old woman was, that she had no name but Mr F.‘s Aunt.
There was a fourth and most unique person in the Patriarchal tent, who also showed up before dinner. This was an incredible little old woman, with a face like a blank wooden doll that was too cheap to show any expression, and a stiff yellow wig that sat unevenly on her head, as if a child who owned the doll had driven a tack through it anywhere, just to keep it on. Another striking feature of this little old woman was that the same child seemed to have damaged her face in a few places with some blunt object like a spoon; her face, especially the tip of her nose, had several dents that looked like they matched the bowl of that spoon. One more interesting thing about this little old woman was that she had no name other than Mr. F.'s Aunt.
She broke upon the visitor’s view under the following circumstances: Flora said when the first dish was being put on the table, perhaps Mr Clennam might not have heard that Mr F. had left her a legacy? Clennam in return implied his hope that Mr F. had endowed the wife whom he adored, with the greater part of his worldly substance, if not with all. Flora said, oh yes, she didn’t mean that, Mr F. had made a beautiful will, but he had left her as a separate legacy, his Aunt. She then went out of the room to fetch the legacy, and, on her return, rather triumphantly presented ‘Mr F.‘s Aunt.’
She came into view for the visitor under these circumstances: Flora mentioned when the first dish was being served that maybe Mr. Clennam hadn’t heard that Mr. F. had left her a legacy? Clennam responded by expressing his wish that Mr. F. had given the woman he admired most of his assets, if not everything. Flora replied, oh yes, that wasn't what she meant, Mr. F. had created a wonderful will, but he had left her his Aunt as a separate legacy. She then left the room to get the legacy, and when she returned, she proudly presented ‘Mr. F.'s Aunt.’
The major characteristics discoverable by the stranger in Mr F.‘s Aunt, were extreme severity and grim taciturnity; sometimes interrupted by a propensity to offer remarks in a deep warning voice, which, being totally uncalled for by anything said by anybody, and traceable to no association of ideas, confounded and terrified the Mind. Mr F.‘s Aunt may have thrown in these observations on some system of her own, and it may have been ingenious, or even subtle: but the key to it was wanted.
The main traits noticeable to the stranger in Mr. F.'s Aunt were her extreme strictness and serious silence. Occasionally, she would break this silence with unsolicited comments delivered in a deep, foreboding tone. These remarks didn’t relate to anything anyone had just said and seemed to come from nowhere, leaving people confused and anxious. Mr. F.'s Aunt might have had her own method for these observations, which could have been clever or even nuanced, but the explanation for it was lacking.
The neatly-served and well-cooked dinner (for everything about the Patriarchal household promoted quiet digestion) began with some soup, some fried soles, a butter-boat of shrimp sauce, and a dish of potatoes. The conversation still turned on the receipt of rents. Mr F.‘s Aunt, after regarding the company for ten minutes with a malevolent gaze, delivered the following fearful remark:
The neatly served and well-cooked dinner (since everything about the Patriarchal household encouraged peaceful digestion) started with some soup, fried soles, a butter dish of shrimp sauce, and a bowl of potatoes. The discussion still focused on collecting rents. Mr. F.'s Aunt, after staring at the group for ten minutes with a nasty look, made the following terrifying comment:
‘When we lived at Henley, Barnes’s gander was stole by tinkers.’
‘When we lived in Henley, Barnes’s gander was stolen by some travelers.’
Mr Pancks courageously nodded his head and said, ‘All right, ma’am.’ But the effect of this mysterious communication upon Clennam was absolutely to frighten him. And another circumstance invested this old lady with peculiar terrors. Though she was always staring, she never acknowledged that she saw any individual. The polite and attentive stranger would desire, say, to consult her inclinations on the subject of potatoes. His expressive action would be hopelessly lost upon her, and what could he do? No man could say, ‘Mr F.‘s Aunt, will you permit me?’ Every man retired from the spoon, as Clennam did, cowed and baffled.
Mr. Pancks nodded his head bravely and said, “Okay, ma’am.” However, this mysterious message completely terrified Clennam. Additionally, there was something about this old lady that felt particularly daunting. Although she was always staring, she never acknowledged seeing anyone. If a polite and attentive stranger wanted to ask her opinion about something like potatoes, his expressive gestures would be totally wasted on her, and what could he do? No one could say, “Mr. F.’s Aunt, may I?” Every man walked away from the spoon, just like Clennam, feeling intimidated and confused.
There was mutton, a steak, and an apple-pie—nothing in the remotest way connected with ganders—and the dinner went on like a disenchanted feast, as it truly was. Once upon a time Clennam had sat at that table taking no heed of anything but Flora; now the principal heed he took of Flora was to observe, against his will, that she was very fond of porter, that she combined a great deal of sherry with sentiment, and that if she were a little overgrown, it was upon substantial grounds. The last of the Patriarchs had always been a mighty eater, and he disposed of an immense quantity of solid food with the benignity of a good soul who was feeding some one else. Mr Pancks, who was always in a hurry, and who referred at intervals to a little dirty notebook which he kept beside him (perhaps containing the names of the defaulters he meant to look up by way of dessert), took in his victuals much as if he were coaling; with a good deal of noise, a good deal of dropping about, and a puff and a snort occasionally, as if he were nearly ready to steam away.
There was mutton, a steak, and an apple pie—nothing at all connected to ganders—and the dinner went on like a disappointing feast, as it truly was. Once, Clennam had sat at that table paying no attention to anything but Flora; now the main thing he noticed about Flora, against his will, was that she really liked porter, mixed a lot of sherry with her feelings, and if she seemed a bit plump, it was for very good reasons. The last of the Patriarchs had always been a big eater, and he consumed a huge amount of solid food with the kindness of someone who was feeding another. Mr. Pancks, who was always in a rush and occasionally referred to a little dirty notebook he kept beside him (perhaps containing the names of the people he planned to track down later), devoured his food like he was loading coal; with a lot of noise, dropping things around, and puffing and snorting now and then, as if he was nearly ready to take off.
All through dinner, Flora combined her present appetite for eating and drinking with her past appetite for romantic love, in a way that made Clennam afraid to lift his eyes from his plate; since he could not look towards her without receiving some glance of mysterious meaning or warning, as if they were engaged in a plot. Mr F.‘s Aunt sat silently defying him with an aspect of the greatest bitterness, until the removal of the cloth and the appearance of the decanters, when she originated another observation—struck into the conversation like a clock, without consulting anybody.
Throughout dinner, Flora merged her current craving for food and drink with her previous desire for romantic love, making Clennam too nervous to look up from his plate; he couldn't glance in her direction without catching some meaningful or cautionary look, as if they were part of a secret scheme. Mr. F.'s Aunt sat silently, glaring at him with intense bitterness, until the tablecloth was taken away and the decanters were brought out. At that point, she interjected into the conversation with another remark—like the chime of a clock—without asking anyone's opinion.
Flora had just said, ‘Mr Clennam, will you give me a glass of port for Mr F.‘s Aunt?’
Flora had just asked, ‘Mr. Clennam, can you get me a glass of port for Mr. F.’s Aunt?’
‘The Monument near London Bridge,’ that lady instantly proclaimed, ‘was put up arter the Great Fire of London; and the Great Fire of London was not the fire in which your uncle George’s workshops was burned down.’
‘The Monument near London Bridge,’ that lady immediately announced, ‘was built after the Great Fire of London; and the Great Fire of London wasn’t the fire that destroyed your uncle George’s workshops.’
Mr Pancks, with his former courage, said, ‘Indeed, ma’am? All right!’ But appearing to be incensed by imaginary contradiction, or other ill-usage, Mr F.‘s Aunt, instead of relapsing into silence, made the following additional proclamation:
Mr. Pancks, with his usual boldness, said, ‘Really, ma’am? Fine!’ But seeming to be upset by a made-up argument or some other mistreatment, Mr. F’s Aunt, instead of going quiet, announced the following:
‘I hate a fool!’
"I can't stand a fool!"
She imparted to this sentiment, in itself almost Solomonic, so extremely injurious and personal a character by levelling it straight at the visitor’s head, that it became necessary to lead Mr F.‘s Aunt from the room. This was quietly done by Flora; Mr F.‘s Aunt offering no resistance, but inquiring on her way out, ‘What he come there for, then?’ with implacable animosity.
She expressed this sentiment, which was almost wise, in such a hurtful and personal way by directing it straight at the visitor, that it became necessary to escort Mr. F's Aunt out of the room. Flora handled it discreetly; Mr. F's Aunt didn't resist but asked on her way out, “What did he come here for, then?” with undeniable hostility.
Original
When Flora returned, she explained that her legacy was a clever old lady, but was sometimes a little singular, and ‘took dislikes’—peculiarities of which Flora seemed to be proud rather than otherwise. As Flora’s good nature shone in the case, Clennam had no fault to find with the old lady for eliciting it, now that he was relieved from the terrors of her presence; and they took a glass or two of wine in peace. Foreseeing then that the Pancks would shortly get under weigh, and that the Patriarch would go to sleep, he pleaded the necessity of visiting his mother, and asked Mr Pancks in which direction he was going?
When Flora came back, she explained that her inheritance was a clever old lady, but she could be a bit odd and ‘took dislikes’—quirks that Flora seemed to be proud of rather than ashamed. Since Flora's good-natured attitude was clear in this situation, Clennam had no issue with the old lady bringing it out of her, especially now that he was free from the fear of her presence; they shared a glass or two of wine in peace. Realizing that Pancks would soon be on his way and that the Patriarch would be falling asleep, he mentioned that he needed to visit his mother, and asked Mr. Pancks which way he was headed.
‘Citywards, sir,’ said Pancks.
“Heading to the city, sir,” said Pancks.
‘Shall we walk together?’ said Arthur.
"Shall we walk together?" Arthur asked.
‘Quite agreeable,’ said Pancks.
"Very agreeable," said Pancks.
Meanwhile Flora was murmuring in rapid snatches for his ear, that there was a time and that the past was a yawning gulf however and that a golden chain no longer bound him and that she revered the memory of the late Mr F. and that she should be at home to-morrow at half-past one and that the decrees of Fate were beyond recall and that she considered nothing so improbable as that he ever walked on the north-west side of Gray’s-Inn Gardens at exactly four o’clock in the afternoon. He tried at parting to give his hand in frankness to the existing Flora—not the vanished Flora, or the mermaid—but Flora wouldn’t have it, couldn’t have it, was wholly destitute of the power of separating herself and him from their bygone characters. He left the house miserably enough; and so much more light-headed than ever, that if it had not been his good fortune to be towed away, he might, for the first quarter of an hour, have drifted anywhere.
Meanwhile, Flora was whispering quickly in his ear that there was a time and that the past felt like a deep chasm, but that a golden chain no longer tied him down, and that she honored the memory of the late Mr. F. She mentioned that she would be home tomorrow at one-thirty, that the decrees of Fate were irreversible, and that she found it highly unlikely that he ever walked on the northwest side of Gray’s Inn Gardens at exactly four o’clock in the afternoon. At the end, he tried to genuinely connect with the present Flora—not the one from the past or the mermaid—but Flora wouldn’t accept it, couldn’t accept it, and completely lacked the ability to separate herself and him from the characters they once were. He left the house feeling quite miserable; and so much more light-headed than ever, that if it hadn't been for his good luck in being pulled away, he might have drifted anywhere for the first fifteen minutes.
When he began to come to himself, in the cooler air and the absence of Flora, he found Pancks at full speed, cropping such scanty pasturage of nails as he could find, and snorting at intervals. These, in conjunction with one hand in his pocket and his roughened hat hind side before, were evidently the conditions under which he reflected.
When he started to regain his senses in the cooler air and the absence of Flora, he noticed Pancks in high gear, picking at whatever little bit of nails he could find and snorting now and then. These, together with one hand in his pocket and his hat worn backwards, were clearly the circumstances in which he thought things over.
‘A fresh night!’ said Arthur.
“Such a fresh night!” said Arthur.
‘Yes, it’s pretty fresh,’ assented Pancks. ‘As a stranger you feel the climate more than I do, I dare say. Indeed I haven’t got time to feel it.’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty fresh,’ agreed Pancks. ‘As a newcomer, you probably notice the climate more than I do, I suppose. Honestly, I don’t have time to feel it.’
‘You lead such a busy life?’
‘You have such a busy life?’
‘Yes, I have always some of ‘em to look up, or something to look after. But I like business,’ said Pancks, getting on a little faster. ‘What’s a man made for?’
“Yes, I always have some of them to look up or something to take care of. But I like business,” said Pancks, picking up the pace a bit. “What’s a man for?”
‘For nothing else?’ said Clennam.
"For nothing else?" said Clennam.
Pancks put the counter question, ‘What else?’ It packed up, in the smallest compass, a weight that had rested on Clennam’s life; and he made no answer.
Pancks countered with the question, ‘What else?’ It condensed, in the briefest way, a burden that had weighed on Clennam’s life; and he didn’t respond.
‘That’s what I ask our weekly tenants,’ said Pancks. ‘Some of ‘em will pull long faces to me, and say, Poor as you see us, master, we’re always grinding, drudging, toiling, every minute we’re awake. I say to them, What else are you made for? It shuts them up. They haven’t a word to answer. What else are you made for? That clinches it.’
‘That’s what I ask our weekly tenants,’ said Pancks. ‘Some of them will look miserable and say, "As poor as you see us, sir, we’re always working hard, grinding away, toiling every minute we’re awake." I say to them, "What else are you made for?" That silences them. They don’t have anything to say back. "What else are you made for?" That settles it.’
‘Ah dear, dear, dear!’ sighed Clennam.
‘Oh dear, dear, dear!’ sighed Clennam.
‘Here am I,’ said Pancks, pursuing his argument with the weekly tenant. ‘What else do you suppose I think I am made for? Nothing. Rattle me out of bed early, set me going, give me as short a time as you like to bolt my meals in, and keep me at it. Keep me always at it, and I’ll keep you always at it, you keep somebody else always at it. There you are with the Whole Duty of Man in a commercial country.’
‘Here I am,’ said Pancks, continuing his argument with the weekly tenant. ‘What do you think I’m here for? Nothing. Wake me up early, get me started, give me as little time as possible to eat my meals, and keep me working. Keep me working all the time, and I’ll make sure you’re always working, and you’ll make sure someone else is always working. There you have the Whole Duty of Man in a commercial country.’
When they had walked a little further in silence, Clennam said: ‘Have you no taste for anything, Mr Pancks?’
When they had walked a bit further in silence, Clennam said, "Don’t you have any interests, Mr. Pancks?"
‘What’s taste?’ drily retorted Pancks.
"What's taste?" Pancks dryly replied.
‘Let us say inclination.’
"Let's say inclination."
‘I have an inclination to get money, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘if you will show me how.’ He blew off that sound again, and it occurred to his companion for the first time that it was his way of laughing. He was a singular man in all respects; he might not have been quite in earnest, but that the short, hard, rapid manner in which he shot out these cinders of principles, as if it were done by mechanical revolvency, seemed irreconcilable with banter.
‘I have a desire to make money, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘if you can show me how.’ He made that sound again, and it struck his companion for the first time that it was his way of laughing. He was an unusual guy in every way; he might not have been completely serious, but the quick, sharp way he shot out these bits of principles, as if it were done mechanically, seemed incompatible with joking.
‘You are no great reader, I suppose?’ said Clennam.
‘I guess you’re not much of a reader, are you?’ said Clennam.
‘Never read anything but letters and accounts. Never collect anything but advertisements relative to next of kin. If that’s a taste, I have got that. You’re not of the Clennams of Cornwall, Mr Clennam?’
‘Never read anything but letters and accounts. Never collect anything but advertisements about family. If that’s a preference, I definitely have that. You’re not one of the Clennams from Cornwall, Mr. Clennam?’
‘Not that I ever heard of.’
'Not that I've ever heard of.'
‘I know you’re not. I asked your mother, sir. She has too much character to let a chance escape her.’
‘I know you’re not. I asked your mom, sir. She has too much integrity to let an opportunity slip away.’
‘Supposing I had been of the Clennams of Cornwall?’
‘What if I had been one of the Clennams from Cornwall?’
‘You’d have heard of something to your advantage.’
‘You would have heard something useful for you.’
‘Indeed! I have heard of little enough to my advantage for some time.’
‘Definitely! I haven’t heard much that benefits me in quite a while.’
‘There’s a Cornish property going a begging, sir, and not a Cornish Clennam to have it for the asking,’ said Pancks, taking his note-book from his breast pocket and putting it in again. ‘I turn off here. I wish you good night.’
‘There’s a Cornish property available, sir, and not a Cornish Clennam to take it for the asking,’ said Pancks, pulling out his notebook from his breast pocket and putting it back in. ‘I’m heading off now. Good night to you.’
‘Good night!’ said Clennam. But the Tug, suddenly lightened, and untrammelled by having any weight in tow, was already puffing away into the distance.
“Good night!” Clennam said. But the Tug, suddenly unburdened and free of any weight, was already chugging away into the distance.
They had crossed Smithfield together, and Clennam was left alone at the corner of Barbican. He had no intention of presenting himself in his mother’s dismal room that night, and could not have felt more depressed and cast away if he had been in a wilderness. He turned slowly down Aldersgate Street, and was pondering his way along towards Saint Paul’s, purposing to come into one of the great thoroughfares for the sake of their light and life, when a crowd of people flocked towards him on the same pavement, and he stood aside against a shop to let them pass. As they came up, he made out that they were gathered around a something that was carried on men’s shoulders. He soon saw that it was a litter, hastily made of a shutter or some such thing; and a recumbent figure upon it, and the scraps of conversation in the crowd, and a muddy bundle carried by one man, and a muddy hat carried by another, informed him that an accident had occurred. The litter stopped under a lamp before it had passed him half-a-dozen paces, for some readjustment of the burden; and, the crowd stopping too, he found himself in the midst of the array.
They had crossed Smithfield together, and Clennam was left alone at the corner of Barbican. He had no plans to face his mother's gloomy room that night and felt more isolated and downcast than if he were in a deserted wilderness. He slowly turned down Aldersgate Street, thinking about his way towards Saint Paul’s, intending to join one of the main streets for the sake of their brightness and energy, when a crowd of people surged towards him on the same sidewalk, and he stepped aside against a shop to let them through. As they approached, he realized they were gathered around something being carried on men’s shoulders. He quickly saw that it was a makeshift stretcher, probably made from a shutter or something similar, with a reclining figure on it. The snippets of conversation in the crowd, along with a muddy bundle held by one man and a muddy hat carried by another, indicated that an accident had happened. The stretcher stopped under a lamp before it had moved past him by more than a few steps, for some adjustment of the load; and, with the crowd halting too, he found himself in the midst of the scene.
‘An accident going to the Hospital?’ he asked an old man beside him, who stood shaking his head, inviting conversation.
‘An accident going to the hospital?’ he asked an old man next to him, who stood shaking his head, prompting a conversation.
‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘along of them Mails. They ought to be prosecuted and fined, them Mails. They come a racing out of Lad Lane and Wood Street at twelve or fourteen mile a hour, them Mails do. The only wonder is, that people ain’t killed oftener by them Mails.’
“Yes,” said the man, “it’s those Mails. They should be prosecuted and fined, those Mails. They come racing out of Lad Lane and Wood Street at twelve or fourteen miles an hour, those Mails do. The only surprise is that people aren’t killed more often by those Mails.”
‘This person is not killed, I hope?’
'This person isn't dead, are they?'
‘I don’t know!’ said the man, ‘it an’t for the want of a will in them Mails, if he an’t.’ The speaker having folded his arms, and set in comfortably to address his depreciation of them Mails to any of the bystanders who would listen, several voices, out of pure sympathy with the sufferer, confirmed him; one voice saying to Clennam, ‘They’re a public nuisance, them Mails, sir;’ another, ‘I see one on ‘em pull up within half a inch of a boy, last night;’ another, ‘I see one on ‘em go over a cat, sir—and it might have been your own mother;’ and all representing, by implication, that if he happened to possess any public influence, he could not use it better than against them Mails.
“I don’t know!” said the man, “it’s not for lack of will in those Mails, if it isn’t.” The speaker crossed his arms and settled in comfortably to voice his complaints about the Mails to any bystanders who would listen. Several sympathetic voices chimed in to support him; one said to Clennam, “They’re a public nuisance, those Mails, sir;” another added, “I saw one of them come within half an inch of a boy last night;” a third remarked, “I saw one of them run over a cat, sir — and it could have been your own mother;” all implying that if he had any public influence, he couldn’t use it better than to speak out against those Mails.
‘Why, a native Englishman is put to it every night of his life, to save his life from them Mails,’ argued the first old man; ‘and he knows when they’re a coming round the corner, to tear him limb from limb. What can you expect from a poor foreigner who don’t know nothing about ‘em!’
‘Why, a native Englishman has to deal with those Mails every night of his life to stay safe from them,’ argued the first old man; ‘and he knows when they’re coming around the corner to tear him apart. What can you expect from a poor foreigner who doesn’t know anything about them!’
‘Is this a foreigner?’ said Clennam, leaning forward to look.
“Is this a foreigner?” Clennam said, leaning forward to take a closer look.
In the midst of such replies as ‘Frenchman, sir,’ ‘Porteghee, sir,’ ‘Dutchman, sir,’ ‘Prooshan, sir,’ and other conflicting testimony, he now heard a feeble voice asking, both in Italian and in French, for water. A general remark going round, in reply, of ‘Ah, poor fellow, he says he’ll never get over it; and no wonder!’ Clennam begged to be allowed to pass, as he understood the poor creature. He was immediately handed to the front, to speak to him.
In the middle of various responses like, ‘Frenchman, sir,’ ‘Portuguese, sir,’ ‘Dutchman, sir,’ ‘Prussian, sir,’ and other conflicting statements, he suddenly heard a weak voice asking for water in both Italian and French. There was a general reaction of ‘Ah, poor guy, he says he’ll never get over it; and no surprise there!’ Clennam requested to be allowed to step forward, as he understood the unfortunate man. He was quickly taken to the front to talk to him.
‘First, he wants some water,’ said he, looking round. (A dozen good fellows dispersed to get it.) ‘Are you badly hurt, my friend?’ he asked the man on the litter, in Italian.
“First, he wants some water,” he said, looking around. (A dozen good guys scattered to fetch it.) “Are you seriously injured, my friend?” he asked the man on the stretcher, in Italian.
‘Yes, sir; yes, yes, yes. It’s my leg, it’s my leg. But it pleases me to hear the old music, though I am very bad.’
‘Yes, sir; yes, yes, yes. It’s my leg, it’s my leg. But I’m glad to hear the old music, even though I’m really not good at it.’
‘You are a traveller! Stay! See, the water! Let me give you some.’
‘You’re a traveler! Wait! Look at the water! Let me give you some.’
They had rested the litter on a pile of paving stones. It was at a convenient height from the ground, and by stooping he could lightly raise the head with one hand and hold the glass to his lips with the other. A little, muscular, brown man, with black hair and white teeth. A lively face, apparently. Earrings in his ears.
They had set the stretcher down on a pile of paving stones. It was at a comfortable height above the ground, and by bending down he could easily lift the person's head with one hand and bring the glass to his lips with the other. A small, muscular brown man with black hair and white teeth. He had a lively-looking face, apparently. Earrings in his ears.
‘That’s well. You are a traveller?’
‘That's good. Are you a traveler?’
‘Surely, sir.’
"Of course, sir."
‘A stranger in this city?’
"New to this city?"
‘Surely, surely, altogether. I am arrived this unhappy evening.’
'Absolutely, definitely, for sure. I've arrived on this unfortunate evening.'
‘From what country?’
'Which country are you from?'
‘Marseilles.’
‘Marseille.’
‘Why, see there! I also! Almost as much a stranger here as you, though born here, I came from Marseilles a little while ago. Don’t be cast down.’ The face looked up at him imploringly, as he rose from wiping it, and gently replaced the coat that covered the writhing figure. ‘I won’t leave you till you shall be well taken care of. Courage! You will be very much better half an hour hence.’
‘Hey, look at that! Me too! I’m almost as much a stranger here as you, even though I was born here. I just arrived from Marseilles a little while ago. Don’t be discouraged.’ The face looked up at him pleadingly as he finished wiping it and gently put back the coat that covered the writhing figure. ‘I won’t leave you until you’re well taken care of. Stay strong! You’ll feel a lot better in half an hour.’
‘Ah! Altro, Altro!’ cried the poor little man, in a faintly incredulous tone; and as they took him up, hung out his right hand to give the forefinger a back-handed shake in the air.
‘Ah! Another, another!’ cried the poor little man, in a faintly disbelieving tone; and as they lifted him up, he extended his right hand to give the forefinger a backward shake in the air.
Arthur Clennam turned; and walking beside the litter, and saying an encouraging word now and then, accompanied it to the neighbouring hospital of Saint Bartholomew. None of the crowd but the bearers and he being admitted, the disabled man was soon laid on a table in a cool, methodical way, and carefully examined by a surgeon who was as near at hand, and as ready to appear as Calamity herself. ‘He hardly knows an English word,’ said Clennam; ‘is he badly hurt?’
Arthur Clennam turned and walked alongside the stretcher, offering a reassuring word now and then as they made their way to the nearby hospital of Saint Bartholomew. The only people allowed in were the bearers and himself, and soon the injured man was laid on a table in a calm, systematic manner, getting a thorough examination by a surgeon who was as readily available as the disaster itself. "He hardly knows any English," Clennam said; "is he seriously injured?"
‘Let us know all about it first,’ said the surgeon, continuing his examination with a businesslike delight in it, ‘before we pronounce.’
“Let’s hear all about it first,” said the surgeon, continuing his examination with a professional enthusiasm, “before we make any conclusions.”
After trying the leg with a finger, and two fingers, and one hand and two hands, and over and under, and up and down, and in this direction and in that, and approvingly remarking on the points of interest to another gentleman who joined him, the surgeon at last clapped the patient on the shoulder, and said, ‘He won’t hurt. He’ll do very well. It’s difficult enough, but we shall not want him to part with his leg this time.’ Which Clennam interpreted to the patient, who was full of gratitude, and, in his demonstrative way, kissed both the interpreter’s hand and the surgeon’s several times.
After examining the leg with a finger, and two fingers, and one hand and two hands, and moving it around in all directions, and pointing out the interesting details to another gentleman who joined him, the surgeon finally patted the patient on the shoulder and said, ‘He won’t feel pain. He’ll be just fine. It’s a tough situation, but we won’t have to amputate his leg this time.’ Clennam conveyed this to the patient, who was incredibly grateful and, in an emotional display, kissed both the interpreter’s hand and the surgeon’s several times.
‘It’s a serious injury, I suppose?’ said Clennam.
"It's a serious injury, I guess?" said Clennam.
‘Ye-es,’ replied the surgeon, with the thoughtful pleasure of an artist contemplating the work upon his easel. ‘Yes, it’s enough. There’s a compound fracture above the knee, and a dislocation below. They are both of a beautiful kind.’ He gave the patient a friendly clap on the shoulder again, as if he really felt that he was a very good fellow indeed, and worthy of all commendation for having broken his leg in a manner interesting to science.
“Yeah,” replied the surgeon, with the thoughtful pleasure of an artist admiring his work. “Yes, it’s enough. There’s a compound fracture above the knee and a dislocation below. They’re both quite fascinating.” He gave the patient a friendly pat on the shoulder again, as if he genuinely believed the patient was a great guy for breaking his leg in such an interesting way for science.
‘He speaks French?’ said the surgeon.
‘He speaks French?’ said the surgeon.
‘Oh yes, he speaks French.’
“Oh yes, he speaks French.”
‘He’ll be at no loss here, then.—You have only to bear a little pain like a brave fellow, my friend, and to be thankful that all goes as well as it does,’ he added, in that tongue, ‘and you’ll walk again to a marvel. Now, let us see whether there’s anything else the matter, and how our ribs are?’
‘He won’t be at a loss here, then. You just need to endure a little pain like a brave person, my friend, and be grateful that things are going as well as they are,’ he added in that tone, ‘and you’ll be walking again in no time. Now, let’s check if there’s anything else wrong, and how our ribs are doing?’
There was nothing else the matter, and our ribs were sound. Clennam remained until everything possible to be done had been skilfully and promptly done—the poor belated wanderer in a strange land movingly besought that favour of him—and lingered by the bed to which he was in due time removed, until he had fallen into a doze. Even then he wrote a few words for him on his card, with a promise to return to-morrow, and left it to be given to him when he should awake.
There was nothing else wrong, and we were in good shape. Clennam stayed until everything that could be done was done skillfully and quickly—the poor latecomer in a strange place earnestly asked him for that favor—and he lingered by the bed he was eventually moved to until he dozed off. Even then, he wrote a few words on his card, promising to come back tomorrow, and left it to be given to him when he woke up.
All these proceedings occupied so long that it struck eleven o’clock at night as he came out at the Hospital Gate. He had hired a lodging for the present in Covent Garden, and he took the nearest way to that quarter, by Snow Hill and Holborn.
All these activities took so long that it was already eleven o’clock at night when he exited the Hospital Gate. He had rented a place for now in Covent Garden, and he took the quickest route there, passing through Snow Hill and Holborn.
Left to himself again, after the solicitude and compassion of his last adventure, he was naturally in a thoughtful mood. As naturally, he could not walk on thinking for ten minutes without recalling Flora. She necessarily recalled to him his life, with all its misdirection and little happiness.
Left to himself again, after the care and concern of his last adventure, he was naturally in a reflective mood. Unsurprisingly, he couldn't walk and think for ten minutes without remembering Flora. She inevitably reminded him of his life, with all its wrong turns and small joys.
When he got to his lodging, he sat down before the dying fire, as he had stood at the window of his old room looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys, and turned his gaze back upon the gloomy vista by which he had come to that stage in his existence. So long, so bare, so blank. No childhood; no youth, except for one remembrance; that one remembrance proved, only that day, to be a piece of folly.
When he arrived at his place, he sat down in front of the dying fire, just like he had stood at the window of his old room, looking out at the darkened skyline of chimneys, and reflected on the bleak journey that had brought him to this point in his life. So long, so empty, so dull. No childhood; no youth, except for one memory; that one memory had just proven, that very day, to be a foolish mistake.
It was a misfortune to him, trifle as it might have been to another. For, while all that was hard and stern in his recollection, remained Reality on being proved—was obdurate to the sight and touch, and relaxed nothing of its old indomitable grimness—the one tender recollection of his experience would not bear the same test, and melted away. He had foreseen this, on the former night, when he had dreamed with waking eyes, but he had not felt it then; and he had now.
It was a tough break for him, insignificant as it might have seemed to someone else. Because, while everything harsh and serious in his memory remained real and unchanged—stubborn to see and feel, still holding onto its old relentless severity—the one soft memory from his experience couldn’t withstand the same scrutiny, and faded away. He had anticipated this the night before when he had dreamt with his eyes wide open, but he hadn’t felt it then; now he did.
He was a dreamer in such wise, because he was a man who had, deep-rooted in his nature, a belief in all the gentle and good things his life had been without. Bred in meanness and hard dealing, this had rescued him to be a man of honourable mind and open hand. Bred in coldness and severity, this had rescued him to have a warm and sympathetic heart. Bred in a creed too darkly audacious to pursue, through its process of reserving the making of man in the image of his Creator to the making of his Creator in the image of an erring man, this had rescued him to judge not, and in humility to be merciful, and have hope and charity.
He was a dreamer because he had, deep down in his nature, a belief in all the kind and good things his life had lacked. Raised in a harsh environment, this belief helped him become a man of honor and generosity. Growing up in a cold and strict atmosphere, it allowed him to develop a warm and sympathetic heart. Influenced by a belief system that was too dark and bold to fully embrace, which focused on creating man in the image of his Creator instead of the Creator in the image of a flawed man, this belief rescued him to avoid judgment, show mercy in humility, and embody hope and kindness.
And this saved him still from the whimpering weakness and cruel selfishness of holding that because such a happiness or such a virtue had not come into his little path, or worked well for him, therefore it was not in the great scheme, but was reducible, when found in appearance, to the basest elements. A disappointed mind he had, but a mind too firm and healthy for such unwholesome air. Leaving himself in the dark, it could rise into the light, seeing it shine on others and hailing it.
And this kept him from the petty weakness and cruel selfishness of thinking that just because such happiness or virtue hadn’t crossed his path or worked out for him, it didn’t belong in the bigger picture, but could be broken down, when seen, into its lowest forms. He had a disappointed mind, but it was too strong and healthy for such toxic thoughts. Even while feeling lost, it could lift itself into the light, recognizing it shining on others and celebrating it.
Therefore, he sat before his dying fire, sorrowful to think upon the way by which he had come to that night, yet not strewing poison on the way by which other men had come to it. That he should have missed so much, and at his time of life should look so far about him for any staff to bear him company upon his downward journey and cheer it, was a just regret. He looked at the fire from which the blaze departed, from which the afterglow subsided, in which the ashes turned grey, from which they dropped to dust, and thought, ‘How soon I too shall pass through such changes, and be gone!’
Therefore, he sat in front of his dying fire, saddened to think about how he had arrived at this point in his life, yet not casting blame on the paths others had taken to reach it. It was a fair regret that he had missed so much and, at his age, looked around for any support to accompany him on his downward journey and bring him joy. He watched the fire as the flames faded, the embers dimmed, the ashes turned gray, and eventually fell to dust, and thought, ‘How soon I too will go through such changes and be gone!’
To review his life was like descending a green tree in fruit and flower, and seeing all the branches wither and drop off, one by one, as he came down towards them.
To look back on his life was like climbing down a lush tree filled with fruit and blossoms, watching as all the branches wilted and fell off, one by one, as he approached them.
‘From the unhappy suppression of my youngest days, through the rigid and unloving home that followed them, through my departure, my long exile, my return, my mother’s welcome, my intercourse with her since, down to the afternoon of this day with poor Flora,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘what have I found!’
‘From the unhappy suppression of my early years, through the strict and unloving home that followed, to my departure, my long time away, my return, my mother’s welcome, my interactions with her since, up to this afternoon with poor Flora,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘what have I discovered!’
His door was softly opened, and these spoken words startled him, and came as if they were an answer:
His door was quietly opened, and the words he heard surprised him, as if they were a response:
‘Little Dorrit.’
'Little Dorrit'
CHAPTER 14. Little Dorrit’s Party
Arthur Clennam rose hastily, and saw her standing at the door. This history must sometimes see with Little Dorrit’s eyes, and shall begin that course by seeing him.
Arthur Clennam got up quickly and saw her standing at the door. This story needs to occasionally view things through Little Dorrit’s perspective, and it will start that journey by focusing on him.
Little Dorrit looked into a dim room, which seemed a spacious one to her, and grandly furnished. Courtly ideas of Covent Garden, as a place with famous coffee-houses, where gentlemen wearing gold-laced coats and swords had quarrelled and fought duels; costly ideas of Covent Garden, as a place where there were flowers in winter at guineas a-piece, pine-apples at guineas a pound, and peas at guineas a pint; picturesque ideas of Covent Garden, as a place where there was a mighty theatre, showing wonderful and beautiful sights to richly-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and which was for ever far beyond the reach of poor Fanny or poor uncle; desolate ideas of Covent Garden, as having all those arches in it, where the miserable children in rags among whom she had just now passed, like young rats, slunk and hid, fed on offal, huddled together for warmth, and were hunted about (look to the rats young and old, all ye Barnacles, for before God they are eating away our foundations, and will bring the roofs on our heads!); teeming ideas of Covent Garden, as a place of past and present mystery, romance, abundance, want, beauty, ugliness, fair country gardens, and foul street gutters; all confused together,—made the room dimmer than it was in Little Dorrit’s eyes, as they timidly saw it from the door.
Little Dorrit peered into a dim room that felt spacious and grand to her. She had lofty notions of Covent Garden, picturing it as a place with famous coffee houses where gentlemen in gold-laced coats and swords had quarreled and fought duels; extravagant ideas of Covent Garden, where winter blooms cost guineas each, pineapples went for guineas a pound, and peas were sold at guineas a pint; charming ideas of Covent Garden, as a venue housing a magnificent theater that showcased amazing and beautiful spectacles to elegantly dressed men and women, always out of reach for poor Fanny or her uncle; heartbreaking ideas of Covent Garden, with all its arches where the wretched children in rags, whom she had just seen scurrying like young rats, hid away, fed on scraps, curled up together for warmth, and were chased around (look to the rats, young and old, all you Barnacles, for they are gnawing at our foundations and will bring the roofs crashing down on us!); overflowing ideas of Covent Garden, represented as a realm of past and present mystery, romance, abundance, scarcity, beauty, ugliness, lovely country gardens, and filthy street gutters; all tangled together—made the room seem even dimmer in Little Dorrit’s eyes as she cautiously observed it from the doorway.
At first in the chair before the gone-out fire, and then turned round wondering to see her, was the gentleman whom she sought. The brown, grave gentleman, who smiled so pleasantly, who was so frank and considerate in his manner, and yet in whose earnestness there was something that reminded her of his mother, with the great difference that she was earnest in asperity and he in gentleness. Now he regarded her with that attentive and inquiring look before which Little Dorrit’s eyes had always fallen, and before which they fell still.
At first, sitting in the chair by the cold fire, and then turning around in surprise to see her, was the gentleman she was looking for. The serious man with a warm smile, who was so open and thoughtful in his demeanor, yet had an earnestness that reminded her of his mother. The key difference was that she expressed her seriousness with sharpness, while he did so with kindness. Now he looked at her with that attentive and curious gaze that always made Little Dorrit lower her eyes, and which still held her gaze now.
‘My poor child! Here at midnight?’
‘My poor child! Here at midnight?’
‘I said Little Dorrit, sir, on purpose to prepare you. I knew you must be very much surprised.’
"I mentioned Little Dorrit, sir, on purpose to get you ready. I figured you would be quite surprised."
‘Are you alone?’
'Are you by yourself?'
‘No sir, I have got Maggy with me.’
‘No sir, I have Maggy with me.’
Considering her entrance sufficiently prepared for by this mention of her name, Maggy appeared from the landing outside, on the broad grin. She instantly suppressed that manifestation, however, and became fixedly solemn.
Considering her entrance well-prepared by the mention of her name, Maggy appeared from the landing outside, beaming widely. She quickly stifled that grin, though, and adopted a serious expression.
‘And I have no fire,’ said Clennam. ‘And you are—’ He was going to say so lightly clad, but stopped himself in what would have been a reference to her poverty, saying instead, ‘And it is so cold.’
‘And I have no fire,’ said Clennam. ‘And you are—’ He was going to say so lightly dressed, but stopped himself from making a comment about her poverty, saying instead, ‘And it is so cold.’
Putting the chair from which he had risen nearer to the grate, he made her sit down in it; and hurriedly bringing wood and coal, heaped them together and got a blaze.
He moved the chair he had just gotten up from closer to the fireplace and made her sit in it. Then, he quickly gathered wood and coal, piled them up, and started a fire.
‘Your foot is like marble, my child;’ he had happened to touch it, while stooping on one knee at his work of kindling the fire; ‘put it nearer the warmth.’ Little Dorrit thanked him hastily. It was quite warm, it was very warm! It smote upon his heart to feel that she hid her thin, worn shoe.
‘Your foot is like marble, my child;’ he happened to touch it while kneeling down to start the fire; ‘put it closer to the warmth.’ Little Dorrit quickly thanked him. It was warm, really warm! It struck him emotionally to see that she was hiding her thin, worn shoe.
Little Dorrit was not ashamed of her poor shoes. He knew her story, and it was not that. Little Dorrit had a misgiving that he might blame her father, if he saw them; that he might think, ‘why did he dine to-day, and leave this little creature to the mercy of the cold stones!’ She had no belief that it would have been a just reflection; she simply knew, by experience, that such delusions did sometimes present themselves to people. It was a part of her father’s misfortunes that they did.
Little Dorrit wasn't embarrassed by her worn-out shoes. He knew her story, and that wasn't the issue. Little Dorrit worried that he might blame her father if he noticed them; that he might think, ‘Why did he eat dinner today and leave this little girl at the mercy of the cold ground?’ She didn't believe it would be a fair judgment; she just knew from experience that such misunderstandings sometimes occurred. It was one of her father's misfortunes that they did.
‘Before I say anything else,’ Little Dorrit began, sitting before the pale fire, and raising her eyes again to the face which in its harmonious look of interest, and pity, and protection, she felt to be a mystery far above her in degree, and almost removed beyond her guessing at; ‘may I tell you something, sir?’
‘Before I say anything else,’ Little Dorrit started, sitting in front of the dim fire and looking up at the face that, with its blend of interest, compassion, and protection, she felt was a mystery far beyond her understanding and almost too distant for her to guess at; ‘can I tell you something, sir?’
‘Yes, my child.’
"Yes, my child."
A slight shade of distress fell upon her, at his so often calling her a child. She was surprised that he should see it, or think of such a slight thing; but he said directly:
A hint of discomfort crossed her face at how often he called her a child. She was taken aback that he noticed it, or even considered such a small detail; but he said right away:
‘I wanted a tender word, and could think of no other. As you just now gave yourself the name they give you at my mother’s, and as that is the name by which I always think of you, let me call you Little Dorrit.’
‘I wanted a kind word, and couldn’t think of anything else. Since you just used the name they call you at my mother’s, and that’s the name I always associate with you, let me call you Little Dorrit.’
‘Thank you, sir, I should like it better than any name.’
‘Thank you, sir, I would like it more than any other name.’
‘Little Dorrit.’
'Little Dorrit.'
‘Little mother,’ Maggy (who had been falling asleep) put in, as a correction.
‘Little mother,’ Maggy (who had been dozing off) interjected, as a correction.
‘It’s all the same, Maggy,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘all the same.’
‘It’s all the same, Maggy,’ replied Little Dorrit, ‘it’s all the same.’
‘Is it all the same, mother?’
‘Is it all the same, mom?’
‘Just the same.’
"Same here."
Maggy laughed, and immediately snored. In Little Dorrit’s eyes and ears, the uncouth figure and the uncouth sound were as pleasant as could be. There was a glow of pride in her big child, overspreading her face, when it again met the eyes of the grave brown gentleman. She wondered what he was thinking of, as he looked at Maggy and her. She thought what a good father he would be. How, with some such look, he would counsel and cherish his daughter.
Maggy laughed and then immediately started snoring. In Little Dorrit’s eyes and ears, the awkward sight and sound were as enjoyable as could be. A sense of pride spread across her big child’s face when she made eye contact again with the serious brown gentleman. She wondered what he was thinking as he looked at Maggy and her. She imagined how great of a father he would be, how he would guide and care for his daughter with that same look.
‘What I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘is, that my brother is at large.’
‘What I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘is that my brother is free.’
Arthur was rejoiced to hear it, and hoped he would do well.
Arthur was thrilled to hear it and hoped he would do well.
‘And what I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, trembling in all her little figure and in her voice, ‘is, that I am not to know whose generosity released him—am never to ask, and am never to be told, and am never to thank that gentleman with all my grateful heart!’
‘And what I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, trembling in her entire small frame and in her voice, ‘is that I’m not supposed to know whose generosity set him free—I’m never to ask, I’m never to be told, and I’m never to thank that gentleman with all my heartfelt gratitude!’
He would probably need no thanks, Clennam said. Very likely he would be thankful himself (and with reason), that he had had the means and chance of doing a little service to her, who well deserved a great one.
He probably wouldn't need any thanks, Clennam said. Most likely, he would be grateful himself (and rightly so) that he had the opportunity and resources to do a small favor for her, who truly deserved a much bigger one.
‘And what I was going to say, sir, is,’ said Little Dorrit, trembling more and more, ‘that if I knew him, and I might, I would tell him that he can never, never know how I feel his goodness, and how my good father would feel it. And what I was going to say, sir, is, that if I knew him, and I might—but I don’t know him and I must not—I know that!—I would tell him that I shall never any more lie down to sleep without having prayed to Heaven to bless him and reward him. And if I knew him, and I might, I would go down on my knees to him, and take his hand and kiss it and ask him not to draw it away, but to leave it—O to leave it for a moment—and let my thankful tears fall on it; for I have no other thanks to give him!’
“Sir, what I wanted to say is,” Little Dorrit said, trembling more and more, “if I knew him, and I might, I would tell him that he can never truly understand how much I appreciate his kindness, and how my good father would feel the same. And what I wanted to say, sir, is that if I knew him, and I might—but I don’t know him and I must not—I realize that!—I would tell him that I will never go to sleep again without praying to Heaven to bless him and reward him. And if I knew him, and I might, I would go down on my knees to him, take his hand, kiss it, and ask him not to pull it away, but to leave it—oh, just to leave it for a moment—and let my grateful tears fall on it; because I have no other way to thank him!”
Little Dorrit had put his hand to her lips, and would have kneeled to him, but he gently prevented her, and replaced her in her chair. Her eyes, and the tones of her voice, had thanked him far better than she thought. He was not able to say, quite as composedly as usual, ‘There, Little Dorrit, there, there, there! We will suppose that you did know this person, and that you might do all this, and that it was all done. And now tell me, Who am quite another person—who am nothing more than the friend who begged you to trust him—why you are out at midnight, and what it is that brings you so far through the streets at this late hour, my slight, delicate,’ child was on his lips again, ‘Little Dorrit!’
Little Dorrit put her hand to her lips and would have knelt to him, but he gently stopped her and helped her back into her chair. Her eyes and the tone of her voice thanked him far better than she realized. He couldn’t say, quite as calmly as usual, ‘There, Little Dorrit, there, there, there! Let’s assume you knew this person, and that you could do all of this, and that it actually happened. Now, tell me—who am I, just a friend who asked you to trust him—why you’re out at midnight and what brings you so far through the streets at this late hour, my slight, delicate,’ child almost slipped out, ‘Little Dorrit!’
‘Maggy and I have been to-night,’ she answered, subduing herself with the quiet effort that had long been natural to her, ‘to the theatre where my sister is engaged.’
‘Maggy and I went out tonight,’ she replied, calming herself with the quiet effort that had long come naturally to her, ‘to the theater where my sister works.’
‘And oh ain’t it a Ev’nly place,’ suddenly interrupted Maggy, who seemed to have the power of going to sleep and waking up whenever she chose. ‘Almost as good as a hospital. Only there ain’t no Chicking in it.’
‘And oh isn’t it a heavenly place,’ suddenly interrupted Maggy, who seemed to have the ability to fall asleep and wake up whenever she wanted. ‘Almost as good as a hospital. Only there isn’t any chicken in it.’
Here she shook herself, and fell asleep again.
Here she shook herself and fell asleep again.
‘We went there,’ said Little Dorrit, glancing at her charge, ‘because I like sometimes to know, of my own knowledge, that my sister is doing well; and like to see her there, with my own eyes, when neither she nor Uncle is aware. It is very seldom indeed that I can do that, because when I am not out at work, I am with my father, and even when I am out at work, I hurry home to him. But I pretend to-night that I am at a party.’
'We went there,' said Little Dorrit, glancing at her charge, 'because I sometimes like to see for myself that my sister is doing well; and I enjoy seeing her there, with my own eyes, when neither she nor Uncle knows. It's really rare that I can do that because when I'm not working, I'm with my father, and even when I am working, I rush home to him. But tonight, I'm pretending I'm at a party.'
As she made the confession, timidly hesitating, she raised her eyes to the face, and read its expression so plainly that she answered it.
As she confessed, hesitating nervously, she looked up at the face and clearly read its expression, which prompted her to respond.
‘Oh no, certainly! I never was at a party in my life.’
‘Oh no, definitely! I’ve never been to a party in my life.’
She paused a little under his attentive look, and then said, ‘I hope there is no harm in it. I could never have been of any use, if I had not pretended a little.’
She paused for a moment under his watchful gaze and then said, “I hope it’s not a problem. I could never have been helpful if I hadn’t pretended a bit.”
She feared that he was blaming her in his mind for so devising to contrive for them, think for them, and watch over them, without their knowledge or gratitude; perhaps even with their reproaches for supposed neglect. But what was really in his mind, was the weak figure with its strong purpose, the thin worn shoes, the insufficient dress, and the pretence of recreation and enjoyment. He asked where the suppositious party was? At a place where she worked, answered Little Dorrit, blushing. She had said very little about it; only a few words to make her father easy. Her father did not believe it to be a grand party—indeed he might suppose that. And she glanced for an instant at the shawl she wore.
She worried that he was silently blaming her for trying to make plans for them, think for them, and look after them without their awareness or appreciation; maybe even facing their complaints about her supposed neglect. But what he really thought about was the frail figure with a strong resolve, the worn-out shoes, the inadequate clothing, and the act of pretending to have fun and enjoy life. He asked where the imaginary gathering was. "At a place where I work," Little Dorrit replied, blushing. She had mentioned very little about it, just enough to reassure her father. He didn’t think it was a fancy event—he might even think that. And she briefly glanced at the shawl she was wearing.
‘It is the first night,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that I have ever been away from home. And London looks so large, so barren, and so wild.’ In Little Dorrit’s eyes, its vastness under the black sky was awful; a tremor passed over her as she said the words.
‘It’s the first night,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that I’ve ever spent away from home. And London feels so enormous, so empty, and so chaotic.’ In Little Dorrit’s eyes, its size under the dark sky was overwhelming; a shiver ran through her as she spoke.
‘But this is not,’ she added, with the quiet effort again, ‘what I have come to trouble you with, sir. My sister’s having found a friend, a lady she has told me of and made me rather anxious about, was the first cause of my coming away from home. And being away, and coming (on purpose) round by where you lived and seeing a light in the window—’
‘But this isn’t,’ she added, making a quiet effort again, ‘what I wanted to discuss with you, sir. My sister found a friend, a lady she told me about and made me a bit worried, and that was the main reason I left home. And while I was away, I came (on purpose) by where you lived and saw a light in the window—’
Not for the first time. No, not for the first time. In Little Dorrit’s eyes, the outside of that window had been a distant star on other nights than this. She had toiled out of her way, tired and troubled, to look up at it, and wonder about the grave, brown gentleman from so far off, who had spoken to her as a friend and protector.
Not for the first time. No, not for the first time. In Little Dorrit’s eyes, the outside of that window had been like a distant star on other nights. She had made an effort to look up at it, weary and worried, and ponder about the serious, brown gentleman from so far away who had talked to her like a friend and protector.
‘There were three things,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that I thought I would like to say, if you were alone and I might come up-stairs. First, what I have tried to say, but never can—never shall—’
‘There were three things,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that I thought I would like to say, if you were alone and I could come upstairs. First, what I’ve tried to say, but can never—never will—’
‘Hush, hush! That is done with, and disposed of. Let us pass to the second,’ said Clennam, smiling her agitation away, making the blaze shine upon her, and putting wine and cake and fruit towards her on the table.
‘Hush, hush! That's all in the past. Let’s move on to the second,’ Clennam said, smiling to ease her distress, making the light reflect on her, and placing wine, cake, and fruit in front of her on the table.
‘I think,’ said Little Dorrit—‘this is the second thing, sir—I think Mrs Clennam must have found out my secret, and must know where I come from and where I go to. Where I live, I mean.’
‘I think,’ said Little Dorrit—‘this is the second thing, sir—I think Mrs. Clennam must have figured out my secret, and must know where I come from and where I'm going. Where I live, I mean.’
‘Indeed!’ returned Clennam quickly. He asked her, after short consideration, why she supposed so.
‘Absolutely!’ Clennam replied quickly. After a brief pause, he asked her why she thought that.
‘I think,’ replied Little Dorrit, ‘that Mr Flintwinch must have watched me.’
‘I think,’ replied Little Dorrit, ‘that Mr. Flintwinch must have been watching me.’
And why, Clennam asked, as he turned his eyes upon the fire, bent his brows, and considered again; why did she suppose that?
And why, Clennam asked, as he looked at the fire, furrowed his brows, and thought it over again; why did she think that?
‘I have met him twice. Both times near home. Both times at night, when I was going back. Both times I thought (though that may easily be my mistake), that he hardly looked as if he had met me by accident.’
‘I’ve seen him twice. Both times near my place. Both times at night, when I was heading home. Both times I thought (though I could be wrong), that he seemed like he didn’t run into me by chance.’
‘Did he say anything?’
"Did he say anything?"
‘No; he only nodded and put his head on one side.’
'No; he just nodded and tilted his head to the side.'
‘The devil take his head!’ mused Clennam, still looking at the fire; ‘it’s always on one side.’
‘The devil take his head!’ Clennam thought, still looking at the fire; ‘it’s always on one side.’
He roused himself to persuade her to put some wine to her lips, and to touch something to eat—it was very difficult, she was so timid and shy—and then said, musing again:
He encouraged her to sip some wine and to try a bite to eat—it was tough because she was so timid and shy—and then he said, thinking out loud again:
‘Is my mother at all changed to you?’
‘Has my mom changed at all to you?’
‘Oh, not at all. She is just the same. I wondered whether I had better tell her my history. I wondered whether I might—I mean, whether you would like me to tell her. I wondered,’ said Little Dorrit, looking at him in a suppliant way, and gradually withdrawing her eyes as he looked at her, ‘whether you would advise me what I ought to do.’
‘Oh, not at all. She’s exactly the same. I was thinking about whether I should share my story with her. I was wondering if I could—I mean, if you would want me to tell her. I was curious,’ said Little Dorrit, looking at him earnestly and slowly looking away as he met her gaze, ‘whether you could advise me on what I should do.’
‘Little Dorrit,’ said Clennam; and the phrase had already begun, between these two, to stand for a hundred gentle phrases, according to the varying tone and connection in which it was used; ‘do nothing. I will have some talk with my old friend, Mrs Affery. Do nothing, Little Dorrit—except refresh yourself with such means as there are here. I entreat you to do that.’
‘Little Dorrit,’ Clennam said; and that phrase had started to represent a hundred kind expressions between the two of them, depending on how it was said and the context. ‘Do nothing. I’ll have a chat with my old friend, Mrs. Affery. Just relax, Little Dorrit—take advantage of what you can here. I really urge you to do that.’
‘Thank you, I am not hungry. Nor,’ said Little Dorrit, as he softly put her glass towards her, ‘nor thirsty.—I think Maggy might like something, perhaps.’
‘Thank you, I'm not hungry. And,’ said Little Dorrit, as he gently pushed her glass toward her, ‘I'm not thirsty either.—I think Maggy might like something, though.’
‘We will make her find pockets presently for all there is here,’ said Clennam: ‘but before we awake her, there was a third thing to say.’
‘We’ll have her find pockets for everything here soon,’ said Clennam. ‘But before we wake her up, there’s one more thing to mention.’
‘Yes. You will not be offended, sir?’
‘Yes. You won’t be offended, will you?’
‘I promise that, unreservedly.’
"I promise that completely."
‘It will sound strange. I hardly know how to say it. Don’t think it unreasonable or ungrateful in me,’ said Little Dorrit, with returning and increasing agitation.
‘It might sound odd. I’m not quite sure how to put it. Please don’t see it as unreasonable or ungrateful on my part,’ said Little Dorrit, with growing anxiety.
‘No, no, no. I am sure it will be natural and right. I am not afraid that I shall put a wrong construction on it, whatever it is.’
‘No, no, no. I’m sure it will feel natural and right. I’m not worried that I’ll misinterpret it, no matter what it is.’
‘Thank you. You are coming back to see my father again?’
‘Thank you. Are you coming back to see my dad again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yep.’
‘You have been so good and thoughtful as to write him a note, saying that you are coming to-morrow?’
‘You’ve been so kind and considerate to write him a note, saying that you’re coming tomorrow?’
‘Oh, that was nothing! Yes.’
"That was nothing! Yes."
‘Can you guess,’ said Little Dorrit, folding her small hands tight in one another, and looking at him with all the earnestness of her soul looking steadily out of her eyes, ‘what I am going to ask you not to do?’
“Can you guess,” Little Dorrit said, folding her small hands tightly together and looking at him with all the seriousness of her soul shining through her eyes, “what I’m going to ask you not to do?”
‘I think I can. But I may be wrong.’
‘I think I can. But I might be wrong.’
‘No, you are not wrong,’ said Little Dorrit, shaking her head. ‘If we should want it so very, very badly that we cannot do without it, let me ask you for it.’
‘No, you’re not wrong,’ said Little Dorrit, shaking her head. ‘If we need it so desperately that we can’t do without it, let me ask you for it.’
‘I Will,—I Will.’
'I will, I will.'
‘Don’t encourage him to ask. Don’t understand him if he does ask. Don’t give it to him. Save him and spare him that, and you will be able to think better of him!’
‘Don’t encourage him to ask. Don’t understand him if he does ask. Don’t give it to him. Save him from that, and you’ll be able to think better of him!’
Clennam said—not very plainly, seeing those tears glistening in her anxious eyes—that her wish should be sacred with him.
Clennam said—not very clearly, noticing the tears shining in her worried eyes—that her wish would be sacred to him.
‘You don’t know what he is,’ she said; ‘you don’t know what he really is. How can you, seeing him there all at once, dear love, and not gradually, as I have done! You have been so good to us, so delicately and truly good, that I want him to be better in your eyes than in anybody’s. And I cannot bear to think,’ cried Little Dorrit, covering her tears with her hands, ‘I cannot bear to think that you of all the world should see him in his only moments of degradation.’
“You don’t know what he is,” she said. “You don’t know what he really is. How can you, seeing him there all at once, my dear, and not gradually like I have? You have been so good to us, so genuinely and truly kind, that I want him to appear better in your eyes than in anyone else’s. And I can’t stand to think,” cried Little Dorrit, covering her tears with her hands, “I can’t stand to think that you, of all people, should see him in his only moments of decline.”
‘Pray,’ said Clennam, ‘do not be so distressed. Pray, pray, Little Dorrit! This is quite understood now.’
"Please," Clennam said, "don't be so upset. Come on, Little Dorrit! It's all clear now."
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you! I have tried very much to keep myself from saying this; I have thought about it, days and nights; but when I knew for certain you were coming again, I made up my mind to speak to you. Not because I am ashamed of him,’ she dried her tears quickly, ‘but because I know him better than any one does, and love him, and am proud of him.’
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you! I’ve tried really hard to hold back from saying this; I’ve thought about it, day and night; but when I found out for sure you were coming back, I decided to talk to you. Not because I’m ashamed of him,’ she quickly wiped away her tears, ‘but because I know him better than anyone else does, and I love him, and I’m proud of him.’
Relieved of this weight, Little Dorrit was nervously anxious to be gone. Maggy being broad awake, and in the act of distantly gloating over the fruit and cakes with chuckles of anticipation, Clennam made the best diversion in his power by pouring her out a glass of wine, which she drank in a series of loud smacks; putting her hand upon her windpipe after every one, and saying, breathless, with her eyes in a prominent state, ‘Oh, ain’t it d’licious! Ain’t it hospitally!’ When she had finished the wine and these encomiums, he charged her to load her basket (she was never without her basket) with every eatable thing upon the table, and to take especial care to leave no scrap behind. Maggy’s pleasure in doing this and her little mother’s pleasure in seeing Maggy pleased, was as good a turn as circumstances could have given to the late conversation.
Relieved of this burden, Little Dorrit was nervously eager to leave. With Maggy wide awake and excitedly eyeing the fruit and cakes with glee, Clennam did his best to distract her by pouring her a glass of wine, which she drank with loud slurps; she put her hand on her throat after each sip, saying breathlessly, her eyes wide, "Oh, isn’t it delicious! Isn’t it so hospitable!" After finishing the wine and her compliments, he urged her to fill her basket (she never went anywhere without it) with every edible thing on the table, making sure she left no scraps behind. Maggy’s joy in doing this and her little mother’s joy in seeing Maggy happy was the best outcome they could have hoped for after their earlier conversation.
‘But the gates will have been locked long ago,’ said Clennam, suddenly remembering it. ‘Where are you going?’
‘But the gates will have been locked a long time ago,’ Clennam said, suddenly remembering that. ‘Where are you headed?’
‘I am going to Maggy’s lodging,’ answered Little Dorrit. ‘I shall be quite safe, quite well taken care of.’
‘I’m going to Maggy’s place,’ Little Dorrit replied. ‘I’ll be perfectly safe, well taken care of.’
‘I must accompany you there,’ said Clennam, ‘I cannot let you go alone.’
‘I have to go with you,’ Clennam said, ‘I can’t let you go by yourself.’
‘Yes, pray leave us to go there by ourselves. Pray do!’ begged Little Dorrit.
'Yes, please let us go there by ourselves. Please!' begged Little Dorrit.
She was so earnest in the petition, that Clennam felt a delicacy in obtruding himself upon her: the rather, because he could well understand that Maggy’s lodging was of the obscurest sort. ‘Come, Maggy,’ said Little Dorrit cheerily, ‘we shall do very well; we know the way by this time, Maggy?’
She was so sincere in her request that Clennam felt hesitant to interrupt her: especially because he knew that Maggy’s place was quite humble. ‘Come on, Maggy,’ Little Dorrit said cheerfully, ‘we’ll be just fine; we know the way by now, right Maggy?’
‘Yes, yes, little mother; we know the way,’ chuckled Maggy. And away they went. Little Dorrit turned at the door to say, ‘God bless you!’ She said it very softly, but perhaps she may have been as audible above—who knows!—as a whole cathedral choir.
‘Yeah, yeah, little mom; we know the way,’ laughed Maggy. And off they went. Little Dorrit turned at the door to say, ‘God bless you!’ She said it very softly, but maybe she was just as loud above—who knows!—as a whole cathedral choir.
Arthur Clennam suffered them to pass the corner of the street before he followed at a distance; not with any idea of encroaching a second time on Little Dorrit’s privacy, but to satisfy his mind by seeing her secure in the neighbourhood to which she was accustomed. So diminutive she looked, so fragile and defenceless against the bleak damp weather, flitting along in the shuffling shadow of her charge, that he felt, in his compassion, and in his habit of considering her a child apart from the rest of the rough world, as if he would have been glad to take her up in his arms and carry her to her journey’s end.
Arthur Clennam let them pass the corner of the street before he followed at a distance; not because he wanted to intrude on Little Dorrit’s privacy again, but to ease his mind by seeing her safe in her familiar neighborhood. She looked so small, so delicate and vulnerable against the cold, damp weather, moving along in the shuffling shadow of her charge, that he felt, in his sympathy and his tendency to see her as a child separate from the harsh world, that he would have liked to pick her up in his arms and carry her to her destination.
In course of time she came into the leading thoroughfare where the Marshalsea was, and then he saw them slacken their pace, and soon turn down a by-street. He stopped, felt that he had no right to go further, and slowly left them. He had no suspicion that they ran any risk of being houseless until morning; had no idea of the truth until long, long afterwards.
In time, she reached the main street where the Marshalsea was located, and then he noticed them slow down and eventually turn down a side street. He paused, realized he shouldn’t go any further, and slowly walked away from them. He had no idea they might be at risk of being without a home until morning; he didn't understand the reality of the situation until much later.
But, said Little Dorrit, when they stopped at a poor dwelling all in darkness, and heard no sound on listening at the door, ‘Now, this is a good lodging for you, Maggy, and we must not give offence. Consequently, we will only knock twice, and not very loud; and if we cannot wake them so, we must walk about till day.’
But, said Little Dorrit, when they stopped at a rundown place that was all dark, and heard nothing when they listened at the door, "Now, this is a good place for you, Maggy, and we mustn't be rude. So, we’ll just knock twice, and not too loudly; and if we can’t wake them like that, we’ll just walk around until morning.”
Once, Little Dorrit knocked with a careful hand, and listened. Twice, Little Dorrit knocked with a careful hand, and listened. All was close and still. ‘Maggy, we must do the best we can, my dear. We must be patient, and wait for day.’
Once, Little Dorrit knocked gently and listened. Twice, Little Dorrit knocked gently and listened. Everything was quiet and still. “Maggy, we have to do our best, my dear. We need to be patient and wait for daylight.”
It was a chill dark night, with a damp wind blowing, when they came out into the leading street again, and heard the clocks strike half-past one. ‘In only five hours and a half,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘we shall be able to go home.’ To speak of home, and to go and look at it, it being so near, was a natural sequence. They went to the closed gate, and peeped through into the court-yard. ‘I hope he is sound asleep,’ said Little Dorrit, kissing one of the bars, ‘and does not miss me.’
It was a chilly, dark night, with a damp wind blowing, when they stepped back onto the main street and heard the clocks strike 1:30 AM. “In just five and a half hours,” said Little Dorrit, “we’ll be able to go home.” Mentioning home and then wanting to see it since it was so close felt like a natural next step. They walked to the closed gate and peered through into the courtyard. “I hope he’s sound asleep,” said Little Dorrit, kissing one of the bars, “and doesn’t miss me.”
The gate was so familiar, and so like a companion, that they put down Maggy’s basket in a corner to serve for a seat, and keeping close together, rested there for some time. While the street was empty and silent, Little Dorrit was not afraid; but when she heard a footstep at a distance, or saw a moving shadow among the street lamps, she was startled, and whispered, ‘Maggy, I see some one. Come away!’ Maggy would then wake up more or less fretfully, and they would wander about a little, and come back again.
The gate was so familiar and felt like a companion that they set Maggy’s basket in a corner to use as a seat and, staying close together, rested there for a while. During the quiet and empty street, Little Dorrit felt safe; but when she heard a distant footstep or noticed a shadow moving among the street lamps, she got startled and whispered, “Maggy, I see someone. Let’s go!” Maggy would then wake up, somewhat grumpy, and they would wander around for a bit before returning.
As long as eating was a novelty and an amusement, Maggy kept up pretty well. But that period going by, she became querulous about the cold, and shivered and whimpered. ‘It will soon be over, dear,’ said Little Dorrit patiently. ‘Oh it’s all very fine for you, little mother,’ returned Maggy, ‘but I’m a poor thing, only ten years old.’ At last, in the dead of the night, when the street was very still indeed, Little Dorrit laid the heavy head upon her bosom, and soothed her to sleep. And thus she sat at the gate, as it were alone; looking up at the stars, and seeing the clouds pass over them in their wild flight—which was the dance at Little Dorrit’s party.
As long as eating was fun and exciting, Maggy managed pretty well. But as time went on, she started to complain about the cold, shivering and whining. “It will be over soon, dear,” Little Dorrit said patiently. “Oh, it’s easy for you to say, little mother,” Maggy replied, “but I’m just a poor thing, only ten years old.” Finally, in the dead of night, when the street was really quiet, Little Dorrit laid Maggy’s heavy head on her chest and sang her to sleep. And so she sat at the gate, almost alone; looking up at the stars and watching the clouds rush over them in their wild dance—which was the party at Little Dorrit’s.
‘If it really was a party!’ she thought once, as she sat there. ‘If it was light and warm and beautiful, and it was our house, and my poor dear was its master, and had never been inside these walls. And if Mr Clennam was one of our visitors, and we were dancing to delightful music, and were all as gay and light-hearted as ever we could be! I wonder—’ Such a vista of wonder opened out before her, that she sat looking up at the stars, quite lost, until Maggy was querulous again, and wanted to get up and walk.
‘If it really was a party!’ she thought to herself as she sat there. ‘If it was bright and warm and beautiful, and it was our house, and my poor dear was its master, but had never set foot inside these walls. And if Mr. Clennam was one of our guests, and we were dancing to wonderful music, and everyone was as cheerful and lighthearted as we could be! I wonder—’ Such a picture of wonder unfolded in her mind, that she sat looking up at the stars, completely lost, until Maggy started complaining again and wanted to get up and walk.
Three o’clock, and half-past three, and they had passed over London Bridge. They had heard the rush of the tide against obstacles; and looked down, awed, through the dark vapour on the river; had seen little spots of lighted water where the bridge lamps were reflected, shining like demon eyes, with a terrible fascination in them for guilt and misery. They had shrunk past homeless people, lying coiled up in nooks. They had run from drunkards. They had started from slinking men, whistling and signing to one another at bye corners, or running away at full speed. Though everywhere the leader and the guide, Little Dorrit, happy for once in her youthful appearance, feigned to cling to and rely upon Maggy. And more than once some voice, from among a knot of brawling or prowling figures in their path, had called out to the rest to ‘let the woman and the child go by!’
Three o’clock, then half-past three, and they had crossed London Bridge. They heard the tide rushing against barriers and looked down, awed, through the dark mist over the river; they saw small spots of glimmering water where the bridge lamps reflected, shining like demonic eyes, with a chilling allure for guilt and sorrow. They had hurried past homeless people curled up in corners. They had run away from drunks. They had flinched at shadowy men, whistling and signaling to each other at side streets, or darting away at full speed. Yet everywhere, the leader and the guide, Little Dorrit, looking happy for once in her youthful appearance, pretended to cling to and depend on Maggy. More than once, a voice from a group of shouting or lurking figures in their way had called out to others to “let the woman and the child pass!”
So, the woman and the child had gone by, and gone on, and five had sounded from the steeples. They were walking slowly towards the east, already looking for the first pale streak of day, when a woman came after them.
So, the woman and the child had passed by and moved on, and five had chimed from the steeples. They were walking slowly toward the east, already searching for the first light of day, when another woman approached them.
‘What are you doing with the child?’ she said to Maggy.
‘What are you doing with the kid?’ she said to Maggy.
She was young—far too young to be there, Heaven knows!—and neither ugly nor wicked-looking. She spoke coarsely, but with no naturally coarse voice; there was even something musical in its sound.
She was young—way too young to be there, that's for sure!—and neither unattractive nor evil-looking. She spoke roughly, but her voice wasn't naturally harsh; there was even something kind of musical about how it sounded.
‘What are you doing with yourself?’ retorted Maggy, for want of a better answer.
‘What are you doing with your life?’ snapped Maggy, unable to think of a better response.
‘Can’t you see, without my telling you?’
‘Can’t you see that without me having to tell you?’
‘I don’t know as I can,’ said Maggy.
‘I don’t know if I can,’ said Maggy.
‘Killing myself! Now I have answered you, answer me. What are you doing with the child?’
‘Killing myself! Now that I've answered you, tell me. What are you doing with the child?’
The supposed child kept her head drooped down, and kept her form close at Maggy’s side.
The supposed child kept her head down and stayed close to Maggy’s side.
‘Poor thing!’ said the woman. ‘Have you no feeling, that you keep her out in the cruel streets at such a time as this? Have you no eyes, that you don’t see how delicate and slender she is? Have you no sense (you don’t look as if you had much) that you don’t take more pity on this cold and trembling little hand?’
‘Poor thing!’ said the woman. ‘Don’t you have any feelings, keeping her out in the harsh streets at a time like this? Can’t you see how fragile and slim she is? Don’t you have any sense (you don’t look like you do) that you don’t feel more compassion for this cold and shaking little hand?’
She had stepped across to that side, and held the hand between her own two, chafing it. ‘Kiss a poor lost creature, dear,’ she said, bending her face, ‘and tell me where’s she taking you.’
She moved over to that side and took the hand in both of hers, rubbing it gently. “Kiss a poor lost soul, darling,” she said, leaning her face closer, “and tell me where she’s taking you.”
Little Dorrit turned towards her.
Little Dorrit faced her.
‘Why, my God!’ she said, recoiling, ‘you’re a woman!’
‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed, stepping back, ‘you’re a woman!’
‘Don’t mind that!’ said Little Dorrit, clasping one of her hands that had suddenly released hers. ‘I am not afraid of you.’
‘Don’t worry about that!’ said Little Dorrit, holding onto one of her hands that had suddenly let go of hers. ‘I’m not scared of you.’
‘Then you had better be,’ she answered. ‘Have you no mother?’
‘Then you’d better be,’ she replied. ‘Don’t you have a mother?’
‘No.’
'No.'
‘No father?’
"Where's your dad?"
‘Yes, a very dear one.’
"Yes, a very close one."
‘Go home to him, and be afraid of me. Let me go. Good night!’
‘Go home to him, and be scared of me. Just let me go. Good night!’
‘I must thank you first; let me speak to you as if I really were a child.’
‘I have to thank you first; let me talk to you as if I were actually a child.’
‘You can’t do it,’ said the woman. ‘You are kind and innocent; but you can’t look at me out of a child’s eyes. I never should have touched you, but I thought that you were a child.’ And with a strange, wild cry, she went away.
"You can't do it," the woman said. "You're kind and innocent, but you can't see me through a child's eyes. I never should have touched you, but I thought you were still a child." And with a strange, wild cry, she left.
No day yet in the sky, but there was day in the resounding stones of the streets; in the waggons, carts, and coaches; in the workers going to various occupations; in the opening of early shops; in the traffic at markets; in the stir of the riverside. There was coming day in the flaring lights, with a feebler colour in them than they would have had at another time; coming day in the increased sharpness of the air, and the ghastly dying of the night.
No daylight in the sky yet, but there was brightness in the echoing stones of the streets; in the wagons, carts, and coaches; in the workers heading to various jobs; in the early shops opening up; in the hustle at the markets; in the activity along the riverside. There was a sense of dawn in the flickering lights, with a paler hue than they would have at another time; a sense of dawn in the sharper chill of the air, and the eerie fading of the night.
They went back again to the gate, intending to wait there now until it should be opened; but the air was so raw and cold that Little Dorrit, leading Maggy about in her sleep, kept in motion. Going round by the Church, she saw lights there, and the door open; and went up the steps and looked in.
They went back to the gate again, planning to wait there until it opened; but the air was so chilly and uncomfortable that Little Dorrit, guiding Maggy as she slept, kept moving. As she walked past the church, she noticed lights inside and the door was open; she climbed the steps and peered in.
‘Who’s that?’ cried a stout old man, who was putting on a nightcap as if he were going to bed in a vault.
“Who’s that?” yelled a chubby old man, who was putting on a nightcap as if he were heading to bed in a crypt.
‘It’s no one particular, sir,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘It’s not anyone specific, sir,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘Stop!’ cried the man. ‘Let’s have a look at you!’
‘Stop!’ yelled the man. ‘Let’s see who you are!’
This caused her to turn back again in the act of going out, and to present herself and her charge before him.
This made her stop and turn around while she was leaving, and to show herself and her responsibility to him.
‘I thought so!’ said he. ‘I know you.’
“I knew it!” he said. “I know *you*.”
‘We have often seen each other,’ said Little Dorrit, recognising the sexton, or the beadle, or the verger, or whatever he was, ‘when I have been at church here.’
"We've seen each other before," said Little Dorrit, recognizing the sexton, or the beadle, or the verger, or whatever he was, "when I've been to church here."
‘More than that, we’ve got your birth in our Register, you know; you’re one of our curiosities.’
‘Plus, we have your birth recorded in our Register, you know; you’re one of our curiosities.’
‘Indeed!’ said Little Dorrit.
“Absolutely!” said Little Dorrit.
‘To be sure. As the child of the—by-the-bye, how did you get out so early?’
‘Of course. By the way, how did you manage to get out so early?’
‘We were shut out last night, and are waiting to get in.’
‘We were locked out last night, and we're waiting to get in.’
‘You don’t mean it? And there’s another hour good yet! Come into the vestry. You’ll find a fire in the vestry, on account of the painters. I’m waiting for the painters, or I shouldn’t be here, you may depend upon it. One of our curiosities mustn’t be cold when we have it in our power to warm her up comfortable. Come along.’
‘You can't be serious? And there’s still another hour to go! Come into the vestry. There’s a fire in the vestry because of the painters. I’m waiting for the painters, or I wouldn’t be here, believe me. One of our curiosities shouldn’t be cold when we can make it nice and warm. Come on.’
He was a very good old fellow, in his familiar way; and having stirred the vestry fire, he looked round the shelves of registers for a particular volume. ‘Here you are, you see,’ he said, taking it down and turning the leaves. ‘Here you’ll find yourself, as large as life. Amy, daughter of William and Fanny Dorrit. Born, Marshalsea Prison, Parish of St George. And we tell people that you have lived there, without so much as a day’s or a night’s absence, ever since. Is it true?’
He was a really nice old guy, in his usual way; and after he stirred the vestry fire, he looked around the shelves of registers for a specific book. "Here you go," he said, pulling it down and flipping through the pages. "Here you’ll see yourself, as clear as day. Amy, daughter of William and Fanny Dorrit. Born in Marshalsea Prison, Parish of St George. And we tell people that you've lived there, without even one day or night gone by, ever since. Is that true?"
‘Quite true, till last night.’
“Very true, until last night.”
‘Lord!’ But his surveying her with an admiring gaze suggested Something else to him, to wit: ‘I am sorry to see, though, that you are faint and tired. Stay a bit. I’ll get some cushions out of the church, and you and your friend shall lie down before the fire. Don’t be afraid of not going in to join your father when the gate opens. I’ll call you.’
‘Wow!’ But the way he looked at her with admiration made him think something else: ‘I’m sorry to see that you’re feeling weak and tired. Stay for a moment. I’ll grab some cushions from the church, and you and your friend can rest in front of the fire. Don’t worry about not going in to join your father when the gate opens. I’ll call you.’
He soon brought in the cushions, and strewed them on the ground.
He quickly brought in the cushions and spread them out on the ground.
‘There you are, you see. Again as large as life. Oh, never mind thanking. I’ve daughters of my own. And though they weren’t born in the Marshalsea Prison, they might have been, if I had been, in my ways of carrying on, of your father’s breed. Stop a bit. I must put something under the cushion for your head. Here’s a burial volume, just the thing! We have got Mrs Bangham in this book. But what makes these books interesting to most people is—not who’s in ‘em, but who isn’t—who’s coming, you know, and when. That’s the interesting question.’
'There you are, just as alive as ever. Oh, no need to thank me. I have daughters of my own. And even though they weren't born in the Marshalsea Prison, they could have been, considering my ways of dealing with things, just like your father. Wait a moment. I need to put something under the cushion for your head. Here’s a burial volume, just the right thing! We have Mrs. Bangham in this book. But what makes these books interesting to most people isn’t who’s in them, but who isn’t—who’s coming, you know, and when. That’s the interesting question.'
Commendingly looking back at the pillow he had improvised, he left them to their hour’s repose. Maggy was snoring already, and Little Dorrit was soon fast asleep with her head resting on that sealed book of Fate, untroubled by its mysterious blank leaves.
Looking back appreciatively at the makeshift pillow he had created, he left them to enjoy their hour of rest. Maggy was already snoring, and Little Dorrit soon fell fast asleep with her head resting on that sealed book of Fate, undisturbed by its mysterious blank pages.
Original
This was Little Dorrit’s party. The shame, desertion, wretchedness, and exposure of the great capital; the wet, the cold, the slow hours, and the swift clouds of the dismal night. This was the party from which Little Dorrit went home, jaded, in the first grey mist of a rainy morning.
This was Little Dorrit’s party. The shame, abandonment, misery, and exposure of the big city; the rain, the cold, the long hours, and the fast-moving clouds of the gloomy night. This was the party from which Little Dorrit went home, exhausted, in the first gray fog of a rainy morning.
CHAPTER 15. Mrs Flintwinch has another Dream
The debilitated old house in the city, wrapped in its mantle of soot, and leaning heavily on the crutches that had partaken of its decay and worn out with it, never knew a healthy or a cheerful interval, let what would betide. If the sun ever touched it, it was but with a ray, and that was gone in half an hour; if the moonlight ever fell upon it, it was only to put a few patches on its doleful cloak, and make it look more wretched. The stars, to be sure, coldly watched it when the nights and the smoke were clear enough; and all bad weather stood by it with a rare fidelity. You should alike find rain, hail, frost, and thaw lingering in that dismal enclosure when they had vanished from other places; and as to snow, you should see it there for weeks, long after it had changed from yellow to black, slowly weeping away its grimy life. The place had no other adherents. As to street noises, the rumbling of wheels in the lane merely rushed in at the gateway in going past, and rushed out again: making the listening Mistress Affery feel as if she were deaf, and recovered the sense of hearing by instantaneous flashes. So with whistling, singing, talking, laughing, and all pleasant human sounds. They leaped the gap in a moment, and went upon their way.
The worn-down old house in the city, covered in soot, and leaning heavily on the supports that had shared in its decay and aged alongside it, never experienced a moment of health or happiness, regardless of what happened. If the sun ever touched it, it was just for a brief ray that disappeared in half an hour; if moonlight ever fell on it, it merely added a few patches to its sad exterior, making it seem even more miserable. The stars, of course, coldly observed it when the nights and the smoke were clear enough, and all bad weather stayed close to it with unusual loyalty. You would find rain, hail, frost, and thaw lingering in that gloomy place long after they had disappeared from other areas; as for snow, you’d see it there for weeks, lingering long after it had turned from yellow to black, slowly melting away its dirty existence. The house had no other supporters. As for street noises, the rumbling of wheels in the lane only rushed in through the gate briefly before rushing out again, making the listening Mistress Affery feel as if she were deaf, only regaining her hearing in sudden bursts. The same went for whistling, singing, talking, laughing, and all the pleasant sounds of humanity. They would jump across the gap in an instant and continue on their way.
The varying light of fire and candle in Mrs Clennam’s room made the greatest change that ever broke the dead monotony of the spot. In her two long narrow windows, the fire shone sullenly all day, and sullenly all night. On rare occasions it flashed up passionately, as she did; but for the most part it was suppressed, like her, and preyed upon itself evenly and slowly. During many hours of the short winter days, however, when it was dusk there early in the afternoon, changing distortions of herself in her wheeled chair, of Mr Flintwinch with his wry neck, of Mistress Affery coming and going, would be thrown upon the house wall that was over the gateway, and would hover there like shadows from a great magic lantern. As the room-ridden invalid settled for the night, these would gradually disappear: Mistress Affery’s magnified shadow always flitting about, last, until it finally glided away into the air, as though she were off upon a witch excursion. Then the solitary light would burn unchangingly, until it burned pale before the dawn, and at last died under the breath of Mrs Affery, as her shadow descended on it from the witch-region of sleep.
The flickering light from the fire and candle in Mrs. Clennam’s room created the biggest change it had ever seen from the dull monotony of the place. In her two long, narrow windows, the fire glowed gloomily all day and all night. Occasionally, it would blaze up passionately, just like she did; but mostly, it was muted, like her, and quietly consumed itself, hour after hour. During many hours of the short winter days, when it got dark early in the afternoon, shifting shapes of herself in her wheelchair, Mr. Flintwinch with his crooked neck, and Mistress Affery coming and going would be cast upon the wall of the house over the gateway, lingering there like shadows from a giant lantern. As the homebound invalid prepared for bed, these shadows would gradually fade away: Mistress Affery’s enlarged shadow always flitting about last, until it finally vanished into the air, as if she were off on some witch-like adventure. Then the solitary light would burn steadily, until it dimmed before dawn, and ultimately flickered out under the breath of Mrs. Affery, as her shadow descended upon it from the sleep's enchanting realm.
Strange, if the little sick-room fire were in effect a beacon fire, summoning some one, and that the most unlikely some one in the world, to the spot that must be come to. Strange, if the little sick-room light were in effect a watch-light, burning in that place every night until an appointed event should be watched out! Which of the vast multitude of travellers, under the sun and the stars, climbing the dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains, journeying by land and journeying by sea, coming and going so strangely, to meet and to act and react on one another; which of the host may, with no suspicion of the journey’s end, be travelling surely hither?
Strange, if the small fire in the sick room were really a beacon, calling someone—the most unlikely person in the world—to this spot that must be reached. Strange, if the little light in the sick room were actually a watch-light, burning there every night until a scheduled event was finally witnessed! Which of the countless travelers, beneath the sun and stars, climbing dusty hills and trudging along weary plains, journeying by land and by sea, coming and going in such odd ways, could be traveling here, without any clue about the journey’s end?
Time shall show us. The post of honour and the post of shame, the general’s station and the drummer’s, a peer’s statue in Westminster Abbey and a seaman’s hammock in the bosom of the deep, the mitre and the workhouse, the woolsack and the gallows, the throne and the guillotine—the travellers to all are on the great high road, but it has wonderful divergencies, and only Time shall show us whither each traveller is bound.
Time will reveal the truth. The position of honor and the position of disgrace, the general’s rank and the drummer’s, a noble’s statue in Westminster Abbey and a sailor’s hammock beneath the waves, the bishop’s mitre and the workhouse, the woolsack and the gallows, the throne and the guillotine—all travelers head down the same great road, but there are many paths, and only Time will show us where each traveler is headed.
On a wintry afternoon at twilight, Mrs Flintwinch, having been heavy all day, dreamed this dream:
On a cold winter afternoon at dusk, Mrs. Flintwinch, feeling sluggish all day, had this dream:
She thought she was in the kitchen getting the kettle ready for tea, and was warming herself with her feet upon the fender and the skirt of her gown tucked up, before the collapsed fire in the middle of the grate, bordered on either hand by a deep cold black ravine. She thought that as she sat thus, musing upon the question whether life was not for some people a rather dull invention, she was frightened by a sudden noise behind her. She thought that she had been similarly frightened once last week, and that the noise was of a mysterious kind—a sound of rustling and of three or four quick beats like a rapid step; while a shock or tremble was communicated to her heart, as if the step had shaken the floor, or even as if she had been touched by some awful hand. She thought that this revived within her certain old fears of hers that the house was haunted; and that she flew up the kitchen stairs without knowing how she got up, to be nearer company.
She thought she was in the kitchen getting the kettle ready for tea, warming her feet on the fender with her gown's skirt tucked up, in front of the dim fire in the middle of the grate, surrounded by deep, cold, black shadows. As she sat there, pondering whether life was a pretty boring idea for some people, she was startled by a sudden noise behind her. She remembered being similarly scared last week, and that the sound was strange—a rustling followed by three or four quick beats like hurried footsteps; it felt like a shock ran through her heart, as if the footstep had shaken the floor, or like some terrible hand had touched her. This brought back some old fears that the house was haunted, and she rushed up the kitchen stairs without even realizing how she got there, wanting to be around people.
Mistress Affery thought that on reaching the hall, she saw the door of her liege lord’s office standing open, and the room empty. That she went to the ripped-up window in the little room by the street door to connect her palpitating heart, through the glass, with living things beyond and outside the haunted house. That she then saw, on the wall over the gateway, the shadows of the two clever ones in conversation above. That she then went upstairs with her shoes in her hand, partly to be near the clever ones as a match for most ghosts, and partly to hear what they were talking about.
Mistress Affery thought that when she reached the hall, she saw the door to her lord’s office wide open, and the room was empty. She went to the broken window in the small room by the front door to connect her racing heart, through the glass, with the living world outside the haunted house. Then she noticed, on the wall over the entrance, the shadows of the two clever people chatting above. After that, she went upstairs with her shoes in her hand, partly to be close to the clever ones, as a match for most ghosts, and partly to listen to their conversation.
‘None of your nonsense with me,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘I won’t take it from you.’
‘No nonsense from you,’ said Mr. Flintwinch. ‘I won’t put up with it.’
Mrs Flintwinch dreamed that she stood behind the door, which was just ajar, and most distinctly heard her husband say these bold words.
Mrs. Flintwinch dreamed that she stood behind the door, which was slightly open, and very clearly heard her husband say these bold words.
‘Flintwinch,’ returned Mrs Clennam, in her usual strong low voice, ‘there is a demon of anger in you. Guard against it.’
‘Flintwinch,’ replied Mrs. Clennam, in her typical firm, low voice, ‘there’s a devil of anger in you. Be careful with it.’
‘I don’t care whether there’s one or a dozen,’ said Mr Flintwinch, forcibly suggesting in his tone that the higher number was nearer the mark. ‘If there was fifty, they should all say, None of your nonsense with me, I won’t take it from you—I’d make ‘em say it, whether they liked it or not.’
“I don’t care if there’s one or a dozen,” Mr. Flintwinch said, his tone strongly implying that the higher number was more accurate. “If there were fifty, they should all say, ‘Don’t mess with me, I won’t tolerate it from you’—I’d make them say it, whether they liked it or not.”
‘What have I done, you wrathful man?’ her strong voice asked.
‘What have I done, you angry man?’ her strong voice asked.
‘Done?’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Dropped down upon me.’
'Finished?' asked Mr. Flintwinch. 'Fell right down on me.'
‘If you mean, remonstrated with you—’
‘If you mean, argued with you—’
‘Don’t put words into my mouth that I don’t mean,’ said Jeremiah, sticking to his figurative expression with tenacious and impenetrable obstinacy: ‘I mean dropped down upon me.’
“Don’t put words in my mouth that I don’t mean,” said Jeremiah, holding onto his figurative expression with stubborn and unyielding insistence: “I mean dropped down on me.”
‘I remonstrated with you,’ she began again, ‘because—’
‘I pointed this out to you,’ she started again, ‘because—’
‘I won’t have it!’ cried Jeremiah. ‘You dropped down upon me.’
“I won’t accept it!” shouted Jeremiah. “You fell right onto me.”
‘I dropped down upon you, then, you ill-conditioned man,’ (Jeremiah chuckled at having forced her to adopt his phrase,) ‘for having been needlessly significant to Arthur that morning. I have a right to complain of it as almost a breach of confidence. You did not mean it—’
‘I dropped down on you, then, you unpleasant man,’ (Jeremiah chuckled at having made her use his words,) ‘for being unnecessarily obvious with Arthur that morning. I have a reason to complain because it's almost a breach of trust. You didn't mean it—’
‘I won’t have it!’ interposed the contradictory Jeremiah, flinging back the concession. ‘I did mean it.’
‘I won’t accept that!’ interrupted the stubborn Jeremiah, rejecting the concession. ‘I really meant it.’
‘I suppose I must leave you to speak in soliloquy if you choose,’ she replied, after a pause that seemed an angry one. ‘It is useless my addressing myself to a rash and headstrong old man who has a set purpose not to hear me.’
“I guess I have to let you talk to yourself if that’s what you want,” she replied after a pause that felt angry. “It’s pointless for me to talk to a stubborn old man who’s decided not to listen to me.”
‘Now, I won’t take that from you either,’ said Jeremiah. ‘I have no such purpose. I have told you I did mean it. Do you wish to know why I meant it, you rash and headstrong old woman?’
“Now, I won’t take that from you either,” said Jeremiah. “I have no such intention. I’ve told you I meant it. Do you want to know why I meant it, you impulsive and stubborn old woman?”
‘After all, you only restore me my own words,’ she said, struggling with her indignation. ‘Yes.’
'After all, you’re just giving me back my own words,' she said, fighting her anger. 'Yes.'
‘This is why, then. Because you hadn’t cleared his father to him, and you ought to have done it. Because, before you went into any tantrum about yourself, who are—’
‘This is why, then. Because you hadn’t explained his father to him, and you should have. Because, before you threw any fits about yourself, who are—’
‘Hold there, Flintwinch!’ she cried out in a changed voice: ‘you may go a word too far.’
‘Hold on, Flintwinch!’ she shouted in a different tone: ‘you might be pushing it a bit too far.’
The old man seemed to think so. There was another pause, and he had altered his position in the room, when he spoke again more mildly:
The old man appeared to agree. There was another pause, and he changed his position in the room before speaking again, this time more gently:
‘I was going to tell you why it was. Because, before you took your own part, I thought you ought to have taken the part of Arthur’s father. Arthur’s father! I had no particular love for Arthur’s father. I served Arthur’s father’s uncle, in this house, when Arthur’s father was not much above me—was poorer as far as his pocket went—and when his uncle might as soon have left me his heir as have left him. He starved in the parlour, and I starved in the kitchen; that was the principal difference in our positions; there was not much more than a flight of breakneck stairs between us. I never took to him in those times; I don’t know that I ever took to him greatly at any time. He was an undecided, irresolute chap, who had everything but his orphan life scared out of him when he was young. And when he brought you home here, the wife his uncle had named for him, I didn’t need to look at you twice (you were a good-looking woman at that time) to know who’d be master. You have stood of your own strength ever since. Stand of your own strength now. Don’t lean against the dead.’
'I was going to tell you why. Because, before you took your own role, I thought you should have played the part of Arthur’s father. Arthur’s father! I didn't have any special fondness for him. I worked for Arthur’s father’s uncle in this house when Arthur’s father was barely above my level—he was poorer in terms of money—and his uncle might as well have left his fortune to me as to him. He starved in the parlor, and I starved in the kitchen; that was the main difference in our situations; there wasn’t much more than a dangerous staircase between us. I never warmed up to him during those times; I can't say I ever really did. He was an indecisive, hesitant guy, who had everything but his orphaned life scared out of him when he was young. And when he brought you home here, the wife his uncle had chosen for him, I didn’t need to look at you twice (you were a good-looking woman back then) to know who would be in charge. You've stood on your own strength ever since. Stand on your own strength now. Don’t lean against the dead.’
‘I do not—as you call it—lean against the dead.’
‘I do not—as you put it—lean against the dead.’
‘But you had a mind to do it, if I had submitted,’ growled Jeremiah, ‘and that’s why you drop down upon me. You can’t forget that I didn’t submit. I suppose you are astonished that I should consider it worth my while to have justice done to Arthur’s father? Hey? It doesn’t matter whether you answer or not, because I know you are, and you know you are. Come, then, I’ll tell you how it is. I may be a bit of an oddity in point of temper, but this is my temper—I can’t let anybody have entirely their own way. You are a determined woman, and a clever woman; and when you see your purpose before you, nothing will turn you from it. Who knows that better than I do?’
"But you wanted to do it, if I had gone along with it," Jeremiah said sharply. "And that’s why you’re coming down on me. You can’t forget that I didn’t go along with it. I guess you’re surprised that I care enough to see justice done for Arthur’s father? Right? It doesn’t matter if you answer or not because I know you are, and you know you are. So let me explain. I might be a bit of a character when it comes to my temper, but this is how I am—I can’t let anyone have their way completely. You’re a strong-willed woman, a smart woman; and once you see what you want, nothing will stop you. Who knows that better than I do?"
‘Nothing will turn me from it, Flintwinch, when I have justified it to myself. Add that.’
'Nothing will change my mind about it, Flintwinch, once I've justified it to myself. Add that.'
‘Justified it to yourself? I said you were the most determined woman on the face of the earth (or I meant to say so), and if you are determined to justify any object you entertain, of course you’ll do it.’
‘Justified it to yourself? I said you were the most determined woman in the world (or at least I meant to say that), and if you're set on justifying any idea you hold onto, of course you will.’
‘Man! I justify myself by the authority of these Books,’ she cried, with stern emphasis, and appearing from the sound that followed to strike the dead-weight of her arm upon the table.
‘Man! I defend myself with the authority of these books,’ she exclaimed, with firm emphasis, and it seemed from the sound that followed that she slammed her arm down onto the table.
‘Never mind that,’ returned Jeremiah calmly, ‘we won’t enter into that question at present. However that may be, you carry out your purposes, and you make everything go down before them. Now, I won’t go down before them. I have been faithful to you, and useful to you, and I am attached to you. But I can’t consent, and I won’t consent, and I never did consent, and I never will consent to be lost in you. Swallow up everybody else, and welcome. The peculiarity of my temper is, ma’am, that I won’t be swallowed up alive.’
"Forget that," Jeremiah replied calmly, "we won't get into that right now. Regardless, you follow your goals, and you make everything fall in line. But I won’t fall in line. I've been loyal to you and helpful to you, and I'm connected to you. But I can't agree, I won't agree, I never agreed, and I never will agree to get lost in you. You can absorb everyone else, and that's fine. The thing about my personality is, ma’am, that I refuse to be swallowed up alive."
Perhaps this had originally been the mainspring of the understanding between them. Descrying thus much of force of character in Mr Flintwinch, perhaps Mrs Clennam had deemed alliance with him worth her while.
Maybe this was initially the main reason for their understanding. By seeing such strength of character in Mr. Flintwinch, perhaps Mrs. Clennam thought that forming an alliance with him was worthwhile.
‘Enough and more than enough of the subject,’ said she gloomily.
"That's more than enough of this topic," she said darkly.
‘Unless you drop down upon me again,’ returned the persistent Flintwinch, ‘and then you must expect to hear of it again.’
‘Unless you come down on me again,’ replied the persistent Flintwinch, ‘then you should expect to hear about it again.’
Mistress Affery dreamed that the figure of her lord here began walking up and down the room, as if to cool his spleen, and that she ran away; but that, as he did not issue forth when she had stood listening and trembling in the shadowy hall a little time, she crept up-stairs again, impelled as before by ghosts and curiosity, and once more cowered outside the door.
Mistress Affery dreamed that her lord's figure started walking back and forth in the room, as if to calm his temper, and she ran away; but when he didn’t come out after she stood listening and trembling in the dark hallway for a bit, she crept back upstairs again, driven by fear and curiosity, and once again crouched outside the door.
‘Please to light the candle, Flintwinch,’ Mrs Clennam was saying, apparently wishing to draw him back into their usual tone. ‘It is nearly time for tea. Little Dorrit is coming, and will find me in the dark.’
‘Please light the candle, Flintwinch,’ Mrs. Clennam was saying, apparently trying to bring him back into their usual tone. ‘It’s almost time for tea. Little Dorrit is coming, and she’ll find me in the dark.’
Mr Flintwinch lighted the candle briskly, and said as he put it down upon the table:
Mr. Flintwinch quickly lit the candle and said as he placed it down on the table:
‘What are you going to do with Little Dorrit? Is she to come to work here for ever? To come to tea here for ever? To come backwards and forwards here, in the same way, for ever?’
‘What are you planning to do with Little Dorrit? Is she going to work here forever? To come for tea here forever? To keep coming back and forth here, the same way, forever?’
‘How can you talk about “for ever” to a maimed creature like me? Are we not all cut down like the grass of the field, and was not I shorn by the scythe many years ago: since when I have been lying here, waiting to be gathered into the barn?’
‘How can you talk about “forever” to a broken creature like me? Aren’t we all cut down like the grass in the field, and wasn’t I taken down by the scythe many years ago: since then I’ve been lying here, waiting to be gathered into the barn?’
‘Ay, ay! But since you have been lying here—not near dead—nothing like it—numbers of children and young people, blooming women, strong men, and what not, have been cut down and carried; and still here are you, you see, not much changed after all. Your time and mine may be a long one yet. When I say for ever, I mean (though I am not poetical) through all our time.’ Mr Flintwinch gave this explanation with great calmness, and calmly waited for an answer.
“Yeah, yeah! But since you've been lying here—not really dead—nothing like that—lots of children and young people, vibrant women, strong men, and so on, have been taken away; and yet here you are, still not much different. Our time might still be a long way off. When I say forever, I mean (even though I'm not being poetic) for the rest of our lives.” Mr. Flintwinch explained this very calmly and patiently waited for a response.
‘So long as Little Dorrit is quiet and industrious, and stands in need of the slight help I can give her, and deserves it; so long, I suppose, unless she withdraws of her own act, she will continue to come here, I being spared.’
‘As long as Little Dorrit stays calm and hardworking, and needs the little help I can provide, and deserves it; I guess, unless she chooses to leave on her own, she will keep coming here, as long as I'm around.’
‘Nothing more than that?’ said Flintwinch, stroking his mouth and chin.
"Is that all?" said Flintwinch, rubbing his mouth and chin.
‘What should there be more than that! What could there be more than that!’ she ejaculated in her sternly wondering way.
‘What could there possibly be more than that! What else could there be!’ she exclaimed in her seriously curious manner.
Mrs Flintwinch dreamed, that, for the space of a minute or two, they remained looking at each other with the candle between them, and that she somehow derived an impression that they looked at each other fixedly.
Mrs. Flintwinch dreamed that for a minute or two, they kept staring at each other with the candle between them, and she somehow got the sense that they were looking at each other intently.
‘Do you happen to know, Mrs Clennam,’ Affery’s liege lord then demanded in a much lower voice, and with an amount of expression that seemed quite out of proportion to the simple purpose of his words, ‘where she lives?’
‘Do you know, Mrs. Clennam,’ Affery’s master then asked in a much quieter voice, with an intensity that seemed way too strong for such a simple question, ‘where she lives?’
‘No.’
'Nope.'
‘Would you—now, would you like to know?’ said Jeremiah with a pounce as if he had sprung upon her.
"Would you—now, would you like to know?" Jeremiah said, jumping at her as if he had leaped on her.
‘If I cared to know, I should know already. Could I not have asked her any day?’
‘If I really wanted to know, I would already know. Couldn't I have asked her any day?’
‘Then you don’t care to know?’
'So you don't want to know?'
‘I do not.’
"I don't."
Mr Flintwinch, having expelled a long significant breath said, with his former emphasis, ‘For I have accidentally—mind!—found out.’
Mr. Flintwinch, having let out a long, meaningful breath, said with his usual emphasis, “Well, I’ve accidentally—just so you know—figured it out.”
‘Wherever she lives,’ said Mrs Clennam, speaking in one unmodulated hard voice, and separating her words as distinctly as if she were reading them off from separate bits of metal that she took up one by one, ‘she has made a secret of it, and she shall always keep her secret from me.’
‘Wherever she lives,’ said Mrs. Clennam, speaking in a flat, harsh tone and pausing between her words as if she were reading them off individual pieces of metal that she picked up one by one, ‘she has kept it a secret, and she will always keep her secret from me.’
‘After all, perhaps you would rather not have known the fact, any how?’ said Jeremiah; and he said it with a twist, as if his words had come out of him in his own wry shape.
"After all, maybe you wouldn't have wanted to know that, anyway?" said Jeremiah, and he said it with a twist, as if his words had come out of him in his own sarcastic way.
‘Flintwinch,’ said his mistress and partner, flashing into a sudden energy that made Affery start, ‘why do you goad me? Look round this room. If it is any compensation for my long confinement within these narrow limits—not that I complain of being afflicted; you know I never complain of that—if it is any compensation to me for long confinement to this room, that while I am shut up from all pleasant change I am also shut up from the knowledge of some things that I may prefer to avoid knowing, why should you, of all men, grudge me that belief?’
“Flintwinch,” his mistress and partner said, suddenly filled with energy that surprised Affery, “why do you push me? Just look around this room. If it makes up for my long time spent confined in this small space—not that I’m complaining about my situation; you know I never complain about that—if it’s any consolation to me that while I’m stuck in this room away from all the nice changes, I’m also kept in the dark about some things I’d rather not know, why would you, of all people, deny me that?
‘I don’t grudge it to you,’ returned Jeremiah.
"I’m not jealous of you," Jeremiah replied.
‘Then say no more. Say no more. Let Little Dorrit keep her secret from me, and do you keep it from me also. Let her come and go, unobserved and unquestioned. Let me suffer, and let me have what alleviation belongs to my condition. Is it so much, that you torment me like an evil spirit?’
‘Then don’t say anything more. Just let Little Dorrit keep her secret from me, and you do the same. Let her come and go without being noticed or questioned. Let me suffer, and let me find whatever comfort I can with my situation. Is it too much to ask that you don’t torment me like a wicked ghost?’
‘I asked you a question. That’s all.’
‘I asked you a question. That’s it.’
‘I have answered it. So, say no more. Say no more.’ Here the sound of the wheeled chair was heard upon the floor, and Affery’s bell rang with a hasty jerk.
‘I’ve answered it. So, don’t say anything more. Don’t say anything more.’ At this, the sound of the wheeled chair echoed on the floor, and Affery’s bell rang with a quick pull.
More afraid of her husband at the moment than of the mysterious sound in the kitchen, Affery crept away as lightly and as quickly as she could, descended the kitchen stairs almost as rapidly as she had ascended them, resumed her seat before the fire, tucked up her skirt again, and finally threw her apron over her head. Then the bell rang once more, and then once more, and then kept on ringing; in despite of which importunate summons, Affery still sat behind her apron, recovering her breath.
More afraid of her husband right now than of the strange noise in the kitchen, Affery quietly and quickly crept away, hurried down the kitchen stairs almost as fast as she had come up, sat back down in front of the fire, adjusted her skirt again, and finally draped her apron over her head. Then the bell rang again, and again, and then kept ringing; despite that persistent ringing, Affery remained hidden behind her apron, catching her breath.
At last Mr Flintwinch came shuffling down the staircase into the hall, muttering and calling ‘Affery woman!’ all the way. Affery still remaining behind her apron, he came stumbling down the kitchen stairs, candle in hand, sidled up to her, twitched her apron off, and roused her.
At last, Mr. Flintwinch shuffled down the staircase into the hall, grumbling and shouting "Affery woman!" the whole way. With Affery still hiding behind her apron, he stumbled down the kitchen stairs, a candle in hand, sidled up to her, yanked her apron off, and woke her up.
‘Oh Jeremiah!’ cried Affery, waking. ‘What a start you gave me!’
‘Oh Jeremiah!’ cried Affery, waking up. ‘You really surprised me!’
‘What have you been doing, woman?’ inquired Jeremiah. ‘You’ve been rung for fifty times.’
‘What have you been doing, woman?’ asked Jeremiah. ‘You've been called fifty times.’
‘Oh Jeremiah,’ said Mistress Affery, ‘I have been a-dreaming!’
‘Oh Jeremiah,’ said Mistress Affery, ‘I had a dream!’
Reminded of her former achievement in that way, Mr Flintwinch held the candle to her head, as if he had some idea of lighting her up for the illumination of the kitchen.
Remembering her past accomplishment in that way, Mr. Flintwinch held the candle up to her head, as if he intended to light her up for the kitchen's illumination.
‘Don’t you know it’s her tea-time?’ he demanded with a vicious grin, and giving one of the legs of Mistress Affery’s chair a kick.
“Don’t you know it’s her tea time?” he asked with a nasty grin, kicking one of the legs of Mistress Affery’s chair.
‘Jeremiah? Tea-time? I don’t know what’s come to me. But I got such a dreadful turn, Jeremiah, before I went—off a-dreaming, that I think it must be that.’
‘Jeremiah? Tea-time? I don’t know what’s happened to me. But I had such a terrible shock, Jeremiah, before I went—off daydreaming, that I think it must be that.’
‘Yoogh! Sleepy-Head!’ said Mr Flintwinch, ‘what are you talking about?’
‘Hey! Sleepyhead!’ said Mr. Flintwinch, ‘what are you talking about?’
‘Such a strange noise, Jeremiah, and such a curious movement. In the kitchen here—just here.’
‘What a strange noise, Jeremiah, and such an odd movement. In the kitchen here—right here.’
Jeremiah held up his light and looked at the blackened ceiling, held down his light and looked at the damp stone floor, turned round with his light and looked about at the spotted and blotched walls.
Jeremiah raised his light and examined the darkened ceiling, lowered his light and inspected the wet stone floor, turned around with his light and surveyed the stained and blotchy walls.
Original
‘Rats, cats, water, drains,’ said Jeremiah.
‘Rats, cats, water, drains,’ said Jeremiah.
Mistress Affery negatived each with a shake of her head. ‘No, Jeremiah; I have felt it before. I have felt it up-stairs, and once on the staircase as I was going from her room to ours in the night—a rustle and a sort of trembling touch behind me.’
Mistress Affery shook her head to deny each suggestion. “No, Jeremiah; I’ve sensed it before. I felt it upstairs, and once on the staircase when I was going from her room to ours at night—a rustle and a kind of trembling touch behind me.”
‘Affery, my woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch grimly, after advancing his nose to that lady’s lips as a test for the detection of spirituous liquors, ‘if you don’t get tea pretty quick, old woman, you’ll become sensible of a rustle and a touch that’ll send you flying to the other end of the kitchen.’
‘Affery, my dear,’ said Mr. Flintwinch grimly, leaning in to smell her breath for any signs of alcohol, ‘if you don’t bring the tea quickly, you’re going to notice a rustle and a touch that will send you scurrying to the other side of the kitchen.’
This prediction stimulated Mrs Flintwinch to bestir herself, and to hasten up-stairs to Mrs Clennam’s chamber. But, for all that, she now began to entertain a settled conviction that there was something wrong in the gloomy house. Henceforth, she was never at peace in it after daylight departed; and never went up or down stairs in the dark without having her apron over her head, lest she should see something.
This prediction motivated Mrs. Flintwinch to get moving and rush upstairs to Mrs. Clennam’s room. However, from that point on, she started to firmly believe that something was off in the dark house. After sunset, she was never at ease there again and never went up or down the stairs in the dark without covering her head with her apron, fearing she might see something.
What with these ghostly apprehensions and her singular dreams, Mrs Flintwinch fell that evening into a haunted state of mind, from which it may be long before this present narrative descries any trace of her recovery. In the vagueness and indistinctness of all her new experiences and perceptions, as everything about her was mysterious to herself she began to be mysterious to others: and became as difficult to be made out to anybody’s satisfaction as she found the house and everything in it difficult to make out to her own.
With her eerie fears and strange dreams, Mrs. Flintwinch fell into a haunted state of mind that evening, from which it may take a while for this story to show any signs of her recovery. In the confusion and uncertainty of all her new experiences and feelings, as everything around her became a mystery to her, she began to become a mystery to others: it became as hard for anyone to understand her as it was for her to make sense of the house and everything in it.
She had not yet finished preparing Mrs Clennam’s tea, when the soft knock came to the door which always announced Little Dorrit. Mistress Affery looked on at Little Dorrit taking off her homely bonnet in the hall, and at Mr Flintwinch scraping his jaws and contemplating her in silence, as expecting some wonderful consequence to ensue which would frighten her out of her five wits or blow them all three to pieces.
She hadn’t finished making Mrs. Clennam’s tea when the familiar soft knock came at the door that signaled Little Dorrit's arrival. Mistress Affery watched Little Dorrit take off her simple bonnet in the hallway, while Mr. Flintwinch silently scrutinized her, as if waiting for something extraordinary to happen that would either scare her senseless or completely overwhelm her.
After tea there came another knock at the door, announcing Arthur. Mistress Affery went down to let him in, and he said on entering, ‘Affery, I am glad it’s you. I want to ask you a question.’ Affery immediately replied, ‘For goodness sake don’t ask me nothing, Arthur! I am frightened out of one half of my life, and dreamed out of the other. Don’t ask me nothing! I don’t know which is which, or what is what!’—and immediately started away from him, and came near him no more.
After tea, there was another knock at the door, announcing Arthur. Mistress Affery went down to let him in, and he said as he entered, “Affery, I’m glad it’s you. I have a question for you.” Affery immediately replied, “For goodness’ sake, don’t ask me anything, Arthur! I’m scared out of my mind half the time and dreamt out of my wits the other half. Don’t ask me anything! I can’t tell what’s real or what’s a dream!”—and she quickly started away from him and didn’t come near him again.
Mistress Affery having no taste for reading, and no sufficient light for needlework in the subdued room, supposing her to have the inclination, now sat every night in the dimness from which she had momentarily emerged on the evening of Arthur Clennam’s return, occupied with crowds of wild speculations and suspicions respecting her mistress and her husband and the noises in the house. When the ferocious devotional exercises were engaged in, these speculations would distract Mistress Affery’s eyes towards the door, as if she expected some dark form to appear at those propitious moments, and make the party one too many.
Mistress Affery, who wasn't into reading and didn’t have enough light for sewing in the dim room, sat every night in the darkness she had just come out of on the evening of Arthur Clennam’s return. She was caught up in a whirlwind of wild thoughts and suspicions about her mistress, her husband, and the strange noises in the house. When the intense prayer sessions were happening, these thoughts would pull her gaze toward the door, as if she was waiting for some shadowy figure to show up at just the right moment and make the gathering feel too crowded.
Otherwise, Affery never said or did anything to attract the attention of the two clever ones towards her in any marked degree, except on certain occasions, generally at about the quiet hour towards bed-time, when she would suddenly dart out of her dim corner, and whisper with a face of terror to Mr Flintwinch, reading the paper near Mrs Clennam’s little table:
Otherwise, Affery never said or did anything to get the attention of the two clever ones, except on certain occasions, usually around bedtime when she would suddenly rush out of her dim corner and whisper in terror to Mr. Flintwinch, who was reading the paper near Mrs. Clennam’s little table:
‘There, Jeremiah! Now! What’s that noise?’
‘There, Jeremiah! Now! What’s that sound?’
Then the noise, if there were any, would have ceased, and Mr Flintwinch would snarl, turning upon her as if she had cut him down that moment against his will, ‘Affery, old woman, you shall have a dose, old woman, such a dose! You have been dreaming again!’
Then the noise, if there was any, would have stopped, and Mr. Flintwinch would snarl, turning on her as if she had just taken him down against his will, ‘Affery, old woman, you’re getting a dose, old woman, such a dose! You’ve been dreaming again!’
CHAPTER 16. Nobody’s Weakness
The time being come for the renewal of his acquaintance with the Meagles family, Clennam, pursuant to contract made between himself and Mr Meagles within the precincts of Bleeding Heart Yard, turned his face on a certain Saturday towards Twickenham, where Mr Meagles had a cottage-residence of his own. The weather being fine and dry, and any English road abounding in interest for him who had been so long away, he sent his valise on by the coach, and set out to walk. A walk was in itself a new enjoyment to him, and one that had rarely diversified his life afar off.
The time had come for him to reconnect with the Meagles family. Following a previous agreement with Mr. Meagles in Bleeding Heart Yard, Clennam set out on a certain Saturday for Twickenham, where Mr. Meagles had his own cottage. The weather was nice and dry, and any English road felt interesting to him after being away for so long. He sent his suitcase ahead by coach and decided to walk. The walk itself was a new pleasure for him, something that had rarely added variety to his life in the past.
He went by Fulham and Putney, for the pleasure of strolling over the heath. It was bright and shining there; and when he found himself so far on his road to Twickenham, he found himself a long way on his road to a number of airier and less substantial destinations. They had risen before him fast, in the healthful exercise and the pleasant road. It is not easy to walk alone in the country without musing upon something. And he had plenty of unsettled subjects to meditate upon, though he had been walking to the Land’s End.
He walked through Fulham and Putney, enjoying a leisurely stroll over the heath. It was bright and shining there; and as he made his way towards Twickenham, he realized he had also ventured far down a path leading to a number of lighter and less defined destinations. They appeared before him quickly, thanks to the refreshing exercise and the enjoyable path. It's not easy to walk alone in the countryside without reflecting on something. He had plenty of unresolved thoughts to ponder, even if he had been walking towards the Land's End.
First, there was the subject seldom absent from his mind, the question, what he was to do henceforth in life; to what occupation he should devote himself, and in what direction he had best seek it. He was far from rich, and every day of indecision and inaction made his inheritance a source of greater anxiety to him. As often as he began to consider how to increase this inheritance, or to lay it by, so often his misgiving that there was some one with an unsatisfied claim upon his justice, returned; and that alone was a subject to outlast the longest walk. Again, there was the subject of his relations with his mother, which were now upon an equable and peaceful but never confidential footing, and whom he saw several times a week. Little Dorrit was a leading and a constant subject: for the circumstances of his life, united to those of her own story, presented the little creature to him as the only person between whom and himself there were ties of innocent reliance on one hand, and affectionate protection on the other; ties of compassion, respect, unselfish interest, gratitude, and pity. Thinking of her, and of the possibility of her father’s release from prison by the unbarring hand of death—the only change of circumstance he could foresee that might enable him to be such a friend to her as he wished to be, by altering her whole manner of life, smoothing her rough road, and giving her a home—he regarded her, in that perspective, as his adopted daughter, his poor child of the Marshalsea hushed to rest. If there were a last subject in his thoughts, and it lay towards Twickenham, its form was so indefinite that it was little more than the pervading atmosphere in which these other subjects floated before him.
First, there was the question that seldom left his mind: what he should do next in life; what career he should pursue and where he should look for it. He wasn't rich, and each day of uncertainty and inaction made his inheritance feel like an even bigger source of stress. Whenever he thought about how to grow this inheritance or save it, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone had an unresolved claim on his sense of justice, which lingered longer than even his longest walks. Then there were his relations with his mother; they were stable and peaceful but never truly open, and he saw her several times a week. Little Dorrit was a constant presence in his thoughts: the circumstances of his life intertwined with her own story, making her seem like the only person he could rely on wholeheartedly, who also relied on him for protection. His feelings for her combined compassion, respect, selflessness, gratitude, and pity. He thought of her often, especially considering the chance that her father might be freed from prison by death—the only change he could foresee that might allow him to be the friend he wanted to be for her by altering her entire life, easing her struggles, and providing her with a home. In that light, he viewed her as his adopted daughter, his poor child from the Marshalsea, finally at peace. If there was one last thought in his mind, aimed towards Twickenham, it was so vague that it felt more like the air surrounding these other thoughts than anything concrete.
He had crossed the heath and was leaving it behind when he gained upon a figure which had been in advance of him for some time, and which, as he gained upon it, he thought he knew. He derived this impression from something in the turn of the head, and in the figure’s action of consideration, as it went on at a sufficiently sturdy walk. But when the man—for it was a man’s figure—pushed his hat up at the back of his head, and stopped to consider some object before him, he knew it to be Daniel Doyce.
He had crossed the heath and was leaving it behind when he caught up to a figure that had been ahead of him for a while, and as he got closer, he felt he recognized it. He got this impression from the way the head turned and the figure’s thoughtful movements as it walked at a steady pace. But when the man—because it was a man—pushed his hat up off the back of his head and paused to look at something in front of him, he realized it was Daniel Doyce.
‘How do you do, Mr Doyce?’ said Clennam, overtaking him. ‘I am glad to see you again, and in a healthier place than the Circumlocution Office.’
“Nice to see you, Mr. Doyce,” Clennam said as he caught up with him. “I’m happy to see you again, and in a better place than the Circumlocution Office.”
‘Ha! Mr Meagles’s friend!’ exclaimed that public criminal, coming out of some mental combinations he had been making, and offering his hand. ‘I am glad to see you, sir. Will you excuse me if I forget your name?’
‘Ha! Mr. Meagles’s friend!’ exclaimed that public criminal, coming out of some mental calculations he had been doing and offering his hand. ‘I’m glad to see you, sir. Will you forgive me if I forget your name?’
‘Readily. It’s not a celebrated name. It’s not Barnacle.’
‘Sure. It’s not a famous name. It’s not Barnacle.’
‘No, no,’ said Daniel, laughing. ‘And now I know what it is. It’s Clennam. How do you do, Mr Clennam?’
‘No, no,’ said Daniel, laughing. ‘And now I know what it is. It's Clennam. How's it going, Mr. Clennam?’
‘I have some hope,’ said Arthur, as they walked on together, ‘that we may be going to the same place, Mr Doyce.’
"I have some hope," Arthur said as they walked together, "that we might be heading to the same place, Mr. Doyce."
‘Meaning Twickenham?’ returned Daniel. ‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘You mean Twickenham?’ Daniel replied. ‘I’m happy to hear that.’
They were soon quite intimate, and lightened the way with a variety of conversation. The ingenious culprit was a man of great modesty and good sense; and, though a plain man, had been too much accustomed to combine what was original and daring in conception with what was patient and minute in execution, to be by any means an ordinary man. It was at first difficult to lead him to speak about himself, and he put off Arthur’s advances in that direction by admitting slightly, oh yes, he had done this, and he had done that, and such a thing was of his making, and such another thing was his discovery, but it was his trade, you see, his trade; until, as he gradually became assured that his companion had a real interest in his account of himself, he frankly yielded to it. Then it appeared that he was the son of a north-country blacksmith, and had originally been apprenticed by his widowed mother to a lock-maker; that he had ‘struck out a few little things’ at the lock-maker’s, which had led to his being released from his indentures with a present, which present had enabled him to gratify his ardent wish to bind himself to a working engineer, under whom he had laboured hard, learned hard, and lived hard, seven years. His time being out, he had ‘worked in the shop’ at weekly wages seven or eight years more; and had then betaken himself to the banks of the Clyde, where he had studied, and filed, and hammered, and improved his knowledge, theoretical and practical, for six or seven years more. There he had had an offer to go to Lyons, which he had accepted; and from Lyons had been engaged to go to Germany, and in Germany had had an offer to go to St Petersburg, and there had done very well indeed—never better. However, he had naturally felt a preference for his own country, and a wish to gain distinction there, and to do whatever service he could do, there rather than elsewhere. And so he had come home. And so at home he had established himself in business, and had invented and executed, and worked his way on, until, after a dozen years of constant suit and service, he had been enrolled in the Great British Legion of Honour, the Legion of the Rebuffed of the Circumlocution Office, and had been decorated with the Great British Order of Merit, the Order of the Disorder of the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings.
They quickly became quite close and brightened the mood with a mix of conversation. The clever man was very modest and sensible; despite being plain-looking, he had become skilled at combining original and bold ideas with careful and detailed work, which made him anything but ordinary. At first, it was hard to get him to talk about himself, and he brushed off Arthur's attempts by casually mentioning a few things he had done and created, saying it was just part of his job. However, as he sensed that his companion was genuinely interested in his story, he opened up. It turned out he was the son of a blacksmith from the north and had originally been apprenticed to a lock-maker by his widowed mother. He had "come up with a few little things" at the lock-maker’s shop, which led to his early release from his apprenticeship along with a gift, allowing him to pursue his dream of working with an engineer. He worked hard, learned a lot, and lived tough for seven years. After that, he spent seven or eight more years earning a weekly wage in a workshop. Then he moved to the banks of the Clyde, where he studied, filed, hammered, and expanded his knowledge, both theoretical and practical, for another six or seven years. He received an offer to work in Lyons, which he accepted, and from there, he was hired to go to Germany, where he received another offer to move to St. Petersburg, and there, he did extremely well—better than ever. Still, he felt a strong pull to return to his own country, hoping to achieve recognition and contribute his skills there. So he came back home, established his own business, invented, executed, and advanced until, after twelve years of dedicated work, he was inducted into the Great British Legion of Honour, the Legion of the Rebuffed of the Circumlocution Office, and was awarded the Great British Order of Merit, the Order of the Disorder of the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings.
‘It is much to be regretted,’ said Clennam, ‘that you ever turned your thoughts that way, Mr Doyce.’
“It’s really too bad,” said Clennam, “that you ever considered that, Mr. Doyce.”
‘True, sir, true to a certain extent. But what is a man to do? if he has the misfortune to strike out something serviceable to the nation, he must follow where it leads him.’
'It's true, sir, to some extent. But what is a man supposed to do? If he happens to come up with something useful for the country, he has to go where it takes him.'
‘Hadn’t he better let it go?’ said Clennam.
“Shouldn’t he just let it go?” said Clennam.
‘He can’t do it,’ said Doyce, shaking his head with a thoughtful smile. ‘It’s not put into his head to be buried. It’s put into his head to be made useful. You hold your life on the condition that to the last you shall struggle hard for it. Every man holds a discovery on the same terms.’
‘He can’t do it,’ Doyce said, shaking his head with a thoughtful smile. ‘He hasn’t considered being buried. He’s meant to be useful. You keep your life on the condition that you’ll fight hard for it until the end. Every person has a discovery on those same terms.’
‘That is to say,’ said Arthur, with a growing admiration of his quiet companion, ‘you are not finally discouraged even now?’
"That is to say," Arthur said, growing more impressed with his quiet companion, "you're not completely discouraged even now?"
‘I have no right to be, if I am,’ returned the other. ‘The thing is as true as it ever was.’
‘I shouldn’t be here if I am,’ the other replied. ‘What I’m saying is just as true as it ever was.’
When they had walked a little way in silence, Clennam, at once to change the direct point of their conversation and not to change it too abruptly, asked Mr Doyce if he had any partner in his business to relieve him of a portion of its anxieties?
As they walked in silence for a bit, Clennam, wanting to shift the focus of their conversation without making it feel too sudden, asked Mr. Doyce if he had a partner in his business to help share some of the worries.
‘No,’ he returned, ‘not at present. I had when I first entered on it, and a good man he was. But he has been dead some years; and as I could not easily take to the notion of another when I lost him, I bought his share for myself and have gone on by myself ever since. And here’s another thing,’ he said, stopping for a moment with a good-humoured laugh in his eyes, and laying his closed right hand, with its peculiar suppleness of thumb, on Clennam’s arm, ‘no inventor can be a man of business, you know.’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘not right now. I did when I first started, and he was a good man. But he's been gone for a few years now, and since I couldn’t easily adjust to the idea of someone else after losing him, I bought his share for myself and have been doing it alone ever since. And here's something else,’ he said, pausing for a moment with a friendly laugh in his eyes, placing his flexible right hand, with its unique thumb, on Clennam’s arm, ‘no inventor can be someone who's good at business, you know.’
‘No?’ said Clennam.
"No?" said Clennam.
‘Why, so the men of business say,’ he answered, resuming the walk and laughing outright. ‘I don’t know why we unfortunate creatures should be supposed to want common sense, but it is generally taken for granted that we do. Even the best friend I have in the world, our excellent friend over yonder,’ said Doyce, nodding towards Twickenham, ‘extends a sort of protection to me, don’t you know, as a man not quite able to take care of himself?’
"Why, that's what the business folks say," he replied, starting to walk again and laughing out loud. "I don't know why we unfortunate souls are expected to have common sense, but people generally assume we do. Even my best friend in the world, our great friend over there," Doyce said, nodding toward Twickenham, "offers me a kind of protection, you see, as a guy who's not really able to look after himself?"
Arthur Clennam could not help joining in the good-humoured laugh, for he recognised the truth of the description.
Arthur Clennam couldn't help but join in the good-natured laugh because he saw the truth in the description.
‘So I find that I must have a partner who is a man of business and not guilty of any inventions,’ said Daniel Doyce, taking off his hat to pass his hand over his forehead, ‘if it’s only in deference to the current opinion, and to uphold the credit of the Works. I don’t think he’ll find that I have been very remiss or confused in my way of conducting them; but that’s for him to say—whoever he is—not for me.’
‘So I realize that I need a partner who is a businessman and not involved in any inventions,’ said Daniel Doyce, taking off his hat to run his hand over his forehead, ‘if only to respect current opinions and maintain the reputation of the Works. I don't think he'll find that I've been careless or unclear in how I've managed them; but that’s for him to decide—whoever he is—not for me.’
‘You have not chosen him yet, then?’
‘So, you haven’t picked him yet, right?’
‘No, sir, no. I have only just come to a decision to take one. The fact is, there’s more to do than there used to be, and the Works are enough for me as I grow older. What with the books and correspondence, and foreign journeys for which a Principal is necessary, I can’t do all. I am going to talk over the best way of negotiating the matter, if I find a spare half-hour between this and Monday morning, with my—my Nurse and protector,’ said Doyce, with laughing eyes again. ‘He is a sagacious man in business, and has had a good apprenticeship to it.’
‘No, sir, no. I’ve just decided to take one. The truth is, there’s a lot more to do than there used to be, and the projects are enough for me as I get older. With the books, correspondence, and the trips abroad that a Principal is needed for, I can’t handle everything. I'm going to discuss the best way to manage this if I can find a free half-hour between now and Monday morning, with my—my Nurse and protector,’ said Doyce, with a twinkle in his eye again. ‘He’s a wise man in business and has had good training for it.’
After this, they conversed on different subjects until they arrived at their journey’s end. A composed and unobtrusive self-sustainment was noticeable in Daniel Doyce—a calm knowledge that what was true must remain true, in spite of all the Barnacles in the family ocean, and would be just the truth, and neither more nor less when even that sea had run dry—which had a kind of greatness in it, though not of the official quality.
After that, they talked about various topics until they reached their destination. A quiet and modest self-reliance was evident in Daniel Doyce—a steady understanding that the truth would always be the truth, no matter how many obstacles the Barnacles posed in their lives, and that it would remain simply the truth, whether or not that sea ever dried up—this had a certain greatness to it, though it wasn't the typical kind of greatness.
As he knew the house well, he conducted Arthur to it by the way that showed it to the best advantage. It was a charming place (none the worse for being a little eccentric), on the road by the river, and just what the residence of the Meagles family ought to be. It stood in a garden, no doubt as fresh and beautiful in the May of the Year as Pet now was in the May of her life; and it was defended by a goodly show of handsome trees and spreading evergreens, as Pet was by Mr and Mrs Meagles. It was made out of an old brick house, of which a part had been altogether pulled down, and another part had been changed into the present cottage; so there was a hale elderly portion, to represent Mr and Mrs Meagles, and a young picturesque, very pretty portion to represent Pet. There was even the later addition of a conservatory sheltering itself against it, uncertain of hue in its deep-stained glass, and in its more transparent portions flashing to the sun’s rays, now like fire and now like harmless water drops; which might have stood for Tattycoram. Within view was the peaceful river and the ferry-boat, to moralise to all the inmates saying: Young or old, passionate or tranquil, chafing or content, you, thus runs the current always. Let the heart swell into what discord it will, thus plays the rippling water on the prow of the ferry-boat ever the same tune. Year after year, so much allowance for the drifting of the boat, so many miles an hour the flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet, upon this road that steadily runs away; while you, upon your flowing road of time, are so capricious and distracted.
Since he knew the house well, he took Arthur to it along the route that showed it off best. It was a lovely place (made even better by its quirky features), on the road by the river, and exactly what the Meagles family’s home should be. It sat in a garden, surely as fresh and beautiful in May as Pet was in her own springtime of life; and it was protected by a lovely array of tall trees and sprawling evergreens, just as Pet was guarded by Mr. and Mrs. Meagles. It was made from an old brick house, with part of it completely torn down, and another part transformed into the present cottage; so there was a sturdy, older section, representing Mr. and Mrs. Meagles, and a young, picturesque, very pretty section representing Pet. There was even a later addition of a conservatory clinging to it, with its stained glass varying in color, and in its clearer sections sparkling in the sun, now like fire and now like harmless droplets of water; which could symbolize Tattycoram. In sight was the calm river and the ferry boat, reminding everyone inside: Young or old, passionate or calm, restless or content, this is how the current always flows. No matter how chaotic your heart may feel, the rippling water at the front of the ferry boat plays the same tune. Year after year, with a bit of leeway for the drifting boat, and a steady speed of the flowing stream, here the reeds, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or restless on this path that steadily disappears; while you, on your flowing journey of time, are so unpredictable and distracted.
The bell at the gate had scarcely sounded when Mr Meagles came out to receive them. Mr Meagles had scarcely come out, when Mrs Meagles came out. Mrs Meagles had scarcely come out, when Pet came out. Pet scarcely had come out, when Tattycoram came out. Never had visitors a more hospitable reception.
The bell at the gate had barely rung when Mr. Meagles stepped out to welcome them. Just as Mr. Meagles came out, Mrs. Meagles followed. As soon as Mrs. Meagles came out, Pet appeared. Hardly had Pet come out when Tattycoram emerged. Visitors had never received a warmer welcome.
‘Here we are, you see,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘boxed up, Mr Clennam, within our own home-limits, as if we were never going to expand—that is, travel—again. Not like Marseilles, eh? No allonging and marshonging here!’
‘Here we are, you see,’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘stuck in our own home, Mr. Clennam, as if we’re never going to go anywhere again. Not like Marseilles, right? No long trips or wandering around here!’
‘A different kind of beauty, indeed!’ said Clennam, looking about him.
‘A different kind of beauty, for sure!’ said Clennam, looking around.
‘But, Lord bless me!’ cried Mr Meagles, rubbing his hands with a relish, ‘it was an uncommonly pleasant thing being in quarantine, wasn’t it? Do you know, I have often wished myself back again? We were a capital party.’
‘But, oh my goodness!’ exclaimed Mr. Meagles, rubbing his hands with delight, ‘it was really quite nice being in quarantine, wasn’t it? You know, I've often wished I could go back to that time. We were a fantastic group.’
This was Mr Meagles’s invariable habit. Always to object to everything while he was travelling, and always to want to get back to it when he was not travelling.
This was Mr. Meagles’s consistent habit. He always complained about everything while he was traveling and always wanted to return to it when he wasn't.
‘If it was summer-time,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘which I wish it was on your account, and in order that you might see the place at its best, you would hardly be able to hear yourself speak for birds. Being practical people, we never allow anybody to scare the birds; and the birds, being practical people too, come about us in myriads. We are delighted to see you, Clennam (if you’ll allow me, I shall drop the Mister); I heartily assure you, we are delighted.’
"If it were summer," said Mr. Meagles, "which I wish it were for your sake, so you could see the place at its best, you would barely be able to hear yourself over the birds. Being practical people, we never let anyone scare the birds; and since the birds are practical too, they come to us in droves. We’re thrilled to have you here, Clennam (if it’s alright with you, I’ll just call you by your first name); I really mean it, we’re so happy to see you."
‘I have not had so pleasant a greeting,’ said Clennam—then he recalled what Little Dorrit had said to him in his own room, and faithfully added ‘except once—since we last walked to and fro, looking down at the Mediterranean.’
“I haven’t had such a nice greeting,” Clennam said—then he remembered what Little Dorrit had told him in his room and honestly added, “except for one time—since we last walked back and forth, looking down at the Mediterranean.”
‘Ah!’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘Something like a look out, that was, wasn’t it? I don’t want a military government, but I shouldn’t mind a little allonging and marshonging—just a dash of it—in this neighbourhood sometimes. It’s Devilish still.’
‘Ah!’ replied Mr. Meagles. ‘That was quite a view, wasn’t it? I’m not in favor of a military government, but I wouldn’t mind a little bit of order and organization—just a touch of it—in this neighborhood sometimes. It’s incredibly quiet.’
Bestowing this eulogium on the retired character of his retreat with a dubious shake of the head, Mr Meagles led the way into the house. It was just large enough, and no more; was as pretty within as it was without, and was perfectly well-arranged and comfortable. Some traces of the migratory habits of the family were to be observed in the covered frames and furniture, and wrapped-up hangings; but it was easy to see that it was one of Mr Meagles’s whims to have the cottage always kept, in their absence, as if they were always coming back the day after to-morrow. Of articles collected on his various expeditions, there was such a vast miscellany that it was like the dwelling of an amiable Corsair. There were antiquities from Central Italy, made by the best modern houses in that department of industry; bits of mummy from Egypt (and perhaps Birmingham); model gondolas from Venice; model villages from Switzerland; morsels of tesselated pavement from Herculaneum and Pompeii, like petrified minced veal; ashes out of tombs, and lava out of Vesuvius; Spanish fans, Spezzian straw hats, Moorish slippers, Tuscan hairpins, Carrara sculpture, Trastaverini scarves, Genoese velvets and filigree, Neapolitan coral, Roman cameos, Geneva jewellery, Arab lanterns, rosaries blest all round by the Pope himself, and an infinite variety of lumber. There were views, like and unlike, of a multitude of places; and there was one little picture-room devoted to a few of the regular sticky old Saints, with sinews like whipcord, hair like Neptune’s, wrinkles like tattooing, and such coats of varnish that every holy personage served for a fly-trap, and became what is now called in the vulgar tongue a Catch-em-alive O. Of these pictorial acquisitions Mr Meagles spoke in the usual manner. He was no judge, he said, except of what pleased himself; he had picked them up, dirt-cheap, and people had considered them rather fine. One man, who at any rate ought to know something of the subject, had declared that ‘Sage, Reading’ (a specially oily old gentleman in a blanket, with a swan’s-down tippet for a beard, and a web of cracks all over him like rich pie-crust), to be a fine Guercino. As for Sebastian del Piombo there, you would judge for yourself; if it were not his later manner, the question was, Who was it? Titian, that might or might not be—perhaps he had only touched it. Daniel Doyce said perhaps he hadn’t touched it, but Mr Meagles rather declined to overhear the remark.
Giving a half-hearted acknowledgment to the retired charm of his getaway, Mr. Meagles led the way into the house. It was just the right size, looking just as beautiful inside as it did outside, and it was arranged comfortably. Some signs of the family's traveling lifestyle were noticeable in the covered frames and furniture, as well as the wrapped-up decorations; but it was clear that it was one of Mr. Meagles's quirks to keep the cottage looking as if they were always returning the day after tomorrow. The collection of items he gathered on his various trips was so diverse that it resembled the home of a friendly pirate. There were antiques from Central Italy, crafted by the finest modern artisans; pieces of mummy from Egypt (and maybe Birmingham); model gondolas from Venice; little villages from Switzerland; bits of mosaic pavement from Herculaneum and Pompeii, resembling dried-up minced meat; ashes from tombs, and lava from Vesuvius; Spanish fans, straw hats from Spezia, Moorish slippers, Tuscan hairpins, Carrara sculptures, Trastaverini scarves, Genoese velvets and filigree, Neapolitan coral, Roman cameos, Geneva jewelry, Arab lanterns, rosaries blessed by the Pope himself, and an endless variety of odds and ends. There were views, similar and different, from a multitude of places, and one small picture room filled with the usual old Saints, sporting sinewy bodies like whipcord, hair like Neptune, wrinkles like tattoos, and with such thick varnish that every holy figure doubled as a flytrap, what people today might call a Catch-em-alive O. Regarding these artistic finds, Mr. Meagles spoke in his typical fashion. He claimed he wasn’t a connoisseur, except for what he liked; he had picked them up for a bargain, and folks had thought they were quite impressive. One man, who should have known something about the subject, had declared that ‘Sage, Reading’ (an especially greasy old guy in a blanket, with a swan-down tippet for a beard, and a web of cracks all over him like rich pie crust), was a fine Guercino. As for Sebastian del Piombo there, you could make your own judgment; if it weren’t his later style, the question was, Who painted it? Titian, maybe—he could have just touched it. Daniel Doyce suggested maybe he hadn’t touched it at all, but Mr. Meagles preferred not to acknowledge that comment.
When he had shown all his spoils, Mr Meagles took them into his own snug room overlooking the lawn, which was fitted up in part like a dressing-room and in part like an office, and in which, upon a kind of counter-desk, were a pair of brass scales for weighing gold, and a scoop for shovelling out money.
When he had displayed all his treasures, Mr. Meagles took them into his cozy room that looked out over the lawn. The room was part dressing room and part office, and on a kind of counter-desk, there were brass scales for weighing gold and a scoop for shoveling out money.
‘Here they are, you see,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘I stood behind these two articles five-and-thirty years running, when I no more thought of gadding about than I now think of—staying at home. When I left the Bank for good, I asked for them, and brought them away with me. I mention it at once, or you might suppose that I sit in my counting-house (as Pet says I do), like the king in the poem of the four-and-twenty blackbirds, counting out my money.’
‘Here they are, you see,’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘I stood behind these two items for thirty-five years, when I had no more thought of wandering about than I do now of—staying at home. When I left the Bank for good, I asked for them and took them with me. I mention it right away, or you might think I spend my time in my office (as Pet says I do), like the king in the poem about the twenty-four blackbirds, counting out my money.’
Clennam’s eyes had strayed to a natural picture on the wall, of two pretty little girls with their arms entwined. ‘Yes, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, in a lower voice. ‘There they both are. It was taken some seventeen years ago. As I often say to Mother, they were babies then.’
Clennam's gaze had wandered to a charming picture on the wall, featuring two cute little girls with their arms wrapped around each other. 'Yes, Clennam,' Mr. Meagles replied, lowering his voice. 'There they both are. It was taken about seventeen years ago. As I often tell Mother, they were just babies back then.'
‘Their names?’ said Arthur.
"Their names?" Arthur asked.
‘Ah, to be sure! You have never heard any name but Pet. Pet’s name is Minnie; her sister’s Lillie.’
‘Oh, for sure! You’ve only ever heard the name Pet. Pet’s real name is Minnie; her sister's name is Lillie.’
‘Should you have known, Mr Clennam, that one of them was meant for me?’ asked Pet herself, now standing in the doorway.
‘Should you have known, Mr. Clennam, that one of them was meant for me?’ asked Pet herself, now standing in the doorway.
‘I might have thought that both of them were meant for you, both are still so like you. Indeed,’ said Clennam, glancing from the fair original to the picture and back, ‘I cannot even now say which is not your portrait.’
"I might have thought that both of them were made for you; they are both still so much like you. Indeed," Clennam said, looking from the real person to the picture and back again, "I can't even say now which one isn’t your portrait."
‘D’ye hear that, Mother?’ cried Mr Meagles to his wife, who had followed her daughter. ‘It’s always the same, Clennam; nobody can decide. The child to your left is Pet.’
‘Do you hear that, Mother?’ Mr. Meagles shouted to his wife, who had followed their daughter. ‘It’s always the same, Clennam; nobody can make a decision. The child to your left is Pet.’
The picture happened to be near a looking-glass. As Arthur looked at it again, he saw, by the reflection of the mirror, Tattycoram stop in passing outside the door, listen to what was going on, and pass away with an angry and contemptuous frown upon her face, that changed its beauty into ugliness.
The picture was near a mirror. When Arthur looked at it again, he saw in the reflection that Tattycoram had paused outside the door, listened to what was happening, and walked away with an angry and scornful expression that turned her beauty into something ugly.
‘But come!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘You have had a long walk, and will be glad to get your boots off. As to Daniel here, I suppose he’d never think of taking his boots off, unless we showed him a boot-jack.’
‘But come on!’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘You’ve had a long walk and will be glad to take your boots off. As for Daniel here, I bet he wouldn’t even think about taking his boots off unless we showed him a boot-jack.’
‘Why not?’ asked Daniel, with a significant smile at Clennam.
‘Why not?’ asked Daniel, smiling meaningfully at Clennam.
‘Oh! You have so many things to think about,’ returned Mr Meagles, clapping him on the shoulder, as if his weakness must not be left to itself on any account. ‘Figures, and wheels, and cogs, and levers, and screws, and cylinders, and a thousand things.’
‘Oh! You have so much on your mind,’ said Mr. Meagles, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder, as if he couldn’t be left to deal with it all alone. ‘Numbers, gears, and cogs, and levers, and screws, and cylinders, and a million other things.’
‘In my calling,’ said Daniel, amused, ‘the greater usually includes the less. But never mind, never mind! Whatever pleases you, pleases me.’
‘In my job,’ said Daniel, chuckling, ‘the bigger usually includes the smaller. But it’s all good, it’s all good! Whatever makes you happy makes me happy.’
Clennam could not help speculating, as he seated himself in his room by the fire, whether there might be in the breast of this honest, affectionate, and cordial Mr Meagles, any microscopic portion of the mustard-seed that had sprung up into the great tree of the Circumlocution Office. His curious sense of a general superiority to Daniel Doyce, which seemed to be founded, not so much on anything in Doyce’s personal character as on the mere fact of his being an originator and a man out of the beaten track of other men, suggested the idea. It might have occupied him until he went down to dinner an hour afterwards, if he had not had another question to consider, which had been in his mind so long ago as before he was in quarantine at Marseilles, and which had now returned to it, and was very urgent with it. No less a question than this: Whether he should allow himself to fall in love with Pet?
Clennam couldn’t help but wonder, as he settled into his room by the fire, if there was a tiny bit of the mustard seed that had grown into the vast tree of the Circumlocution Office inside the honest, warm-hearted Mr. Meagles. His strange feeling of being generally superior to Daniel Doyce seemed to be less about anything in Doyce’s character and more about the simple fact that Doyce was an innovator and someone who paved his own path. This thought might have kept him occupied until dinner an hour later if he hadn’t been troubled by another question that had lingered since before his quarantine in Marseilles, which had now returned with a new urgency. It was no less than this: Should he let himself fall in love with Pet?
He was twice her age. (He changed the leg he had crossed over the other, and tried the calculation again, but could not bring out the total at less.) He was twice her age. Well! He was young in appearance, young in health and strength, young in heart. A man was certainly not old at forty; and many men were not in circumstances to marry, or did not marry, until they had attained that time of life. On the other hand, the question was, not what he thought of the point, but what she thought of it.
He was twice her age. (He shifted the leg he had crossed over the other and tried the calculation again, but he couldn’t get a lower total.) He was twice her age. Well! He looked young, was healthy and strong, and had a youthful spirit. A man definitely isn’t old at forty; many men aren’t in a position to marry, or don’t marry, until they reach that age. However, the real question wasn’t what he thought about it, but what she thought.
He believed that Mr Meagles was disposed to entertain a ripe regard for him, and he knew that he had a sincere regard for Mr Meagles and his good wife. He could foresee that to relinquish this beautiful only child, of whom they were so fond, to any husband, would be a trial of their love which perhaps they never yet had had the fortitude to contemplate. But the more beautiful and winning and charming she, the nearer they must always be to the necessity of approaching it. And why not in his favour, as well as in another’s?
He thought Mr. Meagles really liked him, and he knew he genuinely cared for Mr. Meagles and his lovely wife. He could imagine that letting go of their precious only daughter, whom they adored, to any husband would be a challenge for their love that they might not have had the strength to consider before. But the more beautiful and enchanting she was, the closer they would inevitably have to face that reality. And why shouldn't it be in his favor, just like anyone else’s?
When he had got so far, it came again into his head that the question was, not what they thought of it, but what she thought of it.
When he got to that point, it occurred to him again that the important question was not what they thought about it, but what she thought about it.
Arthur Clennam was a retiring man, with a sense of many deficiencies; and he so exalted the merits of the beautiful Minnie in his mind, and depressed his own, that when he pinned himself to this point, his hopes began to fail him. He came to the final resolution, as he made himself ready for dinner, that he would not allow himself to fall in love with Pet.
Arthur Clennam was a reserved man, aware of many shortcomings; he held the lovely Minnie in such high regard while putting himself down so much that when he focused on this, his hopes started to fade. As he got ready for dinner, he made a final decision: he wouldn’t let himself fall in love with Pet.
There were only five, at a round table, and it was very pleasant indeed. They had so many places and people to recall, and they were all so easy and cheerful together (Daniel Doyce either sitting out like an amused spectator at cards, or coming in with some shrewd little experiences of his own, when it happened to be to the purpose), that they might have been together twenty times, and not have known so much of one another.
There were just five of them at a round table, and it was really nice. They had a lot of memories and people to talk about, and they all got along easily and cheerfully (Daniel Doyce either sitting off to the side like a curious spectator at cards or joining in with some clever little stories of his own when it was relevant). It was as if they could have met twenty times and still not know as much about each other.
‘And Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, after they had recalled a number of fellow-travellers. ‘Has anybody seen Miss Wade?’
‘And Miss Wade,’ said Mr. Meagles, after they had remembered a number of fellow travelers. ‘Has anyone seen Miss Wade?’
‘I have,’ said Tattycoram.
"I have," said Tattycoram.
She had brought a little mantle which her young mistress had sent for, and was bending over her, putting it on, when she lifted up her dark eyes and made this unexpected answer.
She had brought a small cloak that her young mistress had requested, and was leaning over her, putting it on, when she lifted her dark eyes and gave this surprising response.
‘Tatty!’ her young mistress exclaimed. ‘You seen Miss Wade?—where?’
‘Tatty!’ her young mistress exclaimed. ‘Have you seen Miss Wade?—where?’
‘Here, miss,’ said Tattycoram.
"Here you go, miss," said Tattycoram.
‘How?’
‘How?’
An impatient glance from Tattycoram seemed, as Clennam saw it, to answer ‘With my eyes!’ But her only answer in words was: ‘I met her near the church.’
An impatient glance from Tattycoram seemed, as Clennam saw it, to say, ‘With my eyes!’ But her only spoken response was: ‘I saw her by the church.’
‘What was she doing there I wonder!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Not going to it, I should think.’
‘What was she doing there, I wonder!’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘I don’t think she was going to it.’
‘She had written to me first,’ said Tattycoram.
‘She had written to me first,’ Tattycoram said.
‘Oh, Tatty!’ murmured her mistress, ‘take your hands away. I feel as if some one else was touching me!’
‘Oh, Tatty!’ whispered her mistress, ‘take your hands away. It feels like someone else is touching me!’
She said it in a quick involuntary way, but half playfully, and not more petulantly or disagreeably than a favourite child might have done, who laughed next moment. Tattycoram set her full red lips together, and crossed her arms upon her bosom.
She said it quickly and without thinking, but also a bit playfully, and not more irritably or unpleasantly than a favorite child might have, who laughed just a moment later. Tattycoram pressed her full red lips together and crossed her arms over her chest.
‘Did you wish to know, sir,’ she said, looking at Mr Meagles, ‘what Miss Wade wrote to me about?’
“Did you want to know, sir,” she said, looking at Mr. Meagles, “what Miss Wade wrote to me about?”
‘Well, Tattycoram,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘since you ask the question, and we are all friends here, perhaps you may as well mention it, if you are so inclined.’
‘Well, Tattycoram,’ Mr. Meagles replied, ‘since you're asking, and since we’re all friends here, you might as well bring it up if you feel like it.’
‘She knew, when we were travelling, where you lived,’ said Tattycoram, ‘and she had seen me not quite—not quite—’
‘She knew, when we were traveling, where you lived,’ said Tattycoram, ‘and she had seen me not really—not really—’
‘Not quite in a good temper, Tattycoram?’ suggested Mr Meagles, shaking his head at the dark eyes with a quiet caution. ‘Take a little time—count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’
‘Not really in a good mood, Tattycoram?’ suggested Mr. Meagles, shaking his head at her dark eyes with a gentle warning. ‘Take a moment—count to twenty-five, Tattycoram.’
She pressed her lips together again, and took a long deep breath.
She pressed her lips together once more and took a long, deep breath.
‘So she wrote to me to say that if I ever felt myself hurt,’ she looked down at her young mistress, ‘or found myself worried,’ she looked down at her again, ‘I might go to her, and be considerately treated. I was to think of it, and could speak to her by the church. So I went there to thank her.’
‘So she wrote to me to say that if I ever felt hurt,’ she looked down at her young mistress, ‘or found myself worried,’ she looked down at her again, ‘I could go to her, and she would treat me kindly. I was told to think about it and that I could talk to her by the church. So I went there to thank her.’
‘Tatty,’ said her young mistress, putting her hand up over her shoulder that the other might take it, ‘Miss Wade almost frightened me when we parted, and I scarcely like to think of her just now as having been so near me without my knowing it. Tatty dear!’
‘Tatty,’ said her young mistress, raising her hand over her shoulder for the other to take it, ‘Miss Wade almost scared me when we said goodbye, and I hardly like to think of her having been so close to me just now without me realizing it. Tatty dear!’
Tatty stood for a moment, immovable.
Tatty stood still for a moment.
‘Hey?’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Count another five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’
‘Hey?’ shouted Mr. Meagles. ‘Count another twenty-five, Tattycoram.’
She might have counted a dozen, when she bent and put her lips to the caressing hand. It patted her cheek, as it touched the owner’s beautiful curls, and Tattycoram went away.
She might have counted to twelve when she bent down and kissed the gentle hand. It patted her cheek as it brushed the owner’s lovely curls, and Tattycoram walked away.
‘Now there,’ said Mr Meagles softly, as he gave a turn to the dumb-waiter on his right hand to twirl the sugar towards himself. ‘There’s a girl who might be lost and ruined, if she wasn’t among practical people. Mother and I know, solely from being practical, that there are times when that girl’s whole nature seems to roughen itself against seeing us so bound up in Pet. No father and mother were bound up in her, poor soul. I don’t like to think of the way in which that unfortunate child, with all that passion and protest in her, feels when she hears the Fifth Commandment on a Sunday. I am always inclined to call out, Church, Count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’
“Now there,” Mr. Meagles said softly, as he turned the dumbwaiter on his right to bring the sugar closer to him. “There’s a girl who could end up lost and ruined if she wasn’t around practical people. My mother and I know, just from being practical, that there are times when that girl’s entire personality seems to bristle at seeing us so focused on Pet. No father and mother are as invested in her, poor thing. I don’t like to think about how that unfortunate child, with all her passion and frustration, feels when she hears the Fifth Commandment on a Sunday. I always want to shout, Church, count twenty-five, Tattycoram.”
Besides his dumb-waiter, Mr Meagles had two other not dumb waiters in the persons of two parlour-maids with rosy faces and bright eyes, who were a highly ornamental part of the table decoration. ‘And why not, you see?’ said Mr Meagles on this head. ‘As I always say to Mother, why not have something pretty to look at, if you have anything at all?’
Besides his dumb waiter, Mr. Meagles had two other non-dumb waiters in the form of two parlor maids with rosy faces and bright eyes, who added a nice touch to the table decor. "And why not, you see?" said Mr. Meagles on this matter. "As I always say to Mother, why not have something pretty to look at if you have anything at all?"
A certain Mrs Tickit, who was Cook and Housekeeper when the family were at home, and Housekeeper only when the family were away, completed the establishment. Mr Meagles regretted that the nature of the duties in which she was engaged, rendered Mrs Tickit unpresentable at present, but hoped to introduce her to the new visitor to-morrow. She was an important part of the Cottage, he said, and all his friends knew her. That was her picture up in the corner. When they went away, she always put on the silk-gown and the jet-black row of curls represented in that portrait (her hair was reddish-grey in the kitchen), established herself in the breakfast-room, put her spectacles between two particular leaves of Doctor Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, and sat looking over the blind all day until they came back again. It was supposed that no persuasion could be invented which would induce Mrs Tickit to abandon her post at the blind, however long their absence, or to dispense with the attendance of Dr Buchan; the lucubrations of which learned practitioner, Mr Meagles implicitly believed she had never yet consulted to the extent of one word in her life.
A certain Mrs. Tickit, who was the cook and housekeeper when the family was home and only the housekeeper when they were away, rounded out the household. Mr. Meagles regretted that her responsibilities made her unpresentable at the moment, but he hoped to introduce her to the new visitor tomorrow. He said she was an important part of the Cottage, and all his friends knew her. That was her picture up in the corner. When the family went away, she always wore the silk gown and the jet-black curls shown in that portrait (her hair was reddish-gray in the kitchen), settled herself in the breakfast room, placed her glasses between two specific pages of Dr. Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, and spent the whole day looking out the window until they returned. It was believed that no amount of persuasion could make Mrs. Tickit leave her post by the window, no matter how long they were gone, or do without Dr. Buchan’s attendance; although Mr. Meagles firmly believed she had never consulted any of his scholarly writings even once in her life.
In the evening they played an old-fashioned rubber; and Pet sat looking over her father’s hand, or singing to herself by fits and starts at the piano. She was a spoilt child; but how could she be otherwise? Who could be much with so pliable and beautiful a creature, and not yield to her endearing influence? Who could pass an evening in the house, and not love her for the grace and charm of her very presence in the room? This was Clennam’s reflection, notwithstanding the final conclusion at which he had arrived up-stairs.
In the evening, they played an old-fashioned rubber, and Pet sat watching her dad's hand or singing to herself every now and then at the piano. She was a spoiled child, but how could she not be? Who could spend time with such a charming and beautiful girl and not give in to her affectionate vibes? Who could spend an evening in the house and not adore her for the grace and charm she brought simply by being there? This was Clennam’s thought, despite the final conclusion he had reached upstairs.
In making it, he revoked. ‘Why, what are you thinking of, my good sir?’ asked the astonished Mr Meagles, who was his partner. ‘I beg your pardon. Nothing,’ returned Clennam. ‘Think of something, next time; that’s a dear fellow,’ said Mr Meagles. Pet laughingly believed he had been thinking of Miss Wade. ‘Why of Miss Wade, Pet?’ asked her father. ‘Why, indeed!’ said Arthur Clennam. Pet coloured a little, and went to the piano again.
In making that statement, he took it back. “What on earth are you thinking, my good man?” asked the surprised Mr. Meagles, who was his partner. “I’m sorry. Nothing,” Clennam replied. “You should think of something next time, my friend,” said Mr. Meagles. Pet jokingly thought he had been thinking about Miss Wade. “Why about Miss Wade, Pet?” her father asked. “Good question!” Arthur Clennam said. Pet blushed a bit and went back to the piano.
As they broke up for the night, Arthur overheard Doyce ask his host if he could give him half an hour’s conversation before breakfast in the morning? The host replying willingly, Arthur lingered behind a moment, having his own word to add to that topic.
As they wrapped up for the night, Arthur heard Doyce ask his host if he could have a half-hour chat before breakfast the next morning. The host responded positively, and Arthur stayed back for a moment, wanting to contribute to that discussion.
‘Mr Meagles,’ he said, on their being left alone, ‘do you remember when you advised me to go straight to London?’
‘Mr. Meagles,’ he said, once they were alone, ‘do you remember when you suggested I head directly to London?’
‘Perfectly well.’
'Absolutely fine.'
‘And when you gave me some other good advice which I needed at that time?’
‘And when you gave me some other good advice that I needed back then?’
‘I won’t say what it was worth,’ answered Mr Meagles: ‘but of course I remember our being very pleasant and confidential together.’
‘I won’t say what it was worth,’ replied Mr. Meagles, ‘but I do remember that we had a very nice and open conversation together.’
‘I have acted on your advice; and having disembarrassed myself of an occupation that was painful to me for many reasons, wish to devote myself and what means I have, to another pursuit.’
‘I took your advice and got rid of a job that was painful for me for many reasons. I want to dedicate myself and the resources I have to something else.’
‘Right! You can’t do it too soon,’ said Mr Meagles.
“Right! You can’t do it too soon,” Mr. Meagles said.
‘Now, as I came down to-day, I found that your friend, Mr Doyce, is looking for a partner in his business—not a partner in his mechanical knowledge, but in the ways and means of turning the business arising from it to the best account.’
‘Now, as I came down today, I found out that your friend, Mr. Doyce, is looking for a partner in his business—not someone to share his technical knowledge, but someone who can help make the most of the business opportunities that come from it.’
‘Just so,’ said Mr Meagles, with his hands in his pockets, and with the old business expression of face that had belonged to the scales and scoop.
‘Exactly,’ said Mr. Meagles, with his hands in his pockets and the same old expression on his face that came from the scales and scoop.
‘Mr Doyce mentioned incidentally, in the course of our conversation, that he was going to take your valuable advice on the subject of finding such a partner. If you should think our views and opportunities at all likely to coincide, perhaps you will let him know my available position. I speak, of course, in ignorance of the details, and they may be unsuitable on both sides.’
‘Mr. Doyce mentioned casually during our conversation that he was going to take your valuable advice on finding such a partner. If you think our ideas and opportunities might match up, maybe you could let him know my availability. I’m speaking, of course, without knowing all the details, and they might not work for either of us.’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Mr Meagles, with the caution belonging to the scales and scoop.
'Definitely, definitely,' said Mr. Meagles, with the carefulness that comes with weighing and measuring.
‘But they will be a question of figures and accounts—’
‘But they will be a matter of numbers and finances—’
‘Just so, just so,’ said Mr Meagles, with arithmetical solidity belonging to the scales and scoop.
‘Exactly, exactly,’ said Mr. Meagles, with the mathematical precision of the scales and scoop.
‘—And I shall be glad to enter into the subject, provided Mr Doyce responds, and you think well of it. If you will at present, therefore, allow me to place it in your hands, you will much oblige me.’
‘—I’d be happy to discuss the matter, as long as Mr. Doyce agrees, and you approve. So for now, if you could take it into your hands, I would really appreciate it.’
‘Clennam, I accept the trust with readiness,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘And without anticipating any of the points which you, as a man of business, have of course reserved, I am free to say to you that I think something may come of this. Of one thing you may be perfectly certain. Daniel is an honest man.’
‘Clennam, I'm glad to accept the trust,’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘And without getting into any of the details that you, as a businessman, have understandably held back, I can confidently tell you that I believe something good may come from this. One thing you can be completely sure of is that Daniel is an honest man.’
‘I am so sure of it that I have promptly made up my mind to speak to you.’
‘I’m so sure of it that I’ve decided to talk to you right away.’
‘You must guide him, you know; you must steer him; you must direct him; he is one of a crotchety sort,’ said Mr Meagles, evidently meaning nothing more than that he did new things and went new ways; ‘but he is as honest as the sun, and so good night!’
‘You have to guide him, you know; you have to steer him; you have to direct him; he’s a bit difficult,’ Mr. Meagles said, clearly meaning nothing more than that he tried new things and explored new paths; ‘but he’s as honest as the sun, so good night!’
Clennam went back to his room, sat down again before his fire, and made up his mind that he was glad he had resolved not to fall in love with Pet. She was so beautiful, so amiable, so apt to receive any true impression given to her gentle nature and her innocent heart, and make the man who should be so happy as to communicate it, the most fortunate and enviable of all men, that he was very glad indeed he had come to that conclusion.
Clennam went back to his room, sat down again in front of his fire, and decided that he was glad he had chosen not to fall in love with Pet. She was so beautiful, so kind, and so likely to genuinely appreciate any sincere feelings directed at her gentle nature and innocent heart, making the man lucky enough to share them the most fortunate and enviable of all men. He felt very relieved that he had come to that conclusion.
But, as this might have been a reason for coming to the opposite conclusion, he followed out the theme again a little way in his mind; to justify himself, perhaps.
But, since this could have led to a different conclusion, he explored the idea a bit further in his mind; maybe to justify his actions.
‘Suppose that a man,’ so his thoughts ran, ‘who had been of age some twenty years or so; who was a diffident man, from the circumstances of his youth; who was rather a grave man, from the tenor of his life; who knew himself to be deficient in many little engaging qualities which he admired in others, from having been long in a distant region, with nothing softening near him; who had no kind sisters to present to her; who had no congenial home to make her known in; who was a stranger in the land; who had not a fortune to compensate, in any measure, for these defects; who had nothing in his favour but his honest love and his general wish to do right—suppose such a man were to come to this house, and were to yield to the captivation of this charming girl, and were to persuade himself that he could hope to win her; what a weakness it would be!’
"Imagine a man," he thought, "who has been of age for about twenty years; who is a shy guy because of his upbringing; who is somewhat serious due to the nature of his life; who realizes he lacks many of the charming traits he admires in others, having spent a long time in a far-off place where nothing softening was around him; who has no kind sisters to introduce him to her; who has no welcoming home to bring her into; who is a stranger in this land; who doesn’t have a fortune to make up for these shortcomings; who has only his sincere love and a general desire to do what’s right—imagine such a man coming to this house, falling for this enchanting girl, and convincing himself that he might have a chance with her; what a foolish thought that would be!"
He softly opened his window, and looked out upon the serene river. Year after year so much allowance for the drifting of the ferry-boat, so many miles an hour the flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet.
He gently opened his window and looked out at the calm river. Year after year, there was plenty of space for the drift of the ferryboat, so many miles per hour for the flow of the current, here the reeds, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or restless.
Why should he be vexed or sore at heart? It was not his weakness that he had imagined. It was nobody’s, nobody’s within his knowledge; why should it trouble him? And yet it did trouble him. And he thought—who has not thought for a moment, sometimes?—that it might be better to flow away monotonously, like the river, and to compound for its insensibility to happiness with its insensibility to pain.
Why should he be upset or miserable? It wasn't his weakness that he had imagined. It was no one’s fault, no one he knew; why should it bother him? And yet it did bother him. And he wondered—who hasn’t thought this way at times?—that it might be easier to just go along with life, like the river, and make up for its inability to feel happiness with its inability to feel pain.
CHAPTER 17. Nobody’s Rival
Before breakfast in the morning, Arthur walked out to look about him. As the morning was fine and he had an hour on his hands, he crossed the river by the ferry, and strolled along a footpath through some meadows. When he came back to the towing-path, he found the ferry-boat on the opposite side, and a gentleman hailing it and waiting to be taken over.
Before breakfast in the morning, Arthur went outside to see what was around him. Since it was a lovely morning and he had an hour to spare, he crossed the river by ferry and walked along a path through some meadows. When he returned to the towpath, he saw the ferryboat on the other side, with a man calling for it and waiting to be taken across.
Original
This gentleman looked barely thirty. He was well dressed, of a sprightly and gay appearance, a well-knit figure, and a rich dark complexion. As Arthur came over the stile and down to the water’s edge, the lounger glanced at him for a moment, and then resumed his occupation of idly tossing stones into the water with his foot. There was something in his way of spurning them out of their places with his heel, and getting them into the required position, that Clennam thought had an air of cruelty in it. Most of us have more or less frequently derived a similar impression from a man’s manner of doing some very little thing: plucking a flower, clearing away an obstacle, or even destroying an insentient object.
This guy looked like he was barely thirty. He was dressed sharply, had a lively and cheerful vibe, a fit build, and a rich dark skin tone. As Arthur walked over the stile and approached the water’s edge, the guy lounging there glanced at him briefly, then went back to casually kicking stones into the water with his foot. The way he kicked them out of place with his heel and positioned them just right struck Clennam as a bit cruel. Many of us often get a similar feeling from how someone does a small task: picking a flower, clearing a path, or even getting rid of an inanimate object.
The gentleman’s thoughts were preoccupied, as his face showed, and he took no notice of a fine Newfoundland dog, who watched him attentively, and watched every stone too, in its turn, eager to spring into the river on receiving his master’s sign. The ferry-boat came over, however, without his receiving any sign, and when it grounded his master took him by the collar and walked him into it.
The man's mind was elsewhere, as you could see on his face, and he didn’t notice a beautiful Newfoundland dog that was watching him closely, also keeping an eye on every stone, ready to jump into the river at his owner’s command. The ferry-boat arrived, but without him giving any signal, and when it docked, his owner grabbed him by the collar and led him onto it.
‘Not this morning,’ he said to the dog. ‘You won’t do for ladies’ company, dripping wet. Lie down.’
‘Not this morning,’ he said to the dog. ‘You’re not fit for ladies’ company, dripping wet. Lie down.’
Clennam followed the man and the dog into the boat, and took his seat. The dog did as he was ordered. The man remained standing, with his hands in his pockets, and towered between Clennam and the prospect. Man and dog both jumped lightly out as soon as they touched the other side, and went away. Clennam was glad to be rid of them.
Clennam followed the man and the dog into the boat and took his seat. The dog obeyed the command. The man stayed standing, with his hands in his pockets, blocking Clennam's view. Both the man and dog jumped out as soon as they reached the other side and walked away. Clennam was relieved to see them go.
The church clock struck the breakfast hour as he walked up the little lane by which the garden-gate was approached. The moment he pulled the bell a deep loud barking assailed him from within the wall.
The church clock rang in breakfast time as he walked up the small lane leading to the garden gate. The moment he rang the bell, a deep, loud barking came at him from behind the wall.
‘I heard no dog last night,’ thought Clennam. The gate was opened by one of the rosy maids, and on the lawn were the Newfoundland dog and the man.
‘I didn’t hear any dog last night,’ thought Clennam. The gate was opened by one of the cheerful maids, and on the lawn were the Newfoundland dog and the man.
‘Miss Minnie is not down yet, gentlemen,’ said the blushing portress, as they all came together in the garden. Then she said to the master of the dog, ‘Mr Clennam, sir,’ and tripped away.
‘Miss Minnie isn’t down yet, gentlemen,’ said the blushing doorkeeper as they all gathered in the garden. Then she said to the owner of the dog, ‘Mr. Clennam, sir,’ and walked away.
‘Odd enough, Mr Clennam, that we should have met just now,’ said the man. Upon which the dog became mute. ‘Allow me to introduce myself—Henry Gowan. A pretty place this, and looks wonderfully well this morning!’
‘Isn't it strange, Mr. Clennam, that we ran into each other just now,’ said the man. At that, the dog went silent. ‘Let me introduce myself—Henry Gowan. What a lovely spot this is, and it looks fantastic this morning!’
The manner was easy, and the voice agreeable; but still Clennam thought, that if he had not made that decided resolution to avoid falling in love with Pet, he would have taken a dislike to this Henry Gowan.
The way was casual, and the voice pleasant; but Clennam still thought that if he hadn't made that firm decision to avoid falling in love with Pet, he would have developed a dislike for this Henry Gowan.
‘It’s new to you, I believe?’ said this Gowan, when Arthur had extolled the place.
“It’s new to you, right?” said Gowan, after Arthur praised the place.
‘Quite new. I made acquaintance with it only yesterday afternoon.’
'Just got to know it. I only came across it yesterday afternoon.'
‘Ah! Of course this is not its best aspect. It used to look charming in the spring, before they went away last time. I should like you to have seen it then.’
‘Ah! Of course this isn't its best look. It used to be charming in the spring, before they left last time. I wish you could have seen it then.’
But for that resolution so often recalled, Clennam might have wished him in the crater of Mount Etna, in return for this civility.
But for that resolution he often thought about, Clennam might have wished him in the crater of Mount Etna as payback for this politeness.
‘I have had the pleasure of seeing it under many circumstances during the last three years, and it’s—a Paradise.’
‘I have had the pleasure of seeing it in many situations over the last three years, and it’s—amazing.’
It was (at least it might have been, always excepting for that wise resolution) like his dexterous impudence to call it a Paradise. He only called it a Paradise because he first saw her coming, and so made her out within her hearing to be an angel, Confusion to him!
It was (at least it might have been, always excepting for that wise resolution) typical of his boldness to call it a Paradise. He only called it a Paradise because he saw her approaching first, and in doing so, he labeled her an angel where she could hear him. Confusion for him!
And ah! how beaming she looked, and how glad! How she caressed the dog, and how the dog knew her! How expressive that heightened colour in her face, that fluttered manner, her downcast eyes, her irresolute happiness! When had Clennam seen her look like this? Not that there was any reason why he might, could, would, or should have ever seen her look like this, or that he had ever hoped for himself to see her look like this; but still—when had he ever known her do it!
And wow! She looked so radiant and happy! The way she petted the dog, and how the dog recognized her! That vibrant color in her face, her fidgety movements, her lowered eyes, her uncertain joy—how expressive they were! When had Clennam ever seen her like this? Not that there was any reason he might have, could have, or should have ever seen her this way, or that he had hoped to see her this way for himself; but still—when had he ever known her to be like this!
He stood at a little distance from them. This Gowan when he had talked about a Paradise, had gone up to her and taken her hand. The dog had put his great paws on her arm and laid his head against her dear bosom. She had laughed and welcomed them, and made far too much of the dog, far, far, too much—that is to say, supposing there had been any third person looking on who loved her.
He stood a short distance away from them. This Gowan, when he had talked about a Paradise, approached her and took her hand. The dog had rested his big paws on her arm and laid his head against her chest. She laughed and welcomed them, making a big deal out of the dog—way too much, in fact—especially if there had been anyone else around who cared for her.
She disengaged herself now, and came to Clennam, and put her hand in his and wished him good morning, and gracefully made as if she would take his arm and be escorted into the house. To this Gowan had no objection. No, he knew he was too safe.
She stepped away now, walked over to Clennam, took his hand, and wished him good morning. With a charming gesture, she acted like she wanted to take his arm and be led into the house. Gowan didn’t mind this at all. No, he knew he was in a secure spot.
There was a passing cloud on Mr Meagles’s good-humoured face when they all three (four, counting the dog, and he was the most objectionable but one of the party) came in to breakfast. Neither it, nor the touch of uneasiness on Mrs Meagles as she directed her eyes towards it, was unobserved by Clennam.
There was a fleeting shadow on Mr. Meagles’s cheerful face when all three of them (four, counting the dog, who was the most annoying member of the group) came in for breakfast. Neither the shadow nor Mrs. Meagles’s hint of worry as she looked at it went unnoticed by Clennam.
‘Well, Gowan,’ said Mr Meagles, even suppressing a sigh; ‘how goes the world with you this morning?’
‘Well, Gowan,’ said Mr. Meagles, even holding back a sigh; ‘how's the world treating you this morning?’
‘Much as usual, sir. Lion and I being determined not to waste anything of our weekly visit, turned out early, and came over from Kingston, my present headquarters, where I am making a sketch or two.’ Then he told how he had met Mr Clennam at the ferry, and they had come over together.
‘As usual, sir. Lion and I, determined not to waste any part of our weekly visit, set out early and traveled over from Kingston, my current base, where I’m working on a sketch or two.’ Then he explained how he had run into Mr. Clennam at the ferry, and they had come over together.
‘Mrs Gowan is well, Henry?’ said Mrs Meagles. (Clennam became attentive.)
‘Mrs. Gowan is doing well, Henry?’ said Mrs. Meagles. (Clennam perked up.)
‘My mother is quite well, thank you.’ (Clennam became inattentive.) ‘I have taken the liberty of making an addition to your family dinner-party to-day, which I hope will not be inconvenient to you or to Mr Meagles. I couldn’t very well get out of it,’ he explained, turning to the latter. ‘The young fellow wrote to propose himself to me; and as he is well connected, I thought you would not object to my transferring him here.’
‘My mom is doing pretty well, thanks.’ (Clennam lost interest.) ‘I took the liberty of adding someone to your family dinner party today, and I hope it won’t be a bother for you or Mr. Meagles. I couldn’t really say no to it,’ he explained, turning to Mr. Meagles. ‘The young guy wrote to suggest himself to me, and since he has good connections, I figured you wouldn’t mind me bringing him along.’
‘Who is the young fellow?’ asked Mr Meagles with peculiar complacency.
‘Who is this young guy?’ asked Mr. Meagles with a unique sense of self-satisfaction.
‘He is one of the Barnacles. Tite Barnacle’s son, Clarence Barnacle, who is in his father’s Department. I can at least guarantee that the river shall not suffer from his visit. He won’t set it on fire.’
‘He’s one of the Barnacles. Tite Barnacle’s son, Clarence Barnacle, who works in his dad’s department. I can at least promise that the river won’t be harmed by his visit. He won’t set it on fire.’
‘Aye, aye?’ said Meagles. ‘A Barnacle is he? We know something of that family, eh, Dan? By George, they are at the top of the tree, though! Let me see. What relation will this young fellow be to Lord Decimus now? His Lordship married, in seventeen ninety-seven, Lady Jemima Bilberry, who was the second daughter by the third marriage—no! There I am wrong! That was Lady Seraphina—Lady Jemima was the first daughter by the second marriage of the fifteenth Earl of Stiltstalking with the Honourable Clementina Toozellem. Very well. Now this young fellow’s father married a Stiltstalking and his father married his cousin who was a Barnacle. The father of that father who married a Barnacle, married a Joddleby.—I am getting a little too far back, Gowan; I want to make out what relation this young fellow is to Lord Decimus.’
“Yeah, yeah?” said Meagles. “A Barnacle, huh? We know a bit about that family, right, Dan? By George, they're at the very top, aren’t they! Let me think. What relation is this young guy to Lord Decimus now? His Lordship married Lady Jemima Bilberry in 1797, who was the second daughter from the third marriage—no! I got that wrong! That was Lady Seraphina—Lady Jemima was the first daughter from the second marriage of the fifteenth Earl of Stiltstalking to the Honourable Clementina Toozellem. Alright, so this young guy’s dad married a Stiltstalking, and his dad married his cousin who was a Barnacle. The father of that dad who married a Barnacle married a Joddleby. I’m going too far back, Gowan; I just want to figure out how this young guy is related to Lord Decimus.”
‘That’s easily stated. His father is nephew to Lord Decimus.’
"That's easy to say. His father is the nephew of Lord Decimus."
‘Nephew—to—Lord—Decimus,’ Mr Meagles luxuriously repeated with his eyes shut, that he might have nothing to distract him from the full flavour of the genealogical tree. ‘By George, you are right, Gowan. So he is.’
‘Nephew to Lord Decimus,’ Mr. Meagles said, enjoying it with his eyes closed to fully savor the flavor of the family tree. ‘By George, you’re right, Gowan. He is.’
‘Consequently, Lord Decimus is his great uncle.’
'So, Lord Decimus is his great-uncle.'
‘But stop a bit!’ said Mr Meagles, opening his eyes with a fresh discovery. ‘Then on the mother’s side, Lady Stiltstalking is his great aunt.’
‘But wait a minute!’ said Mr. Meagles, opening his eyes with a new realization. ‘So on the mother’s side, Lady Stiltstalking is his great aunt.’
‘Of course she is.’
"Of course she is."
‘Aye, aye, aye?’ said Mr Meagles with much interest. ‘Indeed, indeed? We shall be glad to see him. We’ll entertain him as well as we can, in our humble way; and we shall not starve him, I hope, at all events.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Mr. Meagles with great interest. ‘Indeed? We're looking forward to seeing him. We'll do our best to host him in our modest way, and I hope we won't let him go hungry, at the very least.’
In the beginning of this dialogue, Clennam had expected some great harmless outburst from Mr Meagles, like that which had made him burst out of the Circumlocution Office, holding Doyce by the collar. But his good friend had a weakness which none of us need go into the next street to find, and which no amount of Circumlocution experience could long subdue in him. Clennam looked at Doyce; but Doyce knew all about it beforehand, and looked at his plate, and made no sign, and said no word.
At the start of this conversation, Clennam had expected a big, harmless outburst from Mr. Meagles, similar to the one that had caused him to leave the Circumlocution Office, dragging Doyce along by the collar. But his good friend had a vulnerability that none of us need venture far to uncover, and which no level of Circumlocution experience could suppress for long. Clennam glanced at Doyce; however, Doyce was already aware of everything and stared at his plate, gave no indication, and said nothing.
‘I am much obliged to you,’ said Gowan, to conclude the subject. ‘Clarence is a great ass, but he is one of the dearest and best fellows that ever lived!’
"I really appreciate it," said Gowan, wrapping up the topic. "Clarence is a huge fool, but he's one of the sweetest and best guys you'll ever meet!"
It appeared, before the breakfast was over, that everybody whom this Gowan knew was either more or less of an ass, or more or less of a knave; but was, notwithstanding, the most lovable, the most engaging, the simplest, truest, kindest, dearest, best fellow that ever lived. The process by which this unvarying result was attained, whatever the premises, might have been stated by Mr Henry Gowan thus: ‘I claim to be always book-keeping, with a peculiar nicety, in every man’s case, and posting up a careful little account of Good and Evil with him. I do this so conscientiously, that I am happy to tell you I find the most worthless of men to be the dearest old fellow too: and am in a condition to make the gratifying report, that there is much less difference than you are inclined to suppose between an honest man and a scoundrel.’ The effect of this cheering discovery happened to be, that while he seemed to be scrupulously finding good in most men, he did in reality lower it where it was, and set it up where it was not; but that was its only disagreeable or dangerous feature.
It became clear, before breakfast ended, that everyone Gowan knew was either somewhat foolish or somewhat deceitful; yet, still, he was the most lovable, engaging, simple, genuine, kind, dear, and best person who ever lived. The way he consistently reached this conclusion, no matter the situation, could have been explained by Mr. Henry Gowan like this: ‘I always keep meticulous track of every man’s account of Good and Evil. I do this so diligently that I’m pleased to tell you that I find even the most worthless men to be dear friends too: and I’m able to report that there’s much less difference between an honest man and a scoundrel than you might think.’ The impact of this positive discovery was that, while he seemed to be carefully identifying the good in most men, he actually diminished it where it existed and inflated it where it did not; but that was its only unpleasant or risky aspect.
It scarcely seemed, however, to afford Mr Meagles as much satisfaction as the Barnacle genealogy had done. The cloud that Clennam had never seen upon his face before that morning, frequently overcast it again; and there was the same shadow of uneasy observation of him on the comely face of his wife. More than once or twice when Pet caressed the dog, it appeared to Clennam that her father was unhappy in seeing her do it; and, in one particular instance when Gowan stood on the other side of the dog, and bent his head at the same time, Arthur fancied that he saw tears rise to Mr Meagles’s eyes as he hurried out of the room. It was either the fact too, or he fancied further, that Pet herself was not insensible to these little incidents; that she tried, with a more delicate affection than usual, to express to her good father how much she loved him; that it was on this account that she fell behind the rest, both as they went to church and as they returned from it, and took his arm. He could not have sworn but that as he walked alone in the garden afterwards, he had an instantaneous glimpse of her in her father’s room, clinging to both her parents with the greatest tenderness, and weeping on her father’s shoulder.
It really didn’t seem to make Mr. Meagles as happy as the Barnacle family history had. The frown that Clennam had never seen on his face before that morning kept showing up again, and his wife also looked uneasy as she watched him. More than once, when Pet petted the dog, Clennam thought her father didn’t like it, and one time, when Gowan stood on the other side of the dog and leaned down, Arthur thought he saw Mr. Meagles tear up as he quickly left the room. It also seemed, or maybe he just imagined it, that Pet noticed these little moments too; she tried to show her father how much she loved him with a more tender affection than usual. This was why she lagged behind on the way to church and back, taking his arm. He couldn’t swear to it, but as he walked alone in the garden later, he thought he caught a brief glimpse of her in her father’s room, holding onto both her parents with deep affection and crying on her father’s shoulder.
The latter part of the day turning out wet, they were fain to keep the house, look over Mr Meagles’s collection, and beguile the time with conversation. This Gowan had plenty to say for himself, and said it in an off-hand and amusing manner. He appeared to be an artist by profession, and to have been at Rome some time; yet he had a slight, careless, amateur way with him—a perceptible limp, both in his devotion to art and his attainments—which Clennam could scarcely understand.
The later part of the day turned out to be rainy, so they were happy to stay inside, look through Mr. Meagles’s collection, and pass the time chatting. Gowan had a lot to say and did so in a casual and entertaining way. He seemed to be a professional artist and had been in Rome for a while; however, he had a slight, carefree, amateur vibe—a noticeable lack of commitment, both in his dedication to art and his skills—which Clennam could hardly grasp.
He applied to Daniel Doyce for help, as they stood together, looking out of window.
He asked Daniel Doyce for help while they stood together, looking out the window.
‘You know Mr Gowan?’ he said in a low voice.
‘Do you know Mr. Gowan?’ he said quietly.
‘I have seen him here. Comes here every Sunday when they are at home.’
‘I’ve seen him here. He comes every Sunday when they’re home.’
‘An artist, I infer from what he says?’
'An artist, I gather from what he says?'
‘A sort of a one,’ said Daniel Doyce, in a surly tone.
‘A kind of one,’ said Daniel Doyce, in a grumpy tone.
‘What sort of a one?’ asked Clennam, with a smile.
‘What kind of one?’ asked Clennam, smiling.
‘Why, he has sauntered into the Arts at a leisurely Pall-Mall pace,’ said Doyce, ‘and I doubt if they care to be taken quite so coolly.’
'Why, he's wandered into the Arts at a relaxed Pall-Mall pace,' Doyce said, 'and I doubt they appreciate being approached so casually.'
Pursuing his inquiries, Clennam found that the Gowan family were a very distant ramification of the Barnacles; and that the paternal Gowan, originally attached to a legation abroad, had been pensioned off as a Commissioner of nothing particular somewhere or other, and had died at his post with his drawn salary in his hand, nobly defending it to the last extremity. In consideration of this eminent public service, the Barnacle then in power had recommended the Crown to bestow a pension of two or three hundred a-year on his widow; to which the next Barnacle in power had added certain shady and sedate apartments in the Palaces at Hampton Court, where the old lady still lived, deploring the degeneracy of the times in company with several other old ladies of both sexes. Her son, Mr Henry Gowan, inheriting from his father, the Commissioner, that very questionable help in life, a very small independence, had been difficult to settle; the rather, as public appointments chanced to be scarce, and his genius, during his earlier manhood, was of that exclusively agricultural character which applies itself to the cultivation of wild oats. At last he had declared that he would become a Painter; partly because he had always had an idle knack that way, and partly to grieve the souls of the Barnacles-in-chief who had not provided for him. So it had come to pass successively, first, that several distinguished ladies had been frightfully shocked; then, that portfolios of his performances had been handed about o’ nights, and declared with ecstasy to be perfect Claudes, perfect Cuyps, perfect phaenomena; then, that Lord Decimus had bought his picture, and had asked the President and Council to dinner at a blow, and had said, with his own magnificent gravity, ‘Do you know, there appears to me to be really immense merit in that work?’ and, in short, that people of condition had absolutely taken pains to bring him into fashion. But, somehow, it had all failed. The prejudiced public had stood out against it obstinately. They had determined not to admire Lord Decimus’s picture. They had determined to believe that in every service, except their own, a man must qualify himself, by striving early and late, and by working heart and soul, might and main. So now Mr Gowan, like that worn-out old coffin which never was Mahomet’s nor anybody else’s, hung midway between two points: jaundiced and jealous as to the one he had left: jaundiced and jealous as to the other that he couldn’t reach.
Pursuing his inquiries, Clennam discovered that the Gowan family was a very distant branch of the Barnacles. The senior Gowan, who had originally been associated with an embassy abroad, had been retired as a Commissioner of nothing in particular somewhere and had died in service with his salary in hand, nobly defending it until the end. In recognition of this notable public service, the Barnacle then in power recommended the Crown grant a pension of two or three hundred a year to his widow. The next Barnacle in power added some shady and quiet apartments in the Palaces at Hampton Court, where the old lady still lived, lamenting the decline of society alongside several other elderly men and women. Her son, Mr. Henry Gowan, having inherited from his father, the Commissioner, a rather questionable advantage in life—a very modest income—had been hard to place, particularly since public jobs were scarce, and his talents, during his younger years, were exclusively agricultural, aimed at sowing wild oats. Eventually, he declared he would become a painter; partly because he had always had a casual talent for it, and partly to spite the Barnacles-in-chief who hadn’t taken care of him. As a result, it first shocked several distinguished ladies, then his portfolios of works circulated at night, declared ecstatically to be perfect Claudes, perfect Cuyps, and perfect phenomena. Eventually, Lord Decimus purchased one of his paintings, invited the President and Council to dinner, and declared, with his own grand seriousness, ‘Do you know, I really see immense merit in that work?’ In short, people of high status went out of their way to make him fashionable. But somehow, it all fell flat. The biased public stubbornly refused to appreciate Lord Decimus’s painting. They were determined not to admire it and insisted that in every profession, except their own, a man must earn his way through hard work and dedication. So now Mr. Gowan, like that old worn-out coffin that belonged neither to Mahomet nor anyone else, hung limply between two points: resentful and envious of what he had left behind, and resentful and envious of what he couldn’t attain.
Such was the substance of Clennam’s discoveries concerning him, made that rainy Sunday afternoon and afterwards.
Such was the gist of Clennam's findings about him, made that rainy Sunday afternoon and afterwards.
About an hour or so after dinner time, Young Barnacle appeared, attended by his eye-glass; in honour of whose family connections, Mr Meagles had cashiered the pretty parlour-maids for the day, and had placed on duty in their stead two dingy men. Young Barnacle was in the last degree amazed and disconcerted at sight of Arthur, and had murmured involuntarily, ‘Look here! upon my soul, you know!’ before his presence of mind returned.
About an hour after dinner, Young Barnacle showed up, accompanied by his monocle; in honor of his family's connections, Mr. Meagles had sent the pretty parlor maids home for the day and replaced them with two disheveled men. Young Barnacle was completely taken aback and flustered when he saw Arthur, and he couldn't help but mumble, "Look here! I swear, you know!" before he regained his composure.
Even then, he was obliged to embrace the earliest opportunity of taking his friend into a window, and saying, in a nasal way that was a part of his general debility:
Even then, he had to take the earliest chance to pull his friend aside by a window and say, in a nasal tone that was part of his overall weakness:
‘I want to speak to you, Gowan. I say. Look here. Who is that fellow?’
‘I want to talk to you, Gowan. I say. Look over there. Who is that guy?’
‘A friend of our host’s. None of mine.’
‘A friend of our host. Not one of my friends.’
‘He’s a most ferocious Radical, you know,’ said Young Barnacle.
‘He’s a really fierce Radical, you know,’ said Young Barnacle.
‘Is he? How do you know?’
‘Is he? How do you know?’
‘Ecod, sir, he was Pitching into our people the other day in the most tremendous manner. Went up to our place and Pitched into my father to that extent that it was necessary to order him out. Came back to our Department, and Pitched into me. Look here. You never saw such a fellow.’
‘Ecod, sir, he was really going off on our people the other day in the most incredible way. He came up to our place and lashed out at my father so much that we had to kick him out. Then he came back to our Department and laid into me. Seriously, you’ve never seen anyone like him.’
‘What did he want?’
‘What does he want?’
‘Ecod, sir,’ returned Young Barnacle, ‘he said he wanted to know, you know! Pervaded our Department—without an appointment—and said he wanted to know!’
‘Ecod, sir,’ replied Young Barnacle, ‘he said he wanted to know, you know! He showed up in our Department—without an appointment—and said he wanted to know!’
The stare of indignant wonder with which Young Barnacle accompanied this disclosure, would have strained his eyes injuriously but for the opportune relief of dinner. Mr Meagles (who had been extremely solicitous to know how his uncle and aunt were) begged him to conduct Mrs Meagles to the dining-room. And when he sat on Mrs Meagles’s right hand, Mr Meagles looked as gratified as if his whole family were there.
The look of shocked surprise on Young Barnacle's face as he heard this was intense enough to hurt his eyes, but thankfully, dinner was about to start. Mr. Meagles, who had been very eager to hear about how his uncle and aunt were doing, asked Barnacle to take Mrs. Meagles to the dining room. When Barnacle sat on Mrs. Meagles’s right side, Mr. Meagles looked as happy as if his entire family was present.
All the natural charm of the previous day was gone. The eaters of the dinner, like the dinner itself, were lukewarm, insipid, overdone—and all owing to this poor little dull Young Barnacle. Conversationless at any time, he was now the victim of a weakness special to the occasion, and solely referable to Clennam. He was under a pressing and continual necessity of looking at that gentleman, which occasioned his eye-glass to get into his soup, into his wine-glass, into Mrs Meagles’s plate, to hang down his back like a bell-rope, and be several times disgracefully restored to his bosom by one of the dingy men. Weakened in mind by his frequent losses of this instrument, and its determination not to stick in his eye, and more and more enfeebled in intellect every time he looked at the mysterious Clennam, he applied spoons to his eyes, forks, and other foreign matters connected with the furniture of the dinner-table. His discovery of these mistakes greatly increased his difficulties, but never released him from the necessity of looking at Clennam. And whenever Clennam spoke, this ill-starred young man was clearly seized with a dread that he was coming, by some artful device, round to that point of wanting to know, you know.
All the natural charm from the day before was gone. The dinner guests, like the meal itself, were lukewarm, bland, and overcooked—thanks to the poor dull Young Barnacle. Normally quiet, he was now struggling with a particular awkwardness, all because of Clennam. He felt an urgent and constant need to look at that gentleman, which caused his eyeglass to drop into his soup, into his wine glass, into Mrs. Meagles’s plate, to dangle down his back like a bell rope, and to be shamefully retrieved by one of the shabby men several times. Distracted by his frequent loss of this instrument, which just wouldn’t stay in his eye, and growing more confused every time he glanced at the enigmatic Clennam, he started using spoons, forks, and various other utensils from the dinner table in a desperate attempt to see. Realizing these blunders only added to his troubles but never relieved him from the need to look at Clennam. Whenever Clennam spoke, this unfortunate young man was clearly gripped by a fear that he would, through some cunning trick, reach that point where he wanted to know, you know.
It may be questioned, therefore, whether any one but Mr Meagles had much enjoyment of the time. Mr Meagles, however, thoroughly enjoyed Young Barnacle. As a mere flask of the golden water in the tale became a full fountain when it was poured out, so Mr Meagles seemed to feel that this small spice of Barnacle imparted to his table the flavour of the whole family-tree. In its presence, his frank, fine, genuine qualities paled; he was not so easy, he was not so natural, he was striving after something that did not belong to him, he was not himself. What a strange peculiarity on the part of Mr Meagles, and where should we find another such case!
You could wonder if anyone besides Mr. Meagles really enjoyed that time. But Mr. Meagles definitely enjoyed Young Barnacle. Just like a simple flask of golden water in a story becomes a full fountain when it’s poured out, Mr. Meagles felt that this little bit of Barnacle brought a taste of the entire family legacy to his table. In its presence, his open, genuine qualities faded; he wasn’t as relaxed, he wasn’t as natural; he was reaching for something that didn’t belong to him, he wasn’t being himself. What a strange quirk of Mr. Meagles, and where else would you find such a thing?
At last the wet Sunday wore itself out in a wet night; and Young Barnacle went home in a cab, feebly smoking; and the objectionable Gowan went away on foot, accompanied by the objectionable dog. Pet had taken the most amiable pains all day to be friendly with Clennam, but Clennam had been a little reserved since breakfast—that is to say, would have been, if he had loved her.
At last, the rainy Sunday faded into a rainy night; and Young Barnacle took a cab home, lightly smoking; while the annoying Gowan walked away, accompanied by his equally annoying dog. Pet had made every effort throughout the day to be friendly with Clennam, but Clennam had been a bit distant since breakfast—that is to say, he would have been if he had loved her.
When he had gone to his own room, and had again thrown himself into the chair by the fire, Mr Doyce knocked at the door, candle in hand, to ask him how and at what hour he proposed returning on the morrow? After settling this question, he said a word to Mr Doyce about this Gowan—who would have run in his head a good deal, if he had been his rival.
When he went to his room and threw himself back into the chair by the fire, Mr. Doyce knocked on the door, holding a candle, to ask him how and when he planned to come back the next day. After they settled that, he mentioned something to Mr. Doyce about this Gowan—who would have occupied his thoughts quite a bit if he had been his rival.
‘Those are not good prospects for a painter,’ said Clennam.
"Those aren't great prospects for a painter," Clennam said.
‘No,’ returned Doyce.
'No,' Doyce replied.
Mr Doyce stood, chamber-candlestick in hand, the other hand in his pocket, looking hard at the flame of his candle, with a certain quiet perception in his face that they were going to say something more.
Mr. Doyce stood with a candlestick in one hand and his other hand in his pocket, gazing intently at the flame of his candle. There was a quiet understanding on his face that indicated they were about to say something more.
‘I thought our good friend a little changed, and out of spirits, after he came this morning?’ said Clennam.
"I thought our good friend seemed a bit different and a bit down after he came this morning," said Clennam.
‘Yes,’ returned Doyce.
"Yes," replied Doyce.
‘But not his daughter?’ said Clennam.
‘But not his daughter?’ Clennam asked.
‘No,’ said Doyce.
‘No,’ Doyce replied.
There was a pause on both sides. Mr Doyce, still looking at the flame of his candle, slowly resumed:
There was a pause on both sides. Mr. Doyce, still focused on the flame of his candle, slowly continued:
‘The truth is, he has twice taken his daughter abroad in the hope of separating her from Mr Gowan. He rather thinks she is disposed to like him, and he has painful doubts (I quite agree with him, as I dare say you do) of the hopefulness of such a marriage.’
‘The truth is, he has taken his daughter overseas twice hoping to keep her away from Mr. Gowan. He believes she might have feelings for him, and he has serious concerns (I totally agree with him, and I'm sure you do too) about the likelihood of that marriage working out.’
‘There—’ Clennam choked, and coughed, and stopped.
‘There—’ Clennam struggled to speak, coughed, and paused.
‘Yes, you have taken cold,’ said Daniel Doyce. But without looking at him.
‘Yeah, you’ve caught a cold,’ said Daniel Doyce. But he didn’t look at him.
‘—There is an engagement between them, of course?’ said Clennam airily.
‘—There’s an engagement between them, right?’ said Clennam casually.
‘No. As I am told, certainly not. It has been solicited on the gentleman’s part, but none has been made. Since their recent return, our friend has yielded to a weekly visit, but that is the utmost. Minnie would not deceive her father and mother. You have travelled with them, and I believe you know what a bond there is among them, extending even beyond this present life. All that there is between Miss Minnie and Mr Gowan, I have no doubt we see.’
‘No. From what I've heard, definitely not. The gentleman has made a request, but nothing has happened. Since they came back, our friend has agreed to a weekly visit, but that's the limit. Minnie wouldn't lie to her parents. You’ve traveled with them, and I think you understand the strong connection they share, which goes beyond this life. Everything there is between Miss Minnie and Mr. Gowan, I have no doubt we can see.’
‘Ah! We see enough!’ cried Arthur.
‘Ah! We see enough!’ shouted Arthur.
Mr Doyce wished him Good Night in the tone of a man who had heard a mournful, not to say despairing, exclamation, and who sought to infuse some encouragement and hope into the mind of the person by whom it had been uttered. Such tone was probably a part of his oddity, as one of a crotchety band; for how could he have heard anything of that kind, without Clennam’s hearing it too?
Mr. Doyce said Good Night in a way that suggested he had just heard a sad, even hopeless, outburst and was trying to bring some encouragement and hope to the person who had said it. This tone was likely a reflection of his quirky nature, part of his eccentric group; after all, how could he have heard something like that without Clennam hearing it too?
The rain fell heavily on the roof, and pattered on the ground, and dripped among the evergreens and the leafless branches of the trees. The rain fell heavily, drearily. It was a night of tears.
The rain came down hard on the roof, splattered on the ground, and dripped among the evergreen trees and the bare branches. The rain fell heavily, sadly. It was a night filled with sorrow.
If Clennam had not decided against falling in love with Pet; if he had had the weakness to do it; if he had, little by little, persuaded himself to set all the earnestness of his nature, all the might of his hope, and all the wealth of his matured character, on that cast; if he had done this and found that all was lost; he would have been, that night, unutterably miserable. As it was—
If Clennam hadn’t decided not to fall in love with Pet; if he had the weakness to go through with it; if he had gradually convinced himself to invest all his seriousness, all his hope, and all the depth of his character into that gamble; if he had done this and discovered that everything was lost; he would have been utterly miserable that night. As it stood—
As it was, the rain fell heavily, drearily.
As it was, the rain fell heavily and drearily.
CHAPTER 18. Little Dorrit’s Lover
Little Dorrit had not attained her twenty-second birthday without finding a lover. Even in the shallow Marshalsea, the ever young Archer shot off a few featherless arrows now and then from a mouldy bow, and winged a Collegian or two.
Little Dorrit had not reached her twenty-second birthday without finding a lover. Even in the bleak Marshalsea, the ever-young Archer occasionally shot a few featherless arrows from a worn-out bow, hitting a college guy or two.
Little Dorrit’s lover, however, was not a Collegian. He was the sentimental son of a turnkey. His father hoped, in the fulness of time, to leave him the inheritance of an unstained key; and had from his early youth familiarised him with the duties of his office, and with an ambition to retain the prison-lock in the family. While the succession was yet in abeyance, he assisted his mother in the conduct of a snug tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane (his father being a non-resident turnkey), which could usually command a neat connection within the College walls.
Little Dorrit's boyfriend wasn't a student. He was the sentimental son of a jailer. His father expected, in due time, to pass down a pristine key to him; and had, from a young age, taught him the responsibilities of his role and nurtured his desire to keep the family legacy of the prison lock. While the inheritance was still uncertain, he helped his mother run a cozy tobacco shop around the corner from Horsemonger Lane (his father being a non-resident jailer), which usually had a good clientele from within the College walls.
Years agone, when the object of his affections was wont to sit in her little arm-chair by the high Lodge-fender, Young John (family name, Chivery), a year older than herself, had eyed her with admiring wonder. When he had played with her in the yard, his favourite game had been to counterfeit locking her up in corners, and to counterfeit letting her out for real kisses. When he grew tall enough to peep through the keyhole of the great lock of the main door, he had divers times set down his father’s dinner, or supper, to get on as it might on the outer side thereof, while he stood taking cold in one eye by dint of peeping at her through that airy perspective.
Years ago, when the girl he liked used to sit in her little armchair by the fireplace, Young John (last name Chivery), who was a year older than her, looked at her with admiring wonder. When they played together in the yard, his favorite game was pretending to lock her in corners and then really letting her out for kisses. Once he was tall enough to peek through the keyhole of the main door, he often skipped his father's dinner or supper just to see how things were going on the other side, while he stood there, taking cold in one eye from peeping at her through that little view.
If Young John had ever slackened in his truth in the less penetrable days of his boyhood, when youth is prone to wear its boots unlaced and is happily unconscious of digestive organs, he had soon strung it up again and screwed it tight. At nineteen, his hand had inscribed in chalk on that part of the wall which fronted her lodgings, on the occasion of her birthday, ‘Welcome sweet nursling of the Fairies!’ At twenty-three, the same hand falteringly presented cigars on Sundays to the Father of the Marshalsea, and Father of the queen of his soul.
If Young John ever let his truth slide during the less clear days of his childhood, when young people tend to leave their shoelaces untied and are blissfully unaware of their own digestion, he quickly tightened it up again. At nineteen, he wrote in chalk on the wall facing her apartment for her birthday, ‘Welcome, sweet nursling of the Fairies!’ By twenty-three, the same hand nervously offered cigars on Sundays to the Father of the Marshalsea, and the Father of the queen of his heart.
Young John was small of stature, with rather weak legs and very weak light hair. One of his eyes (perhaps the eye that used to peep through the keyhole) was also weak, and looked larger than the other, as if it couldn’t collect itself. Young John was gentle likewise. But he was great of soul. Poetical, expansive, faithful.
Young John was short and had pretty weak legs and very light hair. One of his eyes (maybe the one that peeked through the keyhole) was also weak and looked bigger than the other, as if it couldn’t quite focus. Young John was gentle, too. But he had a big heart. He was poetic, open-minded, and loyal.
Though too humble before the ruler of his heart to be sanguine, Young John had considered the object of his attachment in all its lights and shades. Following it out to blissful results, he had descried, without self-commendation, a fitness in it. Say things prospered, and they were united. She, the child of the Marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper. There was a fitness in that. Say he became a resident turnkey. She would officially succeed to the chamber she had rented so long. There was a beautiful propriety in that. It looked over the wall, if you stood on tip-toe; and, with a trellis-work of scarlet beans and a canary or so, would become a very Arbour. There was a charming idea in that. Then, being all in all to one another, there was even an appropriate grace in the lock. With the world shut out (except that part of it which would be shut in); with its troubles and disturbances only known to them by hearsay, as they would be described by the pilgrims tarrying with them on their way to the Insolvent Shrine; with the Arbour above, and the Lodge below; they would glide down the stream of time, in pastoral domestic happiness. Young John drew tears from his eyes by finishing the picture with a tombstone in the adjoining churchyard, close against the prison wall, bearing the following touching inscription: ‘Sacred to the Memory Of JOHN CHIVERY, Sixty years Turnkey, and fifty years Head Turnkey, Of the neighbouring Marshalsea, Who departed this life, universally respected, on the thirty-first of December, One thousand eight hundred and eighty-six, Aged eighty-three years. Also of his truly beloved and truly loving wife, AMY, whose maiden name was DORRIT, Who survived his loss not quite forty-eight hours, And who breathed her last in the Marshalsea aforesaid. There she was born, There she lived, There she died.’
Though too humble before the ruler of his heart to feel hopeful, Young John had thought about his attachment from every angle. Imagining a happy outcome, he could see, without bragging, that it made sense. If things worked out and they ended up together, she, the daughter of the Marshalsea, and he, the lock-keeper, seemed like a fitting couple. If he became a resident turnkey, she would officially take over the room she had rented for so long. That felt perfectly right. If you stood on your toes, you could see over the wall; with a trellis of scarlet beans and a canary or two, it would turn into a lovely arbor. That was a nice thought. Then, being everything to each other, the lock even had a special grace. With the world shut out (except for that part of it which would be let in); with its troubles and disturbances known to them only through stories shared by visitors on their way to the Insolvent Shrine; with the Arbor above and the Lodge below; they would smoothly pass through time in pastoral domestic happiness. Young John shed tears as he imagined finishing the picture with a tombstone in the nearby churchyard against the prison wall, bearing the following poignant inscription: ‘Sacred to the Memory Of JOHN CHIVERY, Sixty years Turnkey, and fifty years Head Turnkey, Of the neighboring Marshalsea, Who departed this life, universally respected, on the thirty-first of December, One thousand eight hundred and eighty-six, Aged eighty-three years. Also of his truly beloved and truly loving wife, AMY, whose maiden name was DORRIT, Who survived his loss not quite forty-eight hours, And who breathed her last in the Marshalsea aforesaid. There she was born, There she lived, There she died.’
The Chivery parents were not ignorant of their son’s attachment—indeed it had, on some exceptional occasions, thrown him into a state of mind that had impelled him to conduct himself with irascibility towards the customers, and damage the business—but they, in their turns, had worked it out to desirable conclusions. Mrs Chivery, a prudent woman, had desired her husband to take notice that their John’s prospects of the Lock would certainly be strengthened by an alliance with Miss Dorrit, who had herself a kind of claim upon the College and was much respected there. Mrs Chivery had desired her husband to take notice that if, on the one hand, their John had means and a post of trust, on the other hand, Miss Dorrit had family; and that her (Mrs Chivery’s) sentiment was, that two halves made a whole. Mrs Chivery, speaking as a mother and not as a diplomatist, had then, from a different point of view, desired her husband to recollect that their John had never been strong, and that his love had fretted and worrited him enough as it was, without his being driven to do himself a mischief, as nobody couldn’t say he wouldn’t be if he was crossed. These arguments had so powerfully influenced the mind of Mr Chivery, who was a man of few words, that he had on sundry Sunday mornings, given his boy what he termed ‘a lucky touch,’ signifying that he considered such commendation of him to Good Fortune, preparatory to his that day declaring his passion and becoming triumphant. But Young John had never taken courage to make the declaration; and it was principally on these occasions that he had returned excited to the tobacco shop, and flown at the customers.
The Chivery parents were aware of their son’s attachment—it had, on some rare occasions, pushed him into a mood that made him irritable towards customers and negatively affected the business—but they had worked it out to their advantage. Mrs. Chivery, a sensible woman, pointed out to her husband that their John’s prospects at the Lock would surely improve with a relationship with Miss Dorrit, who had her own connection to the College and was well-respected there. Mrs. Chivery noted that if their John had means and a reliable position, Miss Dorrit brought family background, and she believed that two halves made a whole. Speaking as a mother rather than a strategist, Mrs. Chivery also reminded her husband that their John had never been strong, and that his romantic feelings already stressed him enough without adding the possibility of causing himself harm if things didn’t go well. These arguments significantly influenced Mr. Chivery, a man of few words, to give his boy what he called “a lucky touch” on various Sunday mornings, meaning he wished him good fortune before he declared his feelings that day and hopefully succeeded. However, Young John never found the courage to make the confession; it was mainly during these times that he returned to the tobacco shop feeling agitated and took it out on the customers.
In this affair, as in every other, Little Dorrit herself was the last person considered. Her brother and sister were aware of it, and attained a sort of station by making a peg of it on which to air the miserably ragged old fiction of the family gentility. Her sister asserted the family gentility by flouting the poor swain as he loitered about the prison for glimpses of his dear. Tip asserted the family gentility, and his own, by coming out in the character of the aristocratic brother, and loftily swaggering in the little skittle ground respecting seizures by the scruff of the neck, which there were looming probabilities of some gentleman unknown executing on some little puppy not mentioned. These were not the only members of the Dorrit family who turned it to account. No, no. The Father of the Marshalsea was supposed to know nothing about the matter, of course: his poor dignity could not see so low. But he took the cigars, on Sundays, and was glad to get them; and sometimes even condescended to walk up and down the yard with the donor (who was proud and hopeful then), and benignantly to smoke one in his society. With no less readiness and condescension did he receive attentions from Chivery Senior, who always relinquished his arm-chair and newspaper to him, when he came into the Lodge during one of his spells of duty; and who had even mentioned to him, that, if he would like at any time after dusk quietly to step out into the fore-court and take a look at the street, there was not much to prevent him. If he did not avail himself of this latter civility, it was only because he had lost the relish for it; inasmuch as he took everything else he could get, and would say at times, ‘Extremely civil person, Chivery; very attentive man and very respectful. Young Chivery, too; really almost with a delicate perception of one’s position here. A very well conducted family indeed, the Chiveries. Their behaviour gratifies me.’
In this situation, just like in every other, Little Dorrit was the last person anyone thought about. Her brother and sister knew this and managed to elevate their status by using it as a way to show off the family's sadly tattered idea of gentility. Her sister demonstrated this gentility by looking down on the poor suitor who hung around the prison hoping for a glimpse of her. Tip portrayed the family's gentility—and his own—by acting like the aristocratic brother, strutting around the small yard discussing the impending seizure of some poor unfortunate by an unknown gentleman. But they weren’t the only Dorrit family members taking advantage of the situation. Certainly, the Father of the Marshalsea was assumed to be oblivious to all this; his fragile dignity couldn't stoop that low. Still, he accepted the cigars on Sundays and was happy to get them, sometimes even agreeing to stroll in the yard with the donor (who felt proud and hopeful then) and amiably smoke one together. He also readily accepted favors from Chivery Senior, who always offered his armchair and newspaper when he came into the Lodge during his shifts; he even suggested that if the Father of the Marshalsea wanted to step out into the forecourt after dark to see the street, there wouldn’t be much to stop him. If he didn’t take advantage of this offer, it was simply because he had lost interest in it; he would take all else he could get and would sometimes say, “Very civil person, Chivery; very attentive and respectful. Young Chivery, too; quite perceptive about one’s position here. The Chivery family is really quite respectable. Their behavior pleases me.”
The devoted Young John all this time regarded the family with reverence. He never dreamed of disputing their pretensions, but did homage to the miserable Mumbo jumbo they paraded. As to resenting any affront from her brother, he would have felt, even if he had not naturally been of a most pacific disposition, that to wag his tongue or lift his hand against that sacred gentleman would be an unhallowed act. He was sorry that his noble mind should take offence; still, he felt the fact to be not incompatible with its nobility, and sought to propitiate and conciliate that gallant soul. Her father, a gentleman in misfortune—a gentleman of a fine spirit and courtly manners, who always bore with him—he deeply honoured. Her sister he considered somewhat vain and proud, but a young lady of infinite accomplishments, who could not forget the past. It was an instinctive testimony to Little Dorrit’s worth and difference from all the rest, that the poor young fellow honoured and loved her for being simply what she was.
Young John had always looked up to the family with admiration. He never thought about challenging their claims, but he respected the meaningless rituals they displayed. As for holding a grudge against her brother, even if he hadn't been naturally calm, he would have felt that it would be wrong to speak out or act against that respected man. He regretted that his noble spirit should be offended; still, he believed that this didn't take away from his nobility, and he tried to win over and make peace with that brave man. Her father, a gentleman who had fallen on hard times—a man of great character and refined manners, who always carried himself with dignity—he held in high regard. He thought her sister was a bit vain and proud, but she was an extremely accomplished young woman who couldn't move past the past. It was a testament to Little Dorrit’s worth and uniqueness that this poor young man honored and loved her just for being who she was.
The tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane was carried out in a rural establishment one story high, which had the benefit of the air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and the advantage of a retired walk under the wall of that pleasant establishment. The business was of too modest a character to support a life-size Highlander, but it maintained a little one on a bracket on the door-post, who looked like a fallen Cherub that had found it necessary to take to a kilt.
The tobacco shop around the corner from Horsemonger Lane was located in a one-story building that enjoyed fresh air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and had the perk of a quiet path by the wall of that pleasant place. The business was too small to feature a full-size Highlander, but it did have a little one on a bracket on the doorpost, looking like a fallen angel who had to trade in his robes for a kilt.
From the portal thus decorated, one Sunday after an early dinner of baked viands, Young John issued forth on his usual Sunday errand; not empty-handed, but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly attired in a plum-coloured coat, with as large a collar of black velvet as his figure could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs; a chaste neckerchief much in vogue at that day, representing a preserve of lilac pheasants on a buff ground; pantaloons so highly decorated with side-stripes that each leg was a three-stringed lute; and a hat of state very high and hard. When the prudent Mrs Chivery perceived that in addition to these adornments her John carried a pair of white kid gloves, and a cane like a little finger-post, surmounted by an ivory hand marshalling him the way that he should go; and when she saw him, in this heavy marching order, turn the corner to the right; she remarked to Mr Chivery, who was at home at the time, that she thought she knew which way the wind blew.
From the decorated entrance, one Sunday after an early dinner of baked dishes, Young John stepped out on his usual Sunday errand, not empty-handed but with a pack of cigars. He was dressed in a plum-colored coat with as big a black velvet collar as he could pull off; a silk waistcoat adorned with golden patterns; a stylish neckerchief popular at the time, featuring a design of lilac pheasants on a light brown background; pants so elaborately decorated with side stripes that each leg resembled a three-stringed lute; and a tall, stiff hat. When the sensible Mrs. Chivery noticed that, in addition to these outfits, her John also carried a pair of white kid gloves and a cane looking like a little signpost, topped with an ivory hand directing him on the right path; and when she saw him, dressed to impress, turn the corner to the right, she remarked to Mr. Chivery, who was home at the time, that she had a feeling she knew which way things were going.
The Collegians were entertaining a considerable number of visitors that Sunday afternoon, and their Father kept his room for the purpose of receiving presentations. After making the tour of the yard, Little Dorrit’s lover with a hurried heart went up-stairs, and knocked with his knuckles at the Father’s door.
The Collegians had a lot of visitors that Sunday afternoon, and their Father stayed in his room to meet with them. After walking around the yard, Little Dorrit’s boyfriend, feeling anxious, went upstairs and knocked on the Father’s door with his knuckles.
‘Come in, come in!’ said a gracious voice. The Father’s voice, her father’s, the Marshalsea’s father’s. He was seated in his black velvet cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the table, and two chairs arranged. Everything prepared for holding his Court.
‘Come in, come in!’ said a welcoming voice. The Father’s voice, her father’s, the Marshalsea’s father’s. He was sitting in his black velvet cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the table, and two chairs set up. Everything was ready for holding his Court.
‘Ah, Young John! How do you do, how do you do!’
‘Hey, Young John! How's it going, how's it going!’
‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the same.’
"I'm doing pretty well, thank you, sir. I hope you are too."
‘Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain of.’
‘Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain about.’
‘I have taken the liberty, sir, of—’
‘I have taken the initiative, sir, of—’
‘Eh?’ The Father of the Marshalsea always lifted up his eyebrows at this point, and became amiably distraught and smilingly absent in mind.
‘Huh?’ The Father of the Marshalsea always raised his eyebrows at this point and became pleasantly distracted, smiling but lost in thought.
‘—A few cigars, sir.’
‘—A few cigars, dude.’
‘Oh!’ (For the moment, excessively surprised.) ‘Thank you, Young John, thank you. But really, I am afraid I am too—No? Well then, I will say no more about it. Put them on the mantelshelf, if you please, Young John. And sit down, sit down. You are not a stranger, John.’
‘Oh!’ (For the moment, incredibly surprised.) ‘Thank you, Young John, thank you. But honestly, I think I’m too—No? Well then, I won’t mention it again. Please put them on the mantelshelf, Young John. And sit down, sit down. You’re not a stranger, John.’
‘Thank you, sir, I am sure—Miss;’ here Young John turned the great hat round and round upon his left-hand, like a slowly twirling mouse-cage; ‘Miss Amy quite well, sir?’
‘Thank you, sir, I’m sure—Miss;’ here Young John turned the big hat around and around on his left hand, like a slowly spinning mouse cage; ‘Is Miss Amy doing well, sir?’
‘Yes, John, yes; very well. She is out.’
‘Yes, John, yes; all right. She is out.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
'Really, sir?'
‘Yes, John. Miss Amy is gone for an airing. My young people all go out a good deal. But at their time of life, it’s natural, John.’
‘Yes, John. Miss Amy has gone out for some fresh air. My young ones go out quite a bit. But at their age, it’s normal, John.’
‘Very much so, I am sure, sir.’
‘Absolutely, I'm sure of it, sir.’
‘An airing. An airing. Yes.’ He was blandly tapping his fingers on the table, and casting his eyes up at the window. ‘Amy has gone for an airing on the Iron Bridge. She has become quite partial to the Iron Bridge of late, and seems to like to walk there better than anywhere.’ He returned to conversation. ‘Your father is not on duty at present, I think, John?’
‘A stroll. A stroll. Yes.’ He was casually tapping his fingers on the table and looking out the window. ‘Amy has gone for a walk on the Iron Bridge. She’s really taken a liking to the Iron Bridge lately and seems to prefer walking there more than anywhere else.’ He returned to the conversation. ‘I assume your dad isn’t working right now, John?’
‘No, sir, he comes on later in the afternoon.’ Another twirl of the great hat, and then Young John said, rising, ‘I am afraid I must wish you good day, sir.’
‘No, sir, he’ll be here later in the afternoon.’ Another spin of the big hat, and then Young John said, standing up, ‘I’m afraid I have to wish you a good day, sir.’
‘So soon? Good day, Young John. Nay, nay,’ with the utmost condescension, ‘never mind your glove, John. Shake hands with it on. You are no stranger here, you know.’
‘So soon? Good day, Young John. No, no,’ with the utmost condescension, ‘don’t worry about your glove, John. Shake hands with it on. You’re not a stranger here, you know.’
Highly gratified by the kindness of his reception, Young John descended the staircase. On his way down he met some Collegians bringing up visitors to be presented, and at that moment Mr Dorrit happened to call over the banisters with particular distinctness, ‘Much obliged to you for your little testimonial, John!’
Highly pleased by the warm welcome he received, Young John went down the staircase. On his way down, he encountered some fellow students bringing up visitors to be introduced, and at that moment Mr. Dorrit happened to call over the banisters quite clearly, "Thank you for your little gift, John!"
Little Dorrit’s lover very soon laid down his penny on the tollplate of the Iron Bridge, and came upon it looking about him for the well-known and well-beloved figure. At first he feared she was not there; but as he walked on towards the Middlesex side, he saw her standing still, looking at the water. She was absorbed in thought, and he wondered what she might be thinking about. There were the piles of city roofs and chimneys, more free from smoke than on week-days; and there were the distant masts and steeples. Perhaps she was thinking about them.
Little Dorrit’s boyfriend quickly paid his toll on the Iron Bridge and started looking around for her familiar and beloved figure. At first, he worried she wasn’t there, but as he walked toward the Middlesex side, he spotted her standing still, gazing at the water. She seemed lost in thought, and he wondered what was on her mind. There were the stacks of city rooftops and chimneys, clearer of smoke than usual on weekdays; and in the distance, masts and steeples could be seen. Maybe she was contemplating them.
Little Dorrit mused so long, and was so entirely preoccupied, that although her lover stood quiet for what he thought was a long time, and twice or thrice retired and came back again to the former spot, still she did not move. So, in the end, he made up his mind to go on, and seem to come upon her casually in passing, and speak to her. The place was quiet, and now or never was the time to speak to her.
Little Dorrit thought for so long and was so completely lost in her thoughts that even though her lover stood still for what he believed was a long time, and stepped away twice or three times only to return to the same spot, she still didn't budge. So, in the end, he decided to keep going and pretend to run into her by chance as he passed by, and talk to her. The place was quiet, and it was now or never to speak to her.
He walked on, and she did not appear to hear his steps until he was close upon her. When he said ‘Miss Dorrit!’ she started and fell back from him, with an expression in her face of fright and something like dislike that caused him unutterable dismay. She had often avoided him before—always, indeed, for a long, long while. She had turned away and glided off so often when she had seen him coming toward her, that the unfortunate Young John could not think it accidental. But he had hoped that it might be shyness, her retiring character, her foreknowledge of the state of his heart, anything short of aversion. Now, that momentary look had said, ‘You, of all people! I would rather have seen any one on earth than you!’
He walked on, and she didn’t seem to hear his footsteps until he was right next to her. When he called out, “Miss Dorrit!” she jumped back from him, her face showing fear and a hint of dislike that filled him with an indescribable panic. She had often avoided him before—actually, she had for a long time. She had frequently turned away and quickly slipped away whenever she saw him approaching, so the unfortunate Young John couldn’t believe it was just by chance. But he had hoped it was just shyness, her reserved nature, her awareness of how he felt, anything other than dislike. Now, that brief look had communicated, “You, of all people! I’d rather see anyone else on earth than you!”
It was but a momentary look, inasmuch as she checked it, and said in her soft little voice, ‘Oh, Mr John! Is it you?’ But she felt what it had been, as he felt what it had been; and they stood looking at one another equally confused.
It was just a brief glance, as she caught herself, and said in her soft little voice, ‘Oh, Mr. John! Is that you?’ But she sensed what it had meant, just as he did; and they stood looking at each other, equally confused.
‘Miss Amy, I am afraid I disturbed you by speaking to you.’
‘Miss Amy, I'm sorry if I disturbed you by talking to you.’
‘Yes, rather. I—I came here to be alone, and I thought I was.’
‘Yes, definitely. I—I came here to be alone, and I thought I was.’
‘Miss Amy, I took the liberty of walking this way, because Mr Dorrit chanced to mention, when I called upon him just now, that you—’
‘Miss Amy, I took the liberty of walking this way because Mr. Dorrit happened to mention, when I visited him just now, that you—’
She caused him more dismay than before by suddenly murmuring, ‘O father, father!’ in a heartrending tone, and turning her face away.
She upset him even more than before by suddenly whispering, ‘Oh father, father!’ in a heartbreaking tone, and turning her face away.
‘Miss Amy, I hope I don’t give you any uneasiness by naming Mr Dorrit. I assure you I found him very well and in the best of Spirits, and he showed me even more than his usual kindness; being so very kind as to say that I was not a stranger there, and in all ways gratifying me very much.’
‘Miss Amy, I hope mentioning Mr. Dorrit doesn't make you uneasy. I assure you I found him in great shape and in high spirits, and he was even kinder than usual, generously saying that I wasn't a stranger there and really making me feel appreciated.’
To the inexpressible consternation of her lover, Little Dorrit, with her hands to her averted face, and rocking herself where she stood as if she were in pain, murmured, ‘O father, how can you! O dear, dear father, how can you, can you, do it!’
To her lover's utter dismay, Little Dorrit, with her hands covering her turned face and rocking back and forth as if in pain, murmured, ‘Oh father, how can you! Oh dear, dear father, how can you, how can you do this!’
The poor fellow stood gazing at her, overflowing with sympathy, but not knowing what to make of this, until, having taken out her handkerchief and put it to her still averted face, she hurried away. At first he remained stock still; then hurried after her.
The poor guy stood there looking at her, filled with sympathy, but unsure of what to make of it all, until she pulled out her handkerchief and pressed it to her turned-away face, then quickly left. At first, he stood frozen; then he rushed after her.
‘Miss Amy, pray! Will you have the goodness to stop a moment? Miss Amy, if it comes to that, let me go. I shall go out of my senses, if I have to think that I have driven you away like this.’
‘Miss Amy, please! Could you stop for a moment? Miss Amy, if it comes down to it, let me go. I'll lose my mind if I have to think that I've pushed you away like this.’
His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness brought Little Dorrit to a stop. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to do,’ she cried, ‘I don’t know what to do!’
His shaking voice and genuine seriousness made Little Dorrit stop. "Oh, I don't know what to do," she exclaimed, "I don’t know what to do!"
To Young John, who had never seen her bereft of her quiet self-command, who had seen her from her infancy ever so reliable and self-suppressed, there was a shock in her distress, and in having to associate himself with it as its cause, that shook him from his great hat to the pavement. He felt it necessary to explain himself. He might be misunderstood—supposed to mean something, or to have done something, that had never entered into his imagination. He begged her to hear him explain himself, as the greatest favour she could show him.
To young John, who had always seen her composed and in control, who had known her since childhood as reliable and reserved, there was a jolt in witnessing her distress, especially knowing he was the cause of it. It felt like it knocked him off his feet. He felt the need to clarify his intentions. He worried he might be misunderstood—people might assume he meant something or had done something he had never even thought of. He asked her to let him explain, as the biggest favor she could do for him.
‘Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is far above mine. It were vain to conceal it. There never was a Chivery a gentleman that ever I heard of, and I will not commit the meanness of making a false representation on a subject so momentous. Miss Amy, I know very well that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn me from a height. What I have to do is to respect them, to wish to be admitted to their friendship, to look up at the eminence on which they are placed from my lowlier station—for, whether viewed as tobacco or viewed as the lock, I well know it is lowly—and ever wish them well and happy.’
‘Miss Amy, I know that your family is much higher in status than mine. It would be pointless to pretend otherwise. I’ve never heard of a Chivery being a gentleman, and I won’t dishonor myself by pretending otherwise about something so important. Miss Amy, I know your esteemed brother and spirited sister look down on me. What I need to do is respect them, hope to be welcomed into their friendship, look up to the higher ground they stand on from my lower position—because, whether considered as tobacco or as a lock, I know it’s lowly—and always wish them well and happy.’
There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, and a contrast between the hardness of his hat and the softness of his heart (albeit, perhaps, of his head, too), that was moving. Little Dorrit entreated him to disparage neither himself nor his station, and, above all things, to divest himself of any idea that she supposed hers to be superior. This gave him a little comfort.
There was a real sincerity in the poor guy, and a striking difference between the toughness of his hat and the softness of his heart (though maybe his head was soft too), that was touching. Little Dorrit urged him not to put himself or his position down, and, most importantly, to let go of any thought that she saw hers as better. This brought him a bit of comfort.
‘Miss Amy,’ he then stammered, ‘I have had for a long time—ages they seem to me—Revolving ages—a heart-cherished wish to say something to you. May I say it?’
‘Miss Amy,’ he then stammered, ‘I’ve had a heart-felt wish for a long time—what feels like forever—to say something to you. Can I say it?’
Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side again, with the faintest shadow of her former look; conquering that, she went on at great speed half across the Bridge without replying!
Little Dorrit involuntarily pulled away from his side again, with the slightest hint of her earlier expression; overcoming that, she hurried halfway across the Bridge without saying a word!
‘May I—Miss Amy, I but ask the question humbly—may I say it? I have been so unlucky already in giving you pain without having any such intentions, before the holy Heavens! that there is no fear of my saying it unless I have your leave. I can be miserable alone, I can be cut up by myself, why should I also make miserable and cut up one that I would fling myself off that parapet to give half a moment’s joy to! Not that that’s much to do, for I’d do it for twopence.’
“May I—Miss Amy, I humbly ask—may I say it? I’ve already been so unfortunate in causing you pain without any intention of doing so, I swear to God! that I wouldn’t say it without your permission. I can be unhappy by myself, I can be heartbroken alone; why should I also make someone I would jump off that ledge to bring just a moment of joy to feel miserable too? Not that it’s a big deal, because I’d do it for just two cents.”
The mournfulness of his spirits, and the gorgeousness of his appearance, might have made him ridiculous, but that his delicacy made him respectable. Little Dorrit learnt from it what to do.
The sadness of his mood, along with his striking appearance, could have made him look silly, but his sensitivity gave him dignity. Little Dorrit took note of how to handle the situation.
‘If you please, John Chivery,’ she returned, trembling, but in a quiet way, ‘since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say any more—if you please, no.’
‘If you don’t mind, John Chivery,’ she replied, shaking a little, but calmly, ‘since you’re kind enough to ask me if you should say anything more—if you don’t mind, no.’
‘Never, Miss Amy?’
'Never, Amy?'
‘No, if you please. Never.’
‘No, thank you. Never.’
‘O Lord!’ gasped Young John.
“Lord!” gasped Young John.
‘But perhaps you will let me, instead, say something to you. I want to say it earnestly, and with as plain a meaning as it is possible to express. When you think of us, John—I mean my brother, and sister, and me—don’t think of us as being any different from the rest; for, whatever we once were (which I hardly know) we ceased to be long ago, and never can be any more. It will be much better for you, and much better for others, if you will do that instead of what you are doing now.’
‘But maybe you’ll allow me to say something to you instead. I want to say it sincerely, with the clearest meaning possible. When you think of us, John—I’m talking about my brother, sister, and me—don’t see us as any different from anyone else; because whatever we were before (which I barely remember), we stopped being that a long time ago and can never be it again. It will be much better for you and for others if you do that instead of what you’re doing now.’
Young John dolefully protested that he would try to bear it in mind, and would be heartily glad to do anything she wished.
Young John sadly said he would try to remember and would be truly happy to do whatever she wanted.
‘As to me,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘think as little of me as you can; the less, the better. When you think of me at all, John, let it only be as the child you have seen grow up in the prison with one set of duties always occupying her; as a weak, retired, contented, unprotected girl. I particularly want you to remember, that when I come outside the gate, I am unprotected and solitary.’
‘As for me,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘think of me as little as possible; the less, the better. When you do think of me at all, John, let it just be as the child you’ve seen grow up in the prison with one set of duties always occupying her; as a fragile, withdrawn, content, unprotected girl. I especially want you to remember that when I step outside the gate, I am unprotected and alone.’
He would try to do anything she wished. But why did Miss Amy so much want him to remember that?
He would do anything she wanted. But why did Miss Amy want him to remember that so much?
‘Because,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘I know I can then quite trust you not to forget to-day, and not to say any more to me. You are so generous that I know I can trust to you for that; and I do and I always will. I am going to show you, at once, that I fully trust you. I like this place where we are speaking better than any place I know;’ her slight colour had faded, but her lover thought he saw it coming back just then; ‘and I may be often here. I know it is only necessary for me to tell you so, to be quite sure that you will never come here again in search of me. And I am—quite sure!’
"Because," replied Little Dorrit, "I know I can trust you to remember today and not say anything more to me. You're so generous that I know I can count on you for that; I do, and I always will. I’m going to show you right now that I really trust you. I like this place where we're talking better than anywhere I know." Her slight blush had faded, but her lover thought he saw it coming back just then. "And I might be here often. I know that if I just tell you this, I can be completely sure that you won't come here again looking for me. And I am—completely sure!"
She might rely upon it, said Young John. He was a miserable wretch, but her word was more than a law for him.
She might depend on it, said Young John. He was a miserable wretch, but her word meant more to him than any law.
‘And good-bye, John,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘And I hope you will have a good wife one day, and be a happy man. I am sure you will deserve to be happy, and you will be, John.’
‘And goodbye, John,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘I hope you find a great wife someday and become a happy man. You definitely deserve to be happy, and you will be, John.’
As she held out her hand to him with these words, the heart that was under the waistcoat of sprigs—mere slop-work, if the truth must be known—swelled to the size of the heart of a gentleman; and the poor common little fellow, having no room to hold it, burst into tears.
As she extended her hand to him with those words, the heart that was beneath the decorated waistcoat—just a shabby piece of clothing, to be honest—swelled to the size of a gentleman's heart; and the poor, ordinary guy, unable to contain it, broke down in tears.
‘Oh, don’t cry,’ said Little Dorrit piteously. ‘Don’t, don’t! Good-bye, John. God bless you!’
‘Oh, don’t cry,’ said Little Dorrit sadly. ‘Please don’t! Goodbye, John. God bless you!’
‘Good-bye, Miss Amy. Good-bye!’
'Goodbye, Miss Amy. Goodbye!'
And so he left her: first observing that she sat down on the corner of a seat, and not only rested her little hand upon the rough wall, but laid her face against it too, as if her head were heavy, and her mind were sad.
And so he left her: first noticing that she sat down on the corner of a seat, resting her small hand against the rough wall and also laying her face against it, as if her head was heavy and her mind was troubled.
It was an affecting illustration of the fallacy of human projects, to behold her lover, with the great hat pulled over his eyes, the velvet collar turned up as if it rained, the plum-coloured coat buttoned to conceal the silken waistcoat of golden sprigs, and the little direction-post pointing inexorably home, creeping along by the worst back-streets, and composing, as he went, the following new inscription for a tombstone in St George’s Churchyard:
It was a powerful example of how flawed human plans can be, to see her lover, with his big hat pulled low over his eyes, the velvet collar turned up as if it were raining, the plum-colored coat buttoned up to hide the silk waistcoat decorated with golden sprigs, and the small signpost pointing relentlessly home, slowly making his way down the worst back streets, while crafting, as he went, the following new inscription for a tombstone in St George’s Churchyard:
‘Here lie the mortal remains Of JOHN CHIVERY, Never anything worth mentioning, Who died about the end of the year one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six, Of a broken heart, Requesting with his last breath that the word AMY might be inscribed over his ashes, which was accordingly directed to be done, By his afflicted Parents.’
‘Here lie the mortal remains of JOHN CHIVERY, never anything worth mentioning, who died around the end of the year 1826, of a broken heart, requesting with his last breath that the name AMY be inscribed over his ashes, which was accordingly done by his grieving parents.’
CHAPTER 19. The Father of the Marshalsea in two or three Relations
The brothers William and Frederick Dorrit, walking up and down the College-yard—of course on the aristocratic or Pump side, for the Father made it a point of his state to be chary of going among his children on the Poor side, except on Sunday mornings, Christmas Days, and other occasions of ceremony, in the observance whereof he was very punctual, and at which times he laid his hand upon the heads of their infants, and blessed those young insolvents with a benignity that was highly edifying—the brothers, walking up and down the College-yard together, were a memorable sight. Frederick the free, was so humbled, bowed, withered, and faded; William the bond, was so courtly, condescending, and benevolently conscious of a position; that in this regard only, if in no other, the brothers were a spectacle to wonder at.
The brothers William and Frederick Dorrit were strolling back and forth in the College yard—naturally on the aristocratic or Pump side, since their father made it a point to avoid going among his children on the Poor side, except on Sunday mornings, Christmas Days, and other formal occasions, which he observed with great punctuality. During those times, he would place his hands on their infants' heads and bless those young debtors with a kindness that was very inspiring. The brothers, walking together in the College yard, were quite a sight. Frederick the free looked so humbled, slumped, worn out, and faded; while William the bond was so elegant, gracious, and self-importantly aware of his position; that in this respect alone, if not in any other, the brothers were a remarkable sight to behold.
Original
They walked up and down the yard on the evening of Little Dorrit’s Sunday interview with her lover on the Iron Bridge. The cares of state were over for that day, the Drawing Room had been well attended, several new presentations had taken place, the three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the table had accidentally increased to twelve shillings, and the Father of the Marshalsea refreshed himself with a whiff of cigar. As he walked up and down, affably accommodating his step to the shuffle of his brother, not proud in his superiority, but considerate of that poor creature, bearing with him, and breathing toleration of his infirmities in every little puff of smoke that issued from his lips and aspired to get over the spiked wall, he was a sight to wonder at.
They strolled back and forth in the yard on the evening of Little Dorrit's Sunday meeting with her boyfriend on the Iron Bridge. The day's political worries had wrapped up, the Drawing Room had seen a good number of guests, several new introductions had occurred, the three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the table had somehow grown to twelve shillings, and the Father of the Marshalsea treated himself to a puff of cigar. As he walked to and fro, pleasantly matching his pace to his brother’s shuffle, not looking down on him but rather being considerate of that poor soul, accepting him, and inhaling tolerance for his weaknesses with every little puff of smoke that escaped his lips and aimed towards the spiked wall, he was truly a sight to behold.
His brother Frederick of the dim eye, palsied hand, bent form, and groping mind, submissively shuffled at his side, accepting his patronage as he accepted every incident of the labyrinthian world in which he had got lost. He held the usual screwed bit of whitey-brown paper in his hand, from which he ever and again unscrewed a spare pinch of snuff. That falteringly taken, he would glance at his brother not unadmiringly, put his hands behind him, and shuffle on so at his side until he took another pinch, or stood still to look about him—perchance suddenly missing his clarionet.
His brother Frederick, with his cloudy eye, shaky hand, hunched back, and wandering mind, quietly shuffled next to him, accepting his support just as he accepted every twist and turn of the complicated world he found himself in. He held the usual crumpled piece of brownish-white paper in his hand, occasionally pinching out a bit of snuff. After taking it, he would glance at his brother with a hint of admiration, put his hands behind his back, and continue to shuffle alongside him until he took another pinch or stopped to look around—perhaps suddenly realizing he had lost track of his clarinet.
The College visitors were melting away as the shades of night drew on, but the yard was still pretty full, the Collegians being mostly out, seeing their friends to the Lodge. As the brothers paced the yard, William the bond looked about him to receive salutes, returned them by graciously lifting off his hat, and, with an engaging air, prevented Frederick the free from running against the company, or being jostled against the wall. The Collegians as a body were not easily impressible, but even they, according to their various ways of wondering, appeared to find in the two brothers a sight to wonder at.
The college visitors were fading away as night fell, but the yard was still quite full, with the students mostly outside seeing their friends off to the lodge. As the brothers walked around the yard, William, the bond, looked around to acknowledge greetings, responding by graciously lifting his hat and, with a charming demeanor, made sure Frederick the free avoided bumping into people or getting pushed against the wall. The students as a group weren't easily impressed, but even they, each in their own way, seemed to find the two brothers a sight to marvel at.
‘You are a little low this evening, Frederick,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea. ‘Anything the matter?’
‘You seem a bit down this evening, Frederick,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘The matter?’ He stared for a moment, and then dropped his head and eyes again. ‘No, William, no. Nothing is the matter.’
‘The matter?’ He paused for a moment, then looked down again. ‘No, William, no. Nothing is wrong.’
‘If you could be persuaded to smarten yourself up a little, Frederick—’
‘If you could be convinced to tidy yourself up a bit, Frederick—’
‘Aye, aye!’ said the old man hurriedly. ‘But I can’t be. I can’t be. Don’t talk so. That’s all over.’
‘Yeah, yeah!’ said the old man quickly. ‘But I can’t be. I can’t be. Don’t talk like that. That’s all in the past.’
The Father of the Marshalsea glanced at a passing Collegian with whom he was on friendly terms, as who should say, ‘An enfeebled old man, this; but he is my brother, sir, my brother, and the voice of Nature is potent!’ and steered his brother clear of the handle of the pump by the threadbare sleeve. Nothing would have been wanting to the perfection of his character as a fraternal guide, philosopher and friend, if he had only steered his brother clear of ruin, instead of bringing it upon him.
The Father of the Marshalsea glanced at a passing college student he knew well, as if to say, ‘An aging old man, sure; but he’s my brother, sir, my brother, and the call of nature is strong!’ and guided his brother away from the pump handle by his worn-out sleeve. Nothing would have been lacking in his role as a caring guide, philosopher, and friend if he had just kept his brother away from disaster, instead of leading him straight to it.
‘I think, William,’ said the object of his affectionate consideration, ‘that I am tired, and will go home to bed.’
‘I think, William,’ said the person he cared about, ‘that I’m tired and will go home to bed.’
‘My dear Frederick,’ returned the other, ‘don’t let me detain you; don’t sacrifice your inclination to me.’
‘My dear Frederick,’ the other replied, ‘please don’t let me hold you up; don’t give up what you want for me.’
‘Late hours, and a heated atmosphere, and years, I suppose,’ said Frederick, ‘weaken me.’
‘Late hours, a tense atmosphere, and years, I guess,’ said Frederick, ‘are wearing me down.’
‘My dear Frederick,’ returned the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘do you think you are sufficiently careful of yourself? Do you think your habits are as precise and methodical as—shall I say as mine are? Not to revert again to that little eccentricity which I mentioned just now, I doubt if you take air and exercise enough, Frederick. Here is the parade, always at your service. Why not use it more regularly than you do?’
‘My dear Frederick,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘do you really take care of yourself? Do you think your habits are as organized and methodical as—shall I say as mine are? Not to bring up that little quirk I mentioned earlier, I’m not sure you get enough fresh air and exercise, Frederick. The parade is always available for you. Why not make more regular use of it?’
‘Hah!’ sighed the other. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’
'Hah!' sighed the other. 'Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.'
‘But it is of no use saying yes, yes, my dear Frederick,’ the Father of the Marshalsea in his mild wisdom persisted, ‘unless you act on that assent. Consider my case, Frederick. I am a kind of example. Necessity and time have taught me what to do. At certain stated hours of the day, you will find me on the parade, in my room, in the Lodge, reading the paper, receiving company, eating and drinking. I have impressed upon Amy during many years, that I must have my meals (for instance) punctually. Amy has grown up in a sense of the importance of these arrangements, and you know what a good girl she is.’
‘But it's no use just saying yes, yes, my dear Frederick,’ the Father of the Marshalsea, with his gentle wisdom, insisted, ‘unless you actually follow through on that agreement. Look at my situation, Frederick. I’m kind of a role model. Necessity and time have shown me what to do. At certain times each day, you’ll find me on the parade, in my room, in the Lodge, reading the paper, hosting guests, eating, and drinking. I’ve made it clear to Amy for many years that I need my meals (for example) on time. Amy has grown up understanding how important these routines are, and you know what a good girl she is.’
The brother only sighed again, as he plodded dreamily along, ‘Hah! Yes, yes, yes, yes.’
The brother just sighed again as he walked along in a daze, 'Hah! Yes, yes, yes, yes.'
‘My dear fellow,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea, laying his hand upon his shoulder, and mildly rallying him—mildly, because of his weakness, poor dear soul; ‘you said that before, and it does not express much, Frederick, even if it means much. I wish I could rouse you, my good Frederick; you want to be roused.’
‘My dear friend,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea, putting his hand on his shoulder and gently teasing him—gently, because of his frailty, poor dear soul; ‘you’ve said that before, and it doesn’t really say much, Frederick, even if it means a lot. I wish I could motivate you, my good Frederick; you need to be motivated.’
‘Yes, William, yes. No doubt,’ returned the other, lifting his dim eyes to his face. ‘But I am not like you.’
‘Yeah, William, definitely.’ the other replied, looking up at his face with his dull eyes. ‘But I'm not like you.’
The Father of the Marshalsea said, with a shrug of modest self-depreciation, ‘Oh! You might be like me, my dear Frederick; you might be, if you chose!’ and forbore, in the magnanimity of his strength, to press his fallen brother further.
The Father of the Marshalsea said, shrugging modestly, “Oh! You could be like me, my dear Frederick; you could be, if you wanted to!” and, in a display of his generosity, chose not to push his fallen brother any further.
There was a great deal of leave-taking going on in corners, as was usual on Sunday nights; and here and there in the dark, some poor woman, wife or mother, was weeping with a new Collegian. The time had been when the Father himself had wept, in the shades of that yard, as his own poor wife had wept. But it was many years ago; and now he was like a passenger aboard ship in a long voyage, who has recovered from sea-sickness, and is impatient of that weakness in the fresher passengers taken aboard at the last port. He was inclined to remonstrate, and to express his opinion that people who couldn’t get on without crying, had no business there. In manner, if not in words, he always testified his displeasure at these interruptions of the general harmony; and it was so well understood, that delinquents usually withdrew if they were aware of him.
There was a lot of farewelling happening in the corners, as usual on Sunday nights; and here and there in the dark, some poor woman, either a wife or a mother, was crying with a new college student. There was a time when the Father himself had cried in that yard, just as his own poor wife had. But that was many years ago; now he felt like a passenger on a long ship journey, who has gotten over seasickness and is impatient with those who are still struggling. He was inclined to speak up and share his view that people who couldn’t hold it together without crying didn’t belong there. In attitude, if not in words, he always showed his frustration with these disruptions to the overall atmosphere; and it was so well known that people usually left if they noticed him.
On this Sunday evening, he accompanied his brother to the gate with an air of endurance and clemency; being in a bland temper and graciously disposed to overlook the tears. In the flaring gaslight of the Lodge, several Collegians were basking; some taking leave of visitors, and some who had no visitors, watching the frequent turning of the key, and conversing with one another and with Mr Chivery. The paternal entrance made a sensation of course; and Mr Chivery, touching his hat (in a short manner though) with his key, hoped he found himself tolerable.
On this Sunday evening, he walked his brother to the gate with a sense of patience and kindness, feeling calm and willing to overlook the tears. In the bright gaslight of the Lodge, several students were hanging out; some were saying goodbye to visitors, while others, without any visitors, were watching the door open and close, chatting with each other and with Mr. Chivery. The arrival of their father definitely caught everyone's attention, and Mr. Chivery, briefly touching his hat with his key, hoped he was doing well.
‘Thank you, Chivery, quite well. And you?’
‘Thank you, Chivery, I'm doing well. How about you?’
Mr Chivery said in a low growl, ‘Oh! he was all right.’ Which was his general way of acknowledging inquiries after his health when a little sullen.
Mr. Chivery said in a low growl, ‘Oh! he was fine.’ This was his usual way of responding to questions about his health when he was feeling a bit grumpy.
‘I had a visit from Young John to-day, Chivery. And very smart he looked, I assure you.’
'I had a visit from Young John today, Chivery. And he looked very sharp, I assure you.'
So Mr Chivery had heard. Mr Chivery must confess, however, that his wish was that the boy didn’t lay out so much money upon it. For what did it bring him in? It only brought him in wexation. And he could get that anywhere for nothing.
So Mr. Chivery had heard. Mr. Chivery has to admit, though, that he wished the boy wouldn't spend so much money on it. Because what did it really give him? It only brought him annoyance. And he could get that for free anywhere.
‘How vexation, Chivery?’ asked the benignant father.
"What's bothering you, Chivery?" asked the caring father.
‘No odds,’ returned Mr Chivery. ‘Never mind. Mr Frederick going out?’
‘No problem,’ replied Mr. Chivery. ‘It’s all good. Is Mr. Frederick going out?’
‘Yes, Chivery, my brother is going home to bed. He is tired, and not quite well. Take care, Frederick, take care. Good night, my dear Frederick!’
‘Yes, Chivery, my brother is going to bed. He's tired and not feeling great. Take care, Frederick, take care. Good night, my dear Frederick!’
Shaking hands with his brother, and touching his greasy hat to the company in the Lodge, Frederick slowly shuffled out of the door which Mr Chivery unlocked for him. The Father of the Marshalsea showed the amiable solicitude of a superior being that he should come to no harm.
Shaking hands with his brother and tipping his greasy hat to the people in the Lodge, Frederick slowly shuffled out the door that Mr. Chivery unlocked for him. The Father of the Marshalsea displayed a caring concern, as if he were a superior being wanting to ensure that Frederick came to no harm.
‘Be so kind as to keep the door open a moment, Chivery, that I may see him go along the passage and down the steps. Take care, Frederick! (He is very infirm.) Mind the steps! (He is so very absent.) Be careful how you cross, Frederick. (I really don’t like the notion of his going wandering at large, he is so extremely liable to be run over.)’
‘Please hold the door open for a moment, Chivery, so I can see him go down the hallway and down the steps. Watch out, Frederick! (He's very frail.) Be careful on the steps! (He's quite forgetful.) Watch how you cross, Frederick. (I really don’t like the idea of him wandering around on his own; he's very likely to get run over.)’
With these words, and with a face expressive of many uneasy doubts and much anxious guardianship, he turned his regards upon the assembled company in the Lodge: so plainly indicating that his brother was to be pitied for not being under lock and key, that an opinion to that effect went round among the Collegians assembled.
With these words, and with a face showing a lot of uneasy doubts and concern, he looked at the gathered group in the Lodge: clearly suggesting that his brother deserved pity for not being locked up, which led to a shared opinion among the assembled Collegians.
But he did not receive it with unqualified assent; on the contrary, he said, No, gentlemen, no; let them not misunderstand him. His brother Frederick was much broken, no doubt, and it might be more comfortable to himself (the Father of the Marshalsea) to know that he was safe within the walls. Still, it must be remembered that to support an existence there during many years, required a certain combination of qualities—he did not say high qualities, but qualities—moral qualities. Now, had his brother Frederick that peculiar union of qualities? Gentlemen, he was a most excellent man, a most gentle, tender, and estimable man, with the simplicity of a child; but would he, though unsuited for most other places, do for that place? No; he said confidently, no! And, he said, Heaven forbid that Frederick should be there in any other character than in his present voluntary character! Gentlemen, whoever came to that College, to remain there a length of time, must have strength of character to go through a good deal and to come out of a good deal. Was his beloved brother Frederick that man? No. They saw him, even as it was, crushed. Misfortune crushed him. He had not power of recoil enough, not elasticity enough, to be a long time in such a place, and yet preserve his self-respect and feel conscious that he was a gentleman. Frederick had not (if he might use the expression) Power enough to see in any delicate little attentions and—and—Testimonials that he might under such circumstances receive, the goodness of human nature, the fine spirit animating the Collegians as a community, and at the same time no degradation to himself, and no depreciation of his claims as a gentleman. Gentlemen, God bless you!
But he didn’t accept it without hesitation; on the contrary, he said, "No, gentlemen, no; let them not misunderstand him." His brother Frederick was certainly very fragile, and it might be more comforting for him (the Father of the Marshalsea) to know that Frederick was safe within those walls. However, it must be remembered that living there for many years required a certain combination of qualities—he didn’t say high qualities, but qualities—moral qualities. Now, did his brother Frederick possess that unique combination of qualities? Gentlemen, he was a wonderful man, a gentle, kind, and admirable man, with the innocence of a child; but would he, even though he wasn’t suited for most other places, be fit for that place? No; he confidently said, no! And he added, Heaven forbid that Frederick should be there in any role other than his current voluntary role! Gentlemen, anyone who came to that College to stay for an extended period had to have the strength of character to endure a lot and come out of it intact. Was his beloved brother Frederick that person? No. They saw him, even as he was, crushed. Misfortune had overwhelmed him. He didn’t have enough resilience, not enough elasticity, to spend a long time in such a place and still maintain his self-respect and feel like a gentleman. Frederick didn’t have (if he could use the term) enough strength to see in any small gestures and— testimonials he might receive in such circumstances, the goodness of human nature, the fine spirit that animated the Collegians as a community, while also feeling no degradation to himself and no diminishment of his status as a gentleman. Gentlemen, God bless you!
Such was the homily with which he improved and pointed the occasion to the company in the Lodge before turning into the sallow yard again, and going with his own poor shabby dignity past the Collegian in the dressing-gown who had no coat, and past the Collegian in the sea-side slippers who had no shoes, and past the stout greengrocer Collegian in the corduroy knee-breeches who had no cares, and past the lean clerk Collegian in buttonless black who had no hopes, up his own poor shabby staircase to his own poor shabby room.
That was the speech he made to inspire the group in the Lodge before heading back into the dim yard again, walking with his own worn dignity past the student in a dressing gown without a coat, past the student in beach slippers who had no shoes, past the heavyset greengrocer student in corduroy shorts who had no worries, and past the thin clerk student in a buttonless black outfit who had no aspirations, up his own worn staircase to his own shabby room.
There, the table was laid for his supper, and his old grey gown was ready for him on his chair-back at the fire. His daughter put her little prayer-book in her pocket—had she been praying for pity on all prisoners and captives!—and rose to welcome him.
There, the table was set for his dinner, and his old gray robe was draped over the back of his chair by the fire. His daughter slipped her small prayer book into her pocket—had she been praying for mercy for all prisoners and captives?—and got up to greet him.
Uncle had gone home, then? she asked him, as she changed his coat and gave him his black velvet cap. Yes, uncle had gone home. Had her father enjoyed his walk? Why, not much, Amy; not much. No! Did he not feel quite well?
"Uncle went home, right?" she asked, taking off his coat and handing him his black velvet cap. "Yes, uncle went home. Did your dad enjoy his walk?" "Not really, Amy; not really. No! Was he not feeling well?"
As she stood behind him, leaning over his chair so lovingly, he looked with downcast eyes at the fire. An uneasiness stole over him that was like a touch of shame; and when he spoke, as he presently did, it was in an unconnected and embarrassed manner.
As she leaned over his chair from behind, showing her affection, he gazed down at the fire. A feeling of unease washed over him, similar to a hint of shame; and when he finally spoke, it was in a disjointed and awkward way.
‘Something, I—hem!—I don’t know what, has gone wrong with Chivery. He is not—ha!—not nearly so obliging and attentive as usual to-night. It—hem!—it’s a little thing, but it puts me out, my love. It’s impossible to forget,’ turning his hands over and over and looking closely at them, ‘that—hem!—that in such a life as mine, I am unfortunately dependent on these men for something every hour in the day.’
‘Something, I—um!—I don’t know what, has gone wrong with Chivery. He is not—ha!—not nearly as helpful and attentive as usual tonight. It—um!—it’s a small thing, but it bothers me, my love. It’s impossible to forget,’ turning his hands over and over and looking closely at them, ‘that—um!—that in a life like mine, I am unfortunately dependent on these men for something every hour of the day.’
Her arm was on his shoulder, but she did not look in his face while he spoke. Bending her head she looked another way.
Her arm was on his shoulder, but she didn't look at his face while he spoke. She tilted her head and looked away.
‘I—hem!—I can’t think, Amy, what has given Chivery offence. He is generally so—so very attentive and respectful. And to-night he was quite—quite short with me. Other people there too! Why, good Heaven! if I was to lose the support and recognition of Chivery and his brother officers, I might starve to death here.’ While he spoke, he was opening and shutting his hands like valves; so conscious all the time of that touch of shame, that he shrunk before his own knowledge of his meaning.
‘I—hem!—I can’t understand, Amy, what offended Chivery. He’s usually so—so very attentive and respectful. And tonight he was quite—quite abrupt with me. There were other people there too! Good heavens! If I were to lose the support and recognition of Chivery and his fellow officers, I might starve to death here.’ As he spoke, he was opening and closing his hands like valves, fully aware of that touch of shame, which made him shrink in front of his own understanding of what he meant.
‘I—ha!—I can’t think what it’s owing to. I am sure I cannot imagine what the cause of it is. There was a certain Jackson here once, a turnkey of the name of Jackson (I don’t think you can remember him, my dear, you were very young), and—hem!—and he had a—brother, and this—young brother paid his addresses to—at least, did not go so far as to pay his addresses to—but admired—respectfully admired—the—not daughter, the sister—of one of us; a rather distinguished Collegian; I may say, very much so. His name was Captain Martin; and he consulted me on the question whether it was necessary that his daughter—sister—should hazard offending the turnkey brother by being too—ha!—too plain with the other brother. Captain Martin was a gentleman and a man of honour, and I put it to him first to give me his—his own opinion. Captain Martin (highly respected in the army) then unhesitatingly said that it appeared to him that his—hem!—sister was not called upon to understand the young man too distinctly, and that she might lead him on—I am doubtful whether “lead him on” was Captain Martin’s exact expression: indeed I think he said tolerate him—on her father’s—I should say, brother’s—account. I hardly know how I have strayed into this story. I suppose it has been through being unable to account for Chivery; but as to the connection between the two, I don’t see—’
"I—ha!—I can't figure out what it's about. I really can't imagine what the cause is. There was a guy named Jackson here once, a turnkey by that name (I don’t think you can remember him, my dear, you were very young), and—hem!—he had a—brother, and this—young brother showed interest in—well, he didn't exactly pursue her, but he admired—respectfully admired—the—not daughter, the sister—of one of us; a rather distinguished college student; I might say, very much so. His name was Captain Martin; and he came to me for advice on whether it was necessary for his daughter—sister—to risk offending the turnkey brother by being too—ha!—too straightforward with the other brother. Captain Martin was a gentleman and a man of honor, and I asked him first for his—his own opinion. Captain Martin (highly respected in the military) then confidently said that it seemed to him that his—hem!—sister didn’t need to understand the young man too clearly, and that she could lead him on—I’m not sure if “lead him on” was exactly Captain Martin’s words; in fact, I think he said tolerate him—on her father’s—I should say, brother’s—behalf. I'm not sure how I ended up telling this story. I guess it comes from trying to explain Chivery; but as for the connection between the two, I don't see—"
His voice died away, as if she could not bear the pain of hearing him, and her hand had gradually crept to his lips. For a little while there was a dead silence and stillness; and he remained shrunk in his chair, and she remained with her arm round his neck and her head bowed down upon his shoulder.
His voice faded, as if she couldn’t handle the hurt of listening to him, and her hand slowly moved to his lips. For a moment, there was complete silence and stillness; he stayed hunched in his chair, with her arm around his neck and her head resting on his shoulder.
His supper was cooking in a saucepan on the fire, and, when she moved, it was to make it ready for him on the table. He took his usual seat, she took hers, and he began his meal. They did not, as yet, look at one another. By little and little he began; laying down his knife and fork with a noise, taking things up sharply, biting at his bread as if he were offended with it, and in other similar ways showing that he was out of sorts. At length he pushed his plate from him, and spoke aloud; with the strangest inconsistency.
His dinner was cooking in a pot on the stove, and when she moved, it was to set the table for him. He took his usual seat, she took hers, and he started eating. They still weren't looking at each other. Gradually, he began; clattering his knife and fork, picking things up abruptly, biting into his bread as if he were angry with it, and in other similar ways showing that he was in a bad mood. Finally, he pushed his plate away and spoke up; with the oddest inconsistency.
‘What does it matter whether I eat or starve? What does it matter whether such a blighted life as mine comes to an end, now, next week, or next year? What am I worth to anyone? A poor prisoner, fed on alms and broken victuals; a squalid, disgraced wretch!’
‘What difference does it make if I eat or starve? What difference does it make if such a miserable life as mine ends now, next week, or next year? What am I worth to anyone? A poor prisoner, living on handouts and leftover food; a filthy, disgraced loser!’
‘Father, father!’ As he rose she went on her knees to him, and held up her hands to him.
‘Dad, Dad!’ As he stood up, she knelt before him and raised her hands to him.
‘Amy,’ he went on in a suppressed voice, trembling violently, and looking at her as wildly as if he had gone mad. ‘I tell you, if you could see me as your mother saw me, you wouldn’t believe it to be the creature you have only looked at through the bars of this cage. I was young, I was accomplished, I was good-looking, I was independent—by God I was, child!—and people sought me out, and envied me. Envied me!’
‘Amy,’ he continued in a shaky voice, trembling hard, and looking at her with a wildness that made him seem crazy. ‘I swear, if you could see me the way your mother saw me, you wouldn’t recognize the person you’ve only seen through the bars of this cage. I was young, I was talented, I was good-looking, I was independent—God, I really was, child!—and people sought me out and envied me. Envied me!’
‘Dear father!’ She tried to take down the shaking arm that he flourished in the air, but he resisted, and put her hand away.
‘Dear father!’ She tried to lower his shaking arm that he waved in the air, but he resisted and pushed her hand away.
‘If I had but a picture of myself in those days, though it was ever so ill done, you would be proud of it, you would be proud of it. But I have no such thing. Now, let me be a warning! Let no man,’ he cried, looking haggardly about, ‘fail to preserve at least that little of the times of his prosperity and respect. Let his children have that clue to what he was. Unless my face, when I am dead, subsides into the long departed look—they say such things happen, I don’t know—my children will have never seen me.’
‘If only I had a picture of myself from those days, even if it was badly done, you would be proud of it, you would be proud of it. But I have nothing like that. Now, let me serve as a warning! Let no man,’ he exclaimed, looking around with a haggard expression, ‘forget to keep at least a little reminder of the times when he was prosperous and respected. Let his children have that insight into who he was. Unless my face, when I die, fades into the long-gone appearance—they say that happens, I don’t know—my children will never have seen me.’
‘Father, father!’
“Dad, Dad!”
‘O despise me, despise me! Look away from me, don’t listen to me, stop me, blush for me, cry for me—even you, Amy! Do it, do it! I do it to myself! I am hardened now, I have sunk too low to care long even for that.’
‘Oh, ignore me, ignore me! Look away from me, don’t listen to me, stop me, blush for me, cry for me—even you, Amy! Just do it, do it! I do it to myself! I’m tough now, I’ve fallen too low to care much about that anymore.’
‘Dear father, loved father, darling of my heart!’ She was clinging to him with her arms, and she got him to drop into his chair again, and caught at the raised arm, and tried to put it round her neck.
‘Dear father, beloved father, darling of my heart!’ She was holding onto him tightly, managing to get him to sit back down in his chair, and she grabbed his raised arm, attempting to wrap it around her neck.
‘Let it lie there, father. Look at me, father, kiss me, father! Only think of me, father, for one little moment!’
‘Let it stay there, Dad. Look at me, Dad, kiss me, Dad! Just think of me, Dad, for one quick moment!’
Still he went on in the same wild way, though it was gradually breaking down into a miserable whining.
Still he continued in the same frenzied manner, even though it was slowly turning into a pathetic whine.
‘And yet I have some respect here. I have made some stand against it. I am not quite trodden down. Go out and ask who is the chief person in the place. They’ll tell you it’s your father. Go out and ask who is never trifled with, and who is always treated with some delicacy. They’ll say, your father. Go out and ask what funeral here (it must be here, I know it can be nowhere else) will make more talk, and perhaps more grief, than any that has ever gone out at the gate. They’ll say your father’s. Well then. Amy! Amy! Is your father so universally despised? Is there nothing to redeem him? Will you have nothing to remember him by but his ruin and decay? Will you be able to have no affection for him when he is gone, poor castaway, gone?’
'And yet I have some respect here. I've stood my ground against it. I'm not completely pushed down. Go outside and ask who the most important person in this place is. They'll tell you it's your father. Go ask who is never taken lightly and who is always treated with some respect. They'll say your father. Go ask which funeral here (it has to be here, I know it can't be anywhere else) will get more attention, and maybe more sadness, than any that’s ever left through the gate. They'll say your father's. Well then. Amy! Amy! Is your father really so universally hated? Is there nothing good about him? Will you remember him only for his downfall and decline? Will you have no love for him when he's gone, poor outcast, gone?'
He burst into tears of maudlin pity for himself, and at length suffering her to embrace him and take charge of him, let his grey head rest against her cheek, and bewailed his wretchedness. Presently he changed the subject of his lamentations, and clasping his hands about her as she embraced him, cried, O Amy, his motherless, forlorn child! O the days that he had seen her careful and laborious for him! Then he reverted to himself, and weakly told her how much better she would have loved him if she had known him in his vanished character, and how he would have married her to a gentleman who should have been proud of her as his daughter, and how (at which he cried again) she should first have ridden at his fatherly side on her own horse, and how the crowd (by which he meant in effect the people who had given him the twelve shillings he then had in his pocket) should have trudged the dusty roads respectfully.
He burst into tears, feeling sorry for himself, and eventually let her embrace him and take care of him. He rested his grey head against her cheek and mourned his unhappiness. Soon, he shifted his focus and wrapped his arms around her as she held him, crying, "Oh Amy, my motherless, lonely child!" He remembered the days when he saw her working hard and caring for him. Then he turned back to his own woes, weakly telling her that she would have loved him so much more if she had known him in his past life. He said that he would have married her off to a gentleman who would have been proud to have her as his daughter, and how (which made him cry again) she should have first ridden by his fatherly side on her own horse, and how the crowd (referring to the people who had given him the twelve shillings in his pocket) would have walked the dusty roads with respect.
Thus, now boasting, now despairing, in either fit a captive with the jail-rot upon him, and the impurity of his prison worn into the grain of his soul, he revealed his degenerate state to his affectionate child. No one else ever beheld him in the details of his humiliation. Little recked the Collegians who were laughing in their rooms over his late address in the Lodge, what a serious picture they had in their obscure gallery of the Marshalsea that Sunday night.
Thus, now bragging, now feeling hopeless, in either case a prisoner with the decay of his confinement haunting him, and the filth of his jail ingrained in his very being, he showed his fallen state to his loving child. No one else ever saw him in the full extent of his humiliation. The Collegians, who were laughing in their rooms about his recent speech at the Lodge, had no idea what a serious image they had in their hidden collection of the Marshalsea that Sunday night.
There was a classical daughter once—perhaps—who ministered to her father in his prison as her mother had ministered to her. Little Dorrit, though of the unheroic modern stock and mere English, did much more, in comforting her father’s wasted heart upon her innocent breast, and turning to it a fountain of love and fidelity that never ran dry or waned through all his years of famine.
There was once a classic daughter—maybe—who cared for her father in his prison just like her mother had cared for her. Little Dorrit, despite being from an unremarkable modern background and simply English, did so much more by soothing her father's troubled heart against her innocent chest, and offering him a constant source of love and loyalty that never ran out or faded during all his years of struggle.
She soothed him; asked him for his forgiveness if she had been, or seemed to have been, undutiful; told him, Heaven knows truly, that she could not honour him more if he were the favourite of Fortune and the whole world acknowledged him. When his tears were dried, and he sobbed in his weakness no longer, and was free from that touch of shame, and had recovered his usual bearing, she prepared the remains of his supper afresh, and, sitting by his side, rejoiced to see him eat and drink. For now he sat in his black velvet cap and old grey gown, magnanimous again; and would have comported himself towards any Collegian who might have looked in to ask his advice, like a great moral Lord Chesterfield, or Master of the ethical ceremonies of the Marshalsea.
She comforted him and asked for his forgiveness if she had been, or seemed to be, disrespectful. She told him, honestly, that she couldn't honor him more even if he were favored by luck and the whole world recognized him. Once his tears were dried and he was no longer sobbing in his weakness, free from that hint of shame and back to his usual self, she prepared the rest of his dinner again and, sitting by his side, was happy to see him eat and drink. Now he was seated in his black velvet cap and old grey gown, feeling like his old self again, and would have treated any student who might drop by for advice like a great moral Lord Chesterfield, or the head of ethical ceremonies at the Marshalsea.
To keep his attention engaged, she talked with him about his wardrobe; when he was pleased to say, that Yes, indeed, those shirts she proposed would be exceedingly acceptable, for those he had were worn out, and, being ready-made, had never fitted him. Being conversational, and in a reasonable flow of spirits, he then invited her attention to his coat as it hung behind the door: remarking that the Father of the place would set an indifferent example to his children, already disposed to be slovenly, if he went among them out at elbows. He was jocular, too, as to the heeling of his shoes; but became grave on the subject of his cravat, and promised her that, when she could afford it, she should buy him a new one.
To keep him interested, she chatted with him about his clothes. He was happy to agree that, yes, those shirts she suggested would be really nice because the ones he had were worn out and, being off-the-rack, had never fit him well. In a good mood and feeling chatty, he then pointed out his coat hanging behind the door, noting that the head of the household would set a poor example for his kids, who were already inclined to be messy, if he went around looking shabby. He joked about the state of his shoes but became serious when talking about his tie, promising her that whenever she could, she should buy him a new one.
While he smoked out his cigar in peace, she made his bed, and put the small room in order for his repose. Being weary then, owing to the advanced hour and his emotions, he came out of his chair to bless her and wish her Good night. All this time he had never once thought of her dress, her shoes, her need of anything. No other person upon earth, save herself, could have been so unmindful of her wants.
While he enjoyed his cigar in peace, she made his bed and tidied up the small room for his rest. Feeling tired from the late hour and his emotions, he got up from his chair to thank her and wish her good night. Throughout all this time, he never once considered her dress, her shoes, or her needs. No one else in the world, except for her, could have been so oblivious to her wants.
He kissed her many times with ‘Bless you, my love. Good night, my dear!’
He kissed her several times, saying, "Bless you, my love. Good night, my dear!"
But her gentle breast had been so deeply wounded by what she had seen of him that she was unwilling to leave him alone, lest he should lament and despair again. ‘Father, dear, I am not tired; let me come back presently, when you are in bed, and sit by you.’
But her tender heart had been so hurt by what she had seen of him that she didn’t want to leave him alone, in case he started to feel sad and hopeless again. “Dad, I’m not tired; let me come back soon, when you’re in bed, and sit with you.”
He asked her, with an air of protection, if she felt solitary?
He asked her, with a protective vibe, if she felt lonely?
‘Yes, father.’
'Yes, Dad.'
‘Then come back by all means, my love.’
‘Then definitely come back, my love.’
‘I shall be very quiet, father.’
"I'll be super quiet, Dad."
‘Don’t think of me, my dear,’ he said, giving her his kind permission fully. ‘Come back by all means.’
‘Don’t think about me, my dear,’ he said, giving her his complete permission. ‘Feel free to come back anytime.’
He seemed to be dozing when she returned, and she put the low fire together very softly lest she should awake him. But he overheard her, and called out who was that?
He looked like he was dozing when she got back, so she quietly arranged the small fire so she wouldn’t wake him. But he heard her and called out, "Who’s there?"
‘Only Amy, father.’
'Just Amy, Dad.'
‘Amy, my child, come here. I want to say a word to you.’
‘Amy, my child, come here. I want to talk to you.’
He raised himself a little in his low bed, as she kneeled beside it to bring her face near him; and put his hand between hers. O! Both the private father and the Father of the Marshalsea were strong within him then.
He lifted himself slightly in his low bed as she knelt beside it to bring her face closer to him and placed his hand between hers. Oh! Both the personal father and the Father of the Marshalsea were powerful within him at that moment.
‘My love, you have had a life of hardship here. No companions, no recreations, many cares I am afraid?’
‘My love, you’ve had a tough life here. No friends, no fun, and I’m afraid you have many worries?’
‘Don’t think of that, dear. I never do.’
‘Don’t worry about that, dear. I never do.’
‘You know my position, Amy. I have not been able to do much for you; but all I have been able to do, I have done.’
‘You know where I stand, Amy. I haven't been able to do much for you, but everything I could do, I’ve done.’
‘Yes, my dear father,’ she rejoined, kissing him. ‘I know, I know.’
‘Yes, my dear dad,’ she replied, kissing him. ‘I know, I know.’
‘I am in the twenty-third year of my life here,’ he said, with a catch in his breath that was not so much a sob as an irrepressible sound of self-approval, the momentary outburst of a noble consciousness. ‘It is all I could do for my children—I have done it. Amy, my love, you are by far the best loved of the three; I have had you principally in my mind—whatever I have done for your sake, my dear child, I have done freely and without murmuring.’
"I've been here for twenty-three years," he said, his breath catching in a way that wasn't quite a sob but more an uncontainable sound of self-approval, a brief expression of his noble spirit. "It's all I could do for my children—I’ve done it. Amy, my love, you are definitely the best loved of the three; I’ve mainly focused on you—everything I've done for you, my dear child, I’ve done willingly and without complaint."
Only the wisdom that holds the clue to all hearts and all mysteries, can surely know to what extent a man, especially a man brought down as this man had been, can impose upon himself. Enough, for the present place, that he lay down with wet eyelashes, serene, in a manner majestic, after bestowing his life of degradation as a sort of portion on the devoted child upon whom its miseries had fallen so heavily, and whose love alone had saved him to be even what he was.
Only the wisdom that knows the secrets of all hearts and all mysteries can truly understand how much a man, particularly one as fallen as this man, can put himself through. For now, it’s enough to say that he lay down with wet eyelashes, calm and dignified, after giving his life of hardship as a kind of gift to the devoted child who had suffered so much because of him, and whose love alone had saved him to be even what he had become.
That child had no doubts, asked herself no question, for she was but too content to see him with a lustre round his head. Poor dear, good dear, truest, kindest, dearest, were the only words she had for him, as she hushed him to rest.
That child had no doubts, asked herself no questions, because she was just too happy to see him with a glow around his head. Poor dear, good dear, truest, kindest, dearest, were the only words she had for him as she gently lulled him to sleep.
She never left him all that night. As if she had done him a wrong which her tenderness could hardly repair, she sat by him in his sleep, at times softly kissing him with suspended breath, and calling him in a whisper by some endearing name. At times she stood aside so as not to intercept the low fire-light, and, watching him when it fell upon his sleeping face, wondered did he look now at all as he had looked when he was prosperous and happy; as he had so touched her by imagining that he might look once more in that awful time. At the thought of that time, she kneeled beside his bed again, and prayed, ‘O spare his life! O save him to me! O look down upon my dear, long-suffering, unfortunate, much-changed, dear dear father!’
She stayed by his side all night. It was as if she had wronged him in a way that her affection couldn't fully mend. As he slept, she would softly kiss him, holding her breath, and whispering sweet names for him. Sometimes, she would step aside to avoid blocking the gentle firelight, gazing at his face in the glow and wondering if he looked at all like the prosperous and happy man he used to be; the one who had so moved her with the thought that he might regain that appearance during such a terrible time. Remembering that time, she knelt by his bed again and prayed, “Oh, spare his life! Oh, save him for me! Oh, look down upon my dear, long-suffering, unfortunate, much-changed, beloved father!”
Not until the morning came to protect him and encourage him, did she give him a last kiss and leave the small room. When she had stolen down-stairs, and along the empty yard, and had crept up to her own high garret, the smokeless housetops and the distant country hills were discernible over the wall in the clear morning. As she gently opened the window, and looked eastward down the prison yard, the spikes upon the wall were tipped with red, then made a sullen purple pattern on the sun as it came flaming up into the heavens. The spikes had never looked so sharp and cruel, nor the bars so heavy, nor the prison space so gloomy and contracted. She thought of the sunrise on rolling rivers, of the sunrise on wide seas, of the sunrise on rich landscapes, of the sunrise on great forests where the birds were waking and the trees were rustling; and she looked down into the living grave on which the sun had risen, with her father in it three-and-twenty years, and said, in a burst of sorrow and compassion, ‘No, no, I have never seen him in my life!’
Not until morning came to protect and encourage him did she give him one last kiss and leave the small room. After she quietly went downstairs, across the empty yard, and made her way up to her own high attic, she could see the smokeless rooftops and distant hills over the wall in the clear morning light. As she gently opened the window and looked eastward down the prison yard, the spikes on the wall were tipped with red, then formed a dull purple pattern on the sun as it blazed up into the sky. The spikes had never seemed so sharp and cruel, nor the bars so heavy, nor the prison space so dark and cramped. She thought of the sunrise over rolling rivers, over vast oceans, over lush landscapes, and over great forests where the birds were waking up and the trees were rustling; then she looked down into the living grave where the sun had risen, with her father in it for twenty-three years, and cried out in a wave of sorrow and compassion, “No, no, I have never seen him in my life!”
CHAPTER 20. Moving in Society
If Young John Chivery had had the inclination and the power to write a satire on family pride, he would have had no need to go for an avenging illustration out of the family of his beloved. He would have found it amply in that gallant brother and that dainty sister, so steeped in mean experiences, and so loftily conscious of the family name; so ready to beg or borrow from the poorest, to eat of anybody’s bread, spend anybody’s money, drink from anybody’s cup and break it afterwards. To have painted the sordid facts of their lives, and they throughout invoking the death’s head apparition of the family gentility to come and scare their benefactors, would have made Young John a satirist of the first water.
If Young John Chivery had the desire and skills to write a satire about family pride, he wouldn't have needed to find an example from his beloved's family. He could have easily found it in that dashing brother and that delicate sister, who were so caught up in petty experiences while being so overly aware of their family name. They were always ready to beg or borrow from the less fortunate, to take anyone’s food, spend anyone’s money, drink from anyone’s cup, and then break it later. If he had captured the unpleasant reality of their lives, while they every so often summoned the ghostly image of family respectability to frighten their benefactors, Young John would have been a top-notch satirist.
Tip had turned his liberty to hopeful account by becoming a billiard-marker. He had troubled himself so little as to the means of his release, that Clennam scarcely needed to have been at the pains of impressing the mind of Mr Plornish on that subject. Whoever had paid him the compliment, he very readily accepted the compliment with his compliments, and there was an end of it. Issuing forth from the gate on these easy terms, he became a billiard-marker; and now occasionally looked in at the little skittle-ground in a green Newmarket coat (second-hand), with a shining collar and bright buttons (new), and drank the beer of the Collegians.
Tip had made good use of his freedom by becoming a billiard marker. He didn’t worry much about how he got released, so Clennam didn’t have to put in much effort to get Mr. Plornish to understand that. Whoever had given him the compliment, he quickly accepted it with his own thanks, and that was that. Stepping out of the gate under these relaxed arrangements, he became a billiard marker and occasionally dropped by the small skittle ground in a green Newmarket coat (second-hand), with a shiny collar and bright new buttons, enjoying a beer with the Collegians.
One solid stationary point in the looseness of this gentleman’s character was, that he respected and admired his sister Amy. The feeling had never induced him to spare her a moment’s uneasiness, or to put himself to any restraint or inconvenience on her account; but with that Marshalsea taint upon his love, he loved her. The same rank Marshalsea flavour was to be recognised in his distinctly perceiving that she sacrificed her life to her father, and in his having no idea that she had done anything for himself.
One constant aspect of this guy's character was that he respected and admired his sister Amy. While this feeling never made him worry about her well-being or compel him to make any sacrifices for her, he still loved her despite the Marshalsea stigma attached to that love. He also distinctly recognized that she was sacrificing her life for their father and had no clue that she had done anything for him.
When this spirited young man and his sister had begun systematically to produce the family skeleton for the overawing of the College, this narrative cannot precisely state. Probably at about the period when they began to dine on the College charity. It is certain that the more reduced and necessitous they were, the more pompously the skeleton emerged from its tomb; and that when there was anything particularly shabby in the wind, the skeleton always came out with the ghastliest flourish.
When this lively young man and his sister started to create the family skeleton to impress the College, this story can't say exactly when it happened. It was probably around the time they began relying on the College's charity for meals. What's clear is that the more they struggled and needed help, the more dramatically the skeleton appeared from its tomb; and whenever something particularly embarrassing was happening, the skeleton always made an entrance with the most theatrical flair.
Little Dorrit was late on the Monday morning, for her father slept late, and afterwards there was his breakfast to prepare and his room to arrange. She had no engagement to go out to work, however, and therefore stayed with him until, with Maggy’s help, she had put everything right about him, and had seen him off upon his morning walk (of twenty yards or so) to the coffee-house to read the paper. She then got on her bonnet and went out, having been anxious to get out much sooner. There was, as usual, a cessation of the small-talk in the Lodge as she passed through it; and a Collegian who had come in on Saturday night, received the intimation from the elbow of a more seasoned Collegian, ‘Look out. Here she is!’
Little Dorrit was late on Monday morning because her father slept in, and then there was his breakfast to make and his room to tidy up. She didn't have any job to rush off to, so she stayed with him until, with Maggy's help, she had everything sorted out for him and sent him off on his morning walk (which was only about twenty yards) to the coffee-house to read the paper. After that, she put on her bonnet and headed out, eager to leave much earlier. As usual, there was a pause in the small talk at the Lodge as she walked through it, and a newcomer who had arrived on Saturday night got a heads-up from a more experienced Collegian, saying, "Watch out. Here she comes!"
She wanted to see her sister, but when she got round to Mr Cripples’s, she found that both her sister and her uncle had gone to the theatre where they were engaged. Having taken thought of this probability by the way, and having settled that in such case she would follow them, she set off afresh for the theatre, which was on that side of the river, and not very far away.
She wanted to see her sister, but when she got to Mr. Cripple’s, she found that both her sister and her uncle had gone to the theater where they were involved. After considering this possibility earlier and deciding that in that case, she would follow them, she set off again for the theater, which was on that side of the river and not too far away.
Little Dorrit was almost as ignorant of the ways of theatres as of the ways of gold mines, and when she was directed to a furtive sort of door, with a curious up-all-night air about it, that appeared to be ashamed of itself and to be hiding in an alley, she hesitated to approach it; being further deterred by the sight of some half-dozen close-shaved gentlemen with their hats very strangely on, who were lounging about the door, looking not at all unlike Collegians. On her applying to them, reassured by this resemblance, for a direction to Miss Dorrit, they made way for her to enter a dark hall—it was more like a great grim lamp gone out than anything else—where she could hear the distant playing of music and the sound of dancing feet. A man so much in want of airing that he had a blue mould upon him, sat watching this dark place from a hole in a corner, like a spider; and he told her that he would send a message up to Miss Dorrit by the first lady or gentleman who went through. The first lady who went through had a roll of music, half in her muff and half out of it, and was in such a tumbled condition altogether, that it seemed as if it would be an act of kindness to iron her. But as she was very good-natured, and said, ‘Come with me; I’ll soon find Miss Dorrit for you,’ Miss Dorrit’s sister went with her, drawing nearer and nearer at every step she took in the darkness to the sound of music and the sound of dancing feet.
Little Dorrit knew almost nothing about theaters, just like she didn't know anything about gold mines. When she was pointed to a secretive-looking door that had a bizarre, all-night vibe and seemed to be hiding in an alley, she hesitated to go near it. She was even more hesitant upon seeing a group of half a dozen clean-shaven guys with their hats on in a strange way, lounging around the door and looking a lot like college students. When she asked them for directions to Miss Dorrit, reassured by their resemblance, they moved aside to let her enter a dark hall—it was more like a giant, extinguished lamp than anything else—where she could hear distant music playing and the sound of dancing feet. A man who looked like he needed some fresh air, with a blue mold on him, sat watching this dark space from a corner, like a spider. He told her he would send a message to Miss Dorrit with the next lady or gentleman who passed through. The first lady who came through had a music roll half tucked into her muff and half sticking out, and she looked so disheveled that it seemed like it would be a kind gesture to iron her. But since she was very nice and said, "Come with me; I’ll find Miss Dorrit for you quickly," Miss Dorrit’s sister followed her, getting closer and closer with each step she took in the darkness, drawn by the music and the sound of dancing feet.
At last they came into a maze of dust, where a quantity of people were tumbling over one another, and where there was such a confusion of unaccountable shapes of beams, bulkheads, brick walls, ropes, and rollers, and such a mixing of gaslight and daylight, that they seemed to have got on the wrong side of the pattern of the universe. Little Dorrit, left to herself, and knocked against by somebody every moment, was quite bewildered, when she heard her sister’s voice.
At last, they entered a maze of dust, where a crowd of people were bumping into each other, and where there was such a chaos of unexplainable shapes like beams, bulkheads, brick walls, ropes, and rollers, along with a mix of gaslight and daylight, that it felt like they had stepped into the wrong side of the universe. Left to herself, Little Dorrit, constantly jostled by someone, was completely confused until she heard her sister's voice.
‘Why, good gracious, Amy, what ever brought you here?’
‘Wow, Amy, what on earth are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to see you, Fanny dear; and as I am going out all day to-morrow, and knew you might be engaged all day to-day, I thought—’
‘I wanted to see you, Fanny dear; and since I’m going to be out all day tomorrow, and I knew you might be busy all day today, I thought—’
‘But the idea, Amy, of you coming behind! I never did!’ As her sister said this in no very cordial tone of welcome, she conducted her to a more open part of the maze, where various golden chairs and tables were heaped together, and where a number of young ladies were sitting on anything they could find, chattering. All these young ladies wanted ironing, and all had a curious way of looking everywhere while they chattered.
‘But the idea, Amy, of you showing up! I never would have expected that!’ As her sister said this in a not-so-friendly tone, she led her to a more open area of the maze, where various golden chairs and tables were piled together, and where several young ladies were sitting on anything they could find, chatting away. All these young ladies needed ironing, and they all had a strange habit of looking around everywhere while they talked.
Just as the sisters arrived here, a monotonous boy in a Scotch cap put his head round a beam on the left, and said, ‘Less noise there, ladies!’ and disappeared. Immediately after which, a sprightly gentleman with a quantity of long black hair looked round a beam on the right, and said, ‘Less noise there, darlings!’ and also disappeared.
Just as the sisters arrived, a dull boy in a Scottish cap poked his head around a beam on the left and said, "Could you keep it down, ladies?" before disappearing. Right after that, a lively guy with a lot of long black hair peeked around a beam on the right and said, "Could you keep it down, darlings?" and he, too, disappeared.
‘The notion of you among professionals, Amy, is really the last thing I could have conceived!’ said her sister. ‘Why, how did you ever get here?’
‘The idea of you among professionals, Amy, is honestly the last thing I could have imagined!’ said her sister. ‘How on earth did you end up here?’
‘I don’t know. The lady who told you I was here, was so good as to bring me in.’
‘I don’t know. The woman who told you I was here kindly brought me in.’
‘Like you quiet little things! You can make your way anywhere, I believe. I couldn’t have managed it, Amy, though I know so much more of the world.’
‘You quiet little things! You can make your way anywhere, I believe. I couldn’t have managed it, Amy, even though I know so much more about the world.’
It was the family custom to lay it down as family law, that she was a plain domestic little creature, without the great and sage experience of the rest. This family fiction was the family assertion of itself against her services. Not to make too much of them.
It was the family's tradition to establish as a rule that she was just a simple, home-loving person, lacking the extensive wisdom of the others. This family belief was their way of asserting themselves against her contributions. They didn't want to emphasize them too much.
‘Well! And what have you got on your mind, Amy? Of course you have got something on your mind about me?’ said Fanny. She spoke as if her sister, between two and three years her junior, were her prejudiced grandmother.
‘Well! What’s on your mind, Amy? You’ve got something to say about me, right?’ said Fanny. She spoke as if her sister, who was two or three years younger than her, were her biased grandmother.
‘It is not much; but since you told me of the lady who gave you the bracelet, Fanny—’
‘It’s not much; but since you told me about the lady who gave you the bracelet, Fanny—’
The monotonous boy put his head round the beam on the left, and said, ‘Look out there, ladies!’ and disappeared. The sprightly gentleman with the black hair as suddenly put his head round the beam on the right, and said, ‘Look out there, darlings!’ and also disappeared. Thereupon all the young ladies rose and began shaking their skirts out behind.
The boring boy peeked around the beam on the left and said, ‘Look out there, ladies!’ before vanishing. The cheerful guy with black hair quickly peeked around the beam on the right and said, ‘Look out there, darlings!’ and also disappeared. After that, all the young ladies got up and started shaking their skirts out behind them.
‘Well, Amy?’ said Fanny, doing as the rest did; ‘what were you going to say?’
‘Well, Amy?’ Fanny asked, following what everyone else was doing. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Since you told me a lady had given you the bracelet you showed me, Fanny, I have not been quite easy on your account, and indeed want to know a little more if you will confide more to me.’
‘Since you mentioned that a lady gave you the bracelet you showed me, Fanny, I haven’t been entirely comfortable about it, and I really want to know a bit more if you're willing to share with me.’
‘Now, ladies!’ said the boy in the Scotch cap. ‘Now, darlings!’ said the gentleman with the black hair. They were every one gone in a moment, and the music and the dancing feet were heard again.
‘Now, ladies!’ said the boy in the Scottish cap. ‘Now, darlings!’ said the gentleman with the black hair. They all disappeared in an instant, and the music and the sound of dancing feet could be heard again.
Little Dorrit sat down in a golden chair, made quite giddy by these rapid interruptions. Her sister and the rest were a long time gone; and during their absence a voice (it appeared to be that of the gentleman with the black hair) was continually calling out through the music, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six—go! One, two, three, four, five, six—go! Steady, darlings! One, two, three, four, five, six—go!’ Ultimately the voice stopped, and they all came back again, more or less out of breath, folding themselves in their shawls, and making ready for the streets. ‘Stop a moment, Amy, and let them get away before us,’ whispered Fanny. They were soon left alone; nothing more important happening, in the meantime, than the boy looking round his old beam, and saying, ‘Everybody at eleven to-morrow, ladies!’ and the gentleman with the black hair looking round his old beam, and saying, ‘Everybody at eleven to-morrow, darlings!’ each in his own accustomed manner.
Little Dorrit sat down in a gold chair, feeling a bit dizzy from all the quick interruptions. Her sister and the others had been gone for quite a while; during their absence, a voice (it seemed to belong to the guy with the black hair) kept calling out over the music, “One, two, three, four, five, six—go! One, two, three, four, five, six—go! Steady, darlings! One, two, three, four, five, six—go!” Eventually, the voice stopped, and they all returned, somewhat winded, wrapping themselves in their shawls and getting ready to head out. “Wait a sec, Amy, and let them leave before us,” whispered Fanny. They were soon left alone; nothing more significant happened in the meantime other than the boy looking around at his usual spot, saying, “Everyone at eleven tomorrow, ladies!” and the guy with the black hair doing the same, saying, “Everyone at eleven tomorrow, darlings!” each in his usual style.
When they were alone, something was rolled up or by other means got out of the way, and there was a great empty well before them, looking down into the depths of which Fanny said, ‘Now, uncle!’ Little Dorrit, as her eyes became used to the darkness, faintly made him out at the bottom of the well, in an obscure corner by himself, with his instrument in its ragged case under his arm.
When they were alone, something was pushed aside or moved out of the way, revealing a deep, empty well in front of them. Fanny said, "Now, uncle!" As Little Dorrit's eyes adjusted to the dark, she faintly spotted him at the bottom of the well, in a shadowy corner by himself, with his instrument in its tattered case under his arm.
The old man looked as if the remote high gallery windows, with their little strip of sky, might have been the point of his better fortunes, from which he had descended, until he had gradually sunk down below there to the bottom. He had been in that place six nights a week for many years, but had never been observed to raise his eyes above his music-book, and was confidently believed to have never seen a play. There were legends in the place that he did not so much as know the popular heroes and heroines by sight, and that the low comedian had ‘mugged’ at him in his richest manner fifty nights for a wager, and he had shown no trace of consciousness. The carpenters had a joke to the effect that he was dead without being aware of it; and the frequenters of the pit supposed him to pass his whole life, night and day, and Sunday and all, in the orchestra. They had tried him a few times with pinches of snuff offered over the rails, and he had always responded to this attention with a momentary waking up of manner that had the pale phantom of a gentleman in it: beyond this he never, on any occasion, had any other part in what was going on than the part written out for the clarionet; in private life, where there was no part for the clarionet, he had no part at all. Some said he was poor, some said he was a wealthy miser; but he said nothing, never lifted up his bowed head, never varied his shuffling gait by getting his springless foot from the ground. Though expecting now to be summoned by his niece, he did not hear her until she had spoken to him three or four times; nor was he at all surprised by the presence of two nieces instead of one, but merely said in his tremulous voice, ‘I am coming, I am coming!’ and crept forth by some underground way which emitted a cellarous smell.
The old man appeared as though the distant high gallery windows, with their little slice of sky, might have been the source of his better days, from which he had fallen, gradually sinking down to the very bottom. He had spent six nights a week in that place for many years but had never been seen looking up from his music book, and people confidently believed he had never seen a play. There were stories that he didn't even recognize the popular heroes and heroines by sight, and that the low comedian had “mugged” at him in his funniest way for fifty nights as a bet, without him showing any awareness. The carpenters joked that he was dead without knowing it; and the regulars in the pit figured he spent his entire life, night and day, including Sundays, in the orchestra. They had tried to engage him a few times with pinches of snuff offered over the rails, and he always reacted with a brief moment of awareness that had the faint trace of a gentleman about it: beyond that, he never participated in anything happening around him except for the part written for the clarinet; in personal life, where there was no part for the clarinet, he had no role at all. Some said he was poor, others claimed he was a wealthy miser; but he never said anything, never lifted his bowed head, and never changed his shuffling walk by raising his springless foot off the ground. Although he expected to be called by his niece, he didn't hear her until she had spoken to him three or four times; nor was he surprised by the presence of two nieces instead of one, but simply answered in his shaky voice, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” and crept out through some underground passage that had a musty smell.
‘And so, Amy,’ said her sister, when the three together passed out at the door that had such a shame-faced consciousness of being different from other doors: the uncle instinctively taking Amy’s arm as the arm to be relied on: ‘so, Amy, you are curious about me?’
‘And so, Amy,’ said her sister, when the three of them stepped out at the door that felt so awkward about being different from other doors: the uncle instinctively taking Amy’s arm as the one to depend on: ‘so, Amy, you’re curious about me?’
She was pretty, and conscious, and rather flaunting; and the condescension with which she put aside the superiority of her charms, and of her worldly experience, and addressed her sister on almost equal terms, had a vast deal of the family in it.
She was attractive, aware of it, and somewhat showy; and the way she dismissed the superiority of her looks and life experience while talking to her sister on almost equal terms was very much rooted in their family dynamic.
‘I am interested, Fanny, and concerned in anything that concerns you.’
‘I care about you, Fanny, and I’m interested in anything that involves you.’
Original
‘So you are, so you are, and you are the best of Amys. If I am ever a little provoking, I am sure you’ll consider what a thing it is to occupy my position and feel a consciousness of being superior to it. I shouldn’t care,’ said the Daughter of the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘if the others were not so common. None of them have come down in the world as we have. They are all on their own level. Common.’
‘So you are, so you are, and you are the best of Amys. If I ever get a bit annoying, I’m sure you’ll think about what it’s like to be in my position and feel a sense of being above it. I wouldn’t mind,’ said the Daughter of the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘if the others weren’t so typical. None of them have fallen from grace like we have. They’re all on their own level. Ordinary.’
Little Dorrit mildly looked at the speaker, but did not interrupt her. Fanny took out her handkerchief, and rather angrily wiped her eyes. ‘I was not born where you were, you know, Amy, and perhaps that makes a difference. My dear child, when we get rid of Uncle, you shall know all about it. We’ll drop him at the cook’s shop where he is going to dine.’
Little Dorrit looked at the speaker calmly but didn’t interrupt her. Fanny took out her handkerchief and angrily wiped her eyes. “I wasn’t born where you were, you know, Amy, and maybe that makes a difference. My dear child, once we get rid of Uncle, I’ll tell you everything. We’ll drop him off at the cook’s shop where he’s going to have dinner.”
They walked on with him until they came to a dirty shop window in a dirty street, which was made almost opaque by the steam of hot meats, vegetables, and puddings. But glimpses were to be caught of a roast leg of pork bursting into tears of sage and onion in a metal reservoir full of gravy, of an unctuous piece of roast beef and blisterous Yorkshire pudding, bubbling hot in a similar receptacle, of a stuffed fillet of veal in rapid cut, of a ham in a perspiration with the pace it was going at, of a shallow tank of baked potatoes glued together by their own richness, of a truss or two of boiled greens, and other substantial delicacies. Within, were a few wooden partitions, behind which such customers as found it more convenient to take away their dinners in stomachs than in their hands, Packed their purchases in solitude. Fanny opening her reticule, as they surveyed these things, produced from that repository a shilling and handed it to Uncle. Uncle, after not looking at it a little while, divined its object, and muttering ‘Dinner? Ha! Yes, yes, yes!’ slowly vanished from them into the mist.
They walked alongside him until they reached a grimy shop window on a dirty street, which was nearly opaque from the steam of hot meats, vegetables, and puddings. But they could catch glimpses of a roast leg of pork oozing with sage and onion in a metal pan full of gravy, an appetizing piece of roast beef and blistering Yorkshire pudding, bubbling hot in a similar container, a quickly sliced stuffed veal fillet, a sweating ham as it picked up the pace, a shallow dish of baked potatoes sticking together from their own richness, a couple of bundles of boiled greens, and other hearty treats. Inside, there were a few wooden partitions where some customers preferred to pack their dinners in their stomachs rather than in their hands, doing so in solitude. As they observed these items, Fanny opened her purse, took out a shilling, and handed it to Uncle. Uncle, after not looking at it for a moment, realized what it was for and muttered, "Dinner? Ha! Yes, yes, yes!" before slowly disappearing into the mist.
‘Now, Amy,’ said her sister, ‘come with me, if you are not too tired to walk to Harley Street, Cavendish Square.’
‘Now, Amy,’ said her sister, ‘come with me, if you’re not too tired to walk to Harley Street, Cavendish Square.’
The air with which she threw off this distinguished address and the toss she gave to her new bonnet (which was more gauzy than serviceable), made her sister wonder; however, she expressed her readiness to go to Harley Street, and thither they directed their steps. Arrived at that grand destination, Fanny singled out the handsomest house, and knocking at the door, inquired for Mrs Merdle. The footman who opened the door, although he had powder on his head and was backed up by two other footmen likewise powdered, not only admitted Mrs Merdle to be at home, but asked Fanny to walk in. Fanny walked in, taking her sister with her; and they went up-stairs with powder going before and powder stopping behind, and were left in a spacious semicircular drawing-room, one of several drawing-rooms, where there was a parrot on the outside of a golden cage holding on by its beak, with its scaly legs in the air, and putting itself into many strange upside-down postures. This peculiarity has been observed in birds of quite another feather, climbing upon golden wires.
The way she casually tossed off that impressive greeting and adjusted her new hat (which was more delicate than practical) made her sister curious; however, she said she was ready to go to Harley Street, and that’s where they headed. Once they arrived at that fancy location, Fanny picked out the nicest house and knocked on the door to ask for Mrs. Merdle. The footman who opened the door, even though he had powdered hair and was flanked by two other powdered footmen, not only confirmed that Mrs. Merdle was home but also invited Fanny to come inside. Fanny walked in, bringing her sister along, and they went upstairs with the footmen leading the way and following behind, eventually being shown into a large semicircular drawing room, one of several in the house. Inside, there was a parrot clinging to the outside of a golden cage, hanging upside down with its scaly legs in the air, striking all kinds of odd positions. This behavior has been seen in completely different birds that climb on golden wires.
The room was far more splendid than anything Little Dorrit had ever imagined, and would have been splendid and costly in any eyes. She looked in amazement at her sister and would have asked a question, but that Fanny with a warning frown pointed to a curtained doorway of communication with another room. The curtain shook next moment, and a lady, raising it with a heavily ringed hand, dropped it behind her again as she entered.
The room was way more impressive than anything Little Dorrit had ever imagined, and it would have looked amazing and expensive to anyone. She stared in surprise at her sister and would have asked something, but Fanny, with a warning frown, pointed to a curtained doorway leading to another room. The curtain moved a moment later, and a lady, lifting it with a heavily ringed hand, let it fall behind her as she came in.
The lady was not young and fresh from the hand of Nature, but was young and fresh from the hand of her maid. She had large unfeeling handsome eyes, and dark unfeeling handsome hair, and a broad unfeeling handsome bosom, and was made the most of in every particular. Either because she had a cold, or because it suited her face, she wore a rich white fillet tied over her head and under her chin. And if ever there were an unfeeling handsome chin that looked as if, for certain, it had never been, in familiar parlance, ‘chucked’ by the hand of man, it was the chin curbed up so tight and close by that laced bridle.
The woman wasn't young and fresh from nature, but young and fresh thanks to her maid. She had large, beautiful eyes that lacked warmth, striking dark hair that also lacked warmth, and a broad, beautiful chest that was accentuated in every way. Either because she had a cold or it suited her look, she wore an elegant white headband tied over her head and under her chin. And if there was ever a beautiful chin that looked like it had never been casually touched by a person's hand, it was the chin pulled tight and sleek by that laced headpiece.
‘Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny. ‘My sister, ma’am.’
‘Mrs. Merdle,’ Fanny said. ‘My sister, ma’am.’
‘I am glad to see your sister, Miss Dorrit. I did not remember that you had a sister.’
‘I’m glad to see your sister, Miss Dorrit. I didn’t remember that you had a sister.’
‘I did not mention that I had,’ said Fanny.
‘I didn’t say that I had,’ Fanny said.
‘Ah!’ Mrs Merdle curled the little finger of her left hand as who should say, ‘I have caught you. I know you didn’t!’ All her action was usually with her left hand because her hands were not a pair; and left being much the whiter and plumper of the two. Then she added: ‘Sit down,’ and composed herself voluptuously, in a nest of crimson and gold cushions, on an ottoman near the parrot.
‘Ah!’ Mrs. Merdle curled her left pinky as if to say, ‘I’ve got you. I know you didn’t!’ She typically used her left hand for all her gestures since they weren’t equal; her left hand was much whiter and plumper than the right. Then she added, ‘Sit down,’ and settled comfortably into a nest of crimson and gold cushions on an ottoman near the parrot.
‘Also professional?’ said Mrs Merdle, looking at Little Dorrit through an eye-glass.
‘Also professional?’ Mrs. Merdle said, looking at Little Dorrit through a monocle.
Fanny answered No. ‘No,’ said Mrs Merdle, dropping her glass. ‘Has not a professional air. Very pleasant; but not professional.’
Fanny responded with a No. “No,” said Mrs. Merdle, dropping her glass. “It doesn’t have a professional vibe. Very nice; but not professional.”
‘My sister, ma’am,’ said Fanny, in whom there was a singular mixture of deference and hardihood, ‘has been asking me to tell her, as between sisters, how I came to have the honour of knowing you. And as I had engaged to call upon you once more, I thought I might take the liberty of bringing her with me, when perhaps you would tell her. I wish her to know, and perhaps you will tell her?’
‘My sister, ma’am,’ said Fanny, who had a unique blend of respect and boldness, ‘has been asking me to share, as sisters do, how I got the honor of knowing you. Since I promised to visit you again, I thought it might be okay to bring her along, and maybe you could tell her. I want her to know, and I hope you’ll share it with her?’
‘Do you think, at your sister’s age—’ hinted Mrs Merdle.
“Do you think, at your sister’s age—” suggested Mrs. Merdle.
‘She is much older than she looks,’ said Fanny; ‘almost as old as I am.’
‘She’s way older than she looks,’ said Fanny; ‘almost as old as I am.’
‘Society,’ said Mrs Merdle, with another curve of her little finger, ‘is so difficult to explain to young persons (indeed is so difficult to explain to most persons), that I am glad to hear that. I wish Society was not so arbitrary, I wish it was not so exacting—Bird, be quiet!’
‘Society,’ said Mrs. Merdle, with another curve of her pinky, ‘is so hard to explain to young people (and honestly, to most people), that I'm relieved to hear that. I wish Society wasn’t so arbitrary, I wish it wasn’t so demanding—Bird, be quiet!’
The parrot had given a most piercing shriek, as if its name were Society and it asserted its right to its exactions.
The parrot let out a sharp shriek, like its name was Society and it was demanding its due.
‘But,’ resumed Mrs Merdle, ‘we must take it as we find it. We know it is hollow and conventional and worldly and very shocking, but unless we are Savages in the Tropical seas (I should have been charmed to be one myself—most delightful life and perfect climate, I am told), we must consult it. It is the common lot. Mr Merdle is a most extensive merchant, his transactions are on the vastest scale, his wealth and influence are very great, but even he—Bird, be quiet!’
‘But,’ continued Mrs. Merdle, ‘we have to accept things as they are. We know it’s shallow, typical, superficial, and quite scandalous, but unless we want to live like Savages in the tropical seas (I would have loved to be one myself—it's said to be a wonderful life with a perfect climate), we must pay attention to it. It’s just the way things are. Mr. Merdle is a huge merchant, doing business on a massive scale, and his wealth and influence are substantial, but even he—Bird, be quiet!’
The parrot had shrieked another shriek; and it filled up the sentence so expressively that Mrs Merdle was under no necessity to end it.
The parrot let out another loud squawk, and it completed the sentence so effectively that Mrs. Merdle didn’t need to finish it.
‘Since your sister begs that I would terminate our personal acquaintance,’ she began again, addressing Little Dorrit, ‘by relating the circumstances that are much to her credit, I cannot object to comply with her request, I am sure. I have a son (I was first married extremely young) of two or three-and-twenty.’
‘Since your sister is asking me to end our personal relationship,’ she began again, speaking to Little Dorrit, ‘by sharing details that reflect well on her, I can’t refuse her request, that’s for sure. I have a son (I got married very young) who is around twenty-two or twenty-three.’
Fanny set her lips, and her eyes looked half triumphantly at her sister.
Fanny pressed her lips together, and her eyes gleamed with a mix of triumph as she looked at her sister.
‘A son of two or three-and-twenty. He is a little gay, a thing Society is accustomed to in young men, and he is very impressible. Perhaps he inherits that misfortune. I am very impressible myself, by nature. The weakest of creatures—my feelings are touched in a moment.’
‘A son of two or three-and-twenty. He is a bit cheerful, something society expects from young men, and he is very sensitive. Maybe he gets that misfortune from his parents. I’m also very sensitive by nature. The weakest of creatures—my feelings get affected in an instant.’
She said all this, and everything else, as coldly as a woman of snow; quite forgetting the sisters except at odd times, and apparently addressing some abstraction of Society; for whose behoof, too, she occasionally arranged her dress, or the composition of her figure upon the ottoman.
She said all this, and everything else, as coldly as a snow woman; quite forgetting her sisters except on rare occasions, and seemingly speaking to some idea of Society; for whose benefit, too, she sometimes adjusted her outfit or the way she posed on the ottoman.
‘So he is very impressible. Not a misfortune in our natural state I dare say, but we are not in a natural state. Much to be lamented, no doubt, particularly by myself, who am a child of nature if I could but show it; but so it is. Society suppresses us and dominates us—Bird, be quiet!’
‘So he is very impressionable. That’s not necessarily a bad thing in our natural state, I’d say, but we aren’t in a natural state. It’s definitely something to lament, especially for me, who would be a child of nature if I could just show it; but that’s how it is. Society suppresses us and controls us—Bird, be quiet!’
The parrot had broken into a violent fit of laughter, after twisting divers bars of his cage with his crooked bill, and licking them with his black tongue.
The parrot burst into a wild fit of laughter after twisting several bars of his cage with his crooked beak and licking them with his black tongue.
‘It is quite unnecessary to say to a person of your good sense, wide range of experience, and cultivated feeling,’ said Mrs Merdle from her nest of crimson and gold—and there put up her glass to refresh her memory as to whom she was addressing,—‘that the stage sometimes has a fascination for young men of that class of character. In saying the stage, I mean the people on it of the female sex. Therefore, when I heard that my son was supposed to be fascinated by a dancer, I knew what that usually meant in Society, and confided in her being a dancer at the Opera, where young men moving in Society are usually fascinated.’
"It’s really unnecessary to mention to someone as sensible, experienced, and refined as you," said Mrs. Merdle from her cozy spot of crimson and gold—and then she lifted her glass to remind herself who she was talking to—"that the theater can sometimes attract young men of that kind. By 'theater,' I mean the women onstage. So, when I heard that my son was thought to be captivated by a dancer, I understood what that typically indicates in our social circle, and I trusted that she was just a dancer at the Opera, where young men in Society often find themselves drawn in."
She passed her white hands over one another, observant of the sisters now; and the rings upon her fingers grated against each other with a hard sound.
She rubbed her white hands together, watching the sisters now; and the rings on her fingers clinked against each other with a sharp sound.
‘As your sister will tell you, when I found what the theatre was I was much surprised and much distressed. But when I found that your sister, by rejecting my son’s advances (I must add, in an unexpected manner), had brought him to the point of proposing marriage, my feelings were of the profoundest anguish—acute.’
‘As your sister will tell you, when I discovered what the theater was really like, I was quite surprised and really upset. But when I realized that your sister, by turning down my son’s advances (I must mention, in a surprising way), had pushed him to the point of proposing marriage, my feelings were of the deepest anguish—intense.’
She traced the outline of her left eyebrow, and put it right.
She shaped her left eyebrow and fixed it perfectly.
‘In a distracted condition, which only a mother—moving in Society—can be susceptible of, I determined to go myself to the theatre, and represent my state of mind to the dancer. I made myself known to your sister. I found her, to my surprise, in many respects different from my expectations; and certainly in none more so, than in meeting me with—what shall I say—a sort of family assertion on her own part?’ Mrs Merdle smiled.
‘In a distracted state that only a mother involved in Society can truly understand, I decided to go to the theatre myself and convey my feelings to the dancer. I introduced myself to your sister. To my surprise, she was quite different from what I expected; and certainly, the most striking difference was how she greeted me with—how should I put it—a sense of familial ownership on her part?’ Mrs. Merdle smiled.
‘I told you, ma’am,’ said Fanny, with a heightening colour, ‘that although you found me in that situation, I was so far above the rest, that I considered my family as good as your son’s; and that I had a brother who, knowing the circumstances, would be of the same opinion, and would not consider such a connection any honour.’
"I told you, ma'am," said Fanny, her face flushing, "that even though you found me in that situation, I feel I’m just as good as your son, and that I have a brother who, knowing the circumstances, would agree with me and wouldn’t see such a connection as any kind of honor."
‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs Merdle, after frostily looking at her through her glass, ‘precisely what I was on the point of telling your sister, in pursuance of your request. Much obliged to you for recalling it so accurately and anticipating me. I immediately,’ addressing Little Dorrit, ‘(for I am the creature of impulse), took a bracelet from my arm, and begged your sister to let me clasp it on hers, in token of the delight I had in our being able to approach the subject so far on a common footing.’ (This was perfectly true, the lady having bought a cheap and showy article on her way to the interview, with a general eye to bribery.)
‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs. Merdle, giving her a cold look through her glasses, ‘that’s exactly what I was about to tell your sister, following your request. Thank you for reminding me so perfectly and for getting ahead of me. I promptly,’ turning to Little Dorrit, ‘(since I tend to act on impulse), took a bracelet off my arm and asked your sister to let me put it on hers as a sign of the pleasure I had in us being able to discuss this topic on some common ground.’ (This was completely true, as the lady had purchased a cheap and flashy piece on her way to the meeting, hoping to use it as a bribe.)
‘And I told you, Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny, ‘that we might be unfortunate, but we are not common.’
‘And I told you, Mrs. Merdle,’ Fanny said, ‘that we might be unlucky, but we’re not ordinary.’
‘I think, the very words, Miss Dorrit,’ assented Mrs Merdle.
"I believe, those exact words, Miss Dorrit," agreed Mrs. Merdle.
‘And I told you, Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny, ‘that if you spoke to me of the superiority of your son’s standing in Society, it was barely possible that you rather deceived yourself in your suppositions about my origin; and that my father’s standing, even in the Society in which he now moved (what that was, was best known to myself), was eminently superior, and was acknowledged by every one.’
‘And I told you, Mrs. Merdle,’ said Fanny, ‘that if you talked to me about how your son ranks in Society, it’s quite possible that you’re fooling yourself about my background; and that my father’s standing, even in the Society he’s currently part of (which I know best), is definitely superior and recognized by everyone.’
‘Quite accurate,’ rejoined Mrs Merdle. ‘A most admirable memory.’
‘That's completely right,’ replied Mrs. Merdle. ‘You have an impressive memory.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. Perhaps you will be so kind as to tell my sister the rest.’
‘Thank you, ma'am. Maybe you could be kind enough to tell my sister the rest.’
‘There is very little to tell,’ said Mrs Merdle, reviewing the breadth of bosom which seemed essential to her having room enough to be unfeeling in, ‘but it is to your sister’s credit. I pointed out to your sister the plain state of the case; the impossibility of the Society in which we moved recognising the Society in which she moved—though charming, I have no doubt; the immense disadvantage at which she would consequently place the family she had so high an opinion of, upon which we should find ourselves compelled to look down with contempt, and from which (socially speaking) we should feel obliged to recoil with abhorrence. In short, I made an appeal to that laudable pride in your sister.’
“There’s not much to say,” Mrs. Merdle said, adjusting her ample bosom, which seemed necessary for her to have enough space to be cold-hearted. “But it reflects well on your sister. I pointed out to her the straightforward facts: the impossibility of the Society we belong to recognizing the Society she mingles with—though I'm sure it’s delightful; the huge disadvantage she would put the family she thinks so highly of in, which we would have to look down on with disdain, and from which (socially speaking) we would feel the need to pull away in disgust. In short, I appealed to that commendable pride in your sister.”
‘Let my sister know, if you please, Mrs Merdle,’ Fanny pouted, with a toss of her gauzy bonnet, ‘that I had already had the honour of telling your son that I wished to have nothing whatever to say to him.’
‘Please let my sister know, Mrs. Merdle,’ Fanny said with a pout and a toss of her light bonnet, ‘that I’ve already had the honor of telling your son that I don’t want anything to do with him.’
‘Well, Miss Dorrit,’ assented Mrs Merdle, ‘perhaps I might have mentioned that before. If I did not think of it, perhaps it was because my mind reverted to the apprehensions I had at the time that he might persevere and you might have something to say to him. I also mentioned to your sister—I again address the non-professional Miss Dorrit—that my son would have nothing in the event of such a marriage, and would be an absolute beggar. (I mention that merely as a fact which is part of the narrative, and not as supposing it to have influenced your sister, except in the prudent and legitimate way in which, constituted as our artificial system is, we must all be influenced by such considerations.) Finally, after some high words and high spirit on the part of your sister, we came to the complete understanding that there was no danger; and your sister was so obliging as to allow me to present her with a mark or two of my appreciation at my dressmaker’s.’
‘Well, Miss Dorrit,’ agreed Mrs. Merdle, ‘maybe I should have mentioned that earlier. If it didn't come to mind, it might be because I was worried that he might keep pursuing you and you might have something to say to him. I also told your sister—I’m addressing the non-professional Miss Dorrit—that my son would end up with nothing if such a marriage happened, and he would be completely broke. (I mention this just as a fact in the story, not as a suggestion that it influenced your sister, aside from the sensible and reasonable way we all must be influenced by such matters in our structured society.) In the end, after some heated words and passionate feelings from your sister, we reached a full understanding that there was no risk; and your sister was kind enough to let me give her some tokens of my appreciation at my dressmaker’s.’
Little Dorrit looked sorry, and glanced at Fanny with a troubled face.
Little Dorrit looked upset and glanced at Fanny with a worried expression.
‘Also,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘as to promise to give me the present pleasure of a closing interview, and of parting with her on the best of terms. On which occasion,’ added Mrs Merdle, quitting her nest, and putting something in Fanny’s hand, ‘Miss Dorrit will permit me to say Farewell with best wishes in my own dull manner.’
‘Also,’ said Mrs. Merdle, ‘I’d like to promise you the chance for a final meeting, so we can part on good terms. On that occasion,’ added Mrs. Merdle, leaving her spot and putting something in Fanny’s hand, ‘Miss Dorrit will allow me to say farewell with my best wishes in my usual dull way.’
The sisters rose at the same time, and they all stood near the cage of the parrot, as he tore at a claw-full of biscuit and spat it out, seemed to mock them with a pompous dance of his body without moving his feet, and suddenly turned himself upside down and trailed himself all over the outside of his golden cage, with the aid of his cruel beak and black tongue.
The sisters got up at the same time and gathered around the parrot's cage as he grabbed a handful of biscuits, chewed them up, and spit them out. He seemed to mock them with a grand body dance while keeping his feet still, then suddenly flipped upside down and dragged himself all over the outside of his golden cage, using his sharp beak and black tongue.
‘Adieu, Miss Dorrit, with best wishes,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘If we could only come to a Millennium, or something of that sort, I for one might have the pleasure of knowing a number of charming and talented persons from whom I am at present excluded. A more primitive state of society would be delicious to me. There used to be a poem when I learnt lessons, something about Lo the poor Indians whose something mind! If a few thousand persons moving in Society, could only go and be Indians, I would put my name down directly; but as, moving in Society, we can’t be Indians, unfortunately—Good morning!’
“Goodbye, Miss Dorrit, best wishes,” said Mrs. Merdle. “If only we could reach a Millennium, or something like that, I might finally have the chance to meet a number of charming and talented people from whom I’m currently excluded. A more primitive society would be delightful to me. There used to be a poem I learned in school, something about Lo the poor Indians whose something mind! If a few thousand people moving in Society could just go and be Indians, I’d sign up right away; but since we can't be Indians while moving in Society—good morning!”
They came down-stairs with powder before them and powder behind, the elder sister haughty and the younger sister humbled, and were shut out into unpowdered Harley Street, Cavendish Square.
They came downstairs with makeup all over their faces, the older sister acting proud and the younger sister looking downcast, and were then left outside on unmade-up Harley Street, Cavendish Square.
‘Well?’ said Fanny, when they had gone a little way without speaking. ‘Have you nothing to say, Amy?’
‘Well?’ Fanny asked after they had walked a bit in silence. ‘Don’t you have anything to say, Amy?’
‘Oh, I don’t know what to say!’ she answered, distressed. ‘You didn’t like this young man, Fanny?’
‘Oh, I don’t know what to say!’ she replied, upset. ‘You didn’t like this young man, Fanny?’
‘Like him? He is almost an idiot.’
‘Like him? He's practically an idiot.’
‘I am so sorry—don’t be hurt—but, since you ask me what I have to say, I am so very sorry, Fanny, that you suffered this lady to give you anything.’
‘I’m really sorry—don’t be upset—but since you asked me what I think, I’m so truly sorry, Fanny, that you allowed this lady to give you anything.’
‘You little Fool!’ returned her sister, shaking her with the sharp pull she gave her arm. ‘Have you no spirit at all? But that’s just the way! You have no self-respect, you have no becoming pride, just as you allow yourself to be followed about by a contemptible little Chivery of a thing,’ with the scornfullest emphasis, ‘you would let your family be trodden on, and never turn.’
‘You little fool!’ her sister shot back, shaking her with a sharp tug on her arm. ‘Do you have no spirit at all? But that's exactly how it is! You have no self-respect, you show no pride, just like how you let yourself be followed around by that pathetic little Chivery thing,’ she emphasized with the utmost scorn, ‘you would let your family be walked all over and never say a word.’
‘Don’t say that, dear Fanny. I do what I can for them.’
‘Don’t say that, dear Fanny. I do what I can for them.’
‘You do what you can for them!’ repeated Fanny, walking her on very fast. ‘Would you let a woman like this, whom you could see, if you had any experience of anything, to be as false and insolent as a woman can be—would you let her put her foot upon your family, and thank her for it?’
‘You do what you can for them!’ Fanny said again, walking her along quickly. ‘Would you let a woman like this, who you could see, if you had any life experience, be as deceitful and arrogant as she wants to be—would you allow her to step all over your family and thank her for it?’
‘No, Fanny, I am sure.’
"No, Fanny, I'm sure."
‘Then make her pay for it, you mean little thing. What else can you make her do? Make her pay for it, you stupid child; and do your family some credit with the money!’
‘Then make her pay for it, you mean little thing. What else can you make her do? Make her pay for it, you silly child; and do your family some good with the money!’
They spoke no more all the way back to the lodging where Fanny and her uncle lived. When they arrived there, they found the old man practising his clarionet in the dolefullest manner in a corner of the room. Fanny had a composite meal to make, of chops, and porter, and tea; and indignantly pretended to prepare it for herself, though her sister did all that in quiet reality. When at last Fanny sat down to eat and drink, she threw the table implements about and was angry with her bread, much as her father had been last night.
They didn't say a word the entire way back to the place where Fanny and her uncle lived. When they got there, they found the old man practicing his clarinet in the saddest way in a corner of the room. Fanny had a mixed meal to prepare, with chops, beer, and tea; she huffily pretended to make it for herself, even though her sister actually did everything quietly. When Fanny finally sat down to eat and drink, she tossed the utensils around and got frustrated with her bread, just like her father had done the night before.
‘If you despise me,’ she said, bursting into vehement tears, ‘because I am a dancer, why did you put me in the way of being one? It was your doing. You would have me stoop as low as the ground before this Mrs Merdle, and let her say what she liked and do what she liked, and hold us all in contempt, and tell me so to my face. Because I am a dancer!’
‘If you hate me,’ she said, breaking into intense tears, ‘because I’m a dancer, why did you put me in the position to be one? It was your choice. You wanted me to bow down low before this Mrs. Merdle, and let her say whatever she wanted and do whatever she wanted, and treat us all with disdain, and say it to my face. Just because I’m a dancer!’
‘O Fanny!’
‘Oh Fanny!’
‘And Tip, too, poor fellow. She is to disparage him just as much as she likes, without any check—I suppose because he has been in the law, and the docks, and different things. Why, it was your doing, Amy. You might at least approve of his being defended.’
‘And Tip, too, poor guy. She can criticize him as much as she wants, without any limits—I guess because he’s been in law, and the docks, and other stuff. Well, it was your fault, Amy. You could at least support his defense.’
All this time the uncle was dolefully blowing his clarionet in the corner, sometimes taking it an inch or so from his mouth for a moment while he stopped to gaze at them, with a vague impression that somebody had said something.
All this time, the uncle was sadly playing his clarinet in the corner, sometimes pulling it an inch or so from his mouth for a moment while he paused to look at them, with a faint sense that someone had said something.
‘And your father, your poor father, Amy. Because he is not free to show himself and to speak for himself, you would let such people insult him with impunity. If you don’t feel for yourself because you go out to work, you might at least feel for him, I should think, knowing what he has undergone so long.’
‘And your father, your poor father, Amy. Since he can’t express himself or speak up for himself, you’re okay with letting those people insult him without any consequences. If you don’t feel it for yourself because you’re busy at work, at least you should have some compassion for him, considering what he has gone through for so long.’
Poor Little Dorrit felt the injustice of this taunt rather sharply. The remembrance of last night added a barbed point to it. She said nothing in reply, but turned her chair from the table towards the fire. Uncle, after making one more pause, blew a dismal wail and went on again.
Poor Little Dorrit felt the sting of this insult quite keenly. The memory of last night made it even more pointed. She didn’t say anything in response but turned her chair from the table to face the fire. Uncle, after a brief pause, let out a mournful cry and continued talking.
Fanny was passionate with the tea-cups and the bread as long as her passion lasted, and then protested that she was the wretchedest girl in the world, and she wished she was dead. After that, her crying became remorseful, and she got up and put her arms round her sister. Little Dorrit tried to stop her from saying anything, but she answered that she would, she must! Thereupon she said again, and again, ‘I beg your pardon, Amy,’ and ‘Forgive me, Amy,’ almost as passionately as she had said what she regretted.
Fanny was really into the tea cups and the bread for as long as that feeling lasted, and then she complained that she was the most miserable girl in the world and wished she were dead. After that, her crying turned to remorse, and she got up and hugged her sister. Little Dorrit tried to stop her from saying anything, but Fanny insisted that she would, she had to! Then she kept saying, ‘I’m sorry, Amy,’ and ‘Please forgive me, Amy,’ almost as intensely as she had expressed her regret.
‘But indeed, indeed, Amy,’ she resumed when they were seated in sisterly accord side by side, ‘I hope and I think you would have seen this differently, if you had known a little more of Society.’
‘But really, really, Amy,’ she continued when they were comfortably sitting next to each other, ‘I hope and I believe you would have looked at this differently if you had known a bit more about Society.’
‘Perhaps I might, Fanny,’ said the mild Little Dorrit.
‘Maybe I could, Fanny,’ said the gentle Little Dorrit.
‘You see, while you have been domestic and resignedly shut up there, Amy,’ pursued her sister, gradually beginning to patronise, ‘I have been out, moving more in Society, and may have been getting proud and spirited—more than I ought to be, perhaps?’
‘You see, while you’ve been home and quietly staying there, Amy,’ her sister continued, starting to sound a bit condescending, ‘I’ve been out, engaging more with Society, and maybe I’ve been getting a bit too proud and spirited—more than I should be, perhaps?’
Little Dorrit answered ‘Yes. O yes!’
Little Dorrit answered, "Yes. Oh yes!"
‘And while you have been thinking of the dinner or the clothes, I may have been thinking, you know, of the family. Now, may it not be so, Amy?’
‘And while you’ve been focused on the dinner or the clothes, I might have been thinking, you know, about the family. Now, could that be true, Amy?’
Little Dorrit again nodded ‘Yes,’ with a more cheerful face than heart.
Little Dorrit nodded 'Yes' again, her face looking more cheerful than her heart felt.
‘Especially as we know,’ said Fanny, ‘that there certainly is a tone in the place to which you have been so true, which does belong to it, and which does make it different from other aspects of Society. So kiss me once again, Amy dear, and we will agree that we may both be right, and that you are a tranquil, domestic, home-loving, good girl.’
‘Especially since we know,’ Fanny said, ‘that there’s definitely a vibe in this place that you’ve been so loyal to, which is unique to it and sets it apart from other parts of society. So kiss me one more time, dear Amy, and let’s agree that we can both be right, and that you are a calm, family-oriented, home-loving, good girl.’
The clarionet had been lamenting most pathetically during this dialogue, but was cut short now by Fanny’s announcement that it was time to go; which she conveyed to her uncle by shutting up his scrap of music, and taking the clarionet out of his mouth.
The clarinet had been sadly sounding during this conversation, but it was abruptly stopped by Fanny’s announcement that it was time to leave; she communicated this to her uncle by closing his sheet music and taking the clarinet out of his mouth.
Little Dorrit parted from them at the door, and hastened back to the Marshalsea. It fell dark there sooner than elsewhere, and going into it that evening was like going into a deep trench. The shadow of the wall was on every object. Not least upon the figure in the old grey gown and the black velvet cap, as it turned towards her when she opened the door of the dim room.
Little Dorrit said goodbye to them at the door and quickly returned to the Marshalsea. It got dark there earlier than anywhere else, and entering it that evening felt like stepping into a deep trench. The shadow of the wall fell over everything. Not least on the figure in the old grey gown and the black velvet cap, which turned towards her as she opened the door to the dim room.
‘Why not upon me too!’ thought Little Dorrit, with the door yet in her hand. ‘It was not unreasonable in Fanny.’
‘Why not me too!’ thought Little Dorrit, still holding the door. ‘It wasn’t unreasonable for Fanny.’
CHAPTER 21. Mr Merdle’s Complaint
Upon that establishment of state, the Merdle establishment in Harley Street, Cavendish Square, there was the shadow of no more common wall than the fronts of other establishments of state on the opposite side of the street. Like unexceptionable Society, the opposing rows of houses in Harley Street were very grim with one another. Indeed, the mansions and their inhabitants were so much alike in that respect, that the people were often to be found drawn up on opposite sides of dinner-tables, in the shade of their own loftiness, staring at the other side of the way with the dullness of the houses.
Upon the establishment of the Merdle place in Harley Street, Cavendish Square, there was no more common boundary than the facades of other prestigious places across the street. Like typical high society, the rows of houses in Harley Street were quite serious with one another. In fact, the mansions and their residents were so similar in that regard that people could often be seen seated at dinner tables on opposite sides, caught up in their own superiority, staring blankly at each other across the way like the dullness of the houses.
Everybody knows how like the street the two dinner-rows of people who take their stand by the street will be. The expressionless uniform twenty houses, all to be knocked at and rung at in the same form, all approachable by the same dull steps, all fended off by the same pattern of railing, all with the same impracticable fire-escapes, the same inconvenient fixtures in their heads, and everything without exception to be taken at a high valuation—who has not dined with these? The house so drearily out of repair, the occasional bow-window, the stuccoed house, the newly-fronted house, the corner house with nothing but angular rooms, the house with the blinds always down, the house with the hatchment always up, the house where the collector has called for one quarter of an Idea, and found nobody at home—who has not dined with these? The house that nobody will take, and is to be had a bargain—who does not know her? The showy house that was taken for life by the disappointed gentleman, and which does not suit him at all—who is unacquainted with that haunted habitation?
Everyone knows how similar the row of dinner guests standing by the street will be. The bland, identical twenty houses, all to be knocked on and rung in the same way, all accessed by the same dull steps, all blocked off by the same pattern of railing, all with the same impractical fire escapes, the same awkward fixtures in their design, and everything without exception to be considered highly valuable—who hasn't had dinner with these? The house that is so drearily in disrepair, the occasional bay window, the stucco house, the newly renovated house, the corner house with nothing but awkward rooms, the house with the blinds always shut, the house with the coat of arms always displayed, the house where the collector has come looking for one small idea, and found no one home—who hasn't had dinner with these? The house that nobody wants and can be had for a steal—who doesn't know her? The flashy house claimed for life by the disappointed gentleman, which turns out to be completely unsuitable for him—who isn’t familiar with that haunted dwelling?
Harley Street, Cavendish Square, was more than aware of Mr and Mrs Merdle. Intruders there were in Harley Street, of whom it was not aware; but Mr and Mrs Merdle it delighted to honour. Society was aware of Mr and Mrs Merdle. Society had said ‘Let us license them; let us know them.’
Harley Street, Cavendish Square, was well aware of Mr and Mrs Merdle. There were intruders in Harley Street that it didn't recognize; however, it was pleased to acknowledge Mr and Mrs Merdle. Society knew Mr and Mrs Merdle. Society had decided, "Let’s welcome them; let’s get to know them."
Mr Merdle was immensely rich; a man of prodigious enterprise; a Midas without the ears, who turned all he touched to gold. He was in everything good, from banking to building. He was in Parliament, of course. He was in the City, necessarily. He was Chairman of this, Trustee of that, President of the other. The weightiest of men had said to projectors, ‘Now, what name have you got? Have you got Merdle?’ And, the reply being in the negative, had said, ‘Then I won’t look at you.’
Mr. Merdle was incredibly wealthy; a man of remarkable ambition; a Midas without the donkey ears, who turned everything he touched into gold. He was involved in all things good, from banking to construction. He was in Parliament, naturally. He was in the City, of course. He was the Chairman of this, a Trustee of that, and the President of the other. The most influential people would tell projectors, ‘Now, what name do you have? Do you have Merdle?’ And if the answer was no, they would say, ‘Then I won’t consider you.’
This great and fortunate man had provided that extensive bosom which required so much room to be unfeeling enough in, with a nest of crimson and gold some fifteen years before. It was not a bosom to repose upon, but it was a capital bosom to hang jewels upon. Mr Merdle wanted something to hang jewels upon, and he bought it for the purpose. Storr and Mortimer might have married on the same speculation.
This great and fortunate man had created a spacious chest, which required a lot of space to be cold enough in, with a nest of red and gold about fifteen years earlier. It wasn't a chest to rest on, but it was perfect for displaying jewelry. Mr. Merdle needed something to showcase his jewels, and he bought it for that reason. Storr and Mortimer could have also pursued the same idea.
Like all his other speculations, it was sound and successful. The jewels showed to the richest advantage. The bosom moving in Society with the jewels displayed upon it, attracted general admiration. Society approving, Mr Merdle was satisfied. He was the most disinterested of men,—did everything for Society, and got as little for himself out of all his gain and care, as a man might.
Like all his other investments, it was solid and successful. The jewels looked stunningly appealing. The presence in society with the jewels on display attracted widespread admiration. With society's approval, Mr. Merdle was content. He was the most selfless of men—did everything for society and received as little for himself from all his effort and profit as a person could.
That is to say, it may be supposed that he got all he wanted, otherwise with unlimited wealth he would have got it. But his desire was to the utmost to satisfy Society (whatever that was), and take up all its drafts upon him for tribute. He did not shine in company; he had not very much to say for himself; he was a reserved man, with a broad, overhanging, watchful head, that particular kind of dull red colour in his cheeks which is rather stale than fresh, and a somewhat uneasy expression about his coat-cuffs, as if they were in his confidence, and had reasons for being anxious to hide his hands. In the little he said, he was a pleasant man enough; plain, emphatic about public and private confidence, and tenacious of the utmost deference being shown by every one, in all things, to Society. In this same Society (if that were it which came to his dinners, and to Mrs Merdle’s receptions and concerts), he hardly seemed to enjoy himself much, and was mostly to be found against walls and behind doors. Also when he went out to it, instead of its coming home to him, he seemed a little fatigued, and upon the whole rather more disposed for bed; but he was always cultivating it nevertheless, and always moving in it—and always laying out money on it with the greatest liberality.
In other words, it can be assumed that he got everything he wanted; otherwise, with unlimited wealth, he would have had it all. But his main goal was to please Society (whatever that meant) and fulfill all its demands on him. He didn’t stand out in social settings; he didn’t have much to say for himself; he was a reserved man, with a large, watchful head and a dull reddish hue in his cheeks that looked more tired than fresh, and an uneasy expression around his coat-cuffs, as if they were in on a secret and had reasons to conceal his hands. In the little he did say, he was a pleasant enough person; straightforward, insistent on both public and private trust, and keen on everyone showing the utmost respect to Society in all matters. In this same Society (if that was what showed up at his dinners and Mrs. Merdle’s parties and concerts), he hardly seemed to enjoy himself much and usually lingered by walls and behind doors. Also, when he went out to it, instead of it coming to him, he appeared a bit worn out, generally looking more like he wanted to go to bed; yet he was always engaging with it and participating in it—and consistently spending money on it quite generously.
Mrs Merdle’s first husband had been a colonel, under whose auspices the bosom had entered into competition with the snows of North America, and had come off at little disadvantage in point of whiteness, and at none in point of coldness. The colonel’s son was Mrs Merdle’s only child. He was of a chuckle-headed, high-shouldered make, with a general appearance of being, not so much a young man as a swelled boy. He had given so few signs of reason, that a by-word went among his companions that his brain had been frozen up in a mighty frost which prevailed at St John’s, New Brunswick, at the period of his birth there, and had never thawed from that hour. Another by-word represented him as having in his infancy, through the negligence of a nurse, fallen out of a high window on his head, which had been heard by responsible witnesses to crack. It is probable that both these representations were of ex post facto origin; the young gentleman (whose expressive name was Sparkler) being monomaniacal in offering marriage to all manner of undesirable young ladies, and in remarking of every successive young lady to whom he tendered a matrimonial proposal that she was ‘a doosed fine gal—well educated too—with no biggodd nonsense about her.’
Mrs. Merdle’s first husband had been a colonel, under whose guidance the bosom had gone up against the snows of North America, coming off not too badly in terms of whiteness, and not at all in terms of coldness. The colonel’s son was Mrs. Merdle’s only child. He had a dopey, broad-shouldered look, giving off a vibe of being less a young man and more an overgrown boy. He showed so few signs of intelligence that a saying went around among his friends that his brain had gotten frozen during a severe cold snap in St. John’s, New Brunswick, when he was born, and had never thawed out since. Another saying had it that he had fallen out of a high window on his head as a baby due to a negligent nurse, which had been heard by credible witnesses to crack. It's likely that both of these stories were made up later; the young man (whose amusing name was Sparkler) was obsessed with proposing to all sorts of undesirable young women and would say about each one he proposed to that she was “a really great girl—well-educated too—with no ridiculous nonsense about her.”
A son-in-law with these limited talents, might have been a clog upon another man; but Mr Merdle did not want a son-in-law for himself; he wanted a son-in-law for Society. Mr Sparkler having been in the Guards, and being in the habit of frequenting all the races, and all the lounges, and all the parties, and being well known, Society was satisfied with its son-in-law. This happy result Mr Merdle would have considered well attained, though Mr Sparkler had been a more expensive article. And he did not get Mr Sparkler by any means cheap for Society, even as it was.
A son-in-law with such limited skills might have been a burden to another man; but Mr. Merdle didn’t want a son-in-law for himself; he wanted one for Society. Mr. Sparkler, having served in the Guards and regularly attending all the races, lounges, and parties, was well-known, and Society was content with its son-in-law. Mr. Merdle would have considered this a great achievement even if Mr. Sparkler had been a pricier choice. And he certainly didn’t get Mr. Sparkler at a bargain price for Society, even as it stood.
There was a dinner giving in the Harley Street establishment, while Little Dorrit was stitching at her father’s new shirts by his side that night; and there were magnates from the Court and magnates from the City, magnates from the Commons and magnates from the Lords, magnates from the bench and magnates from the bar, Bishop magnates, Treasury magnates, Horse Guard magnates, Admiralty magnates,—all the magnates that keep us going, and sometimes trip us up.
There was a dinner happening at the Harley Street place, while Little Dorrit was sewing her father's new shirts next to him that night; and there were big shots from the Court and big shots from the City, big shots from the Commons and big shots from the Lords, big shots from the bench and big shots from the bar, Bishop big shots, Treasury big shots, Horse Guard big shots, Admiralty big shots—basically all the big shots that keep us running, and sometimes trip us up.
‘I am told,’ said Bishop magnate to Horse Guards, ‘that Mr Merdle has made another enormous hit. They say a hundred thousand pounds.’
‘I’ve heard,’ said the bishop to the Horse Guards, ‘that Mr. Merdle has made another huge score. They’re saying it’s a hundred thousand pounds.’
Horse Guards had heard two.
Horse Guards had heard two.
Treasury had heard three.
Treasury had heard three times.
Bar, handling his persuasive double eye-glass, was by no means clear but that it might be four. It was one of those happy strokes of calculation and combination, the result of which it was difficult to estimate. It was one of those instances of a comprehensive grasp, associated with habitual luck and characteristic boldness, of which an age presented us but few. But here was Brother Bellows, who had been in the great Bank case, and who could probably tell us more. What did Brother Bellows put this new success at?
Bar, adjusting his persuasive double eyeglasses, wasn't exactly sure but thought it might be around four. It was one of those fortunate calculations and combinations that were hard to judge. It was one of those moments of deep understanding, combined with consistent luck and boldness, which were rare in that era. But here was Brother Bellows, who had been involved in the big Bank case and could likely provide more insights. What did Brother Bellows think about this new success?
Brother Bellows was on his way to make his bow to the bosom, and could only tell them in passing that he had heard it stated, with great appearance of truth, as being worth, from first to last, half-a-million of money.
Brother Bellows was heading to make his introduction to the group and could only mention in passing that he had heard, with a lot of confidence, that it was valued, from start to finish, at half a million dollars.
Admiralty said Mr Merdle was a wonderful man, Treasury said he was a new power in the country, and would be able to buy up the whole House of Commons. Bishop said he was glad to think that this wealth flowed into the coffers of a gentleman who was always disposed to maintain the best interests of Society.
Admiralty said Mr. Merdle was a great guy, Treasury said he was a new force in the country, and could take over the whole House of Commons. Bishop said he was happy to know that this wealth was going to a man who always aimed to support the best interests of Society.
Mr Merdle himself was usually late on these occasions, as a man still detained in the clutch of giant enterprises when other men had shaken off their dwarfs for the day. On this occasion, he was the last arrival. Treasury said Merdle’s work punished him a little. Bishop said he was glad to think that this wealth flowed into the coffers of a gentleman who accepted it with meekness.
Mr. Merdle usually showed up late to these events, as a man still caught up in big business while others had already wrapped up for the day. This time, he was the last to arrive. The Treasury mentioned that Merdle's work took a toll on him. The Bishop said he was happy to know that this wealth was going to a gentleman who accepted it with humility.
Powder! There was so much Powder in waiting, that it flavoured the dinner. Pulverous particles got into the dishes, and Society’s meats had a seasoning of first-rate footmen. Mr Merdle took down a countess who was secluded somewhere in the core of an immense dress, to which she was in the proportion of the heart to the overgrown cabbage. If so low a simile may be admitted, the dress went down the staircase like a richly brocaded Jack in the Green, and nobody knew what sort of small person carried it.
Powder! There was so much powder around that it flavored the dinner. Fine particles got into the food, and Society’s meats were seasoned with top-notch footmen. Mr. Merdle addressed a countess who was hidden somewhere inside a huge dress, to which she was like the heart to an oversized cabbage. If such a comparison is acceptable, the dress went down the staircase like a richly decorated Jack in the Green, and nobody knew what kind of small person was carrying it.
Society had everything it could want, and could not want, for dinner. It had everything to look at, and everything to eat, and everything to drink. It is to be hoped it enjoyed itself; for Mr Merdle’s own share of the repast might have been paid for with eighteenpence. Mrs Merdle was magnificent. The chief butler was the next magnificent institution of the day. He was the stateliest man in the company. He did nothing, but he looked on as few other men could have done. He was Mr Merdle’s last gift to Society. Mr Merdle didn’t want him, and was put out of countenance when the great creature looked at him; but inappeasable Society would have him—and had got him.
Society had everything it could possibly want for dinner. It had everything to look at, everything to eat, and everything to drink. Hopefully, it enjoyed itself; Mr. Merdle’s portion of the meal could have been paid for with just eighteen pence. Mrs. Merdle was stunning. The head butler was the next impressive figure of the day. He was the most dignified man in the crowd. He didn’t do anything, but he watched like few other men could. He was Mr. Merdle’s final contribution to Society. Mr. Merdle didn’t want him and felt awkward when the imposing figure looked at him; but relentless Society insisted on having him—and it did.
The invisible countess carried out the Green at the usual stage of the entertainment, and the file of beauty was closed up by the bosom. Treasury said, Juno. Bishop said, Judith.
The unseen countess performed the Green at the usual point in the show, and the lineup of beauties was completed by the bosom. Treasury said, Juno. Bishop said, Judith.
Bar fell into discussion with Horse Guards concerning courts-martial. Brothers Bellows and Bench struck in. Other magnates paired off. Mr Merdle sat silent, and looked at the table-cloth. Sometimes a magnate addressed him, to turn the stream of his own particular discussion towards him; but Mr Merdle seldom gave much attention to it, or did more than rouse himself from his calculations and pass the wine.
Bar started talking with the Horse Guards about courts-martial. Brothers Bellows and Bench chimed in. Other notable figures paired off. Mr. Merdle sat quietly, staring at the tablecloth. Occasionally, a notable would address him, trying to steer the focus of their own discussion toward him; but Mr. Merdle rarely paid much attention or did more than pull himself away from his thoughts and pour the wine.
When they rose, so many of the magnates had something to say to Mr Merdle individually that he held little levees by the sideboard, and checked them off as they went out at the door.
When they got up, many of the big shots had something to say to Mr. Merdle individually, so he hosted little gatherings by the sideboard and marked them off as they left through the door.
Treasury hoped he might venture to congratulate one of England’s world-famed capitalists and merchant-princes (he had turned that original sentiment in the house a few times, and it came easy to him) on a new achievement. To extend the triumphs of such men was to extend the triumphs and resources of the nation; and Treasury felt—he gave Mr Merdle to understand—patriotic on the subject.
Treasury hoped he could congratulate one of England’s renowned capitalists and merchant-princes (he had expressed that original sentiment in the house a few times, and it came naturally to him) on a new achievement. Expanding the successes of such individuals meant expanding the successes and resources of the nation; and Treasury felt—he made Mr. Merdle aware—patriotic about the issue.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘thank you. I accept your congratulations with pride, and I am glad you approve.’
"Thank you, my lord," Mr. Merdle said. "Thank you. I proudly accept your congratulations, and I'm glad you approve."
‘Why, I don’t unreservedly approve, my dear Mr Merdle. Because,’ smiling Treasury turned him by the arm towards the sideboard and spoke banteringly, ‘it never can be worth your while to come among us and help us.’
‘Why, I don’t completely agree, my dear Mr. Merdle. Because,’ smiling, Treasury turned him by the arm towards the sideboard and said playfully, ‘it can never be worth your time to come around and help us.’
Mr Merdle felt honoured by the—
Mr. Merdle felt honored by the—
‘No, no,’ said Treasury, ‘that is not the light in which one so distinguished for practical knowledge and great foresight, can be expected to regard it. If we should ever be happily enabled, by accidentally possessing the control over circumstances, to propose to one so eminent to—to come among us, and give us the weight of his influence, knowledge, and character, we could only propose it to him as a duty. In fact, as a duty that he owed to Society.’
‘No, no,’ said Treasury, ‘that's not how someone so well-known for practical knowledge and great foresight should view it. If we ever find ourselves in the fortunate position of being able to invite someone so distinguished to join us and lend us the weight of his influence, knowledge, and character, we could only frame it as a duty. In fact, as a duty he owes to Society.’
Mr Merdle intimated that Society was the apple of his eye, and that its claims were paramount to every other consideration. Treasury moved on, and Bar came up.
Mr. Merdle hinted that society was extremely important to him and that its needs were more important than anything else. The Treasury continued on, and the Bar came into play.
Bar, with his little insinuating jury droop, and fingering his persuasive double eye-glass, hoped he might be excused if he mentioned to one of the greatest converters of the root of all evil into the root of all good, who had for a long time reflected a shining lustre on the annals even of our commercial country—if he mentioned, disinterestedly, and as, what we lawyers called in our pedantic way, amicus curiae, a fact that had come by accident within his knowledge. He had been required to look over the title of a very considerable estate in one of the eastern counties—lying, in fact, for Mr Merdle knew we lawyers loved to be particular, on the borders of two of the eastern counties. Now, the title was perfectly sound, and the estate was to be purchased by one who had the command of—Money (jury droop and persuasive eye-glass), on remarkably advantageous terms. This had come to Bar’s knowledge only that day, and it had occurred to him, ‘I shall have the honour of dining with my esteemed friend Mr Merdle this evening, and, strictly between ourselves, I will mention the opportunity.’ Such a purchase would involve not only a great legitimate political influence, but some half-dozen church presentations of considerable annual value. Now, that Mr Merdle was already at no loss to discover means of occupying even his capital, and of fully employing even his active and vigorous intellect, Bar well knew: but he would venture to suggest that the question arose in his mind, whether one who had deservedly gained so high a position and so European a reputation did not owe it—we would not say to himself, but we would say to Society, to possess himself of such influences as these; and to exercise them—we would not say for his own, or for his party’s, but we would say for Society’s—benefit.
Bar, with his little suggestive droop and fiddling with his persuasive double eyeglasses, hoped he could be excused for mentioning to one of the greatest converters of money into good things—who had for a long time cast a bright light on the history of our commercial country—if he brought up, without any selfish motives, and as we lawyers would call it, as an amicus curiae, a fact that he had come across by chance. He had been asked to review the title of a substantial estate in one of the eastern counties—specifically, as Mr. Merdle knew we lawyers liked to be precise, on the border of two eastern counties. The title was perfectly valid, and the estate was to be bought by someone who had access to—Money (the droop and eyeglasses), on very favorable terms. He had just found out about this that day, and it occurred to him, ‘I will have the honor of dining with my esteemed friend Mr. Merdle this evening, and just between us, I’ll mention the opportunity.’ Such a purchase would not only bring significant legitimate political influence but also several church presentations of considerable annual value. Bar knew that Mr. Merdle was already skillful in finding ways to invest his capital and fully utilize his active and sharp mind. However, he would suggest that it crossed his mind whether someone who had earned such a high position and European reputation didn’t owe it—not just to himself, but to Society, to take on such influences; and to use them—not for his own benefit, or his party’s, but for Society’s.
Mr Merdle again expressed himself as wholly devoted to that object of his constant consideration, and Bar took his persuasive eye-glass up the grand staircase. Bishop then came undesignedly sidling in the direction of the sideboard.
Mr. Merdle once again stated that he was completely dedicated to that thing he always thought about, and Bar picked up his persuasive eyeglass as he walked up the grand staircase. Bishop then casually approached the sideboard.
Surely the goods of this world, it occurred in an accidental way to Bishop to remark, could scarcely be directed into happier channels than when they accumulated under the magic touch of the wise and sagacious, who, while they knew the just value of riches (Bishop tried here to look as if he were rather poor himself), were aware of their importance, judiciously governed and rightly distributed, to the welfare of our brethren at large.
Surely the resources of this world, Bishop noted somewhat accidentally, could hardly be channeled more effectively than when they gathered under the skilled hands of the wise and insightful, who, while understanding the true worth of wealth (Bishop tried to appear somewhat poor himself), recognized its significance, wisely managed and fairly shared, for the well-being of our fellow beings.
Mr Merdle with humility expressed his conviction that Bishop couldn’t mean him, and with inconsistency expressed his high gratification in Bishop’s good opinion.
Mr. Merdle humbly insisted that the Bishop couldn't be referring to him, yet inconsistently expressed his great satisfaction with the Bishop's positive opinion.
Bishop then—jauntily stepping out a little with his well-shaped right leg, as though he said to Mr Merdle ‘don’t mind the apron; a mere form!’ put this case to his good friend:
Bishop then—cheerfully stepping out a bit with his well-shaped right leg, as if to say to Mr. Merdle, ‘don’t worry about the apron; it’s just a formality!’ presented this situation to his good friend:
Whether it had occurred to his good friend, that Society might not unreasonably hope that one so blest in his undertakings, and whose example on his pedestal was so influential with it, would shed a little money in the direction of a mission or so to Africa?
Whether it had occurred to his good friend that society might reasonably hope that someone so successful in his endeavors, and whose example on his pedestal was so influential, would contribute some money to a mission or two in Africa?
Mr Merdle signifying that the idea should have his best attention, Bishop put another case:
Mr. Merdle indicating that the idea deserved his full attention, Bishop presented another example:
Whether his good friend had at all interested himself in the proceedings of our Combined Additional Endowed Dignitaries Committee, and whether it had occurred to him that to shed a little money in that direction might be a great conception finely executed?
Whether his good friend had shown any interest in the activities of our Combined Additional Endowed Dignitaries Committee, and whether it had crossed his mind that investing a little money in that area could be a brilliant idea well carried out?
Mr Merdle made a similar reply, and Bishop explained his reason for inquiring.
Mr. Merdle gave a similar response, and the Bishop shared why he was asking.
Society looked to such men as his good friend to do such things. It was not that he looked to them, but that Society looked to them. Just as it was not Our Committee who wanted the Additional Endowed Dignitaries, but it was Society that was in a state of the most agonising uneasiness of mind until it got them. He begged to assure his good friend that he was extremely sensible of his good friend’s regard on all occasions for the best interests of Society; and he considered that he was at once consulting those interests and expressing the feeling of Society, when he wished him continued prosperity, continued increase of riches, and continued things in general.
Society expected men like his good friend to take on these responsibilities. It wasn't that he relied on them, but that Society was counting on them. Just as it wasn't Our Committee who demanded the Additional Endowed Dignitaries, but Society that felt intense anxiety until they were acquired. He wanted to assure his good friend that he truly appreciated his friend’s constant concern for what was best for Society; he believed that by wishing him ongoing success, growing wealth, and continued prosperity, he was both serving those interests and reflecting Society's sentiments.
Bishop then betook himself up-stairs, and the other magnates gradually floated up after him until there was no one left below but Mr Merdle. That gentleman, after looking at the table-cloth until the soul of the chief butler glowed with a noble resentment, went slowly up after the rest, and became of no account in the stream of people on the grand staircase. Mrs Merdle was at home, the best of the jewels were hung out to be seen, Society got what it came for, Mr Merdle drank twopennyworth of tea in a corner and got more than he wanted.
Bishop then went upstairs, and the other important guests gradually followed him until only Mr. Merdle was left below. After glaring at the tablecloth until the head butler was visibly annoyed, he slowly made his way up with the others and got lost in the crowd on the grand staircase. Mrs. Merdle was at home, showcasing the finest jewels, Society got what it came for, while Mr. Merdle sipped on a cheap cup of tea in a corner and ended up with more than he wanted.
Among the evening magnates was a famous physician, who knew everybody, and whom everybody knew. On entering at the door, he came upon Mr Merdle drinking his tea in a corner, and touched him on the arm.
Among the evening big shots was a well-known doctor, who was familiar with everyone, and everyone was familiar with him. When he walked in the door, he spotted Mr. Merdle sipping his tea in a corner and tapped him on the arm.
Mr Merdle started. ‘Oh! It’s you!’
Mr. Merdle was surprised. ‘Oh! It’s you!’
‘Any better to-day?’
"Feeling any better today?"
‘No,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I am no better.’
‘No,’ said Mr. Merdle, ‘I am not any better.’
‘A pity I didn’t see you this morning. Pray come to me to-morrow, or let me come to you.’
‘It’s a shame I didn’t see you this morning. Please come to me tomorrow, or let me come to you.’
‘Well!’ he replied. ‘I will come to-morrow as I drive by.’
‘Well!’ he replied. ‘I’ll stop by tomorrow as I pass by.’
Bar and Bishop had both been bystanders during this short dialogue, and as Mr Merdle was swept away by the crowd, they made their remarks upon it to the Physician. Bar said, there was a certain point of mental strain beyond which no man could go; that the point varied with various textures of brain and peculiarities of constitution, as he had had occasion to notice in several of his learned brothers; but the point of endurance passed by a line’s breadth, depression and dyspepsia ensued. Not to intrude on the sacred mysteries of medicine, he took it, now (with the jury droop and persuasive eye-glass), that this was Merdle’s case? Bishop said that when he was a young man, and had fallen for a brief space into the habit of writing sermons on Saturdays, a habit which all young sons of the church should sedulously avoid, he had frequently been sensible of a depression, arising as he supposed from an over-taxed intellect, upon which the yolk of a new-laid egg, beaten up by the good woman in whose house he at that time lodged, with a glass of sound sherry, nutmeg, and powdered sugar acted like a charm. Without presuming to offer so simple a remedy to the consideration of so profound a professor of the great healing art, he would venture to inquire whether the strain, being by way of intricate calculations, the spirits might not (humanly speaking) be restored to their tone by a gentle and yet generous stimulant?
Bar and Bishop had both been spectators during this brief conversation, and as Mr. Merdle was carried away by the crowd, they shared their thoughts with the Physician. Bar mentioned that there is a certain level of mental strain that no one can handle; this level varies depending on different brain types and individual constitution, as he had observed in several of his learned colleagues. However, once the limit of endurance is crossed, it leads to depression and digestive issues. Not wanting to intrude on the sacred mysteries of medicine, he suggested (with his jury-like demeanor and persuasive eyeglass) that this was Merdle’s situation. Bishop added that when he was younger and had briefly developed the habit of writing sermons on Saturdays—something all young members of the clergy should carefully avoid—he often felt a sense of depression stemming from an overtaxed mind. He found that the yolk of a freshly laid egg, whipped up by the kind woman he was staying with, combined with a glass of good sherry, nutmeg, and powdered sugar worked wonders. Without assuming to suggest such a simple remedy to someone so profoundly knowledgeable in the healing arts, he dared to ask if the pressure, due to complex calculations, might be alleviated with a mild but effective stimulant?
‘Yes,’ said the physician, ‘yes, you are both right. But I may as well tell you that I can find nothing the matter with Mr Merdle. He has the constitution of a rhinoceros, the digestion of an ostrich, and the concentration of an oyster. As to nerves, Mr Merdle is of a cool temperament, and not a sensitive man: is about as invulnerable, I should say, as Achilles. How such a man should suppose himself unwell without reason, you may think strange. But I have found nothing the matter with him. He may have some deep-seated recondite complaint. I can’t say. I only say, that at present I have not found it out.’
‘Yes,’ said the doctor, ‘yes, you’re both right. But I should let you know that I can’t find anything wrong with Mr. Merdle. He has the strength of a rhinoceros, the digestion of an ostrich, and the focus of an oyster. As for his nerves, Mr. Merdle is quite calm and not a sensitive person; he's about as invulnerable as Achilles, I would say. You might find it strange that someone like him thinks he’s unwell without any reason. But I haven’t found anything wrong with him. He might have some hidden issue that’s hard to pinpoint. I can’t say for sure. I only mean that right now, I haven’t been able to figure it out.’
There was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on the bosom now displaying precious stones in rivalry with many similar superb jewel-stands; there was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on young Sparkler hovering about the rooms, monomaniacally seeking any sufficiently ineligible young lady with no nonsense about her; there was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings, of whom whole colonies were present; or on any of the company. Even on himself, its shadow was faint enough as he moved about among the throng, receiving homage.
There was no hint of Mr. Merdle's complaint on the display of precious stones competing with numerous other stunning jewel stands; there was no hint of Mr. Merdle's complaint on young Sparkler, who was wandering around the rooms, obsessively looking for any suitably unqualified young lady who wasn't complicated; there was no hint of Mr. Merdle's complaint on the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings, of which whole groups were present; or on any of the guests. Even on himself, its shadow was barely noticeable as he moved through the crowd, receiving admiration.
Mr Merdle’s complaint. Society and he had so much to do with one another in all things else, that it is hard to imagine his complaint, if he had one, being solely his own affair. Had he that deep-seated recondite complaint, and did any doctor find it out? Patience, in the meantime, the shadow of the Marshalsea wall was a real darkening influence, and could be seen on the Dorrit Family at any stage of the sun’s course.
Mr. Merdle’s complaint. Society and he were so interconnected in everything else that it’s hard to believe his complaint, if he had one, was just his own issue. Did he have that deep-rooted, mysterious complaint, and did any doctor figure it out? In the meantime, the shadow of the Marshalsea wall was a genuine dark influence and could be seen affecting the Dorrit Family at any time of day.
CHAPTER 22. A Puzzle
Mr Clennam did not increase in favour with the Father of the Marshalsea in the ratio of his increasing visits. His obtuseness on the great Testimonial question was not calculated to awaken admiration in the paternal breast, but had rather a tendency to give offence in that sensitive quarter, and to be regarded as a positive shortcoming in point of gentlemanly feeling. An impression of disappointment, occasioned by the discovery that Mr Clennam scarcely possessed that delicacy for which, in the confidence of his nature, he had been inclined to give him credit, began to darken the fatherly mind in connection with that gentleman. The father went so far as to say, in his private family circle, that he feared Mr Clennam was not a man of high instincts. He was happy, he observed, in his public capacity as leader and representative of the College, to receive Mr Clennam when he called to pay his respects; but he didn’t find that he got on with him personally. There appeared to be something (he didn’t know what it was) wanting in him. Howbeit, the father did not fail in any outward show of politeness, but, on the contrary, honoured him with much attention; perhaps cherishing the hope that, although not a man of a sufficiently brilliant and spontaneous turn of mind to repeat his former testimonial unsolicited, it might still be within the compass of his nature to bear the part of a responsive gentleman, in any correspondence that way tending.
Mr. Clennam didn’t win over the Father of the Marshalsea as he kept visiting more often. His cluelessness about the important Testimonial issue didn’t impress the father and actually annoyed him, making it seem like a real flaw in terms of being a gentleman. As the father realized that Mr. Clennam lacked the sensitivity he had hoped he would have, feelings of disappointment started to cloud his thoughts about him. He even mentioned in his private family discussions that he was concerned Mr. Clennam wasn’t a man of high principles. He noted that, in his official role as leader and representative of the College, he was pleased to welcome Mr. Clennam when he came to pay his respects, but personally, he felt they didn’t connect. There seemed to be something—he couldn’t quite put his finger on it—that was missing in Mr. Clennam. Still, the father made sure to show him politeness and attention, perhaps hoping that, even if Mr. Clennam wasn’t charismatic enough to offer his own testimonial without prompting, he might still be able to play the part of a courteous gentleman in any related interactions.
In the threefold capacity, of the gentleman from outside who had been accidentally locked in on the night of his first appearance, of the gentleman from outside who had inquired into the affairs of the Father of the Marshalsea with the stupendous idea of getting him out, and of the gentleman from outside who took an interest in the child of the Marshalsea, Clennam soon became a visitor of mark. He was not surprised by the attentions he received from Mr Chivery when that officer was on the lock, for he made little distinction between Mr Chivery’s politeness and that of the other turnkeys. It was on one particular afternoon that Mr Chivery surprised him all at once, and stood forth from his companions in bold relief.
In the threefold role of the man from outside who had accidentally gotten locked in during his first visit, the man from outside who questioned the Father of the Marshalsea in a grand attempt to help him escape, and the man from outside who cared about the child of the Marshalsea, Clennam quickly became a noteworthy visitor. He wasn’t surprised by the attention he got from Mr. Chivery when that guard was on duty since he saw little difference between Mr. Chivery’s politeness and that of the other turnkeys. It was one particular afternoon when Mr. Chivery unexpectedly caught his attention, standing out from his fellow officers.
Mr Chivery, by some artful exercise of his power of clearing the Lodge, had contrived to rid it of all sauntering Collegians; so that Clennam, coming out of the prison, should find him on duty alone.
Mr. Chivery, using his clever ability to clear the Lodge, had managed to send away all the wandering students; so that when Clennam came out of the prison, he found him on duty by himself.
‘(Private) I ask your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Chivery in a secret manner; ‘but which way might you be going?’
‘(Private) I’m sorry to bother you, sir,’ Mr. Chivery said quietly; ‘but which direction are you headed?’
‘I am going over the Bridge.’ He saw in Mr Chivery, with some astonishment, quite an Allegory of Silence, as he stood with his key on his lips.
‘I’m going over the Bridge.’ He looked at Mr. Chivery with some surprise, seeing in him a perfect symbol of Silence as he stood with his key held to his lips.
‘(Private) I ask your pardon again,’ said Mr Chivery, ‘but could you go round by Horsemonger Lane? Could you by any means find time to look in at that address?’ handing him a little card, printed for circulation among the connection of Chivery and Co., Tobacconists, Importers of pure Havannah Cigars, Bengal Cheroots, and fine-flavoured Cubas, Dealers in Fancy Snuffs, &c. &c.
‘(Private) I apologize again,’ said Mr. Chivery, ‘but could you go around by Horsemonger Lane? Is there any chance you could find time to check out that address?’ handing him a small card, printed for distribution among the connections of Chivery and Co., Tobacconists, Importers of pure Havannah Cigars, Bengal Cheroots, and fine-flavored Cubas, Dealers in Fancy Snuffs, etc. etc.
‘(Private) It an’t tobacco business,’ said Mr Chivery. ‘The truth is, it’s my wife. She’s wishful to say a word to you, sir, upon a point respecting—yes,’ said Mr Chivery, answering Clennam’s look of apprehension with a nod, ‘respecting her.’
‘(Private) It’s not about the tobacco business,’ Mr. Chivery said. ‘The truth is, it’s my wife. She wants to say something to you, sir, about a point concerning—yes,’ Mr. Chivery continued, responding to Clennam’s worried look with a nod, ‘concerning her.’
‘I will make a point of seeing your wife directly.’
‘I will make sure to see your wife in person.’
‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged. It an’t above ten minutes out of your way. Please to ask for Mrs Chivery!’ These instructions, Mr Chivery, who had already let him out, cautiously called through a little slide in the outer door, which he could draw back from within for the inspection of visitors when it pleased him.
‘Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it. It’s not more than ten minutes out of your way. Please ask for Mrs Chivery!’ These instructions, Mr. Chivery, who had already let him out, carefully called through a small slide in the outer door, which he could pull back from inside for the inspection of visitors when he felt like it.
Arthur Clennam, with the card in his hand, betook himself to the address set forth upon it, and speedily arrived there. It was a very small establishment, wherein a decent woman sat behind the counter working at her needle. Little jars of tobacco, little boxes of cigars, a little assortment of pipes, a little jar or two of snuff, and a little instrument like a shoeing horn for serving it out, composed the retail stock in trade.
Arthur Clennam, with the card in his hand, headed to the address listed on it and quickly arrived there. It was a tiny shop, where a respectable woman sat behind the counter working with her needle. Small jars of tobacco, little boxes of cigars, a small selection of pipes, a couple of jars of snuff, and a tiny tool that looked like a shoehorn for dispensing it made up the retail stock.
Arthur mentioned his name, and his having promised to call, on the solicitation of Mr Chivery. About something relating to Miss Dorrit, he believed. Mrs Chivery at once laid aside her work, rose up from her seat behind the counter, and deploringly shook her head.
Arthur mentioned his name and that he had promised to call, at Mr. Chivery's request. He thought it was about something concerning Miss Dorrit. Mrs. Chivery immediately put down her work, stood up from her seat behind the counter, and sadly shook her head.
‘You may see him now,’ said she, ‘if you’ll condescend to take a peep.’
"You can see him now," she said, "if you don’t mind taking a look."
With these mysterious words, she preceded the visitor into a little parlour behind the shop, with a little window in it commanding a very little dull back-yard. In this yard a wash of sheets and table-cloths tried (in vain, for want of air) to get itself dried on a line or two; and among those flapping articles was sitting in a chair, like the last mariner left alive on the deck of a damp ship without the power of furling the sails, a little woe-begone young man.
With these mysterious words, she led the visitor into a small parlor behind the shop, featuring a tiny window that overlooked a rather dull backyard. In this yard, sheets and tablecloths were hanging on a line, struggling (in vain, due to lack of air) to dry. Among those flapping linens sat a sad-looking young man in a chair, like the last sailor stranded on a damp ship, unable to fold away the sails.
‘Our John,’ said Mrs Chivery.
“Our John,” said Mrs. Chivery.
Not to be deficient in interest, Clennam asked what he might be doing there?
Not wanting to seem uninterested, Clennam asked what he was doing there.
‘It’s the only change he takes,’ said Mrs Chivery, shaking her head afresh. ‘He won’t go out, even in the back-yard, when there’s no linen; but when there’s linen to keep the neighbours’ eyes off, he’ll sit there, hours. Hours he will. Says he feels as if it was groves!’ Mrs Chivery shook her head again, put her apron in a motherly way to her eyes, and reconducted her visitor into the regions of the business.
“It’s the only change he makes,” Mrs. Chivery said, shaking her head once more. “He won’t go outside, even in the backyard, when there’s no laundry; but when there is laundry to keep the neighbors’ eyes away, he’ll sit out there for hours. He really will. He says it feels like he’s in the groves!” Mrs. Chivery shook her head again, dabbed her eyes with her apron in a motherly fashion, and guided her visitor back to the business area.
‘Please to take a seat, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery. ‘Miss Dorrit is the matter with Our John, sir; he’s a breaking his heart for her, and I would wish to take the liberty to ask how it’s to be made good to his parents when bust?’
‘Please take a seat, sir,’ said Mrs. Chivery. ‘Miss Dorrit is what's bothering Our John, sir; he’s breaking his heart over her, and I’d like to kindly ask how it’s going to be made right for his parents when he’s upset?’
Mrs Chivery, who was a comfortable-looking woman much respected about Horsemonger Lane for her feelings and her conversation, uttered this speech with fell composure, and immediately afterwards began again to shake her head and dry her eyes.
Mrs. Chivery, a sensible-looking woman who was highly regarded in Horsemonger Lane for her compassion and her discussions, delivered this speech with chilling calmness, and right after, she began to shake her head again and wipe her eyes dry.
‘Sir,’ said she in continuation, ‘you are acquainted with the family, and have interested yourself with the family, and are influential with the family. If you can promote views calculated to make two young people happy, let me, for Our John’s sake, and for both their sakes, implore you so to do!’
‘Sir,’ she continued, ‘you know the family, you've taken an interest in them, and you have influence with them. If you can help create a situation that will make two young people happy, please, for Our John’s sake and for both of their sakes, I beg you to do so!’
‘I have been so habituated,’ returned Arthur, at a loss, ‘during the short time I have known her, to consider Little—I have been so habituated to consider Miss Dorrit in a light altogether removed from that in which you present her to me, that you quite take me by surprise. Does she know your son?’
"I’ve become so used to thinking of Little—I mean, I've gotten so used to seeing Miss Dorrit in a completely different way than how you’re presenting her to me, that you really caught me off guard. Does she know your son?"
‘Brought up together, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery. ‘Played together.’
‘We grew up together, sir,’ said Mrs. Chivery. ‘We played together.’
‘Does she know your son as her admirer?’
‘Does she know that your son admires her?’
‘Oh! bless you, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, with a sort of triumphant shiver, ‘she never could have seen him on a Sunday without knowing he was that. His cane alone would have told it long ago, if nothing else had. Young men like John don’t take to ivory hands a pinting, for nothing. How did I first know it myself? Similarly.’
‘Oh! thank you, sir,’ said Mrs. Chivery, with a sort of triumphant shiver, ‘she would never have seen him on a Sunday without realizing what he was. His cane alone would have revealed it a long time ago, if nothing else had. Young men like John don’t pick up ivory canes just for show. How did I first figure it out myself? Similar way.’
‘Perhaps Miss Dorrit may not be so ready as you, you see.’
‘Maybe Miss Dorrit isn't as quick to respond as you are, you know.’
‘Then she knows it, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘by word of mouth.’
‘Then she knows it, sir,’ said Mrs. Chivery, ‘by word of mouth.’
‘Are you sure?’
'Are you certain?'
‘Sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘sure and certain as in this house I am. I see my son go out with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I see my son come in with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I know he done it!’ Mrs Chivery derived a surprising force of emphasis from the foregoing circumstantiality and repetition.
“Sir,” Mrs. Chivery said, “I can say with absolute certainty that I am in this house. I saw my son leave with my own eyes while I was here, and I saw my son come back with my own eyes while I was here, and I know he did it!” Mrs. Chivery gained unexpected strength in her emphasis from this detailed and repetitive account.
‘May I ask you how he came to fall into the desponding state which causes you so much uneasiness?’
“Can I ask how he ended up in this depressed state that makes you so uneasy?”
‘That,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘took place on that same day when to this house I see that John with these eyes return. Never been himself in this house since. Never was like what he has been since, not from the hour when to this house seven year ago me and his father, as tenants by the quarter, came!’ An effect in the nature of an affidavit was gained from this speech by Mrs Chivery’s peculiar power of construction.
‘That,’ said Mrs. Chivery, ‘happened on the same day when I saw John return to this house. He’s never been himself here since. He hasn’t been the same as he was before, not from the moment seven years ago when his father and I moved in as tenants by the quarter!’ Mrs. Chivery’s unique way of speaking gave this statement an effect similar to an affidavit.
‘May I venture to inquire what is your version of the matter?’
"Can I ask what your take on the situation is?"
‘You may,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘and I will give it to you in honour and in word as true as in this shop I stand. Our John has every one’s good word and every one’s good wish. He played with her as a child when in that yard a child she played. He has known her ever since. He went out upon the Sunday afternoon when in this very parlour he had dined, and met her, with appointment or without appointment; which, I do not pretend to say. He made his offer to her. Her brother and sister is high in their views, and against Our John. Her father is all for himself in his views and against sharing her with any one. Under which circumstances she has answered Our John, “No, John, I cannot have you, I cannot have any husband, it is not my intentions ever to become a wife, it is my intentions to be always a sacrifice, farewell, find another worthy of you, and forget me!” This is the way in which she is doomed to be a constant slave to them that are not worthy that a constant slave she unto them should be. This is the way in which Our John has come to find no pleasure but in taking cold among the linen, and in showing in that yard, as in that yard I have myself shown you, a broken-down ruin that goes home to his mother’s heart!’ Here the good woman pointed to the little window, whence her son might be seen sitting disconsolate in the tuneless groves; and again shook her head and wiped her eyes, and besought him, for the united sakes of both the young people, to exercise his influence towards the bright reversal of these dismal events.
“You may,” Mrs. Chivery said, “and I promise you that my word is as true as my presence in this shop. Our John has everyone’s good will and best wishes. He played with her as a child when they used to play in that yard. He has known her all this time. He went out one Sunday afternoon after having dined in this very parlor, and met her, whether it was arranged or not, I can’t say. He proposed to her. Her brother and sister have high standards and are against Our John. Her father is all about his own interests and doesn’t want to share her with anyone. In these circumstances, she has told Our John, “No, John, I can’t be with you, I can’t have any husband, I don’t intend to ever become a wife; I intend to always be a sacrifice. Goodbye, find someone else deserving of you, and forget me!” This is how she is destined to be a constant servant to those who aren’t worthy of her being one. This is how Our John has come to find no joy except in getting lost among the linen and appearing in that yard, as I’ve shown you, a broken-down figure that goes home to his mother’s heart!” Here, the good woman pointed to the little window, where her son could be seen sitting despondently in the silent spaces; then she shook her head again, wiped her eyes, and urged him, for the sake of both young people, to use his influence to help turn these grim events around.
She was so confident in her exposition of the case, and it was so undeniably founded on correct premises in so far as the relative positions of Little Dorrit and her family were concerned, that Clennam could not feel positive on the other side. He had come to attach to Little Dorrit an interest so peculiar—an interest that removed her from, while it grew out of, the common and coarse things surrounding her—that he found it disappointing, disagreeable, almost painful, to suppose her in love with young Mr Chivery in the back-yard, or any such person. On the other hand, he reasoned with himself that she was just as good and just as true in love with him, as not in love with him; and that to make a kind of domesticated fairy of her, on the penalty of isolation at heart from the only people she knew, would be but a weakness of his own fancy, and not a kind one. Still, her youthful and ethereal appearance, her timid manner, the charm of her sensitive voice and eyes, the very many respects in which she had interested him out of her own individuality, and the strong difference between herself and those about her, were not in unison, and were determined not to be in unison, with this newly presented idea.
She was so confident in her explanation of the case, and it was so undeniably based on correct facts regarding the positions of Little Dorrit and her family that Clennam couldn’t feel certain about the opposite view. He had developed such a unique interest in Little Dorrit—an interest that set her apart from, yet stemmed from, the ordinary and crude things around her—that he found it disappointing, unpleasant, and almost painful to imagine her in love with young Mr. Chivery in the backyard, or anyone like him. On the flip side, he told himself that she was just as good and sincere in loving him as she would be if she weren’t in love with him; that turning her into a sort of domesticated fairy, at the cost of her being emotionally isolated from the only people she knew, would just be a weakness of his imagination, not a kind act. Still, her youthful and ethereal look, her shy demeanor, the charm of her sensitive voice and eyes, and the many ways she had captivated him through her own uniqueness, along with the strong contrast between her and those around her, didn’t align and were clearly not going to align with this new idea he was grappling with.
He told the worthy Mrs Chivery, after turning these things over in his mind—he did that, indeed, while she was yet speaking—that he might be relied upon to do his utmost at all times to promote the happiness of Miss Dorrit, and to further the wishes of her heart if it were in his power to do so, and if he could discover what they were. At the same time he cautioned her against assumptions and appearances; enjoined strict silence and secrecy, lest Miss Dorrit should be made unhappy; and particularly advised her to endeavour to win her son’s confidence and so to make quite sure of the state of the case. Mrs Chivery considered the latter precaution superfluous, but said she would try. She shook her head as if she had not derived all the comfort she had fondly expected from this interview, but thanked him nevertheless for the trouble he had kindly taken. They then parted good friends, and Arthur walked away.
He told the respectable Mrs. Chivery, after thinking things over—he really did that while she was still talking—that she could count on him to do everything he could to support Miss Dorrit's happiness and help achieve her heart's desires, if he could figure out what they were. At the same time, he warned her against making assumptions and relying on appearances; he insisted on keeping things quiet and secret to avoid making Miss Dorrit unhappy, and particularly encouraged her to try to earn her son’s trust to really understand the situation. Mrs. Chivery thought this last suggestion was unnecessary, but said she would try. She shook her head as if she hadn’t gotten all the comfort she had hoped for from this meeting, but thanked him anyway for the effort he had made. They then parted as good friends, and Arthur walked away.
The crowd in the street jostling the crowd in his mind, and the two crowds making a confusion, he avoided London Bridge, and turned off in the quieter direction of the Iron Bridge. He had scarcely set foot upon it, when he saw Little Dorrit walking on before him. It was a pleasant day, with a light breeze blowing, and she seemed to have that minute come there for air. He had left her in her father’s room within an hour.
The crowd in the street was clashing with the crowd in his mind, creating a confusion, so he steered clear of London Bridge and took a quieter route toward the Iron Bridge. He had barely stepped onto it when he spotted Little Dorrit walking ahead of him. It was a nice day, with a gentle breeze blowing, and she seemed to have just come there for some fresh air. He had left her in her father's room just an hour earlier.
It was a timely chance, favourable to his wish of observing her face and manner when no one else was by. He quickened his pace; but before he reached her, she turned her head.
It was a perfect opportunity for him to see her face and expressions when no one else was around. He picked up his pace, but just as he got closer, she turned her head.
‘Have I startled you?’ he asked.
“Did I scare you?” he asked.
‘I thought I knew the step,’ she answered, hesitating.
"I thought I knew the step," she replied, pausing.
‘And did you know it, Little Dorrit? You could hardly have expected mine.’
‘And did you know that, Little Dorrit? You could hardly have anticipated mine.’
‘I did not expect any. But when I heard a step, I thought it—sounded like yours.’
‘I didn't expect any. But when I heard a step, I thought it—sounded like yours.’
‘Are you going further?’
"Are you going farther?"
‘No, sir, I am only walking here for a little change.’
‘No, sir, I’m just taking a walk here for a bit of a change.’
They walked together, and she recovered her confiding manner with him, and looked up in his face as she said, after glancing around:
They walked together, and she got back to being open with him, looking up at his face as she said, after checking her surroundings:
‘It is so strange. Perhaps you can hardly understand it. I sometimes have a sensation as if it was almost unfeeling to walk here.’
‘It’s really strange. You might not even get it. Sometimes I feel like it’s almost heartless to walk around here.’
‘Unfeeling?’
'Cold-hearted?'
‘To see the river, and so much sky, and so many objects, and such change and motion. Then to go back, you know, and find him in the same cramped place.’
‘To see the river, so much sky, so many things, and all that change and movement. Then to go back, you know, and find him in that same tight space.’
‘Ah yes! But going back, you must remember that you take with you the spirit and influence of such things to cheer him.’
‘Ah yes! But going back, you have to remember that you bring along the spirit and influence of those things to lift his spirits.’
‘Do I? I hope I may! I am afraid you fancy too much, sir, and make me out too powerful. If you were in prison, could I bring such comfort to you?’
‘Do I? I hope so! I’m afraid you might be overestimating my power, sir. If you were in prison, could I really bring you that much comfort?’
‘Yes, Little Dorrit, I am sure of it.’
‘Yes, Little Dorrit, I’m sure of it.’
He gathered from a tremor on her lip, and a passing shadow of great agitation on her face, that her mind was with her father. He remained silent for a few moments, that she might regain her composure. The Little Dorrit, trembling on his arm, was less in unison than ever with Mrs Chivery’s theory, and yet was not irreconcilable with a new fancy which sprung up within him, that there might be some one else in the hopeless—newer fancy still—in the hopeless unattainable distance.
He sensed from a quiver on her lip and a fleeting expression of deep distress on her face that her thoughts were with her father. He stayed quiet for a bit, allowing her to collect herself. Little Dorrit, shaking on his arm, was less aligned than ever with Mrs. Chivery’s theory, but this didn’t completely clash with a new thought that emerged in him—that there might be someone else in the distant, unattainable future.
They turned, and Clennam said, Here was Maggy coming! Little Dorrit looked up, surprised, and they confronted Maggy, who brought herself at sight of them to a dead stop. She had been trotting along, so preoccupied and busy that she had not recognised them until they turned upon her. She was now in a moment so conscience-stricken that her very basket partook of the change.
They turned, and Clennam said, "Here comes Maggy!" Little Dorrit looked up, surprised, and they faced Maggy, who came to an abrupt halt upon seeing them. She had been walking along, so lost in thought and busy that she hadn't recognized them until they turned to her. Now, in that instant, she felt so guilty that even her basket seemed to reflect the change.
‘Maggy, you promised me to stop near father.’
‘Maggy, you promised me you'd stop near dad.’
‘So I would, Little Mother, only he wouldn’t let me. If he takes and sends me out I must go. If he takes and says, “Maggy, you hurry away and back with that letter, and you shall have a sixpence if the answer’s a good ‘un,” I must take it. Lor, Little Mother, what’s a poor thing of ten year old to do? And if Mr Tip—if he happens to be a coming in as I come out, and if he says “Where are you going, Maggy?” and if I says, “I’m a going So and So,” and if he says, “I’ll have a Try too,” and if he goes into the George and writes a letter and if he gives it me and says, “Take that one to the same place, and if the answer’s a good ‘un I’ll give you a shilling,” it ain’t my fault, mother!’
"So I would, Little Mother, but he wouldn’t let me. If he sends me out, I have to go. If he says, 'Maggy, hurry up and bring back that letter, and I’ll give you sixpence if the answer’s good,' I have to take it. Honestly, Little Mother, what’s a poor ten-year-old supposed to do? And if Mr. Tip—if he happens to be coming in as I’m going out, and if he asks, 'Where are you going, Maggy?' and I say, 'I’m going to So and So,' and if he says, 'I’ll give it a try too,' and if he goes into the George and writes a letter and gives it to me and says, 'Take this one to the same place, and if the answer’s good I’ll give you a shilling,' it’s not my fault, mother!"
Arthur read, in Little Dorrit’s downcast eyes, to whom she foresaw that the letters were addressed.
Arthur saw in Little Dorrit's downcast eyes to whom she thought the letters were addressed.
‘I’m a going So and So. There! That’s where I am a going to,’ said Maggy. ‘I’m a going So and So. It ain’t you, Little Mother, that’s got anything to do with it—it’s you, you know,’ said Maggy, addressing Arthur. ‘You’d better come, So and So, and let me take and give ‘em to you.’
‘I’m going So and So. There! That’s where I’m going,’ said Maggy. ‘I’m going So and So. It’s not you, Little Mother, who has anything to do with it—it’s you, you know,’ said Maggy, speaking to Arthur. ‘You’d better come, So and So, and let me take and give them to you.’
‘We will not be so particular as that, Maggy. Give them me here,’ said Clennam in a low voice.
‘We won't be that particular, Maggy. Just give them to me here,’ said Clennam in a quiet voice.
‘Well, then, come across the road,’ answered Maggy in a very loud whisper. ‘Little Mother wasn’t to know nothing of it, and she would never have known nothing of it if you had only gone So and So, instead of bothering and loitering about. It ain’t my fault. I must do what I am told. They ought to be ashamed of themselves for telling me.’
‘Well, then, come across the street,’ Maggy replied in a very loud whisper. ‘Little Mother wasn’t supposed to know anything about this, and she wouldn’t have known anything if you had just gone So and So, instead of hanging around and wasting time. It’s not my fault. I have to do what I’m told. They should be ashamed of themselves for telling me.’
Clennam crossed to the other side, and hurriedly opened the letters. That from the father mentioned that most unexpectedly finding himself in the novel position of having been disappointed of a remittance from the City on which he had confidently counted, he took up his pen, being restrained by the unhappy circumstance of his incarceration during three-and-twenty years (doubly underlined), from coming himself, as he would otherwise certainly have done—took up his pen to entreat Mr Clennam to advance him the sum of Three Pounds Ten Shillings upon his I.O.U., which he begged to enclose. That from the son set forth that Mr Clennam would, he knew, be gratified to hear that he had at length obtained permanent employment of a highly satisfactory nature, accompanied with every prospect of complete success in life; but that the temporary inability of his employer to pay him his arrears of salary to that date (in which condition said employer had appealed to that generous forbearance in which he trusted he should never be wanting towards a fellow-creature), combined with the fraudulent conduct of a false friend and the present high price of provisions, had reduced him to the verge of ruin, unless he could by a quarter before six that evening raise the sum of eight pounds. This sum, Mr Clennam would be happy to learn, he had, through the promptitude of several friends who had a lively confidence in his probity, already raised, with the exception of a trifling balance of one pound seventeen and fourpence; the loan of which balance, for the period of one month, would be fraught with the usual beneficent consequences.
Clennam crossed to the other side and quickly opened the letters. The one from his father mentioned that, quite unexpectedly, he had been let down by a remittance from the City that he had counted on, so he took up his pen—held back only by the unfortunate fact of his being locked up for twenty-three years (doubly underlined)—to ask Mr. Clennam to lend him the sum of Three Pounds Ten Shillings against his I.O.U., which he included. The letter from the son stated that Mr. Clennam would be pleased to hear that he had finally secured a permanent job that was very satisfactory, with great prospects for success in life. However, his employer was temporarily unable to pay him his overdue salary, which made things difficult for him. This situation, combined with a deceitful friend's actions and the current high cost of living, had brought him to the edge of ruin unless he could raise eight pounds by a quarter before six that evening. Mr. Clennam would be happy to know that he had already raised this amount, thanks to the quick support of several friends who had a strong faith in his integrity, except for a small balance of one pound seventeen and fourpence; borrowing that balance for a month would have the usual positive effects.
These letters Clennam answered with the aid of his pencil and pocket-book, on the spot; sending the father what he asked for, and excusing himself from compliance with the demand of the son. He then commissioned Maggy to return with his replies, and gave her the shilling of which the failure of her supplemental enterprise would have disappointed her otherwise.
Clennam responded to these letters using his pencil and notebook right there; he sent the father what he requested and declined the son's demand. He then asked Maggy to go back with his responses and gave her a shilling, which would have disappointed her if her additional task hadn't worked out.
When he rejoined Little Dorrit, and they had begun walking as before, she said all at once:
When he rejoined Little Dorrit and they started walking like before, she suddenly said:
‘I think I had better go. I had better go home.’
‘I think I should head out. I should go home.’
‘Don’t be distressed,’ said Clennam, ‘I have answered the letters. They were nothing. You know what they were. They were nothing.’
“Don’t worry,” Clennam said, “I’ve replied to the letters. They were nothing. You know what they were. They were nothing.”
‘But I am afraid,’ she returned, ‘to leave him, I am afraid to leave any of them. When I am gone, they pervert—but they don’t mean it—even Maggy.’
‘But I’m scared,’ she replied, ‘to leave him, I’m scared to leave any of them. When I’m gone, they go off track—but they don’t mean to—even Maggy.’
‘It was a very innocent commission that she undertook, poor thing. And in keeping it secret from you, she supposed, no doubt, that she was only saving you uneasiness.’
‘It was a completely innocent task that she took on, poor thing. And by keeping it a secret from you, she probably thought she was just sparing you some worry.’
‘Yes, I hope so, I hope so. But I had better go home! It was but the other day that my sister told me I had become so used to the prison that I had its tone and character. It must be so. I am sure it must be when I see these things. My place is there. I am better there, it is unfeeling in me to be here, when I can do the least thing there. Good-bye. I had far better stay at home!’
‘Yes, I hope so, I hope so. But I should really get back home! Just the other day, my sister mentioned that I’ve become so accustomed to the prison that I’ve adopted its tone and character. It has to be true. I’m certain it is when I see these things. My place is there. I’m better off there; it feels cold of me to be here when I can do even the smallest thing there. Goodbye. I’d be much better off staying at home!’
The agonised way in which she poured this out, as if it burst of itself from her suppressed heart, made it difficult for Clennam to keep the tears from his eyes as he saw and heard her.
The pained way she expressed this, like it was overflowing from her repressed heart, made it hard for Clennam to hold back his tears as he witnessed and listened to her.
‘Don’t call it home, my child!’ he entreated. ‘It is always painful to me to hear you call it home.’
‘Don’t call it home, my child!’ he pleaded. ‘It always hurts me to hear you call it home.’
‘But it is home! What else can I call home? Why should I ever forget it for a single moment?’
‘But it is home! What else can I call home? Why should I ever forget it for even a second?’
‘You never do, dear Little Dorrit, in any good and true service.’
'You never do, dear Little Dorrit, in any good and genuine service.'
‘I hope not, O I hope not! But it is better for me to stay there; much better, much more dutiful, much happier. Please don’t go with me, let me go by myself. Good-bye, God bless you. Thank you, thank you.’
‘I hope not, oh I hope not! But it’s better for me to stay there; way better, way more responsible, way happier. Please don’t come with me, just let me go alone. Goodbye, God bless you. Thank you, thank you.’
He felt that it was better to respect her entreaty, and did not move while her slight form went quickly away from him. When it had fluttered out of sight, he turned his face towards the water and stood thinking.
He thought it was better to honor her request, and he stayed still while her delicate figure quickly left him. Once she had vanished from sight, he turned his face toward the water and stood lost in thought.
She would have been distressed at any time by this discovery of the letters; but so much so, and in that unrestrainable way?
She would have been upset at any time by finding the letters; but this much, and in such an uncontrollable way?
No.
No.
When she had seen her father begging with his threadbare disguise on, when she had entreated him not to give her father money, she had been distressed, but not like this. Something had made her keenly and additionally sensitive just now. Now, was there some one in the hopeless unattainable distance? Or had the suspicion been brought into his mind, by his own associations of the troubled river running beneath the bridge with the same river higher up, its changeless tune upon the prow of the ferry-boat, so many miles an hour the peaceful flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet?
When she saw her father begging in his worn-out disguise, and when she pleaded with him not to give her father money, she felt upset, but not like this. Something had made her intensely and even more sensitive right now. Was there someone in the hopeless, unreachable distance? Or had the thought come to his mind, linking the troubled river flowing beneath the bridge to the same river upstream, its constant tune on the front of the ferry boat, moving at so many miles an hour along the peaceful flow, with rushes here and lilies there, nothing uncertain or restless?
He thought of his poor child, Little Dorrit, for a long time there; he thought of her going home; he thought of her in the night; he thought of her when the day came round again. And the poor child Little Dorrit thought of him—too faithfully, ah, too faithfully!—in the shadow of the Marshalsea wall.
He thought about his poor child, Little Dorrit, for a long time; he thought about her going home, he thought about her at night, and he thought about her when the day came again. And the poor child Little Dorrit thought about him—too faithfully, oh, too faithfully!—in the shadow of the Marshalsea wall.
CHAPTER 23. Machinery in Motion
Mr Meagles bestirred himself with such prompt activity in the matter of the negotiation with Daniel Doyce which Clennam had entrusted to him, that he soon brought it into business train, and called on Clennam at nine o’clock one morning to make his report.
Mr Meagles got to work so quickly on the negotiation with Daniel Doyce that Clennam had handed over to him, that he soon turned it into a business deal and showed up at Clennam's place at nine o'clock one morning to give his report.
‘Doyce is highly gratified by your good opinion,’ he opened the business by saying, ‘and desires nothing so much as that you should examine the affairs of the Works for yourself, and entirely understand them. He has handed me the keys of all his books and papers—here they are jingling in this pocket—and the only charge he has given me is “Let Mr Clennam have the means of putting himself on a perfect equality with me as to knowing whatever I know. If it should come to nothing after all, he will respect my confidence. Unless I was sure of that to begin with, I should have nothing to do with him.” And there, you see,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘you have Daniel Doyce all over.’
“Doyce is really pleased to know you think well of him,” he started off by saying, “and he wants nothing more than for you to look into the operations of the Works yourself and fully understand them. He’s given me the keys to all his books and papers—here they are jingling in my pocket—and the only instruction he gave me is, ‘Let Mr. Clennam have the means to be completely on the same level as me in terms of knowing everything I know. If it turns out to be nothing in the end, he will respect my trust. If I wasn't sure of that from the start, I wouldn’t deal with him at all.’ And there you have it,” said Mr. Meagles, “that’s Daniel Doyce in a nutshell.”
‘A very honourable character.’
'A very honorable character.'
‘Oh, yes, to be sure. Not a doubt of it. Odd, but very honourable. Very odd though. Now, would you believe, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, with a hearty enjoyment of his friend’s eccentricity, ‘that I had a whole morning in What’s-his-name Yard—’
‘Oh, yes, definitely. No doubt about it. Strange, but really respectable. Very strange, though. Now, would you believe it, Clennam,’ said Mr. Meagles, thoroughly enjoying his friend’s quirks, ‘that I spent a whole morning in What’s-his-name Yard—’
‘Bleeding Heart?’
'Bleeding Heart?'
‘A whole morning in Bleeding Heart Yard, before I could induce him to pursue the subject at all?’
‘A whole morning in Bleeding Heart Yard before I could get him to talk about the subject at all?’
‘How was that?’
'How'd that go?'
‘How was that, my friend? I no sooner mentioned your name in connection with it than he declared off.’
‘How was that, my friend? As soon as I brought up your name in relation to it, he backed out.’
‘Declared off on my account?’
"Called off because of me?"
‘I no sooner mentioned your name, Clennam, than he said, “That will never do!” What did he mean by that? I asked him. No matter, Meagles; that would never do. Why would it never do? You’ll hardly believe it, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, laughing within himself, ‘but it came out that it would never do, because you and he, walking down to Twickenham together, had glided into a friendly conversation in the course of which he had referred to his intention of taking a partner, supposing at the time that you were as firmly and finally settled as St Paul’s Cathedral. “Whereas,” says he, “Mr Clennam might now believe, if I entertained his proposition, that I had a sinister and designing motive in what was open free speech. Which I can’t bear,” says he, “which I really am too proud to bear.”’
‘I barely mentioned your name, Clennam, when he said, “That won’t work!” What did he mean by that? I asked him. It doesn’t matter, Meagles; that won’t work. Why wouldn’t it work? You’ll hardly believe it, Clennam,’ Mr. Meagles said, chuckling to himself, ‘but it turned out that it wouldn’t work because you and he, walking down to Twickenham together, had fallen into a friendly conversation where he mentioned his intention of taking on a partner, thinking at the time that you were as settled as St. Paul’s Cathedral. “But,” he said, “Mr. Clennam might now think, if I considered his proposal, that I had some sneaky and scheming motive behind what was meant to be open and honest talk. Which I can’t stand,” he said, “which I really am too proud to put up with.”’
‘I should as soon suspect—’
"I might as well suspect—"
‘Of course you would,’ interrupted Mr Meagles, ‘and so I told him. But it took a morning to scale that wall; and I doubt if any other man than myself (he likes me of old) could have got his leg over it. Well, Clennam. This business-like obstacle surmounted, he then stipulated that before resuming with you I should look over the books and form my own opinion. I looked over the books, and formed my own opinion. “Is it, on the whole, for, or against?” says he. “For,” says I. “Then,” says he, “you may now, my good friend, give Mr Clennam the means of forming his opinion. To enable him to do which, without bias and with perfect freedom, I shall go out of town for a week.” And he’s gone,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘that’s the rich conclusion of the thing.’
“Of course you would,” Mr. Meagles interrupted, “and that’s what I told him. But it took a whole morning to get over that wall; I doubt that anyone else but me (he’s always liked me) could have managed it. Well, Clennam. Once we got past that practical hurdle, he insisted that before he talked to you again, I should review the books and make my own judgment. I reviewed the books and made my judgment. ‘Is it, overall, for or against?’ he asked. ‘For,’ I replied. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘you can now, my good friend, give Mr. Clennam the opportunity to form his opinion. To let him do that without any influence and completely freely, I’ll be leaving town for a week.’ And he’s gone,” said Mr. Meagles; “that’s the complete outcome of the situation.”
‘Leaving me,’ said Clennam, ‘with a high sense, I must say, of his candour and his—’
‘Leaving me,’ said Clennam, ‘with a strong appreciation, I must say, of his honesty and his—’
‘Oddity,’ Mr Meagles struck in. ‘I should think so!’
‘Strange,’ Mr. Meagles interjected. ‘I would think so!’
It was not exactly the word on Clennam’s lips, but he forbore to interrupt his good-humoured friend.
It wasn't exactly the word on Clennam's lips, but he held back from interrupting his good-humored friend.
‘And now,’ added Mr Meagles, ‘you can begin to look into matters as soon as you think proper. I have undertaken to explain where you may want explanation, but to be strictly impartial, and to do nothing more.’
‘And now,’ Mr. Meagles said, ‘you can start looking into things whenever you feel ready. I’ve agreed to clarify anything you might need explained, but I’ll be completely unbiased and won’t do anything beyond that.’
They began their perquisitions in Bleeding Heart Yard that same forenoon. Little peculiarities were easily to be detected by experienced eyes in Mr Doyce’s way of managing his affairs, but they almost always involved some ingenious simplification of a difficulty, and some plain road to the desired end. That his papers were in arrear, and that he stood in need of assistance to develop the capacity of his business, was clear enough; but all the results of his undertakings during many years were distinctly set forth, and were ascertainable with ease. Nothing had been done for the purposes of the pending investigation; everything was in its genuine working dress, and in a certain honest rugged order. The calculations and entries, in his own hand, of which there were many, were bluntly written, and with no very neat precision; but were always plain and directed straight to the purpose. It occurred to Arthur that a far more elaborate and taking show of business—such as the records of the Circumlocution Office made perhaps—might be far less serviceable, as being meant to be far less intelligible.
They started their inquiries in Bleeding Heart Yard that same morning. Experienced eyes could easily spot little quirks in Mr. Doyce’s way of handling his affairs, but they almost always involved a clever simplification of a problem and a clear path to the desired outcome. It was obvious that his paperwork was behind and that he needed help to grow his business, but all the results of his efforts over many years were clearly laid out and easy to verify. Nothing had been done for the ongoing investigation; everything was in its genuine working condition, and in a certain straightforward, rugged order. The calculations and entries, many of which were in his own handwriting, were written bluntly and without much neatness, but were always straightforward and aimed directly at the goal. Arthur thought that a much more elaborate and appealing presentation of the business—like the records from the Circumlocution Office perhaps—might be far less useful, as it was designed to be far less clear.
Three or four days of steady application tendered him master of all the facts it was essential to become acquainted with. Mr Meagles was at hand the whole time, always ready to illuminate any dim place with the bright little safety-lamp belonging to the scales and scoop. Between them they agreed upon the sum it would be fair to offer for the purchase of a half-share in the business, and then Mr Meagles unsealed a paper in which Daniel Doyce had noted the amount at which he valued it; which was even something less. Thus, when Daniel came back, he found the affair as good as concluded.
After three or four days of focused effort, he mastered all the essential facts he needed to know. Mr. Meagles was there the entire time, always ready to shed light on any unclear areas with the handy little safety lamp he used for the scales and scoop. Together, they agreed on a fair amount to offer for buying a half-share in the business, and then Mr. Meagles opened a paper where Daniel Doyce had recorded his valuation, which turned out to be even less. So, when Daniel returned, he found the deal nearly finalized.
‘And I may now avow, Mr Clennam,’ said he, with a cordial shake of the hand, ‘that if I had looked high and low for a partner, I believe I could not have found one more to my mind.’
‘And I can now say, Mr. Clennam,’ he said, shaking his hand warmly, ‘that if I had searched everywhere for a partner, I don’t think I could have found one better suited to my tastes.’
‘I say the same,’ said Clennam.
"I feel the same way," Clennam said.
‘And I say of both of you,’ added Mr Meagles, ‘that you are well matched. You keep him in check, Clennam, with your common sense, and you stick to the Works, Dan, with your—’
‘And I say of both of you,’ added Mr. Meagles, ‘that you are a good match. You keep him grounded, Clennam, with your common sense, and you stay focused on the tasks, Dan, with your—’
‘Uncommon sense?’ suggested Daniel, with his quiet smile.
‘Uncommon sense?’ Daniel suggested with a calm smile.
‘You may call it so, if you like—and each of you will be a right hand to the other. Here’s my own right hand upon it, as a practical man, to both of you.’
‘You can say that if you want—and each of you will support the other. Here’s my own hand on it, as someone who’s practical, to both of you.’
The purchase was completed within a month. It left Arthur in possession of private personal means not exceeding a few hundred pounds; but it opened to him an active and promising career. The three friends dined together on the auspicious occasion; the factory and the factory wives and children made holiday and dined too; even Bleeding Heart Yard dined and was full of meat. Two months had barely gone by in all, when Bleeding Heart Yard had become so familiar with short-commons again, that the treat was forgotten there; when nothing seemed new in the partnership but the paint of the inscription on the door-posts, DOYCE AND CLENNAM; when it appeared even to Clennam himself, that he had had the affairs of the firm in his mind for years.
The purchase was completed within a month. It left Arthur with a few hundred pounds to his name, but it also opened up an exciting and promising career for him. The three friends celebrated together on this lucky occasion; the factory and its workers, as well as their families, also had a festive meal; even Bleeding Heart Yard had a feast and was filled with food. Just two months later, Bleeding Heart Yard had become so accustomed to scarce resources again that the celebration was forgotten; when the only new thing about the partnership was the fresh paint on the doorposts saying DOYCE AND CLENNAM; when it even seemed to Clennam himself that he had been thinking about the company's affairs for years.
The little counting-house reserved for his own occupation, was a room of wood and glass at the end of a long low workshop, filled with benches, and vices, and tools, and straps, and wheels; which, when they were in gear with the steam-engine, went tearing round as though they had a suicidal mission to grind the business to dust and tear the factory to pieces. A communication of great trap-doors in the floor and roof with the workshop above and the workshop below, made a shaft of light in this perspective, which brought to Clennam’s mind the child’s old picture-book, where similar rays were the witnesses of Abel’s murder. The noises were sufficiently removed and shut out from the counting-house to blend into a busy hum, interspersed with periodical clinks and thumps. The patient figures at work were swarthy with the filings of iron and steel that danced on every bench and bubbled up through every chink in the planking. The workshop was arrived at by a step-ladder from the outer yard below, where it served as a shelter for the large grindstone where tools were sharpened. The whole had at once a fanciful and practical air in Clennam’s eyes, which was a welcome change; and, as often as he raised them from his first work of getting the array of business documents into perfect order, he glanced at these things with a feeling of pleasure in his pursuit that was new to him.
The small counting-room he used was a space of wood and glass at the end of a long, low workshop, filled with benches, vices, tools, straps, and wheels; when they were connected to the steam engine, they spun around like they were on a mission to grind the business to dust and tear the factory apart. A series of large trapdoors in the floor and ceiling connected it to the workshop above and below, creating shafts of light that reminded Clennam of a child's old picture book, where similar rays witnessed Abel's murder. The sounds from the workshop were muffled enough to blend into a busy hum, interrupted by occasional clinks and thumps. The workers were coated in iron and steel filings that danced on every bench and bubbled up through every crack in the floorboards. You accessed the workshop via a ladder from the outdoor yard below, which also housed a large grindstone for sharpening tools. To Clennam, the whole place had a fanciful yet practical feel, which was a refreshing change; and whenever he looked up from his task of organizing the business documents, he enjoyed looking at these things with a sense of satisfaction that was new to him.
Raising his eyes thus one day, he was surprised to see a bonnet labouring up the step-ladder. The unusual apparition was followed by another bonnet. He then perceived that the first bonnet was on the head of Mr F.‘s Aunt, and that the second bonnet was on the head of Flora, who seemed to have propelled her legacy up the steep ascent with considerable difficulty.
Raising his eyes one day, he was surprised to see a bonnet struggling up the step ladder. The unusual sight was followed by another bonnet. He then realized that the first bonnet was on Mr. F.'s Aunt, and that the second bonnet was on Flora, who appeared to have pushed her heirloom up the steep climb with a lot of effort.
Original
Though not altogether enraptured at the sight of these visitors, Clennam lost no time in opening the counting-house door, and extricating them from the workshop; a rescue which was rendered the more necessary by Mr F.‘s Aunt already stumbling over some impediment, and menacing steam power as an Institution with a stony reticule she carried.
Though not completely thrilled by the presence of these visitors, Clennam quickly opened the counting-house door and guided them out of the workshop. This rescue was made even more urgent by Mr. F.'s Aunt already tripping over some obstacle and threatening steam power as an Institution with a hard purse she was carrying.
‘Good gracious, Arthur,—I should say Mr Clennam, far more proper—the climb we have had to get up here and how ever to get down again without a fire-escape and Mr F.‘s Aunt slipping through the steps and bruised all over and you in the machinery and foundry way too only think, and never told us!’
‘Good gracious, Arthur—I mean Mr. Clennam, which is much more appropriate—the climb we had to make to get up here and figuring out how to get down again without a fire escape, and Mr. F.'s Aunt slipping through the steps and getting all bruised, and you in the machinery and foundry, just think about it, and you never told us!’
Thus, Flora, out of breath. Meanwhile, Mr F.‘s Aunt rubbed her esteemed insteps with her umbrella, and vindictively glared.
Thus, Flora was out of breath. Meanwhile, Mr. F.'s Aunt rubbed her sore insteps with her umbrella and gave a resentful glare.
‘Most unkind never to have come back to see us since that day, though naturally it was not to be expected that there should be any attraction at our house and you were much more pleasantly engaged, that’s pretty certain, and is she fair or dark blue eyes or black I wonder, not that I expect that she should be anything but a perfect contrast to me in all particulars for I am a disappointment as I very well know and you are quite right to be devoted no doubt though what I am saying Arthur never mind I hardly know myself Good gracious!’
‘It’s really unkind of you not to have come back to see us since that day, though I can’t really blame you because I didn’t expect you to be drawn to our house. You’ve definitely found more enjoyable company, that’s for sure. Is she fair or does she have dark blue or black eyes, I wonder? Not that I expect her to be anything but a total contrast to me in every way since I know I’m a disappointment. You’re absolutely right to be devoted to her, no doubt about it, but honestly, what I’m saying, Arthur, never mind. I hardly know myself. Good grief!’
By this time he had placed chairs for them in the counting-house. As Flora dropped into hers, she bestowed the old look upon him.
By this time, he had set up chairs for them in the counting room. As Flora settled into hers, she gave him that familiar look.
‘And to think of Doyce and Clennam, and who Doyce can be,’ said Flora; ‘delightful man no doubt and married perhaps or perhaps a daughter, now has he really? then one understands the partnership and sees it all, don’t tell me anything about it for I know I have no claim to ask the question the golden chain that once was forged being snapped and very proper.’
‘And to think about Doyce and Clennam, and who Doyce might be,’ said Flora; ‘a wonderful man for sure, and maybe he's married or has a daughter. Does he really? Then it all makes sense regarding the partnership, and I can see it clearly. Don’t tell me anything more because I know I have no right to ask; the golden bond that was once created is broken, and that's completely understandable.’
Flora put her hand tenderly on his, and gave him another of the youthful glances.
Flora gently placed her hand on his and gave him another one of her youthful looks.
‘Dear Arthur—force of habit, Mr Clennam every way more delicate and adapted to existing circumstances—I must beg to be excused for taking the liberty of this intrusion but I thought I might so far presume upon old times for ever faded never more to bloom as to call with Mr F.‘s Aunt to congratulate and offer best wishes, A great deal superior to China not to be denied and much nearer though higher up!’
‘Dear Arthur—out of habit, Mr. Clennam is much more delicate and suited to the situation—I must apologize for taking the liberty of intruding, but I thought I could, just this once, draw on the memories of old times that can never return, to reach out with Mr. F.’s Aunt to congratulate you and offer my best wishes. It’s so much better than China, that can’t be denied, and much closer, although at a higher elevation!’
‘I am very happy to see you,’ said Clennam, ‘and I thank you, Flora, very much for your kind remembrance.’
“I’m really glad to see you,” said Clennam, “and I appreciate it, Flora, so much for thinking of me.”
‘More than I can say myself at any rate,’ returned Flora, ‘for I might have been dead and buried twenty distinct times over and no doubt whatever should have been before you had genuinely remembered Me or anything like it in spite of which one last remark I wish to make, one last explanation I wish to offer—’
‘More than I can say for myself, anyway,’ Flora replied. ‘I could have been dead and buried twenty times over, and there’s no doubt you still wouldn’t have truly remembered me or anything like that. Still, there’s one last thing I want to say, one last explanation I want to give—’
‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ Arthur remonstrated in alarm.
‘My dear Mrs. Finching,’ Arthur said in alarm.
‘Oh not that disagreeable name, say Flora!’
‘Oh, not that unpleasant name, just call me Flora!’
‘Flora, is it worth troubling yourself afresh to enter into explanations? I assure you none are needed. I am satisfied—I am perfectly satisfied.’
‘Flora, is it really worth it to put yourself through explaining things again? I promise you, none are necessary. I’m good—I’m totally good.’
A diversion was occasioned here, by Mr F.‘s Aunt making the following inexorable and awful statement:
A distraction happened here when Mr. F.'s Aunt made the following relentless and terrible statement:
‘There’s mile-stones on the Dover road!’
‘There are mile markers on the Dover road!’
With such mortal hostility towards the human race did she discharge this missile, that Clennam was quite at a loss how to defend himself; the rather as he had been already perplexed in his mind by the honour of a visit from this venerable lady, when it was plain she held him in the utmost abhorrence. He could not but look at her with disconcertment, as she sat breathing bitterness and scorn, and staring leagues away. Flora, however, received the remark as if it had been of a most apposite and agreeable nature; approvingly observing aloud that Mr F.‘s Aunt had a great deal of spirit. Stimulated either by this compliment, or by her burning indignation, that illustrious woman then added, ‘Let him meet it if he can!’ And, with a rigid movement of her stony reticule (an appendage of great size and of a fossil appearance), indicated that Clennam was the unfortunate person at whom the challenge was hurled.
With such intense hostility towards humanity did she launch this attack that Clennam was completely at a loss on how to defend himself; especially since he was already confused by the honor of receiving a visit from this respected lady, while it was clear she held him in deep disdain. He couldn’t help but look at her with discomfort as she sat exuding bitterness and scorn, staring off into the distance. Flora, however, took the comment as if it were the most relevant and pleasant thing said; she remarked aloud that Mr. F.'s Aunt had a lot of spirit. Encouraged either by this compliment or her fierce indignation, that notable woman then added, “Let him face it if he can!” And, with a stiff movement of her large, fossil-like handbag, she indicated that Clennam was the unfortunate target of the challenge.
‘One last remark,’ resumed Flora, ‘I was going to say I wish to make one last explanation I wish to offer, Mr F.‘s Aunt and myself would not have intruded on business hours Mr F. having been in business and though the wine trade still business is equally business call it what you will and business habits are just the same as witness Mr F. himself who had his slippers always on the mat at ten minutes before six in the afternoon and his boots inside the fender at ten minutes before eight in the morning to the moment in all weathers light or dark—would not therefore have intruded without a motive which being kindly meant it may be hoped will be kindly taken Arthur, Mr Clennam far more proper, even Doyce and Clennam probably more business-like.’
"One last thing," Flora continued, "I want to clarify something. My aunt and I wouldn't have interrupted during business hours. Mr. F. has always been dedicated to his work, and even though the wine trade is still a business, it’s just as serious—call it what you want. His business habits are the same; just look at Mr. F. himself, who always had his slippers ready by the mat at ten minutes to six in the afternoon and his boots by the fireplace at ten minutes to eight in the morning, without fail, rain or shine. So, we wouldn't have intruded without a reason, which we meant kindly, and we hope it will be received in the same spirit. Arthur, Mr. Clennam is much more formal, and Doyce and Clennam are probably more businesslike."
‘Pray say nothing in the way of apology,’ Arthur entreated. ‘You are always welcome.’
“Please don’t apologize,” Arthur urged. “You’re always welcome.”
‘Very polite of you to say so Arthur—cannot remember Mr Clennam until the word is out, such is the habit of times for ever fled, and so true it is that oft in the stilly night ere slumber’s chain has bound people, fond memory brings the light of other days around people—very polite but more polite than true I am afraid, for to go into the machinery business without so much as sending a line or a card to papa—I don’t say me though there was a time but that is past and stern reality has now my gracious never mind—does not look like it you must confess.’
"Very nice of you to say that, Arthur—I can’t remember Mr. Clennam until the name comes up, thanks to the way things used to be, and it’s true that often in the quiet of the night before sleep takes over, fond memories bring the light of the past back to us—it’s very nice, but I’m afraid it’s nicer than true, because jumping into the machinery business without even sending a note or a card to Dad—I’m not saying it’s about me, although there was a time, but that’s behind me now and harsh reality has taken over, oh well—let’s be honest, it doesn’t look good, you must admit."
Even Flora’s commas seemed to have fled on this occasion; she was so much more disjointed and voluble than in the preceding interview.
Even Flora’s commas seemed to have vanished this time; she was far more scattered and talkative than in the previous meeting.
‘Though indeed,’ she hurried on, ‘nothing else is to be expected and why should it be expected and if it’s not to be expected why should it be, and I am far from blaming you or any one, When your mama and my papa worried us to death and severed the golden bowl—I mean bond but I dare say you know what I mean and if you don’t you don’t lose much and care just as little I will venture to add—when they severed the golden bond that bound us and threw us into fits of crying on the sofa nearly choked at least myself everything was changed and in giving my hand to Mr F. I know I did so with my eyes open but he was so very unsettled and in such low spirits that he had distractedly alluded to the river if not oil of something from the chemist’s and I did it for the best.’
"Well, honestly," she rushed on, "it's not really a surprise, and why should it be a surprise? And if it’s not a surprise, why should it be? I'm not blaming you or anyone else. When your mom and my dad stressed us out and messed up the golden bond—I mean, bond—but you probably get what I mean, and if you don’t, it’s not a big deal, and I doubt you care that much either—I mean, when they cut the golden bond that connected us and left us crying on the couch, I was practically choking; at least, I was. Everything changed, and when I agreed to marry Mr. F., I know I did it with my eyes wide open, but he was so unsettled and down that he mentioned the river or maybe some oil from the pharmacy in passing, and I did it with the best intentions."
‘My good Flora, we settled that before. It was all quite right.’
‘My dear Flora, we agreed on that earlier. It was all perfectly fine.’
‘It’s perfectly clear you think so,’ returned Flora, ‘for you take it very coolly, if I hadn’t known it to be China I should have guessed myself the Polar regions, dear Mr Clennam you are right however and I cannot blame you but as to Doyce and Clennam papa’s property being about here we heard it from Pancks and but for him we never should have heard one word about it I am satisfied.’
“It’s pretty obvious you think that,” Flora replied, “because you seem really relaxed about it. If I hadn’t known it was China, I would have guessed it was the Polar regions. Dear Mr. Clennam, you’re right though, and I can’t blame you. But as for Doyce and Clennam’s property being around here, we heard it from Pancks, and if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t have heard a thing about it. I’m sure of that.”
‘No, no, don’t say that.’
"Don't say that."
‘What nonsense not to say it Arthur—Doyce and Clennam—easier and less trying to me than Mr Clennam—when I know it and you know it too and can’t deny it.’
‘What nonsense not to say it, Arthur—Doyce and Clennam—easier and less stressful for me than Mr. Clennam—when I know it and you know it too and can’t deny it.’
‘But I do deny it, Flora. I should soon have made you a friendly visit.’
‘But I really don't think that's true, Flora. I would have come to visit you soon.’
‘Ah!’ said Flora, tossing her head. ‘I dare say!’ and she gave him another of the old looks. ‘However when Pancks told us I made up my mind that Mr F.‘s Aunt and I would come and call because when papa—which was before that—happened to mention her name to me and to say that you were interested in her I said at the moment Good gracious why not have her here then when there’s anything to do instead of putting it out.’
‘Ah!’ said Flora, tossing her head. ‘I can’t believe it!’ and she gave him another one of those looks. ‘Anyway, when Pancks told us, I decided that Mr. F's Aunt and I would come by because when Dad—which was before that—happened to mention her name to me and said that you were interested in her, I thought at the time, "Goodness, why not have her here when there’s something going on instead of putting it off?"’
‘When you say Her,’ observed Clennam, by this time pretty well bewildered, ‘do you mean Mr F.‘s—’
‘When you say Her,’ Clennam remarked, now feeling quite confused, ‘do you mean Mr. F.'s—’
‘My goodness, Arthur—Doyce and Clennam really easier to me with old remembrances—who ever heard of Mr F.‘s Aunt doing needlework and going out by the day?’
‘My goodness, Arthur—Doyce and Clennam really remind me of the past—who ever heard of Mr. F.’s Aunt doing needlework and going out during the day?’
‘Going out by the day! Do you speak of Little Dorrit?’
‘Going out during the day! Are you talking about Little Dorrit?’
‘Why yes of course,’ returned Flora; ‘and of all the strangest names I ever heard the strangest, like a place down in the country with a turnpike, or a favourite pony or a puppy or a bird or something from a seed-shop to be put in a garden or a flower-pot and come up speckled.’
“Of course,” Flora replied. “Out of all the strangest names I’ve ever heard, it’s the weirdest, like a place in the countryside with a toll road, or a beloved pony or a puppy or a bird, or something from a seed shop that you’d plant in a garden or a flower pot and it would grow with spots.”
‘Then, Flora,’ said Arthur, with a sudden interest in the conversation, ‘Mr Casby was so kind as to mention Little Dorrit to you, was he? What did he say?’
‘Then, Flora,’ Arthur said, suddenly interested in the conversation, ‘Mr. Casby was nice enough to mention Little Dorrit to you, right? What did he say?’
‘Oh you know what papa is,’ rejoined Flora, ‘and how aggravatingly he sits looking beautiful and turning his thumbs over and over one another till he makes one giddy if one keeps one’s eyes upon him, he said when we were talking of you—I don’t know who began the subject Arthur (Doyce and Clennam) but I am sure it wasn’t me, at least I hope not but you really must excuse my confessing more on that point.’
‘Oh, you know what Dad is like,’ Flora replied, ‘and how annoyingly he just sits there looking handsome and twisting his thumbs over and over until it makes you dizzy if you keep looking at him. He was talking about you when we were having our conversation—I don’t remember who brought it up, Arthur (Doyce and Clennam), but I’m sure it wasn’t me, or at least I hope not. But you really have to forgive me for admitting more about that.’
‘Certainly,’ said Arthur. ‘By all means.’
‘Sure,’ said Arthur. ‘Go right ahead.’
‘You are very ready,’ pouted Flora, coming to a sudden stop in a captivating bashfulness, ‘that I must admit, Papa said you had spoken of her in an earnest way and I said what I have told you and that’s all.’
‘You are quite prepared,’ pouted Flora, coming to a sudden stop in an enchanting shyness, ‘that I must admit, Dad said you had mentioned her seriously and I said what I’ve told you and that’s it.’
‘That’s all?’ said Arthur, a little disappointed.
"Is that it?" Arthur asked, feeling a bit let down.
‘Except that when Pancks told us of your having embarked in this business and with difficulty persuaded us that it was really you I said to Mr F.‘s Aunt then we would come and ask you if it would be agreeable to all parties that she should be engaged at our house when required for I know she often goes to your mama’s and I know that your mama has a very touchy temper Arthur—Doyce and Clennam—or I never might have married Mr F. and might have been at this hour but I am running into nonsense.’
“Except when Pancks informed us about you getting involved in this, and with some difficulty convinced us that it was truly you, I told Mr. F.'s Aunt that we would come and ask if it would be agreeable for all parties for her to be hired at our house when needed. I know she often visits your mom’s, and I’m aware that your mom can be quite temperamental, Arthur—Doyce and Clennam—or I might never have married Mr. F. and might be somewhere else right now, but I’m getting off track.”
‘It was very kind of you, Flora, to think of this.’
'That was really nice of you, Flora, to think of this.'
Poor Flora rejoined with a plain sincerity which became her better than her youngest glances, that she was glad he thought so. She said it with so much heart that Clennam would have given a great deal to buy his old character of her on the spot, and throw it and the mermaid away for ever.
Poor Flora responded with a genuine sincerity that suited her better than her youthful looks, expressing that she was happy he felt that way. She said it with such feeling that Clennam would have given a lot to reclaim his old image in her eyes right then and there, and to discard both it and the mermaid forever.
‘I think, Flora,’ he said, ‘that the employment you can give Little Dorrit, and the kindness you can show her—’
‘I think, Flora,’ he said, ‘that the work you can offer Little Dorrit, and the kindness you can show her—’
‘Yes and I will,’ said Flora, quickly.
‘Yes, and I will,’ said Flora, quickly.
‘I am sure of it—will be a great assistance and support to her. I do not feel that I have the right to tell you what I know of her, for I acquired the knowledge confidentially, and under circumstances that bind me to silence. But I have an interest in the little creature, and a respect for her that I cannot express to you. Her life has been one of such trial and devotion, and such quiet goodness, as you can scarcely imagine. I can hardly think of her, far less speak of her, without feeling moved. Let that feeling represent what I could tell you, and commit her to your friendliness with my thanks.’
'I’m sure of it—she will be a great help and support to her. I don’t feel I have the right to tell you what I know about her, as I learned this information in confidence and under circumstances that require me to remain silent. But I care about the little one, and I have a respect for her that I can’t fully express to you. Her life has been full of trials and devotion, and such quiet goodness, that you can hardly imagine. I can barely think about her, let alone speak about her, without feeling emotional. Let that feeling stand in for what I could tell you, and please treat her kindly, with my thanks.’
Once more he put out his hand frankly to poor Flora; once more poor Flora couldn’t accept it frankly, found it worth nothing openly, must make the old intrigue and mystery of it. As much to her own enjoyment as to his dismay, she covered it with a corner of her shawl as she took it. Then, looking towards the glass front of the counting-house, and seeing two figures approaching, she cried with infinite relish, ‘Papa! Hush, Arthur, for Mercy’s sake!’ and tottered back to her chair with an amazing imitation of being in danger of swooning, in the dread surprise and maidenly flutter of her spirits.
Once again, he reached out his hand openly to poor Flora; once again, poor Flora couldn’t accept it openly, found it worthless in plain sight, and had to create the same old intrigue and mystery. For her own amusement as much as his dismay, she covered it with a corner of her shawl as she took it. Then, glancing toward the glass front of the counting house and seeing two figures approaching, she exclaimed with great delight, “Dad! Hush, Arthur, for mercy's sake!” and staggered back to her chair, dramatically pretending to be on the verge of fainting in a mix of surprise and nervous excitement.
The Patriarch, meanwhile, came inanely beaming towards the counting-house in the wake of Pancks. Pancks opened the door for him, towed him in, and retired to his own moorings in a corner.
The Patriarch, meanwhile, walked in with a silly smile towards the counting-house behind Pancks. Pancks opened the door for him, brought him inside, and went back to his spot in the corner.
‘I heard from Flora,’ said the Patriarch with his benevolent smile, ‘that she was coming to call, coming to call. And being out, I thought I’d come also, thought I’d come also.’
‘I heard from Flora,’ said the Patriarch with his friendly smile, ‘that she was coming over, coming over. And since I was out, I thought I’d drop by too, thought I’d drop by too.’
The benign wisdom he infused into this declaration (not of itself profound), by means of his blue eyes, his shining head, and his long white hair, was most impressive. It seemed worth putting down among the noblest sentiments enunciated by the best of men. Also, when he said to Clennam, seating himself in the proffered chair, ‘And you are in a new business, Mr Clennam? I wish you well, sir, I wish you well!’ he seemed to have done benevolent wonders.
The kind wisdom he brought to this statement (which wasn't profound on its own) through his blue eyes, shiny head, and long white hair was really striking. It felt like something that should be recorded among the finest thoughts expressed by the greatest individuals. Also, when he said to Clennam, settling into the offered chair, ‘So you’re starting a new business, Mr. Clennam? I wish you the best, sir, I wish you the best!’ he seemed to have done something truly generous.
‘Mrs Finching has been telling me, sir,’ said Arthur, after making his acknowledgments; the relict of the late Mr F. meanwhile protesting, with a gesture, against his use of that respectable name; ‘that she hopes occasionally to employ the young needlewoman you recommended to my mother. For which I have been thanking her.’
‘Mrs. Finching has been telling me, sir,’ said Arthur, after expressing his gratitude; the widow of the late Mr. F. meanwhile protesting, with a gesture, against his use of that respectable name; ‘that she hopes to occasionally hire the young seamstress you recommended to my mother. For which I have been thanking her.’
The Patriarch turning his head in a lumbering way towards Pancks, that assistant put up the note-book in which he had been absorbed, and took him in tow.
The Patriarch slowly turned his head toward Pancks, who tucked away the notebook he had been focused on and followed him.
‘You didn’t recommend her, you know,’ said Pancks; ‘how could you? You knew nothing about her, you didn’t. The name was mentioned to you, and you passed it on. That’s what you did.’
‘You didn’t recommend her, you know,’ said Pancks; ‘how could you? You knew nothing about her, you really didn’t. Someone mentioned her name to you, and you just passed it on. That’s what you did.’
‘Well!’ said Clennam. ‘As she justifies any recommendation, it is much the same thing.’
‘Well!’ said Clennam. ‘Since she backs up any recommendation, it’s basically the same thing.’
‘You are glad she turns out well,’ said Pancks, ‘but it wouldn’t have been your fault if she had turned out ill. The credit’s not yours as it is, and the blame wouldn’t have been yours as it might have been. You gave no guarantee. You knew nothing about her.’
‘You’re glad she turned out okay,’ said Pancks, ‘but it wouldn’t have been your fault if she had turned out badly. You don’t get the credit now, and you wouldn’t have deserved the blame if things had gone wrong. You didn’t make any promises. You didn’t know anything about her.’
‘You are not acquainted, then,’ said Arthur, hazarding a random question, ‘with any of her family?’
‘So, you don’t know her family at all?’ Arthur asked, taking a guess.
‘Acquainted with any of her family?’ returned Pancks. ‘How should you be acquainted with any of her family? You never heard of ‘em. You can’t be acquainted with people you never heard of, can you? You should think not!’
“Do you know any of her family?” Pancks replied. “How could you know any of her family? You’ve never even heard of them. You can’t know people you’ve never heard of, right? You’d think so!”
All this time the Patriarch sat serenely smiling; nodding or shaking his head benevolently, as the case required.
All this time, the Patriarch sat calmly smiling, either nodding or shaking his head kindly, depending on the situation.
‘As to being a reference,’ said Pancks, ‘you know, in a general way, what being a reference means. It’s all your eye, that is! Look at your tenants down the Yard here. They’d all be references for one another, if you’d let ‘em. What would be the good of letting ‘em? It’s no satisfaction to be done by two men instead of one. One’s enough. A person who can’t pay, gets another person who can’t pay, to guarantee that he can pay. Like a person with two wooden legs getting another person with two wooden legs, to guarantee that he has got two natural legs. It don’t make either of them able to do a walking match. And four wooden legs are more troublesome to you than two, when you don’t want any.’ Mr Pancks concluded by blowing off that steam of his.
“As for being a reference,” Pancks said, “you know what that generally means. It’s all nonsense, really! Look at your tenants down the Yard here. They’d all be references for each other if you allowed it. But what would be the point? It doesn’t help to be backed by two people instead of one. One is enough. A person who can’t pay just gets another person who can’t pay to vouch for them. It’s like someone with two wooden legs asking another person with two wooden legs to prove that they have two real legs. It doesn’t make either of them any more able to walk. And four wooden legs are just more hassle for you than two when you don’t need any.” Mr. Pancks finished by letting off some steam.
A momentary silence that ensued was broken by Mr F.‘s Aunt, who had been sitting upright in a cataleptic state since her last public remark. She now underwent a violent twitch, calculated to produce a startling effect on the nerves of the uninitiated, and with the deadliest animosity observed:
A brief silence that followed was interrupted by Mr. F.'s Aunt, who had been sitting bolt upright in a trance since her last public comment. She then had a violent twitch, designed to shock those who weren't expecting it, and with the most intense hostility, she observed:
‘You can’t make a head and brains out of a brass knob with nothing in it. You couldn’t do it when your Uncle George was living; much less when he’s dead.’
‘You can’t turn a brass knob filled with nothing into a head and brains. You couldn’t do it when your Uncle George was alive; definitely not now that he’s gone.’
Mr Pancks was not slow to reply, with his usual calmness, ‘Indeed, ma’am! Bless my soul! I’m surprised to hear it.’ Despite his presence of mind, however, the speech of Mr F.‘s Aunt produced a depressing effect on the little assembly; firstly, because it was impossible to disguise that Clennam’s unoffending head was the particular temple of reason depreciated; and secondly, because nobody ever knew on these occasions whose Uncle George was referred to, or what spectral presence might be invoked under that appellation.
Mr. Pancks quickly responded, staying calm as usual, “Well, ma’am! Wow, I’m surprised to hear that.” Even with his composure, though, Mr. F.'s Aunt’s words brought down the mood of the small group; first, because it was clear that Clennam’s innocent head was the very target of her criticism, and second, because no one ever really knew whose Uncle George she was talking about, or what ghostly figure she might be alluding to with that name.
Therefore Flora said, though still not without a certain boastfulness and triumph in her legacy, that Mr F.‘s Aunt was ‘very lively to-day, and she thought they had better go.’ But Mr F.‘s Aunt proved so lively as to take the suggestion in unexpected dudgeon and declare that she would not go; adding, with several injurious expressions, that if ‘He’—too evidently meaning Clennam—wanted to get rid of her, ‘let him chuck her out of winder;’ and urgently expressing her desire to see ‘Him’ perform that ceremony.
So, Flora said, still with a bit of pride and satisfaction in her legacy, that Mr. F.’s Aunt was “very lively today, and she thought they should leave.” But Mr. F.’s Aunt was so lively that she took the suggestion in a surprising way and declared she wouldn’t go; adding, with several hurtful comments, that if “He”—clearly referring to Clennam—wanted to get rid of her, “he could just throw her out the window;” and strongly insisting that she wanted to see “Him” do that.
In this dilemma, Mr Pancks, whose resources appeared equal to any emergency in the Patriarchal waters, slipped on his hat, slipped out at the counting-house door, and slipped in again a moment afterwards with an artificial freshness upon him, as if he had been in the country for some weeks. ‘Why, bless my heart, ma’am!’ said Mr Pancks, rubbing up his hair in great astonishment, ‘is that you? How do you do, ma’am? You are looking charming to-day! I am delighted to see you. Favour me with your arm, ma’am; we’ll have a little walk together, you and me, if you’ll honour me with your company.’ And so escorted Mr F.‘s Aunt down the private staircase of the counting-house with great gallantry and success. The patriarchal Mr Casby then rose with the air of having done it himself, and blandly followed: leaving his daughter, as she followed in her turn, to remark to her former lover in a distracted whisper (which she very much enjoyed), that they had drained the cup of life to the dregs; and further to hint mysteriously that the late Mr F. was at the bottom of it.
In this situation, Mr. Pancks, whose skills seemed more than enough for any challenge in the bustling environment, put on his hat, stepped out of the counting-house, and quickly returned moments later, appearing fresh as if he had been away in the countryside for weeks. "Well, I'll be! Is that you, ma'am?" exclaimed Mr. Pancks, fluffing his hair in surprise. "How are you doing, ma'am? You look lovely today! I’m so glad to see you. Please take my arm, ma'am; let's take a little stroll together, just the two of us, if you'll accompany me." And so, he gallantly led Mr. F.'s Aunt down the private staircase of the counting-house with great charm and success. The older Mr. Casby then stood up with the confidence of someone who had orchestrated it all and smiled as he followed, leaving his daughter, as she trailed behind, to whisper distractedly to her former lover (which she thoroughly enjoyed) that they had exhausted all the joys of life; and to further suggest enigmatically that the late Mr. F. was at the heart of it all.
Alone again, Clennam became a prey to his old doubts in reference to his mother and Little Dorrit, and revolved the old thoughts and suspicions. They were all in his mind, blending themselves with the duties he was mechanically discharging, when a shadow on his papers caused him to look up for the cause. The cause was Mr Pancks. With his hat thrown back upon his ears as if his wiry prongs of hair had darted up like springs and cast it off, with his jet-black beads of eyes inquisitively sharp, with the fingers of his right hand in his mouth that he might bite the nails, and with the fingers of his left hand in reserve in his pocket for another course, Mr Pancks cast his shadow through the glass upon the books and papers.
Alone again, Clennam was once more plagued by his old doubts about his mother and Little Dorrit, running through the familiar thoughts and suspicions. They filled his mind, mixing with the tasks he was doing on autopilot, when a shadow on his papers made him look up. The cause was Mr. Pancks. With his hat pushed back on his head as if his wiry hair had sprung up and tossed it off, with his sharp, jet-black eyes looking inquisitively, with the fingers of his right hand in his mouth to bite his nails, and with the fingers of his left hand ready in his pocket for another action, Mr. Pancks cast his shadow over the books and papers.
Mr Pancks asked, with a little inquiring twist of his head, if he might come in again? Clennam replied with a nod of his head in the affirmative. Mr Pancks worked his way in, came alongside the desk, made himself fast by leaning his arms upon it, and started conversation with a puff and a snort.
Mr. Pancks asked, with a slight tilt of his head, if he could come in again. Clennam nodded in agreement. Mr. Pancks made his way inside, positioned himself next to the desk, leaned his arms on it, and kicked off the conversation with a puff and a snort.
‘Mr F.‘s Aunt is appeased, I hope?’ said Clennam.
"Is Mr. F.'s aunt feeling better, I hope?" said Clennam.
‘All right, sir,’ said Pancks.
"Okay, sir," said Pancks.
‘I am so unfortunate as to have awakened a strong animosity in the breast of that lady,’ said Clennam. ‘Do you know why?’
‘I’m really unfortunate to have stirred up a strong dislike in that lady,’ said Clennam. ‘Do you know why?’
‘Does she know why?’ said Pancks.
“Does she know why?” said Pancks.
‘I suppose not.’
"I guess not."
‘I suppose not,’ said Pancks.
"I guess not," said Pancks.
He took out his note-book, opened it, shut it, dropped it into his hat, which was beside him on the desk, and looked in at it as it lay at the bottom of the hat: all with a great appearance of consideration.
He pulled out his notebook, opened it, closed it, dropped it into his hat, which was next to him on the desk, and peeked at it as it sat at the bottom of the hat, all with a significant show of thoughtfulness.
‘Mr Clennam,’ he then began, ‘I am in want of information, sir.’
‘Mr. Clennam,’ he then started, ‘I need some information, sir.’
‘Connected with this firm?’ asked Clennam.
‘Are you associated with this firm?’ asked Clennam.
‘No,’ said Pancks.
‘No,’ Pancks said.
‘With what then, Mr Pancks? That is to say, assuming that you want it of me.’
‘With what then, Mr. Pancks? That is to say, assuming that you need it from me.’
‘Yes, sir; yes, I want it of you,’ said Pancks, ‘if I can persuade you to furnish it. A, B, C, D. DA, DE, DI, DO. Dictionary order. Dorrit. That’s the name, sir?’
'Yes, sir; yes, I need it from you,' said Pancks, 'if I can convince you to provide it. A, B, C, D. DA, DE, DI, DO. Dictionary order. Dorrit. That's the name, sir?'
Mr Pancks blew off his peculiar noise again, and fell to at his right-hand nails. Arthur looked searchingly at him; he returned the look.
Mr. Pancks made his strange noise again and started working on his nails with his right hand. Arthur looked at him intently; he met Arthur's gaze.
‘I don’t understand you, Mr Pancks.’
‘I don’t get you, Mr. Pancks.’
‘That’s the name that I want to know about.’
‘That’s the name I want to learn about.’
‘And what do you want to know?’
‘So, what do you want to know?’
‘Whatever you can and will tell me.’ This comprehensive summary of his desires was not discharged without some heavy labouring on the part of Mr Pancks’s machinery.
‘Whatever you can and will tell me.’ This thorough summary of his desires didn't come out without some hard work from Mr. Pancks’s machinery.
‘This is a singular visit, Mr Pancks. It strikes me as rather extraordinary that you should come, with such an object, to me.’
‘This is a unique visit, Mr. Pancks. I find it quite remarkable that you would come to me with such a purpose.’
‘It may be all extraordinary together,’ returned Pancks. ‘It may be out of the ordinary course, and yet be business. In short, it is business. I am a man of business. What business have I in this present world, except to stick to business? No business.’
‘It might all be pretty unusual,’ replied Pancks. ‘It might be outside the regular routine, but it’s still business. Basically, it is business. I’m a business person. What purpose do I have in this world right now, other than to focus on business? No purpose.’
With his former doubt whether this dry hard personage were quite in earnest, Clennam again turned his eyes attentively upon his face. It was as scrubby and dingy as ever, and as eager and quick as ever, and he could see nothing lurking in it that was at all expressive of a latent mockery that had seemed to strike upon his ear in the voice.
With his previous uncertainty about whether this stern, serious person was truly sincere, Clennam focused on his face again. It looked as scruffy and dull as always, and just as eager and quick. He couldn't see anything in it that suggested a hidden mockery that had caught his attention in the voice.
‘Now,’ said Pancks, ‘to put this business on its own footing, it’s not my proprietor’s.’
‘So,’ said Pancks, ‘to set this business straight, it’s not my owner’s.’
‘Do you refer to Mr Casby as your proprietor?’
‘Do you call Mr. Casby your landlord?’
Pancks nodded. ‘My proprietor. Put a case. Say, at my proprietor’s I hear name—name of young person Mr Clennam wants to serve. Say, name first mentioned to my proprietor by Plornish in the Yard. Say, I go to Plornish. Say, I ask Plornish as a matter of business for information. Say, Plornish, though six weeks in arrear to my proprietor, declines. Say, Mrs Plornish declines. Say, both refer to Mr Clennam. Put the case.’
Pancks nodded. "My boss. Let’s consider a scenario. Suppose, at my boss’s place, I hear the name—specifically the name of the young person Mr. Clennam wants to help. Let’s say that name was first brought up to my boss by Plornish in the Yard. So, I go to Plornish. I ask Plornish for information as a business matter. But let’s say Plornish, even though he owes my boss six weeks of pay, refuses. Let’s say Mrs. Plornish refuses too. They both point me to Mr. Clennam. Just imagine that situation."
‘Well?’
'So?'
‘Well, sir,’ returned Pancks, ‘say, I come to him. Say, here I am.’
‘Well, sir,’ Pancks replied, ‘let’s say I go to him. Let’s say, here I am.’
With those prongs of hair sticking up all over his head, and his breath coming and going very hard and short, the busy Pancks fell back a step (in Tug metaphor, took half a turn astern) as if to show his dingy hull complete, then forged a-head again, and directed his quick glance by turns into his hat where his note-book was, and into Clennam’s face.
With his hair sticking up all over the place and his breathing coming in short gasps, the hurried Pancks took a step back (in Tug metaphor, turned halfway around) as if to display his worn exterior completely, then pushed forward again, directing his quick gaze alternately into his hat where his notebook was and into Clennam’s face.
‘Mr Pancks, not to trespass on your grounds of mystery, I will be as plain with you as I can. Let me ask two questions. First—’
‘Mr. Pancks, without intruding on your area of mystery, I'll be as straightforward with you as possible. Let me ask two questions. First—’
‘All right!’ said Pancks, holding up his dirty forefinger with his broken nail. ‘I see! “What’s your motive?”’
‘All right!’ said Pancks, holding up his grimy forefinger with his broken nail. ‘I get it! “What’s your motive?”’
‘Exactly.’
'Exactly.'
‘Motive,’ said Pancks, ‘good. Nothing to do with my proprietor; not stateable at present, ridiculous to state at present; but good. Desiring to serve young person, name of Dorrit,’ said Pancks, with his forefinger still up as a caution. ‘Better admit motive to be good.’
‘Motive,’ said Pancks, ‘good. Nothing to do with my boss; not something to share right now, it would be silly to share right now; but good. Wanting to help a young person, name of Dorrit,’ said Pancks, holding his forefinger up as a warning. ‘Better to acknowledge that the motive is good.’
‘Secondly, and lastly, what do you want to know?’
‘Secondly, and finally, what do you want to know?’
Mr Pancks fished up his note-book before the question was put, and buttoning it with care in an inner breast-pocket, and looking straight at Clennam all the time, replied with a pause and a puff, ‘I want supplementary information of any sort.’
Mr. Pancks pulled out his notebook before the question was asked, and after carefully buttoning it up in an inner breast pocket while keeping his gaze fixed on Clennam, he replied after a moment and a sigh, “I need any additional information you have.”
Clennam could not withhold a smile, as the panting little steam-tug, so useful to that unwieldy ship, the Casby, waited on and watched him as if it were seeking an opportunity of running in and rifling him of all he wanted before he could resist its manoeuvres; though there was that in Mr Pancks’s eagerness, too, which awakened many wondering speculations in his mind. After a little consideration, he resolved to supply Mr Pancks with such leading information as it was in his power to impart him; well knowing that Mr Pancks, if he failed in his present research, was pretty sure to find other means of getting it.
Clennam couldn't help but smile as the eager little steam-tug, so helpful to that clumsy ship, the Casby, hovered nearby, almost as if it were looking for a chance to rush in and take everything he needed before he could push back against its attempts; yet there was something in Mr. Pancks’s enthusiasm that stirred up a lot of curious thoughts in his mind. After thinking it over for a bit, he decided to give Mr. Pancks the best information he could, fully aware that if Mr. Pancks didn’t succeed in his current search, he would likely find another way to get what he wanted.
He, therefore, first requesting Mr Pancks to remember his voluntary declaration that his proprietor had no part in the disclosure, and that his own intentions were good (two declarations which that coaly little gentleman with the greatest ardour repeated), openly told him that as to the Dorrit lineage or former place of habitation, he had no information to communicate, and that his knowledge of the family did not extend beyond the fact that it appeared to be now reduced to five members; namely, to two brothers, of whom one was single, and one a widower with three children. The ages of the whole family he made known to Mr Pancks, as nearly as he could guess at them; and finally he described to him the position of the Father of the Marshalsea, and the course of time and events through which he had become invested with that character. To all this, Mr Pancks, snorting and blowing in a more and more portentous manner as he became more interested, listened with great attention; appearing to derive the most agreeable sensations from the painfullest parts of the narrative, and particularly to be quite charmed by the account of William Dorrit’s long imprisonment.
He first asked Mr. Pancks to remember that he had voluntarily said his employer had nothing to do with the information being shared and that his own intentions were good (a point that the eager little coal dealer repeated with enthusiasm). He then directly told him that he had no details about the Dorrit family’s background or previous home and that his knowledge of the family was limited to the fact that it now consisted of five members: two brothers, one single and one a widower with three children. He shared with Mr. Pancks the ages of the family members as best as he could estimate them, and finally, he explained the position of the Father of the Marshalsea and the events that had led him to that role. Mr. Pancks, snorting and huffing more ominously as he became increasingly interested, listened intently, seeming to take the most pleasure from the most painful parts of the story, and he was especially fascinated by the account of William Dorrit’s long imprisonment.
‘In conclusion, Mr Pancks,’ said Arthur, ‘I have but to say this. I have reasons beyond a personal regard for speaking as little as I can of the Dorrit family, particularly at my mother’s house’ (Mr Pancks nodded), ‘and for knowing as much as I can. So devoted a man of business as you are—eh?’
‘In conclusion, Mr. Pancks,’ said Arthur, ‘I just want to say this. I have reasons beyond personal feelings for wanting to talk as little as possible about the Dorrit family, especially at my mother’s house’ (Mr. Pancks nodded), ‘and for wanting to know as much as I can. You are such a dedicated businessman—right?’
For Mr Pancks had suddenly made that blowing effort with unusual force.
For Mr. Pancks suddenly exerted an unexpected effort with unusual intensity.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Pancks.
"Just forget it," said Pancks.
‘So devoted a man of business as yourself has a perfect understanding of a fair bargain. I wish to make a fair bargain with you, that you shall enlighten me concerning the Dorrit family when you have it in your power, as I have enlightened you. It may not give you a very flattering idea of my business habits, that I failed to make my terms beforehand,’ continued Clennam; ‘but I prefer to make them a point of honour. I have seen so much business done on sharp principles that, to tell you the truth, Mr Pancks, I am tired of them.’
“So committed a businessman as you clearly understands a fair deal. I want to make a fair deal with you: when you can, please share what you know about the Dorrit family, just as I have shared with you. You might think less of my business skills for not setting my terms ahead of time,” Clennam continued; “but I’d rather treat it as a matter of honor. I’ve witnessed so many deals conducted on deceitful terms that, to be honest, Mr. Pancks, I’m fed up with them.”
Mr Pancks laughed. ‘It’s a bargain, sir,’ said he. ‘You shall find me stick to it.’
Mr. Pancks laughed. "It's a deal, sir," he said. "You can count on me to stick with it."
After that, he stood a little while looking at Clennam, and biting his ten nails all round; evidently while he fixed in his mind what he had been told, and went over it carefully, before the means of supplying a gap in his memory should be no longer at hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said at last, ‘and now I’ll wish you good day, as it’s collecting day in the Yard. By-the-bye, though. A lame foreigner with a stick.’
After that, he stood there for a moment, looking at Clennam and nervously biting his nails, clearly trying to process what he had just been told and review it thoroughly before he lost the chance to fill in any gaps in his memory. "It's all good," he eventually said, "so I’ll wish you a good day since it’s collection day in the Yard. By the way, though. A limping foreigner with a stick."
‘Ay, ay. You do take a reference sometimes, I see?’ said Clennam.
"Yeah, I see you do take a reference sometimes?" said Clennam.
‘When he can pay, sir,’ replied Pancks. ‘Take all you can get, and keep back all you can’t be forced to give up. That’s business. The lame foreigner with the stick wants a top room down the Yard. Is he good for it?’
‘When he can pay, sir,’ replied Pancks. ‘Take as much as you can get and hold on to what you can’t be made to give up. That’s the way business works. The disabled foreigner with the stick wants a top room down the yard. Can he afford it?’
‘I am,’ said Clennam, ‘and I will answer for him.’
‘I am,’ said Clennam, ‘and I’ll vouch for him.’
‘That’s enough. What I must have of Bleeding Heart Yard,’ said Pancks, making a note of the case in his book, ‘is my bond. I want my bond, you see. Pay up, or produce your property! That’s the watchword down the Yard. The lame foreigner with the stick represented that you sent him; but he could represent (as far as that goes) that the Great Mogul sent him. He has been in the hospital, I believe?’
‘That’s enough. What I need from Bleeding Heart Yard,’ said Pancks, making a note in his book, ‘is my bond. I want my bond, you see. Pay up, or show me your property! That’s the rule down the Yard. The disabled foreigner with the stick claimed you sent him; but he could just as easily say that the Great Mogul sent him. I believe he’s been in the hospital?’
‘Yes. Through having met with an accident. He is only just now discharged.’
‘Yes. He had an accident. He was just discharged now.’
‘It’s pauperising a man, sir, I have been shown, to let him into a hospital?’ said Pancks. And again blew off that remarkable sound.
“It’s ruining a man, sir, I’ve been shown, to let him into a hospital?” said Pancks. And again made that remarkable sound.
‘I have been shown so too,’ said Clennam, coldly.
"I've been shown that too," Clennam said coldly.
Mr Pancks, being by that time quite ready for a start, got under steam in a moment, and, without any other signal or ceremony, was snorting down the step-ladder and working into Bleeding Heart Yard, before he seemed to be well out of the counting-house.
Mr. Pancks, already prepared to leave, got moving in no time and, without any further signal or fuss, was charging down the step-ladder and heading into Bleeding Heart Yard before it felt like he was truly out of the counting house.
Throughout the remainder of the day, Bleeding Heart Yard was in consternation, as the grim Pancks cruised in it; haranguing the inhabitants on their backslidings in respect of payment, demanding his bond, breathing notices to quit and executions, running down defaulters, sending a swell of terror on before him, and leaving it in his wake. Knots of people, impelled by a fatal attraction, lurked outside any house in which he was known to be, listening for fragments of his discourses to the inmates; and, when he was rumoured to be coming down the stairs, often could not disperse so quickly but that he would be prematurely in among them, demanding their own arrears, and rooting them to the spot. Throughout the remainder of the day, Mr Pancks’s What were they up to? and What did they mean by it? sounded all over the Yard. Mr Pancks wouldn’t hear of excuses, wouldn’t hear of complaints, wouldn’t hear of repairs, wouldn’t hear of anything but unconditional money down. Perspiring and puffing and darting about in eccentric directions, and becoming hotter and dingier every moment, he lashed the tide of the yard into a most agitated and turbid state. It had not settled down into calm water again full two hours after he had been seen fuming away on the horizon at the top of the steps.
Throughout the rest of the day, Bleeding Heart Yard was in chaos as the stern Pancks made his rounds; berating the residents for their late payments, demanding his bond, issuing eviction notices and court orders, chasing after those who owed money, spreading waves of fear ahead of him, and leaving anxiety in his wake. Groups of people, drawn by a morbid curiosity, gathered outside any house where he was known to be, straining to catch snippets of his conversations with the residents; and when it was rumored he was coming down the stairs, they often couldn’t scatter quickly enough to avoid encountering him, where he would demand their overdue payments, leaving them frozen in place. Throughout the rest of the day, Mr. Pancks’s questions of "What were they up to?" and "What did they mean by it?" echoed all over the Yard. Mr. Pancks wouldn’t tolerate excuses, complaints, or requests for repairs; he only wanted immediate payment. Sweating, out of breath, darting around in unpredictable directions, and growing hotter and dirtier by the minute, he stirred the atmosphere of the yard into a state of turmoil. It didn’t settle back into calm for a full two hours after he had been seen fuming away on the horizon at the top of the steps.
There were several small assemblages of the Bleeding Hearts at the popular points of meeting in the Yard that night, among whom it was universally agreed that Mr Pancks was a hard man to have to do with; and that it was much to be regretted, so it was, that a gentleman like Mr Casby should put his rents in his hands, and never know him in his true light. For (said the Bleeding Hearts), if a gentleman with that head of hair and them eyes took his rents into his own hands, ma’am, there would be none of this worriting and wearing, and things would be very different.
There were several small groups of the Bleeding Hearts at the popular hangouts in the Yard that night, and they all agreed that Mr. Pancks was tough to deal with; they regretted that a gentleman like Mr. Casby would entrust his rent collection to him and never see his true character. Because (the Bleeding Hearts said), if a gentleman with that hairstyle and those eyes managed his own rents, ma’am, there wouldn’t be all this worrying and stress, and things would be quite different.
At which identical evening hour and minute, the Patriarch—who had floated serenely through the Yard in the forenoon before the harrying began, with the express design of getting up this trustfulness in his shining bumps and silken locks—at which identical hour and minute, that first-rate humbug of a thousand guns was heavily floundering in the little Dock of his exhausted Tug at home, and was saying, as he turned his thumbs:
At that exact evening hour and minute, the Patriarch—who had glided calmly through the Yard in the morning before the chaos started, with the specific goal of building this trust in his shiny head and smooth hair—at that same hour and minute, that top-notch fraud of a thousand guns was struggling heavily in the small Dock of his tired Tug back home, saying as he turned his thumbs:
‘A very bad day’s work, Pancks, very bad day’s work. It seems to me, sir, and I must insist on making this observation forcibly in justice to myself, that you ought to have got much more money, much more money.’
‘A really terrible day’s work, Pancks, a really terrible day’s work. It seems to me, sir, and I have to strongly insist on this point for my own sake, that you should have received a lot more money, a lot more money.’
CHAPTER 24. Fortune-Telling
Little Dorrit received a call that same evening from Mr Plornish, who, having intimated that he wished to speak to her privately, in a series of coughs so very noticeable as to favour the idea that her father, as regarded her seamstress occupation, was an illustration of the axiom that there are no such stone-blind men as those who will not see, obtained an audience with her on the common staircase outside the door.
Little Dorrit got a visit that same evening from Mr. Plornish, who, after hinting that he wanted to talk to her privately and coughing so much it suggested that her father, in relation to her sewing job, was a perfect example of the saying that there are no blind men like those who refuse to see, managed to meet with her on the shared staircase outside her door.
‘There’s been a lady at our place to-day, Miss Dorrit,’ Plornish growled, ‘and another one along with her as is a old wixen if ever I met with such. The way she snapped a person’s head off, dear me!’
‘There's been a woman at our place today, Miss Dorrit,’ Plornish grumbled, ‘and another one with her who is a real hag if I've ever seen one. The way she snapped someone's head off, good grief!’
The mild Plornish was at first quite unable to get his mind away from Mr F.‘s Aunt. ‘For,’ said he, to excuse himself, ‘she is, I do assure you, the winegariest party.’
The mild Plornish couldn't stop thinking about Mr. F.'s Aunt at first. "It's just that," he said to justify himself, "she's honestly the most entertaining person."
At length, by a great effort, he detached himself from the subject sufficiently to observe:
At last, with a lot of effort, he pulled himself away from the topic enough to notice:
‘But she’s neither here nor there just at present. The other lady, she’s Mr Casby’s daughter; and if Mr Casby an’t well off, none better, it an’t through any fault of Pancks. For, as to Pancks, he does, he really does, he does indeed!’
‘But she’s not relevant right now. The other woman is Mr. Casby’s daughter; and if Mr. Casby isn’t well off, no one is to blame but Pancks. Because, as for Pancks, he really does, he truly does, he really does indeed!’
Mr Plornish, after his usual manner, was a little obscure, but conscientiously emphatic.
Mr. Plornish, as usual, was a bit unclear but sincerely passionate.
‘And what she come to our place for,’ he pursued, ‘was to leave word that if Miss Dorrit would step up to that card—which it’s Mr Casby’s house that is, and Pancks he has a office at the back, where he really does, beyond belief—she would be glad for to engage her. She was a old and a dear friend, she said particular, of Mr Clennam, and hoped for to prove herself a useful friend to his friend. Them was her words. Wishing to know whether Miss Dorrit could come to-morrow morning, I said I would see you, Miss, and inquire, and look round there to-night, to say yes, or, if you was engaged to-morrow, when?’
"‘And what she came to our place for,’ he continued, ‘was to let us know that if Miss Dorrit would go to that address—which is Mr. Casby’s house, and Pancks has an office in the back, which is really hard to believe—she would be happy to hire her. She said she was an old and dear friend of Mr. Clennam and hoped to prove herself a useful friend to his friend. Those were her words. Wanting to know if Miss Dorrit could come tomorrow morning, I said I would check with you, Miss, and ask, and stop by there tonight to confirm, or if you were busy tomorrow, when?’"
‘I can go to-morrow, thank you,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘This is very kind of you, but you are always kind.’
‘I can go tomorrow, thank you,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘This is really kind of you, but you’re always kind.’
Mr Plornish, with a modest disavowal of his merits, opened the room door for her readmission, and followed her in with such an exceedingly bald pretence of not having been out at all, that her father might have observed it without being very suspicious. In his affable unconsciousness, however, he took no heed. Plornish, after a little conversation, in which he blended his former duty as a Collegian with his present privilege as a humble outside friend, qualified again by his low estate as a plasterer, took his leave; making the tour of the prison before he left, and looking on at a game of skittles with the mixed feelings of an old inhabitant who had his private reasons for believing that it might be his destiny to come back again.
Mr. Plornish, modestly downplaying his own importance, opened the door for her to come back in and followed her with such an obvious act of pretending he hadn’t been outside at all that her father could have noticed it without being overly suspicious. However, in his friendly obliviousness, he paid no attention. After a bit of chatting, where Plornish mixed his past duties as a student with his current role as a humble friend on the outside, while also acknowledging his status as a plasterer, he took his leave. Before heading out, he walked around the prison and watched a game of skittles, feeling a mixture of emotions like an old resident who had private reasons to believe he might end up back there again.
Early in the morning, Little Dorrit, leaving Maggy in high domestic trust, set off for the Patriarchal tent. She went by the Iron Bridge, though it cost her a penny, and walked more slowly in that part of her journey than in any other. At five minutes before eight her hand was on the Patriarchal knocker, which was quite as high as she could reach.
Early in the morning, Little Dorrit, leaving Maggy feeling very secure at home, set off for the Patriarchal tent. She took the Iron Bridge, even though it cost her a penny, and walked more slowly during that part of her journey than at any other time. At five minutes to eight, her hand was on the Patriarchal knocker, which was as high as she could reach.
She gave Mrs Finching’s card to the young woman who opened the door, and the young woman told her that ‘Miss Flora’—Flora having, on her return to the parental roof, reinvested herself with the title under which she had lived there—was not yet out of her bedroom, but she was to please to walk up into Miss Flora’s sitting-room. She walked up into Miss Flora’s sitting-room, as in duty bound, and there found a breakfast-table comfortably laid for two, with a supplementary tray upon it laid for one. The young woman, disappearing for a few moments, returned to say that she was to please to take a chair by the fire, and to take off her bonnet and make herself at home. But Little Dorrit, being bashful, and not used to make herself at home on such occasions, felt at a loss how to do it; so she was still sitting near the door with her bonnet on, when Flora came in in a hurry half an hour afterwards.
She handed Mrs. Finching’s card to the young woman who opened the door, and the young woman informed her that ‘Miss Flora’—Flora having taken back the title she lived under when she returned to her parents' home—was still in her bedroom, but she was welcome to go up to Miss Flora’s sitting room. She went up to Miss Flora’s sitting room, as it was expected, and found a breakfast table set up for two, with an additional tray for one. The young woman, leaving for a few moments, came back to say she was welcome to sit by the fire, take off her bonnet, and make herself comfortable. However, Little Dorrit, feeling shy and not used to making herself at home in such situations, wasn't sure how to do it; so she remained sitting near the door with her bonnet on when Flora rushed in half an hour later.
Flora was so sorry to have kept her waiting, and good gracious why did she sit out there in the cold when she had expected to find her by the fire reading the paper, and hadn’t that heedless girl given her the message then, and had she really been in her bonnet all this time, and pray for goodness sake let Flora take it off! Flora taking it off in the best-natured manner in the world, was so struck with the face disclosed, that she said, ‘Why, what a good little thing you are, my dear!’ and pressed her face between her hands like the gentlest of women.
Flora was really sorry to have kept her waiting, and good grief, why was she sitting out there in the cold when she expected to find her by the fire reading the paper? Hadn’t that careless girl given her the message then? And had she really been out in that bonnet all this time? For goodness' sake, let Flora take it off! Flora, taking it off in the kindest way possible, was so taken aback by the face revealed that she said, "Wow, what a sweet little thing you are, my dear!" and cupped her face in her hands like the gentlest of women.
It was the word and the action of a moment. Little Dorrit had hardly time to think how kind it was, when Flora dashed at the breakfast-table full of business, and plunged over head and ears into loquacity.
It was a word and an action in an instant. Little Dorrit barely had time to realize how nice it was when Flora rushed at the breakfast table, all business, and dove headfirst into chatter.
‘Really so sorry that I should happen to be late on this morning of all mornings because my intention and my wish was to be ready to meet you when you came in and to say that any one that interested Arthur Clennam half so much must interest me and that I gave you the heartiest welcome and was so glad, instead of which they never called me and there I still am snoring I dare say if the truth was known and if you don’t like either cold fowl or hot boiled ham which many people don’t I dare say besides Jews and theirs are scruples of conscience which we must all respect though I must say I wish they had them equally strong when they sell us false articles for real that certainly ain’t worth the money I shall be quite vexed,’ said Flora.
"I'm really sorry to be late on this particular morning because I wanted to be ready to greet you when you arrived. I wanted to say that anyone who interests Arthur Clennam as much as you do definitely interests me, and I was excited to welcome you. Instead, they never called for me, and I’m probably still snoozing over here, to be honest. And if you’re not a fan of cold chicken or hot boiled ham—things that many people don’t like, not to mention the Jews and their conscience issues, which we should all respect—I must admit, I wish they had similar strong feelings when they sell us fake items labeled as real; that stuff is certainly not worth the money, and it really frustrates me," said Flora.
Little Dorrit thanked her, and said, shyly, bread-and-butter and tea was all she usually—
Little Dorrit thanked her and said, shyly, that bread and butter and tea was all she usually—
‘Oh nonsense my dear child I can never hear of that,’ said Flora, turning on the urn in the most reckless manner, and making herself wink by splashing hot water into her eyes as she bent down to look into the teapot. ‘You are coming here on the footing of a friend and companion you know if you will let me take that liberty and I should be ashamed of myself indeed if you could come here upon any other, besides which Arthur Clennam spoke in such terms—you are tired my dear.’
"Oh come on, my dear child, I can’t stand to hear that," said Flora, turning to the urn in the most carefree way, and splashing hot water into her eyes as she leaned down to look into the teapot. "You’re here as a friend and companion, if you’ll allow me that freedom, and I’d be truly embarrassed if you came here any other way. Besides, Arthur Clennam spoke so highly of you—you look tired, dear."
‘No, ma’am.’
'No, ma'am.'
‘You turn so pale you have walked too far before breakfast and I dare say live a great way off and ought to have had a ride,’ said Flora, ‘dear dear is there anything that would do you good?’
‘You look so pale; you’ve walked too far before breakfast, and I bet you live quite a distance away and should have taken a ride,’ said Flora. ‘Oh dear, is there anything that could help you?’
‘Indeed I am quite well, ma’am. I thank you again and again, but I am quite well.’
‘I'm doing really well, ma’am. Thank you so much, but I'm really fine.’
‘Then take your tea at once I beg,’ said Flora, ‘and this wing of fowl and bit of ham, don’t mind me or wait for me, because I always carry in this tray myself to Mr F.‘s Aunt who breakfasts in bed and a charming old lady too and very clever, Portrait of Mr F. behind the door and very like though too much forehead and as to a pillar with a marble pavement and balustrades and a mountain, I never saw him near it nor not likely in the wine trade, excellent man but not at all in that way.’
“Then please have your tea right away, I insist,” Flora said. “And this piece of chicken and slice of ham—don’t worry about me or wait for me because I always bring this tray myself to Mr. F.’s aunt, who eats breakfast in bed. She’s a lovely old lady, very smart too. There’s a portrait of Mr. F. behind the door, and it looks just like him, although it has a bit too much forehead. As for a column with a marble floor and balustrades and a mountain, I never saw him near it, and he’s not likely in the wine business. A great man, just not in that way.”
Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait, very imperfectly following the references to that work of art.
Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait, not entirely catching the references to that piece of art.
‘Mr F. was so devoted to me that he never could bear me out of his sight,’ said Flora, ‘though of course I am unable to say how long that might have lasted if he hadn’t been cut short while I was a new broom, worthy man but not poetical manly prose but not romance.’
“Mr. F. was so devoted to me that he couldn’t stand being away from me,” said Flora, “though I can’t say how long that would have gone on if he hadn’t been interrupted while I was just starting out, a good man but not a poetic one—more like straightforward prose than romance.”
Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait again. The artist had given it a head that would have been, in an intellectual point of view, top-heavy for Shakespeare.
Little Dorrit looked at the portrait again. The artist had created a head that, from an intellectual standpoint, would have been too much for Shakespeare.
‘Romance, however,’ Flora went on, busily arranging Mr F.‘s Aunt’s toast, ‘as I openly said to Mr F. when he proposed to me and you will be surprised to hear that he proposed seven times once in a hackney-coach once in a boat once in a pew once on a donkey at Tunbridge Wells and the rest on his knees, Romance was fled with the early days of Arthur Clennam, our parents tore us asunder we became marble and stern reality usurped the throne, Mr F. said very much to his credit that he was perfectly aware of it and even preferred that state of things accordingly the word was spoken the fiat went forth and such is life you see my dear and yet we do not break but bend, pray make a good breakfast while I go in with the tray.’
‘Romance, however,’ Flora continued, busily arranging Mr. F.’s aunt's toast, ‘as I openly told Mr. F. when he proposed to me—and you’ll be surprised to hear he proposed seven times: once in a hackney coach, once in a boat, once in a pew, once on a donkey at Tunbridge Wells, and the rest on his knees—romance faded away with the early days of Arthur Clennam. Our parents tore us apart, we became cold and distant, and harsh reality took over. Mr. F., to his credit, said he was fully aware of it and even preferred it that way. So, the word was spoken, the decision was made, and that’s just life, my dear. Yet, we don’t break; we bend. Please make a good breakfast while I take in the tray.’
She disappeared, leaving Little Dorrit to ponder over the meaning of her scattered words. She soon came back again; and at last began to take her own breakfast, talking all the while.
She vanished, leaving Little Dorrit to think about the meaning of her scattered words. She soon returned and finally started having her breakfast, talking the whole time.
‘You see, my dear,’ said Flora, measuring out a spoonful or two of some brown liquid that smelt like brandy, and putting it into her tea, ‘I am obliged to be careful to follow the directions of my medical man though the flavour is anything but agreeable being a poor creature and it may be have never recovered the shock received in youth from too much giving way to crying in the next room when separated from Arthur, have you known him long?’
‘You see, my dear,’ said Flora, measuring out a spoonful or two of some brown liquid that smelled like brandy and adding it to her tea, ‘I have to be careful to follow my doctor's instructions even though the taste isn’t pleasant. I might not have fully recovered from the shock I got in my youth from crying too much when I was separated from Arthur. Have you known him long?’
As soon as Little Dorrit comprehended that she had been asked this question—for which time was necessary, the galloping pace of her new patroness having left her far behind—she answered that she had known Mr Clennam ever since his return.
As soon as Little Dorrit realized she had been asked this question—something that took a moment since her new patroness was moving so quickly—she replied that she had known Mr. Clennam ever since he came back.
‘To be sure you couldn’t have known him before unless you had been in China or had corresponded neither of which is likely,’ returned Flora, ‘for travelling-people usually get more or less mahogany and you are not at all so and as to corresponding what about? that’s very true unless tea, so it was at his mother’s was it really that you knew him first, highly sensible and firm but dreadfully severe—ought to be the mother of the man in the iron mask.’
'You couldn't have known him before unless you had been in China or had corresponded, and neither is likely,' Flora replied. 'Travelers usually pick up some traits and you're not like that at all. As for corresponding, what would you have talked about? That's true unless it was about tea. So, was it really at his mother's where you first met him? She's very sensible and firm but really strict—she could be the mother of the man in the iron mask.'
‘Mrs Clennam has been kind to me,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘Mrs. Clennam has been nice to me,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘Really? I am sure I am glad to hear it because as Arthur’s mother it’s naturally pleasant to my feelings to have a better opinion of her than I had before, though what she thinks of me when I run on as I am certain to do and she sits glowering at me like Fate in a go-cart—shocking comparison really—invalid and not her fault—I never know or can imagine.’
‘Really? I'm glad to hear that because as Arthur’s mom, it’s nice for me to think better of her than I did before. But I can’t help but wonder what she thinks of me when I talk on and on, and she just sits there glaring at me like some kind of ominous fate—it’s a pretty shocking comparison, actually—she’s just in a bad spot and it’s not her fault—I never really know or can even imagine.’
‘Shall I find my work anywhere, ma’am?’ asked Little Dorrit, looking timidly about; ‘can I get it?’
‘Can I find my work anywhere, ma’am?’ asked Little Dorrit, looking around nervously; ‘can I get it?’
‘You industrious little fairy,’ returned Flora, taking, in another cup of tea, another of the doses prescribed by her medical man, ‘there’s not the slightest hurry and it’s better that we should begin by being confidential about our mutual friend—too cold a word for me at least I don’t mean that, very proper expression mutual friend—than become through mere formalities not you but me like the Spartan boy with the fox biting him, which I hope you’ll excuse my bringing up for of all the tiresome boys that will go tumbling into every sort of company that boy’s the tiresomest.’
"You hardworking little fairy," Flora replied, sipping another cup of tea along with another dose prescribed by her doctor. "There’s no rush at all, and it’s better if we start off by being open about our friend—‘mutual friend’ feels too formal for me, not that I mean it that way; it’s just a proper term. It’s better than getting stuck in formalities like the Spartan boy with the fox biting him, which I hope you don’t mind me mentioning because among all the annoying boys who stumble into every situation, that one is the most annoying."
Little Dorrit, her face very pale, sat down again to listen. ‘Hadn’t I better work the while?’ she asked. ‘I can work and attend too. I would rather, if I may.’
Little Dorrit, her face very pale, sat down again to listen. “Shouldn’t I work while I’m at it?” she asked. “I can work and pay attention too. I’d prefer that, if that’s okay.”
Her earnestness was so expressive of her being uneasy without her work, that Flora answered, ‘Well my dear whatever you like best,’ and produced a basket of white handkerchiefs. Little Dorrit gladly put it by her side, took out her little pocket-housewife, threaded the needle, and began to hem.
Her seriousness clearly showed that she was uncomfortable without her work, so Flora said, “Well, my dear, whatever you prefer,” and brought out a basket of white handkerchiefs. Little Dorrit happily set it beside her, took out her small sewing kit, threaded the needle, and started hemming.
‘What nimble fingers you have,’ said Flora, ‘but are you sure you are well?’
‘What quick fingers you have,’ said Flora, ‘but are you sure you're okay?’
‘Oh yes, indeed!’
‘Oh yes, for sure!’
Flora put her feet upon the fender, and settled herself for a thorough good romantic disclosure. She started off at score, tossing her head, sighing in the most demonstrative manner, making a great deal of use of her eyebrows, and occasionally, but not often, glancing at the quiet face that bent over the work.
Flora propped her feet on the fender and got comfortable for a deep romantic reveal. She began by launching into her story, tossing her head, sighing dramatically, using her eyebrows a lot, and occasionally, though rarely, glancing at the calm face focused on the task at hand.
‘You must know my dear,’ said Flora, ‘but that I have no doubt you know already not only because I have already thrown it out in a general way but because I feel I carry it stamped in burning what’s his names upon my brow that before I was introduced to the late Mr F. I had been engaged to Arthur Clennam—Mr Clennam in public where reserve is necessary Arthur here—we were all in all to one another it was the morning of life it was bliss it was frenzy it was everything else of that sort in the highest degree, when rent asunder we turned to stone in which capacity Arthur went to China and I became the statue bride of the late Mr F.’
"You need to know, my dear," Flora said, "that I'm sure you already do, not just because I've mentioned it before, but because I can feel it clearly marked on my forehead. Before I was introduced to the late Mr. F., I was engaged to Arthur Clennam—Mr. Clennam in public, where I had to be reserved, but just Arthur here. We were everything to each other; it was the dawn of our lives, it was bliss, it was madness, it was all those intense feelings at their peak. Then, torn apart, we turned to stone—in that state, Arthur went off to China, and I became the statue bride of the late Mr. F."
Flora, uttering these words in a deep voice, enjoyed herself immensely.
Flora, saying these words in a deep voice, had a great time.
‘To paint,’ said she, ‘the emotions of that morning when all was marble within and Mr F.‘s Aunt followed in a glass-coach which it stands to reason must have been in shameful repair or it never could have broken down two streets from the house and Mr F.‘s Aunt brought home like the fifth of November in a rush-bottomed chair I will not attempt, suffice it to say that the hollow form of breakfast took place in the dining-room downstairs that papa partaking too freely of pickled salmon was ill for weeks and that Mr F. and myself went upon a continental tour to Calais where the people fought for us on the pier until they separated us though not for ever that was not yet to be.’
"To paint," she said, "the emotions of that morning when everything felt like marble inside, and Mr. F.'s Aunt followed in a glass carriage that clearly must have been in bad shape, or else it wouldn't have broken down just two streets from the house. Mr. F.'s Aunt was brought home like a spectacle in a rush-bottomed chair. I won’t even try to describe it; I'll just say that a rather lackluster breakfast happened in the dining room downstairs, and that Papa, indulging a bit too much in pickled salmon, was sick for weeks. Meanwhile, Mr. F. and I went on a European tour to Calais, where people fought over us on the pier until they finally pulled us apart, though it wasn’t forever—that part was still to come."
The statue bride, hardly pausing for breath, went on, with the greatest complacency, in a rambling manner sometimes incidental to flesh and blood.
The statue bride, barely stopping to catch her breath, continued on with utmost self-satisfaction, sometimes speaking in a way that felt more like a living person.
‘I will draw a veil over that dreamy life, Mr F. was in good spirits his appetite was good he liked the cookery he considered the wine weak but palatable and all was well, we returned to the immediate neighbourhood of Number Thirty Little Gosling Street London Docks and settled down, ere we had yet fully detected the housemaid in selling the feathers out of the spare bed Gout flying upwards soared with Mr F. to another sphere.’
‘I will gloss over that dreamy life; Mr. F. was in good spirits, his appetite was healthy, he enjoyed the food, he found the wine weak but drinkable, and everything was fine. We returned to the immediate area of Number Thirty, Little Gosling Street, London Docks, and got comfortable, even before we had fully caught the housemaid selling the feathers from the spare bed. Gout soared upward with Mr. F. to another realm.’
His relict, with a glance at his portrait, shook her head and wiped her eyes.
His widow, glancing at his portrait, shook her head and wiped her eyes.
‘I revere the memory of Mr F. as an estimable man and most indulgent husband, only necessary to mention Asparagus and it appeared or to hint at any little delicate thing to drink and it came like magic in a pint bottle it was not ecstasy but it was comfort, I returned to papa’s roof and lived secluded if not happy during some years until one day papa came smoothly blundering in and said that Arthur Clennam awaited me below, I went below and found him ask me not what I found him except that he was still unmarried still unchanged!’
"I cherish the memory of Mr. F. as a remarkable man and a very caring husband. All it took was mentioning Asparagus, and it would appear, or suggesting a little special drink, and it would show up like magic in a pint bottle. It wasn’t pure joy, but it was comforting. I returned to my father’s home and lived in seclusion, if not happiness, for several years until one day my father came in smoothly, somewhat clumsily, and said that Arthur Clennam was waiting for me downstairs. I went downstairs and found him—don't ask me what I found, except that he was still unmarried and still the same!"
The dark mystery with which Flora now enshrouded herself might have stopped other fingers than the nimble fingers that worked near her. They worked on without pause, and the busy head bent over them watching the stitches.
The dark mystery that Flora surrounded herself with might have halted other hands besides the quick ones working nearby. They kept going without interruption, and the focused head leaned over them, tracking the stitches.
‘Ask me not,’ said Flora, ‘if I love him still or if he still loves me or what the end is to be or when, we are surrounded by watchful eyes and it may be that we are destined to pine asunder it may be never more to be reunited not a word not a breath not a look to betray us all must be secret as the tomb wonder not therefore that even if I should seem comparatively cold to Arthur or Arthur should seem comparatively cold to me we have fatal reasons it is enough if we understand them hush!’
“Don’t ask me,” Flora said, “if I still love him or if he still loves me, or what the future holds and when it will come. We are surrounded by watchful eyes, and it might be that we are meant to suffer apart, maybe never to be together again. Not a word, not a breath, not a glance can give us away; everything must be as secret as the grave. So don’t be surprised if I seem a bit distant with Arthur or if he seems a bit distant with me; we have serious reasons for it. It’s enough that we understand each other. Hush!”
All of which Flora said with so much headlong vehemence as if she really believed it. There is not much doubt that when she worked herself into full mermaid condition, she did actually believe whatever she said in it.
All of which Flora said with such intense passion as if she truly believed it. There's little doubt that when she fully immersed herself in her mermaid persona, she genuinely believed whatever she claimed while in it.
‘Hush!’ repeated Flora, ‘I have now told you all, confidence is established between us hush, for Arthur’s sake I will always be a friend to you my dear girl and in Arthur’s name you may always rely upon me.’
‘Hush!’ Flora said again, ‘I've told you everything now, and we have trust between us. Hush, for Arthur's sake—I will always be your friend, my dear girl, and in Arthur's name, you can always count on me.’
The nimble fingers laid aside the work, and the little figure rose and kissed her hand. ‘You are very cold,’ said Flora, changing to her own natural kind-hearted manner, and gaining greatly by the change. ‘Don’t work to-day. I am sure you are not well I am sure you are not strong.’
The quick fingers put down the work, and the small figure stood up and kissed her hand. “You’re really cold,” Flora said, switching to her usual warm-hearted self, which suited her much better. “Don’t work today. I can tell you’re not feeling well. I know you’re not strong.”
‘It is only that I feel a little overcome by your kindness, and by Mr Clennam’s kindness in confiding me to one he has known and loved so long.’
‘I just feel a bit overwhelmed by your kindness and by Mr. Clennam’s kindness in trusting me to someone he has known and cared for for so long.’
‘Well really my dear,’ said Flora, who had a decided tendency to be always honest when she gave herself time to think about it, ‘it’s as well to leave that alone now, for I couldn’t undertake to say after all, but it doesn’t signify lie down a little!’
‘Well really, my dear,’ said Flora, who definitely had a habit of being honest when she took a moment to think, ‘it’s probably best to leave that alone for now, because I can’t really say for sure, but it doesn’t matter—just lie down a little!’
‘I have always been strong enough to do what I want to do, and I shall be quite well directly,’ returned Little Dorrit, with a faint smile. ‘You have overpowered me with gratitude, that’s all. If I keep near the window for a moment I shall be quite myself.’
‘I’ve always been strong enough to do what I want, and I’ll be fine soon,’ replied Little Dorrit with a faint smile. ‘You’ve overwhelmed me with gratitude, that’s all. If I stay close to the window for a moment, I’ll feel like myself again.’
Flora opened a window, sat her in a chair by it, and considerately retired to her former place. It was a windy day, and the air stirring on Little Dorrit’s face soon brightened it. In a very few minutes she returned to her basket of work, and her nimble fingers were as nimble as ever.
Flora opened a window, helped her into a chair by it, and kindly went back to her original spot. It was a windy day, and the breeze on Little Dorrit’s face quickly brightened her mood. In just a few minutes, she was back to her basket of work, and her quick fingers were just as quick as always.
Quietly pursuing her task, she asked Flora if Mr Clennam had told her where she lived? When Flora replied in the negative, Little Dorrit said that she understood why he had been so delicate, but that she felt sure he would approve of her confiding her secret to Flora, and that she would therefore do so now with Flora’s permission. Receiving an encouraging answer, she condensed the narrative of her life into a few scanty words about herself and a glowing eulogy upon her father; and Flora took it all in with a natural tenderness that quite understood it, and in which there was no incoherence.
Quietly working on her task, she asked Flora if Mr. Clennam had told her where she lived. When Flora said no, Little Dorrit explained that she understood why he'd been so careful, but she was sure he would be okay with her sharing her secret with Flora, so she would do that now, with Flora's permission. After getting an encouraging response, she summarized her life story in a few brief words about herself and gave a heartfelt tribute to her father. Flora absorbed it all with a natural tenderness that completely understood it, and there was no confusion in her response.
When dinner-time came, Flora drew the arm of her new charge through hers, and led her down-stairs, and presented her to the Patriarch and Mr Pancks, who were already in the dining-room waiting to begin. (Mr F.‘s Aunt was, for the time, laid up in ordinary in her chamber.) By those gentlemen she was received according to their characters; the Patriarch appearing to do her some inestimable service in saying that he was glad to see her, glad to see her; and Mr Pancks blowing off his favourite sound as a salute.
When dinner time came, Flora took the arm of her new charge and led her downstairs, introducing her to the Patriarch and Mr. Pancks, who were already in the dining room waiting to start. (Mr. F.’s Aunt was, for the moment, resting in her room.) The gentlemen welcomed her according to their personalities; the Patriarch seemed to consider it a great favor to say that he was happy to see her, really happy to see her; and Mr. Pancks made his usual sound as a greeting.
In that new presence she would have been bashful enough under any circumstances, and particularly under Flora’s insisting on her drinking a glass of wine and eating of the best that was there; but her constraint was greatly increased by Mr Pancks. The demeanour of that gentleman at first suggested to her mind that he might be a taker of likenesses, so intently did he look at her, and so frequently did he glance at the little note-book by his side. Observing that he made no sketch, however, and that he talked about business only, she began to have suspicions that he represented some creditor of her father’s, the balance due to whom was noted in that pocket volume. Regarded from this point of view Mr Pancks’s puffings expressed injury and impatience, and each of his louder snorts became a demand for payment.
In that new setting, she would have felt shy under any circumstances, especially with Flora insisting that she drink a glass of wine and enjoy the best food available. However, her discomfort was heightened by Mr. Pancks. At first, his demeanor made her think he might be an artist, given how intently he stared at her and how often he glanced at the little notebook beside him. But when she noticed that he wasn’t sketching anything and was only talking about business, she started to suspect that he was representing some debt that her father owed, which was noted in that pocket book. Seen from this perspective, Mr. Pancks’s huffing seemed to express frustration and impatience, with each loud snort feeling like a demand for payment.
But here again she was undeceived by anomalous and incongruous conduct on the part of Mr Pancks himself. She had left the table half an hour, and was at work alone. Flora had ‘gone to lie down’ in the next room, concurrently with which retirement a smell of something to drink had broken out in the house. The Patriarch was fast asleep, with his philanthropic mouth open under a yellow pocket-handkerchief in the dining-room. At this quiet time, Mr Pancks softly appeared before her, urbanely nodding.
But once again, she wasn't fooled by Mr. Pancks's strange and puzzling behavior. She had been away from the table for half an hour and was working by herself. Flora had "gone to lie down" in the next room, and at the same time, a smell of something to drink wafted through the house. The Patriarch was sound asleep with his philanthropic mouth open under a yellow handkerchief in the dining room. During this quiet moment, Mr. Pancks quietly showed up in front of her, giving a friendly nod.
‘Find it a little dull, Miss Dorrit?’ inquired Pancks in a low voice.
“Do you find it a bit boring, Miss Dorrit?” Pancks asked in a quiet voice.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ Little Dorrit said.
‘Busy, I see,’ observed Mr Pancks, stealing into the room by inches. ‘What are those now, Miss Dorrit?’
"Busy, I see," remarked Mr. Pancks, slipping into the room gradually. "What are those now, Miss Dorrit?”
‘Handkerchiefs.’
‘Tissues.’
‘Are they, though!’ said Pancks. ‘I shouldn’t have thought it.’ Not in the least looking at them, but looking at Little Dorrit. ‘Perhaps you wonder who I am. Shall I tell you? I am a fortune-teller.’
‘Are they, though!’ said Pancks. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that.’ Not at all looking at them, but looking at Little Dorrit. ‘Maybe you’re curious about who I am. Should I tell you? I’m a fortune-teller.’
Little Dorrit now began to think he was mad.
Little Dorrit now started to think he was crazy.
‘I belong body and soul to my proprietor,’ said Pancks; ‘you saw my proprietor having his dinner below. But I do a little in the other way, sometimes; privately, very privately, Miss Dorrit.’
‘I belong completely to my boss,’ said Pancks; ‘you saw my boss having dinner downstairs. But I do a little in the other way sometimes; just between us, very privately, Miss Dorrit.’
Little Dorrit looked at him doubtfully, and not without alarm. ‘I wish you’d show me the palm of your hand,’ said Pancks. ‘I should like to have a look at it. Don’t let me be troublesome.’
Little Dorrit looked at him uncertainly, and with some worry. ‘I wish you’d show me the palm of your hand,’ said Pancks. ‘I’d like to see it. Don’t let me bother you.’
He was so far troublesome that he was not at all wanted there, but she laid her work in her lap for a moment, and held out her left hand with her thimble on it.
He was such a nuisance that no one wanted him there, but she put her work in her lap for a moment and held out her left hand with her thimble on it.
‘Years of toil, eh?’ said Pancks, softly, touching it with his blunt forefinger. ‘But what else are we made for? Nothing. Hallo!’ looking into the lines. ‘What’s this with bars? It’s a College! And what’s this with a grey gown and a black velvet cap? it’s a father! And what’s this with a clarionet? It’s an uncle! And what’s this in dancing-shoes? It’s a sister! And what’s this straggling about in an idle sort of a way? It’s a brother! And what’s this thinking for ‘em all? Why, this is you, Miss Dorrit!’
“Years of hard work, huh?” said Pancks softly, touching it with his blunt finger. “But what else are we here for? Nothing. Hey!” he said, looking into the lines. “What’s this with bars? It’s a College! And what’s this with a gray gown and a black velvet cap? It’s a father! And what’s this with a clarinet? It’s an uncle! And what’s this in dancing shoes? It’s a sister! And what’s this wandering around in a lazy sort of way? It’s a brother! And what’s this thinking for them all? Well, this is you, Miss Dorrit!”
Her eyes met his as she looked up wonderingly into his face, and she thought that although his were sharp eyes, he was a brighter and gentler-looking man than she had supposed at dinner. His eyes were on her hand again directly, and her opportunity of confirming or correcting the impression was gone.
Her eyes met his as she looked up curiously at his face, and she thought that even though his eyes were piercing, he seemed like a kinder and more pleasant guy than she had imagined at dinner. His gaze was back on her hand again, and her chance to confirm or change that impression was lost.
‘Now, the deuce is in it,’ muttered Pancks, tracing out a line in her hand with his clumsy finger, ‘if this isn’t me in the corner here! What do I want here? What’s behind me?’
‘Now, what the heck is going on,’ muttered Pancks, drawing a line in her hand with his awkward finger, ‘if this isn’t me stuck in the corner here! What am I doing here? What’s behind me?’
He carried his finger slowly down to the wrist, and round the wrist, and affected to look at the back of the hand for what was behind him.
He slowly dragged his finger down to the wrist, around the wrist, and pretended to check the back of his hand for what was behind him.
‘Is it any harm?’ asked Little Dorrit, smiling.
“Is it any harm?” asked Little Dorrit, smiling.
‘Deuce a bit!’ said Pancks. ‘What do you think it’s worth?’
‘No way!’ said Pancks. ‘What do you think it’s worth?’
‘I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.’
‘I should be the one asking you that. I’m not the fortune-teller.’
‘True,’ said Pancks. ‘What’s it worth? You shall live to see, Miss Dorrit.’
"That's true," said Pancks. "What’s it worth? You’ll get to see, Miss Dorrit."
Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers through his prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most portentous manner; and repeated slowly, ‘Remember what I say, Miss Dorrit. You shall live to see.’
Releasing his grip slowly, he ran all his fingers through his tangled hair, making it stand up in a wild way; and he said slowly, “Remember what I’m telling you, Miss Dorrit. You’ll live to see it.”
She could not help showing that she was much surprised, if it were only by his knowing so much about her.
She couldn't help but show that she was really surprised, even just because he knew so much about her.
‘Ah! That’s it!’ said Pancks, pointing at her. ‘Miss Dorrit, not that, ever!’
‘Ah! That’s it!’ said Pancks, pointing at her. ‘Miss Dorrit, not that, ever!’
More surprised than before, and a little more frightened, she looked to him for an explanation of his last words.
More surprised than before and a bit more scared, she looked to him for an explanation of what he had just said.
‘Not that,’ said Pancks, making, with great seriousness, an imitation of a surprised look and manner that appeared to be unintentionally grotesque. ‘Don’t do that. Never on seeing me, no matter when, no matter where. I am nobody. Don’t take on to mind me. Don’t mention me. Take no notice. Will you agree, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Not that,’ said Pancks, mimicking a surprised look and manner with such seriousness that it seemed unintentionally ridiculous. ‘Don’t do that. Whenever you see me, no matter when or where, just remember I’m nobody. Don’t think about me. Don’t bring me up. Just ignore me. Will you agree, Miss Dorrit?’
‘I hardly know what to say,’ returned Little Dorrit, quite astounded. ‘Why?’
‘I barely know what to say,’ replied Little Dorrit, totally surprised. ‘Why?’
‘Because I am a fortune-teller. Pancks the gipsy. I haven’t told you so much of your fortune yet, Miss Dorrit, as to tell you what’s behind me on that little hand. I have told you you shall live to see. Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Because I’m a fortune-teller. Pancks the gypsy. I haven’t shared much of your future yet, Miss Dorrit, to reveal what’s behind me on that tiny hand. I have told you that you will live to see. Is that settled, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Agreed that I—am—to—’
‘Agreed that I am to—’
‘To take no notice of me away from here, unless I take on first. Not to mind me when I come and go. It’s very easy. I am no loss, I am not handsome, I am not good company, I am only my proprietors grubber. You need do no more than think, “Ah! Pancks the gipsy at his fortune-telling—he’ll tell the rest of my fortune one day—I shall live to know it.” Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Don’t pay any attention to me when I'm gone unless I reach out first. Just ignore me when I come and go. It’s really simple. I’m not a loss, I’m not good-looking, I’m not great company, I’m just my owners’ worker. All you need to think is, “Oh! Pancks the gypsy with his fortune-telling—he'll tell the rest of my fortune one day—I’ll live to hear it.” Is that clear, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Ye-es,’ faltered Little Dorrit, whom he greatly confused, ‘I suppose so, while you do no harm.’
‘Yes,’ stammered Little Dorrit, clearly confused by him, ‘I guess so, as long as you don’t cause any harm.’
‘Good!’ Mr Pancks glanced at the wall of the adjoining room, and stooped forward. ‘Honest creature, woman of capital points, but heedless and a loose talker, Miss Dorrit.’ With that he rubbed his hands as if the interview had been very satisfactory to him, panted away to the door, and urbanely nodded himself out again.
‘Good!’ Mr. Pancks looked at the wall of the next room and leaned in closer. ‘An honest person, a woman with great qualities, but careless and a bit of a chatterbox, Miss Dorrit.’ With that, he rubbed his hands as if the meeting had been very satisfying for him, hurried to the door, and politely nodded as he left.
If Little Dorrit were beyond measure perplexed by this curious conduct on the part of her new acquaintance, and by finding herself involved in this singular treaty, her perplexity was not diminished by ensuing circumstances. Besides that Mr Pancks took every opportunity afforded him in Mr Casby’s house of significantly glancing at her and snorting at her—which was not much, after what he had done already—he began to pervade her daily life. She saw him in the street, constantly. When she went to Mr Casby’s, he was always there. When she went to Mrs Clennam’s, he came there on any pretence, as if to keep her in his sight. A week had not gone by, when she found him to her astonishment in the Lodge one night, conversing with the turnkey on duty, and to all appearance one of his familiar companions. Her next surprise was to find him equally at his ease within the prison; to hear of his presenting himself among the visitors at her father’s Sunday levee; to see him arm in arm with a Collegiate friend about the yard; to learn, from Fame, that he had greatly distinguished himself one evening at the social club that held its meetings in the Snuggery, by addressing a speech to the members of the institution, singing a song, and treating the company to five gallons of ale—report madly added a bushel of shrimps. The effect on Mr Plornish of such of these phenomena as he became an eye-witness of in his faithful visits, made an impression on Little Dorrit only second to that produced by the phenomena themselves. They seemed to gag and bind him. He could only stare, and sometimes weakly mutter that it wouldn’t be believed down Bleeding Heart Yard that this was Pancks; but he never said a word more, or made a sign more, even to Little Dorrit. Mr Pancks crowned his mysteries by making himself acquainted with Tip in some unknown manner, and taking a Sunday saunter into the College on that gentleman’s arm. Throughout he never took any notice of Little Dorrit, save once or twice when he happened to come close to her and there was no one very near; on which occasions, he said in passing, with a friendly look and a puff of encouragement, ‘Pancks the gipsy—fortune-telling.’
If Little Dorrit was completely confused by this strange behavior from her new acquaintance and by finding herself caught up in this unusual agreement, her confusion only grew with what happened next. In addition to Mr. Pancks seizing every chance he got in Mr. Casby’s house to glance at her and snort at her—which wasn’t much, given what he had already done—he started to infiltrate her everyday life. She kept seeing him on the street. Whenever she went to Mr. Casby’s, he was always there. When she visited Mrs. Clennam’s, he would show up for any reason, as if to keep her in his view. Within a week, she was surprised to find him in the Lodge one night, talking to the guard on duty, looking like he was one of his regular companions. Her next shock was discovering that he seemed just as comfortable inside the prison; she heard he had appeared among the visitors at her father’s Sunday gathering; she saw him strolling around the yard with a friend from college; she learned, through word of mouth, that he had really stood out one evening at the social club that met in the Snuggery, where he had given a speech to the members, sung a song, and treated everyone to five gallons of ale—rumor even added a bushel of shrimp. The impact on Mr. Plornish from what he witnessed during his loyal visits left an impression on Little Dorrit that was almost as strong as the effects of the events themselves. They seemed to stun and silence him. He could only stare, occasionally mumbling weakly that no one in Bleeding Heart Yard would believe this was Pancks; but he never said anything else or gave any further signs, not even to Little Dorrit. Mr. Pancks topped off his mysteries by somehow getting to know Tip and taking a leisurely Sunday stroll around the College on that gentleman’s arm. Throughout all of this, he barely acknowledged Little Dorrit, except for once or twice when he happened to come near her without anyone else around; on those occasions, he passed by with a friendly look and a puff of encouragement, saying, “Pancks the gipsy—fortune-telling.”
Little Dorrit worked and strove as usual, wondering at all this, but keeping her wonder, as she had from her earliest years kept many heavier loads, in her own breast. A change had stolen, and was stealing yet, over the patient heart. Every day found her something more retiring than the day before. To pass in and out of the prison unnoticed, and elsewhere to be overlooked and forgotten, were, for herself, her chief desires.
Little Dorrit worked hard as always, puzzled by everything happening around her, but kept those thoughts to herself, just as she had managed many heavier burdens since she was a child. A shift had crept, and was still creeping, into her patient heart. Each day she found herself becoming more withdrawn than the day before. Her main wishes were to move in and out of the prison unnoticed and to be overlooked and forgotten elsewhere.
To her own room too, strangely assorted room for her delicate youth and character, she was glad to retreat as often as she could without desertion of any duty. There were afternoon times when she was unemployed, when visitors dropped in to play a hand at cards with her father, when she could be spared and was better away. Then she would flit along the yard, climb the scores of stairs that led to her room, and take her seat at the window. Many combinations did those spikes upon the wall assume, many light shapes did the strong iron weave itself into, many golden touches fell upon the rust, while Little Dorrit sat there musing. New zig-zags sprung into the cruel pattern sometimes, when she saw it through a burst of tears; but beautified or hardened still, always over it and under it and through it, she was fain to look in her solitude, seeing everything with that ineffaceable brand.
To her own room, a strangely mismatched space for her fragile youth and personality, she was happy to retreat as often as she could without neglecting any responsibilities. There were afternoons when she had nothing to do, when visitors would come by to play cards with her father, when she could slip away and it was better for her to be gone. Then she would glide across the yard, climb the many stairs that led to her room, and settle at the window. Many shapes did those spikes on the wall take on, many delicate forms did the strong iron create, many golden highlights fell upon the rust while Little Dorrit sat there lost in thought. New zig-zags sometimes appeared in the harsh pattern when she viewed it through a stream of tears; but whether made beautiful or hardened, she always found herself looking at it in her solitude, seeing everything with that indelible mark.
A garret, and a Marshalsea garret without compromise, was Little Dorrit’s room. Beautifully kept, it was ugly in itself, and had little but cleanliness and air to set it off; for what embellishment she had ever been able to buy, had gone to her father’s room. Howbeit, for this poor place she showed an increasing love; and to sit in it alone became her favourite rest.
A garret, specifically a Marshalsea garret without any luxuries, was Little Dorrit’s room. It was well-maintained, yet unattractive on its own, with only cleanliness and fresh air to make it feel decent; everything she had managed to buy for decoration went to her father’s room. Still, she began to grow fonder of this modest space, and spending time alone in it became her favorite way to relax.
Insomuch, that on a certain afternoon during the Pancks mysteries, when she was seated at her window, and heard Maggy’s well-known step coming up the stairs, she was very much disturbed by the apprehension of being summoned away. As Maggy’s step came higher up and nearer, she trembled and faltered; and it was as much as she could do to speak, when Maggy at length appeared.
So, one afternoon during the Pancks mysteries, while she was sitting by her window and heard Maggy’s familiar footsteps coming up the stairs, she was really anxious about the possibility of being called away. As Maggy’s footsteps got closer, she shook and hesitated; she could hardly manage to speak when Maggy finally showed up.
‘Please, Little Mother,’ said Maggy, panting for breath, ‘you must come down and see him. He’s here.’
‘Please, Little Mother,’ said Maggy, out of breath, ‘you have to come down and see him. He’s here.’
‘Who, Maggy?’
"Who, Maggy?"
‘Who, o’ course Mr Clennam. He’s in your father’s room, and he says to me, Maggy, will you be so kind and go and say it’s only me.’
‘Who, of course, is Mr. Clennam. He’s in your father’s room, and he says to me, Maggy, will you be so kind and go tell him it’s just me.’
‘I am not very well, Maggy. I had better not go. I am going to lie down. See! I lie down now, to ease my head. Say, with my grateful regard, that you left me so, or I would have come.’
‘I’m not feeling great, Maggy. I should probably stay home. I'm going to lie down. See? I’m lying down now to rest my head. Please tell them, with my thanks, that you found me like this, or I would have come.’
‘Well, it an’t very polite though, Little Mother,’ said the staring Maggy, ‘to turn your face away, neither!’
‘Well, it’s not very polite, though, Little Mother,’ said the staring Maggy, ‘to turn your face away, either!’
Maggy was very susceptible to personal slights, and very ingenious in inventing them. ‘Putting both your hands afore your face too!’ she went on. ‘If you can’t bear the looks of a poor thing, it would be better to tell her so at once, and not go and shut her out like that, hurting her feelings and breaking her heart at ten year old, poor thing!’
Maggy was really sensitive to personal insults and quite creative in coming up with them. “Covering your face with your hands too!” she continued. “If you can’t stand the sight of a poor girl, it would be better to just tell her that right away, instead of shutting her out like this, hurting her feelings and breaking her heart when she’s just ten years old, poor thing!”
‘It’s to ease my head, Maggy.’
‘It’s to clear my mind, Maggy.’
‘Well, and if you cry to ease your head, Little Mother, let me cry too. Don’t go and have all the crying to yourself,’ expostulated Maggy, ‘that an’t not being greedy.’ And immediately began to blubber.
‘Well, if you need to cry to feel better, Little Mother, let me cry too. Don’t keep all the crying to yourself,’ Maggy said, ‘that’s just selfish.’ And she immediately started to sob.
It was with some difficulty that she could be induced to go back with the excuse; but the promise of being told a story—of old her great delight—on condition that she concentrated her faculties upon the errand and left her little mistress to herself for an hour longer, combined with a misgiving on Maggy’s part that she had left her good temper at the bottom of the staircase, prevailed. So away she went, muttering her message all the way to keep it in her mind, and, at the appointed time, came back.
It wasn't easy to get her to go back with the excuse; however, the promise of hearing a story—something she used to love—if she focused on the task and left her little mistress alone for one more hour, along with a nagging feeling that she'd lost her good mood at the bottom of the stairs, convinced her. So off she went, mumbling her message to remember it, and returned at the scheduled time.
‘He was very sorry, I can tell you,’ she announced, ‘and wanted to send a doctor. And he’s coming again to-morrow he is and I don’t think he’ll have a good sleep to-night along o’ hearing about your head, Little Mother. Oh my! Ain’t you been a-crying!’
‘He was really sorry, I can tell you,’ she said, ‘and wanted to send a doctor. And he’s coming again tomorrow, he is, and I don’t think he’ll sleep well tonight knowing about your head, Little Mother. Oh my! Haven’t you been crying!’
‘I think I have, a little, Maggy.’
‘I think I have, a little, Maggy.’
‘A little! Oh!’
"A bit! Oh!"
‘But it’s all over now—all over for good, Maggy. And my head is much better and cooler, and I am quite comfortable. I am very glad I did not go down.’
‘But it’s all over now—all over for good, Maggy. And I feel much better and clearer-headed, and I’m really comfortable. I’m really glad I didn’t go down.’
Her great staring child tenderly embraced her; and having smoothed her hair, and bathed her forehead and eyes with cold water (offices in which her awkward hands became skilful), hugged her again, exulted in her brighter looks, and stationed her in her chair by the window. Over against this chair, Maggy, with apoplectic exertions that were not at all required, dragged the box which was her seat on story-telling occasions, sat down upon it, hugged her own knees, and said, with a voracious appetite for stories, and with widely-opened eyes:
Her big, staring child lovingly embraced her; and after smoothing her hair and washing her forehead and eyes with cold water (tasks her clumsy hands became skilled at), hugged her again, delighted in her brighter appearance, and set her in her chair by the window. Facing this chair, Maggy, with unnecessary effort, pulled over the box she used for story-telling, sat down on it, hugged her knees, and said, with a ravenous eagerness for stories and wide-open eyes:
‘Now, Little Mother, let’s have a good ‘un!’
‘Now, Little Mother, let’s have a good one!’
‘What shall it be about, Maggy?’
‘What will it be about, Maggy?’
‘Oh, let’s have a princess,’ said Maggy, ‘and let her be a reg’lar one. Beyond all belief, you know!’
‘Oh, let’s have a princess,’ said Maggy, ‘and let her be a real one. Beyond all belief, you know!’
Little Dorrit considered for a moment; and with a rather sad smile upon her face, which was flushed by the sunset, began:
Little Dorrit thought for a moment, and with a somewhat sad smile on her face, which was warmed by the sunset, began:
Original
‘Maggy, there was once upon a time a fine King, and he had everything he could wish for, and a great deal more. He had gold and silver, diamonds and rubies, riches of every kind. He had palaces, and he had—’
‘Maggy, once upon a time there was a great King who had everything he could ever want and even more. He had gold and silver, diamonds and rubies, all kinds of riches. He had palaces, and he had—’
‘Hospitals,’ interposed Maggy, still nursing her knees. ‘Let him have hospitals, because they’re so comfortable. Hospitals with lots of Chicking.’
‘Hospitals,’ Maggy interrupted, still hugging her knees. ‘Let him have hospitals because they're so comfy. Hospitals with lots of Chicking.’
‘Yes, he had plenty of them, and he had plenty of everything.’
‘Yes, he had a lot of them, and he had a lot of everything.’
‘Plenty of baked potatoes, for instance?’ said Maggy.
“Plenty of baked potatoes, for example?” said Maggy.
‘Plenty of everything.’
"Lots of everything."
‘Lor!’ chuckled Maggy, giving her knees a hug. ‘Wasn’t it prime!’
‘Wow!’ chuckled Maggy, hugging her knees. ‘Wasn’t it great!’
‘This King had a daughter, who was the wisest and most beautiful Princess that ever was seen. When she was a child she understood all her lessons before her masters taught them to her; and when she was grown up, she was the wonder of the world. Now, near the Palace where this Princess lived, there was a cottage in which there was a poor little tiny woman, who lived all alone by herself.’
‘This King had a daughter, who was the wisest and most beautiful Princess anyone had ever seen. As a child, she grasped all her lessons before her teachers even got to them; and as she grew up, she became the marvel of the world. Now, close to the Palace where this Princess lived, there was a cottage where a poor little tiny woman lived all by herself.’
‘An old woman,’ said Maggy, with an unctuous smack of her lips.
‘An old woman,’ said Maggy, with a greasy smack of her lips.
‘No, not an old woman. Quite a young one.’
‘No, not an old woman. A young one.’
‘I wonder she warn’t afraid,’ said Maggy. ‘Go on, please.’
‘I wonder why she wasn’t afraid,’ said Maggy. ‘Go on, please.’
‘The Princess passed the cottage nearly every day, and whenever she went by in her beautiful carriage, she saw the poor tiny woman spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked at her. So, one day she stopped the coachman a little way from the cottage, and got out and walked on and peeped in at the door, and there, as usual, was the tiny woman spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the Princess, and the Princess looked at her.’
The Princess passed by the cottage almost every day, and every time she drove by in her beautiful carriage, she saw the little woman spinning at her wheel. They exchanged glances. One day, she asked the coachman to stop a little distance from the cottage, got out, walked over, and peeked inside. There, just like always, was the little woman spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the Princess, and the Princess looked back at her.
‘Like trying to stare one another out,’ said Maggy. ‘Please go on, Little Mother.’
‘It's like trying to outstare each other,’ said Maggy. ‘Please continue, Little Mother.’
‘The Princess was such a wonderful Princess that she had the power of knowing secrets, and she said to the tiny woman, Why do you keep it there? This showed her directly that the Princess knew why she lived all alone by herself spinning at her wheel, and she kneeled down at the Princess’s feet, and asked her never to betray her. So the Princess said, I never will betray you. Let me see it. So the tiny woman closed the shutter of the cottage window and fastened the door, and trembling from head to foot for fear that any one should suspect her, opened a very secret place and showed the Princess a shadow.’
‘The Princess was such a remarkable Princess that she had the ability to know secrets, and she asked the tiny woman, “Why do you keep it there?” This made it clear to her that the Princess understood why she lived all alone, spinning at her wheel. The tiny woman knelt at the Princess’s feet and begged her never to reveal her secret. The Princess replied, “I will never betray you. Let me see it.” So the tiny woman closed the shutter of the cottage window, locked the door, and trembling all over with fear that someone might suspect her, she opened a hidden space and showed the Princess a shadow.’
‘Lor!’ said Maggy.
"Wow!" said Maggy.
‘It was the shadow of Some one who had gone by long before: of Some one who had gone on far away quite out of reach, never, never to come back. It was bright to look at; and when the tiny woman showed it to the Princess, she was proud of it with all her heart, as a great, great treasure. When the Princess had considered it a little while, she said to the tiny woman, And you keep watch over this every day? And she cast down her eyes, and whispered, Yes. Then the Princess said, Remind me why. To which the other replied, that no one so good and kind had ever passed that way, and that was why in the beginning. She said, too, that nobody missed it, that nobody was the worse for it, that Some one had gone on, to those who were expecting him—’
"It was the shadow of someone who had passed by a long time ago: someone who had gone far away, completely out of reach, never to return. It was beautiful to look at; and when the tiny woman showed it to the Princess, she was wholeheartedly proud of it, like it was a great treasure. After the Princess thought about it for a bit, she asked the tiny woman, 'Do you keep an eye on this every day?' The tiny woman lowered her eyes and whispered, 'Yes.' Then the Princess asked, 'Can you remind me why?' The tiny woman replied that no one so good and kind had ever gone that way, and that was the reason in the beginning. She also said that nobody missed it, that nobody was worse off because of it, that someone had moved on to those who were waiting for him—"
‘Some one was a man then?’ interposed Maggy.
“Was there really a man then?” Maggy interrupted.
Little Dorrit timidly said Yes, she believed so; and resumed:
Little Dorrit quietly replied that yes, she thought so; and continued:
‘—Had gone on to those who were expecting him, and that this remembrance was stolen or kept back from nobody. The Princess made answer, Ah! But when the cottager died it would be discovered there. The tiny woman told her No; when that time came, it would sink quietly into her own grave, and would never be found.’
‘—Had gone on to those who were waiting for him, and that this memory was neither taken nor held back from anyone. The Princess replied, Ah! But when the cottager died it would be found there. The small woman told her No; when that time came, it would quietly sink into her own grave, and would never be discovered.’
‘Well, to be sure!’ said Maggy. ‘Go on, please.’
‘Well, for sure!’ said Maggy. ‘Go ahead, please.’
‘The Princess was very much astonished to hear this, as you may suppose, Maggy.’
'The Princess was quite surprised to hear this, as you can imagine, Maggy.'
(‘And well she might be,’ said Maggy.)
(‘And well she might be,’ said Maggy.)
‘So she resolved to watch the tiny woman, and see what came of it. Every day she drove in her beautiful carriage by the cottage-door, and there she saw the tiny woman always alone by herself spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked at her. At last one day the wheel was still, and the tiny woman was not to be seen. When the Princess made inquiries why the wheel had stopped, and where the tiny woman was, she was informed that the wheel had stopped because there was nobody to turn it, the tiny woman being dead.’
'So she decided to keep an eye on the little woman and see what happened. Every day she drove her beautiful carriage past the cottage, and there she saw the little woman always alone, spinning at her wheel. The Princess looked at the little woman, and the little woman looked back at her. Finally, one day the wheel was silent, and the little woman was nowhere to be found. When the Princess asked why the wheel had stopped and where the little woman was, she was told that the wheel had stopped because there was no one to turn it, the little woman having passed away.'
(‘They ought to have took her to the Hospital,’ said Maggy, and then she’d have got over it.’)
(‘They should have taken her to the hospital,’ said Maggy, and then she would have gotten over it.’)
‘The Princess, after crying a very little for the loss of the tiny woman, dried her eyes and got out of her carriage at the place where she had stopped it before, and went to the cottage and peeped in at the door. There was nobody to look at her now, and nobody for her to look at, so she went in at once to search for the treasured shadow. But there was no sign of it to be found anywhere; and then she knew that the tiny woman had told her the truth, and that it would never give anybody any trouble, and that it had sunk quietly into her own grave, and that she and it were at rest together.
The Princess, after shedding a few tears for the loss of the tiny woman, wiped her eyes and got out of her carriage at the same spot as before. She walked to the cottage and peeked through the door. There was no one to see her now, and no one for her to see, so she entered right away to look for the cherished shadow. But there was no trace of it anywhere; then she realized the tiny woman had spoken the truth, that it would never be a burden to anyone, and that it had quietly settled into her own grave, and that she and it were at peace together.
‘That’s all, Maggy.’
"That's everything, Maggy."
The sunset flush was so bright on Little Dorrit’s face when she came thus to the end of her story, that she interposed her hand to shade it.
The sunset glow was so bright on Little Dorrit’s face when she finished her story that she held up her hand to shield it.
‘Had she got to be old?’ Maggy asked.
‘Did she have to get old?’ Maggy asked.
‘The tiny woman?’
‘The small woman?’
‘Ah!’
‘Oh!’
‘I don’t know,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But it would have been just the same if she had been ever so old.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But it would have been exactly the same even if she had been really old.’
‘Would it raly!’ said Maggy. ‘Well, I suppose it would though.’ And sat staring and ruminating.
‘Would it really!’ said Maggy. ‘Well, I guess it would though.’ And she sat there staring and thinking.
She sat so long with her eyes wide open, that at length Little Dorrit, to entice her from her box, rose and looked out of window. As she glanced down into the yard, she saw Pancks come in and leer up with the corner of his eye as he went by.
She sat for so long with her eyes wide open that eventually Little Dorrit, trying to lure her from her spot, got up and looked out the window. As she glanced down into the yard, she saw Pancks come in and give a sly look up with the corner of his eye as he passed by.
‘Who’s he, Little Mother?’ said Maggy. She had joined her at the window and was leaning on her shoulder. ‘I see him come in and out often.’
‘Who’s he, Little Mother?’ Maggy asked. She had joined her at the window and was leaning on her shoulder. ‘I see him coming in and out often.’
‘I have heard him called a fortune-teller,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But I doubt if he could tell many people even their past or present fortunes.’
"I've heard him referred to as a fortune-teller," said Little Dorrit. "But I doubt he could tell many people even their past or present fortunes."
‘Couldn’t have told the Princess hers?’ said Maggy.
‘Couldn’t you have told the Princess hers?’ said Maggy.
Little Dorrit, looking musingly down into the dark valley of the prison, shook her head.
Little Dorrit, thoughtfully gazing down into the dark valley of the prison, shook her head.
‘Nor the tiny woman hers?’ said Maggy.
‘Nor the little woman hers?’ said Maggy.
‘No,’ said Little Dorrit, with the sunset very bright upon her. ‘But let us come away from the window.’
‘No,’ said Little Dorrit, with the sunset shining brightly on her. ‘But let’s step away from the window.’
CHAPTER 25. Conspirators and Others
The private residence of Mr Pancks was in Pentonville, where he lodged on the second-floor of a professional gentleman in an extremely small way, who had an inner-door within the street door, poised on a spring and starting open with a click like a trap; and who wrote up in the fan-light, RUGG, GENERAL AGENT, ACCOUNTANT, DEBTS RECOVERED.
The home of Mr. Pancks was in Pentonville, where he rented a room on the second floor from a very minor professional man. This man had an inner door behind the street door that opened with a spring and clicked open like a trap; he had "RUGG, GENERAL AGENT, ACCOUNTANT, DEBTS RECOVERED" written in the fanlight above.
This scroll, majestic in its severe simplicity, illuminated a little slip of front garden abutting on the thirsty high-road, where a few of the dustiest of leaves hung their dismal heads and led a life of choking. A professor of writing occupied the first-floor, and enlivened the garden railings with glass-cases containing choice examples of what his pupils had been before six lessons and while the whole of his young family shook the table, and what they had become after six lessons when the young family was under restraint. The tenancy of Mr Pancks was limited to one airy bedroom; he covenanting and agreeing with Mr Rugg his landlord, that in consideration of a certain scale of payments accurately defined, and on certain verbal notice duly given, he should be at liberty to elect to share the Sunday breakfast, dinner, tea, or supper, or each or any or all of those repasts or meals of Mr and Miss Rugg (his daughter) in the back-parlour.
This scroll, grand in its stark simplicity, lit up a little patch of front garden next to the dusty road, where a few of the most beaten-down leaves drooped sadly and struggled to survive. A writing professor lived on the second floor and decorated the garden railings with display cases showcasing what his students had produced before taking six lessons, while the entire young family wobbled the table, and what they had created after six lessons when the kids were kept in check. Mr. Pancks’s lease was limited to one breezy bedroom; he agreed with his landlord, Mr. Rugg, that for a specific set of payments clearly outlined, and with proper verbal notice given, he would have the option to join Mr. and Miss Rugg (his daughter) for Sunday breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, or any combination of those meals in the back parlor.
Miss Rugg was a lady of a little property which she had acquired, together with much distinction in the neighbourhood, by having her heart severely lacerated and her feelings mangled by a middle-aged baker resident in the vicinity, against whom she had, by the agency of Mr Rugg, found it necessary to proceed at law to recover damages for a breach of promise of marriage. The baker having been, by the counsel for Miss Rugg, witheringly denounced on that occasion up to the full amount of twenty guineas, at the rate of about eighteen-pence an epithet, and having been cast in corresponding damages, still suffered occasional persecution from the youth of Pentonville. But Miss Rugg, environed by the majesty of the law, and having her damages invested in the public securities, was regarded with consideration.
Miss Rugg was a woman of modest means that she had gained, along with a good reputation in the neighborhood, by having her heart severely broken and her emotions hurt by a middle-aged baker living nearby. She felt it necessary, with the help of Mr. Rugg, to take legal action against him to recover damages for a broken promise of marriage. During the trial, the baker was harshly criticized by Miss Rugg's lawyer, to the tune of twenty guineas, which worked out to about eighteen pence per insult, and after being ordered to pay corresponding damages, he continued to face occasional ridicule from the young people of Pentonville. However, Miss Rugg, protected by the law and having her damages invested in government securities, was treated with respect.
In the society of Mr Rugg, who had a round white visage, as if all his blushes had been drawn out of him long ago, and who had a ragged yellow head like a worn-out hearth broom; and in the society of Miss Rugg, who had little nankeen spots, like shirt buttons, all over her face, and whose own yellow tresses were rather scrubby than luxuriant; Mr Pancks had usually dined on Sundays for some few years, and had twice a week, or so, enjoyed an evening collation of bread, Dutch cheese, and porter. Mr Pancks was one of the very few marriageable men for whom Miss Rugg had no terrors, the argument with which he reassured himself being twofold; that is to say, firstly, ‘that it wouldn’t do twice,’ and secondly, ‘that he wasn’t worth it.’ Fortified within this double armour, Mr Pancks snorted at Miss Rugg on easy terms.
In Mr. Rugg's company, who had a round, pale face as if all his blushes had been drained away long ago, and a scraggly yellow head like a worn-out broom, and in the company of Miss Rugg, who had little yellow spots like shirt buttons all over her face, and whose own yellow hair was more frizzy than luxurious; Mr. Pancks usually had dinner on Sundays for a few years and enjoyed a light meal of bread, Dutch cheese, and porter about twice a week. Mr. Pancks was one of the very few eligible bachelors who didn’t scare Miss Rugg, his reasoning being twofold; first, “it wouldn’t happen again,” and second, “he wasn’t worth it.” Armed with this double defense, Mr. Pancks interacted with Miss Rugg comfortably.
Up to this time, Mr Pancks had transacted little or no business at his quarters in Pentonville, except in the sleeping line; but now that he had become a fortune-teller, he was often closeted after midnight with Mr Rugg in his little front-parlour office, and even after those untimely hours, burnt tallow in his bed-room. Though his duties as his proprietor’s grubber were in no wise lessened; and though that service bore no greater resemblance to a bed of roses than was to be discovered in its many thorns; some new branch of industry made a constant demand upon him. When he cast off the Patriarch at night, it was only to take an anonymous craft in tow, and labour away afresh in other waters.
Up to this point, Mr. Pancks had done little or no business at his place in Pentonville, except for sleeping there; but now that he had taken up fortune-telling, he often met with Mr. Rugg late at night in his small front-parlor office, and even after those late hours, was burning tallow in his bedroom. Although his responsibilities as his boss’s “grubber” didn’t decrease at all, and that job was far from being easy, with its many challenges, a new line of work kept him busy. When he finished his day job at night, it was only to take on another task and keep working in a different field.
The advance from a personal acquaintance with the elder Mr Chivery to an introduction to his amiable wife and disconsolate son, may have been easy; but easy or not, Mr Pancks soon made it. He nestled in the bosom of the tobacco business within a week or two after his first appearance in the College, and particularly addressed himself to the cultivation of a good understanding with Young John. In this endeavour he so prospered as to lure that pining shepherd forth from the groves, and tempt him to undertake mysterious missions; on which he began to disappear at uncertain intervals for as long a space as two or three days together. The prudent Mrs Chivery, who wondered greatly at this change, would have protested against it as detrimental to the Highland typification on the doorpost but for two forcible reasons; one, that her John was roused to take strong interest in the business which these starts were supposed to advance—and this she held to be good for his drooping spirits; the other, that Mr Pancks confidentially agreed to pay her, for the occupation of her son’s time, at the handsome rate of seven and sixpence per day. The proposal originated with himself, and was couched in the pithy terms, ‘If your John is weak enough, ma’am, not to take it, that is no reason why you should be, don’t you see? So, quite between ourselves, ma’am, business being business, here it is!’
The transition from knowing Mr. Chivery to meeting his friendly wife and sad son might have been straightforward; whether it was or not, Mr. Pancks quickly made it happen. Within a week or two of his first visit to the College, he integrated himself into the tobacco business and particularly focused on building a good relationship with Young John. He succeeded to the point of coaxing the gloomy young man out of his usual world and persuading him to take on secret tasks, leading to John's occasional absences of two or three days at a time. The sensible Mrs. Chivery was quite puzzled by this change and would have objected, believing it harmed the Highland representation on the doorpost, if not for two compelling reasons: first, her son was now genuinely interested in the business these outings were meant to support, which she thought would benefit his low spirits; second, Mr. Pancks had confidentially offered to pay her a generous seven shillings and sixpence a day for her son's time. The proposal came directly from him and was put plainly: “If your John is foolish enough, ma’am, not to accept it, that’s no reason for you to be—don’t you see? So, just between us, ma’am, business is business, here it is!”
What Mr Chivery thought of these things, or how much or how little he knew about them, was never gathered from himself. It has been already remarked that he was a man of few words; and it may be here observed that he had imbibed a professional habit of locking everything up. He locked himself up as carefully as he locked up the Marshalsea debtors. Even his custom of bolting his meals may have been a part of an uniform whole; but there is no question, that, as to all other purposes, he kept his mouth as he kept the Marshalsea door. He never opened it without occasion. When it was necessary to let anything out, he opened it a little way, held it open just as long as sufficed for the purpose, and locked it again. Even as he would be sparing of his trouble at the Marshalsea door, and would keep a visitor who wanted to go out, waiting for a few moments if he saw another visitor coming down the yard, so that one turn of the key should suffice for both, similarly he would often reserve a remark if he perceived another on its way to his lips, and would deliver himself of the two together. As to any key to his inner knowledge being to be found in his face, the Marshalsea key was as legible as an index to the individual characters and histories upon which it was turned.
What Mr. Chivery thought about these things, or how much he knew about them, was never learned from him. It’s already been noted that he was a man of few words; it can also be said that he had developed a professional habit of keeping everything to himself. He locked his feelings up as carefully as he locked up the Marshalsea debtors. Even his habit of bolting his meals might have been part of a consistent pattern; but there’s no doubt that, for all other matters, he kept his mouth shut just like he kept the Marshalsea door. He never opened it without a reason. When he had to let something out, he would crack it open just enough, hold it open only as long as necessary, and then lock it again. Just as he would minimize his effort at the Marshalsea door, making a visitor who wanted to leave wait a moment if he saw another visitor coming to the yard so that he could use the key just once for both, he would often hold back a comment if he noticed another thought ready to come out, and would share both together. As far as finding a key to his deeper thoughts in his face, the Marshalsea key was as clear as an index to the individual stories and characters it was meant to unlock.
That Mr Pancks should be moved to invite any one to dinner at Pentonville, was an unprecedented fact in his calendar. But he invited Young John to dinner, and even brought him within range of the dangerous (because expensive) fascinations of Miss Rugg. The banquet was appointed for a Sunday, and Miss Rugg with her own hands stuffed a leg of mutton with oysters on the occasion, and sent it to the baker’s—not the baker’s but an opposition establishment. Provision of oranges, apples, and nuts was also made. And rum was brought home by Mr Pancks on Saturday night, to gladden the visitor’s heart.
That Mr. Pancks invited anyone to dinner at Pentonville was an unprecedented event in his life. But he invited Young John to dinner and even brought him close to the tempting (because costly) charms of Miss Rugg. The dinner was set for a Sunday, and Miss Rugg personally stuffed a leg of mutton with oysters for the occasion and sent it to the baker—not her usual baker but a competitor. They also prepared oranges, apples, and nuts. Mr. Pancks brought home rum on Saturday night to please their guest.
The store of creature comforts was not the chief part of the visitor’s reception. Its special feature was a foregone family confidence and sympathy. When Young John appeared at half-past one without the ivory hand and waistcoat of golden sprigs, the sun shorn of his beams by disastrous clouds, Mr Pancks presented him to the yellow-haired Ruggs as the young man he had so often mentioned who loved Miss Dorrit.
The shop of creature comforts wasn't the main focus of the visitor's welcome. What really stood out was the deep family trust and understanding. When Young John showed up at 1:30 without the ivory hand and waistcoat covered in golden sprigs, with the sun blocked by gloomy clouds, Mr. Pancks introduced him to the blonde Ruggs as the young man he had frequently mentioned who adored Miss Dorrit.
‘I am glad,’ said Mr Rugg, challenging him specially in that character, ‘to have the distinguished gratification of making your acquaintance, sir. Your feelings do you honour. You are young; may you never outlive your feelings! If I was to outlive my own feelings, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, who was a man of many words, and was considered to possess a remarkably good address; ‘if I was to outlive my own feelings, I’d leave fifty pound in my will to the man who would put me out of existence.’
“I’m glad,” said Mr. Rugg, specifically challenging him in that way, “to have the pleasure of meeting you, sir. Your emotions are commendable. You’re young; may you never lose that sensitivity! If I were to lose my own feelings, sir,” Mr. Rugg continued, a man known for his verbosity and great conversational skills, “if I were to lose my own feelings, I’d leave fifty pounds in my will to the person who could end my life.”
Miss Rugg heaved a sigh.
Miss Rugg sighed.
‘My daughter, sir,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘Anastatia, you are no stranger to the state of this young man’s affections. My daughter has had her trials, sir’—Mr Rugg might have used the word more pointedly in the singular number—‘and she can feel for you.’
‘My daughter, sir,’ said Mr. Rugg. ‘Anastatia, you know all about this young man's feelings. My daughter has been through a lot, sir’—Mr. Rugg could have been more specific about the singular experience—‘and she can empathize with you.’
Young John, almost overwhelmed by the touching nature of this greeting, professed himself to that effect.
Young John, nearly overwhelmed by the heartfelt nature of this greeting, expressed his feelings about it.
‘What I envy you, sir, is,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘allow me to take your hat—we are rather short of pegs—I’ll put it in the corner, nobody will tread on it there—What I envy you, sir, is the luxury of your own feelings. I belong to a profession in which that luxury is sometimes denied us.’
‘What I envy you, sir, is,’ said Mr. Rugg, ‘let me take your hat—we're a bit short on hooks—I’ll put it in the corner, no one will step on it there—What I envy you, sir, is the luxury of having your own feelings. I work in a profession where that luxury is sometimes denied to us.’
Young John replied, with acknowledgments, that he only hoped he did what was right, and what showed how entirely he was devoted to Miss Dorrit. He wished to be unselfish; and he hoped he was. He wished to do anything as laid in his power to serve Miss Dorrit, altogether putting himself out of sight; and he hoped he did. It was but little that he could do, but he hoped he did it.
Young John replied, acknowledging that he just hoped he did the right thing and that it showed how completely he was devoted to Miss Dorrit. He wanted to be selfless, and he hoped he was. He wanted to do anything he could to help Miss Dorrit, completely putting himself aside; and he hoped he succeeded. It was just a little that he could do, but he hoped he did it.
‘Sir,’ said Mr Rugg, taking him by the hand, ‘you are a young man that it does one good to come across. You are a young man that I should like to put in the witness-box, to humanise the minds of the legal profession. I hope you have brought your appetite with you, and intend to play a good knife and fork?’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Rugg, shaking his hand, ‘you’re a young man who’s a breath of fresh air. You’re someone I’d like to put on the stand to give the legal profession a dose of humanity. I hope you’ve come with an appetite and plan to eat well?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ returned Young John, ‘I don’t eat much at present.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Young John replied, ‘I’m not eating much right now.’
Mr Rugg drew him a little apart. ‘My daughter’s case, sir,’ said he, ‘at the time when, in vindication of her outraged feelings and her sex, she became the plaintiff in Rugg and Bawkins. I suppose I could have put it in evidence, Mr Chivery, if I had thought it worth my while, that the amount of solid sustenance my daughter consumed at that period did not exceed ten ounces per week.’
Mr. Rugg pulled him aside. "Regarding my daughter's situation, sir," he said, "at the time when, to stand up for her hurt feelings and her dignity, she became the plaintiff in Rugg and Bawkins. I suppose I could have brought this up, Mr. Chivery, if I had thought it mattered, that the amount of actual food my daughter ate during that time was less than ten ounces a week."
‘I think I go a little beyond that, sir,’ returned the other, hesitating, as if he confessed it with some shame.
‘I think I might go a bit further than that, sir,’ the other replied, hesitating, as if admitting it with some embarrassment.
‘But in your case there’s no fiend in human form,’ said Mr Rugg, with argumentative smile and action of hand. ‘Observe, Mr Chivery! No fiend in human form!’
‘But in your case, there’s no evil person in human form,’ said Mr. Rugg, with a debating smile and gesture of his hand. ‘Look, Mr. Chivery! No evil person in human form!’
‘No, sir, certainly,’ Young John added with simplicity, ‘I should be very sorry if there was.’
‘No, sir, of course,’ Young John added sincerely, ‘I would be very sorry if there was.’
‘The sentiment,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘is what I should have expected from your known principles. It would affect my daughter greatly, sir, if she heard it. As I perceive the mutton, I am glad she didn’t hear it. Mr Pancks, on this occasion, pray face me. My dear, face Mr Chivery. For what we are going to receive, may we (and Miss Dorrit) be truly thankful!’
“The feeling,” said Mr. Rugg, “is exactly what I would have expected from your well-known beliefs. It would upset my daughter a lot, sir, if she heard it. Given the way things are going, I’m relieved she didn’t hear it. Mr. Pancks, this time, please look at me. My dear, look at Mr. Chivery. For what we are about to receive, may we (and Miss Dorrit) be genuinely thankful!”
But for a grave waggishness in Mr Rugg’s manner of delivering this introduction to the feast, it might have appeared that Miss Dorrit was expected to be one of the company. Pancks recognised the sally in his usual way, and took in his provender in his usual way. Miss Rugg, perhaps making up some of her arrears, likewise took very kindly to the mutton, and it rapidly diminished to the bone. A bread-and-butter pudding entirely disappeared, and a considerable amount of cheese and radishes vanished by the same means. Then came the dessert.
But for Mr. Rugg's sarcastic way of introducing the feast, it might have seemed like Miss Dorrit was expected to join the gathering. Pancks caught the joke as he usually did, and ate his food in his usual manner. Miss Rugg, perhaps trying to make up for lost time, also enjoyed the mutton, which quickly disappeared to the bone. A bread-and-butter pudding was completely devoured, and a substantial amount of cheese and radishes vanished just as fast. Then the dessert was served.
Then also, and before the broaching of the rum and water, came Mr Pancks’s note-book. The ensuing business proceedings were brief but curious, and rather in the nature of a conspiracy. Mr Pancks looked over his note-book, which was now getting full, studiously; and picked out little extracts, which he wrote on separate slips of paper on the table; Mr Rugg, in the meanwhile, looking at him with close attention, and Young John losing his uncollected eye in mists of meditation. When Mr Pancks, who supported the character of chief conspirator, had completed his extracts, he looked them over, corrected them, put up his note-book, and held them like a hand at cards.
Then, before they started pouring the rum and water, Mr. Pancks pulled out his notebook. The business that followed was short but interesting, almost like a secret meeting. Mr. Pancks carefully examined his notebook, which was nearly full, and selected small excerpts that he wrote on separate slips of paper on the table. Meanwhile, Mr. Rugg watched him closely, while Young John stared off into space, lost in thought. Once Mr. Pancks, who was playing the role of the main conspirator, finished his excerpts, he reviewed them, made corrections, closed his notebook, and held the slips of paper like a hand of cards.
‘Now, there’s a churchyard in Bedfordshire,’ said Pancks. ‘Who takes it?’
‘So, there’s a churchyard in Bedfordshire,’ said Pancks. ‘Who manages it?’
‘I’ll take it, sir,’ returned Mr Rugg, ‘if no one bids.’
“I’ll take it, sir,” replied Mr. Rugg, “if no one else bids.”
Mr Pancks dealt him his card, and looked at his hand again.
Mr. Pancks dealt him his card and glanced at his hand again.
‘Now, there’s an Enquiry in York,’ said Pancks. ‘Who takes it?’
“Now, there’s an inquiry in York,” said Pancks. “Who’s handling it?”
‘I’m not good for York,’ said Mr Rugg.
‘I’m not good for York,’ said Mr. Rugg.
‘Then perhaps,’ pursued Pancks, ‘you’ll be so obliging, John Chivery?’
‘Then maybe,’ continued Pancks, ‘you’ll be so kind, John Chivery?’
Young John assenting, Pancks dealt him his card, and consulted his hand again.
Young John agreed, and Pancks handed him his card while checking his hand again.
‘There’s a Church in London; I may as well take that. And a Family Bible; I may as well take that, too. That’s two to me. Two to me,’ repeated Pancks, breathing hard over his cards. ‘Here’s a Clerk at Durham for you, John, and an old seafaring gentleman at Dunstable for you, Mr Rugg. Two to me, was it? Yes, two to me. Here’s a Stone; three to me. And a Still-born Baby; four to me. And all, for the present, told.’
“There’s a church in London; I might as well take that. And a family Bible; I might as well take that too. That’s two for me. Two for me,” repeated Pancks, breathing hard over his cards. “Here’s a clerk at Durham for you, John, and an old sea captain at Dunstable for you, Mr. Rugg. Two for me, right? Yes, two for me. Here’s a stone; three for me. And a stillborn baby; four for me. And that’s all for now.”
When he had thus disposed of his cards, all being done very quietly and in a suppressed tone, Mr Pancks puffed his way into his own breast-pocket and tugged out a canvas bag; from which, with a sparing hand, he told forth money for travelling expenses in two little portions. ‘Cash goes out fast,’ he said anxiously, as he pushed a portion to each of his male companions, ‘very fast.’
When he had sorted out his cards, all done quietly and in a low voice, Mr. Pancks pulled a canvas bag from his breast pocket. He carefully took out money for travel expenses in two small amounts. “Cash disappears quickly,” he said nervously, as he handed one portion to each of his male companions, “very quickly.”
‘I can only assure you, Mr Pancks,’ said Young John, ‘that I deeply regret my circumstances being such that I can’t afford to pay my own charges, or that it’s not advisable to allow me the time necessary for my doing the distances on foot; because nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to walk myself off my legs without fee or reward.’
"I can only assure you, Mr. Pancks," said Young John, "that I really regret my situation being such that I can't afford to pay my own expenses, or that it’s not wise to give me the time I need to cover the distances on foot; because nothing would make me happier than to walk myself into exhaustion without any pay or reward."
This young man’s disinterestedness appeared so very ludicrous in the eyes of Miss Rugg, that she was obliged to effect a precipitate retirement from the company, and to sit upon the stairs until she had had her laugh out. Meanwhile Mr Pancks, looking, not without some pity, at Young John, slowly and thoughtfully twisted up his canvas bag as if he were wringing its neck. The lady, returning as he restored it to his pocket, mixed rum and water for the party, not forgetting her fair self, and handed to every one his glass. When all were supplied, Mr Rugg rose, and silently holding out his glass at arm’s length above the centre of the table, by that gesture invited the other three to add theirs, and to unite in a general conspiratorial clink. The ceremony was effective up to a certain point, and would have been wholly so throughout, if Miss Rugg, as she raised her glass to her lips in completion of it, had not happened to look at Young John; when she was again so overcome by the contemptible comicality of his disinterestedness as to splutter some ambrosial drops of rum and water around, and withdraw in confusion.
The young man's indifference seemed so ridiculous to Miss Rugg that she had to quickly leave the group and sit on the stairs until she finished laughing. Meanwhile, Mr. Pancks, looking at Young John with a hint of pity, slowly and thoughtfully rolled up his canvas bag as if he were wringing its neck. When the lady returned, after he put it back in his pocket, she mixed rum and water for everyone, including herself, and handed out the glasses. Once everyone was served, Mr. Rugg stood up and silently extended his glass at arm's length above the center of the table, inviting the other three to raise their glasses and join in a collective toast. The moment was effective to an extent and would have been completely so if Miss Rugg hadn’t glanced at Young John just as she raised her glass to her lips. Overcome by the absurdity of his indifference, she ended up splattering some of her drink around and left in embarrassment.
Such was the dinner without precedent, given by Pancks at Pentonville; and such was the busy and strange life Pancks led. The only waking moments at which he appeared to relax from his cares, and to recreate himself by going anywhere or saying anything without a pervading object, were when he showed a dawning interest in the lame foreigner with the stick, down Bleeding Heart Yard.
Such was the unprecedented dinner hosted by Pancks at Pentonville; and such was the hectic and unusual life Pancks lived. The only times he seemed to unwind from his worries and enjoy himself by going somewhere or talking about anything without a specific purpose were when he began to show interest in the disabled foreigner with the cane, down Bleeding Heart Yard.
The foreigner, by name John Baptist Cavalletto—they called him Mr Baptist in the Yard—was such a chirping, easy, hopeful little fellow, that his attraction for Pancks was probably in the force of contrast. Solitary, weak, and scantily acquainted with the most necessary words of the only language in which he could communicate with the people about him, he went with the stream of his fortunes, in a brisk way that was new in those parts. With little to eat, and less to drink, and nothing to wear but what he wore upon him, or had brought tied up in one of the smallest bundles that ever were seen, he put as bright a face upon it as if he were in the most flourishing circumstances when he first hobbled up and down the Yard, humbly propitiating the general good-will with his white teeth.
The foreigner, named John Baptist Cavalletto—they called him Mr. Baptist in the Yard—was such a cheerful, easygoing, hopeful little guy that Pancks was probably drawn to him because of their differences. Alone, weak, and only slightly familiar with the basic words of the one language he could use to talk to the people around him, he went with the flow of his fortune, in a lively way that was fresh in that area. With hardly anything to eat, even less to drink, and only what he was wearing or had packed in one of the smallest bundles ever seen, he kept a bright attitude as if he were in the best situation when he first shuffled up and down the Yard, humbly winning over people’s goodwill with his bright smile.
It was uphill work for a foreigner, lame or sound, to make his way with the Bleeding Hearts. In the first place, they were vaguely persuaded that every foreigner had a knife about him; in the second, they held it to be a sound constitutional national axiom that he ought to go home to his own country. They never thought of inquiring how many of their own countrymen would be returned upon their hands from divers parts of the world, if the principle were generally recognised; they considered it particularly and peculiarly British. In the third place, they had a notion that it was a sort of Divine visitation upon a foreigner that he was not an Englishman, and that all kinds of calamities happened to his country because it did things that England did not, and did not do things that England did. In this belief, to be sure, they had long been carefully trained by the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings, who were always proclaiming to them, officially, that no country which failed to submit itself to those two large families could possibly hope to be under the protection of Providence; and who, when they believed it, disparaged them in private as the most prejudiced people under the sun.
It was tough for a foreigner, whether disabled or not, to fit in with the Bleeding Hearts. First, they were somewhat convinced that every foreigner carried a knife; second, they believed it was a solid national rule that foreigners should go back to their own countries. They never considered how many of their own citizens would end up back home from various parts of the world if that idea were widely accepted; they thought it was uniquely British. Third, they believed it was some sort of Divine punishment that a foreigner wasn’t English, and that all sorts of disasters befell his country because it did things differently than England. They had been carefully conditioned to think this way by the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings, who constantly told them officially that no country that didn’t submit to those two influential families could hope to enjoy Providence’s protection; and who, when they believed it, privately called them the most prejudiced people on earth.
This, therefore, might be called a political position of the Bleeding Hearts; but they entertained other objections to having foreigners in the Yard. They believed that foreigners were always badly off; and though they were as ill off themselves as they could desire to be, that did not diminish the force of the objection. They believed that foreigners were dragooned and bayoneted; and though they certainly got their own skulls promptly fractured if they showed any ill-humour, still it was with a blunt instrument, and that didn’t count. They believed that foreigners were always immoral; and though they had an occasional assize at home, and now and then a divorce case or so, that had nothing to do with it. They believed that foreigners had no independent spirit, as never being escorted to the poll in droves by Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, with colours flying and the tune of Rule Britannia playing. Not to be tedious, they had many other beliefs of a similar kind.
This could be seen as a political stance of the Bleeding Hearts; however, they had other reasons for opposing foreigners in the Yard. They thought that foreigners were always struggling; and even though they were just as miserable as they could be, that didn’t lessen the importance of their objection. They believed that foreigners were bullied and beaten; and while they definitely had their own heads cracked quickly if they showed any displeasure, it was done with a blunt object, so that didn’t really count. They believed that foreigners were always immoral; and although they occasionally had a court session at home, and now and then a divorce case, that wasn’t relevant. They believed that foreigners lacked an independent spirit, as they were never escorted to the polls in large groups by Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, with flags waving and the tune of Rule Britannia playing. To avoid being boring, they had many other similar beliefs.
Against these obstacles, the lame foreigner with the stick had to make head as well as he could; not absolutely single-handed, because Mr Arthur Clennam had recommended him to the Plornishes (he lived at the top of the same house), but still at heavy odds. However, the Bleeding Hearts were kind hearts; and when they saw the little fellow cheerily limping about with a good-humoured face, doing no harm, drawing no knives, committing no outrageous immoralities, living chiefly on farinaceous and milk diet, and playing with Mrs Plornish’s children of an evening, they began to think that although he could never hope to be an Englishman, still it would be hard to visit that affliction on his head. They began to accommodate themselves to his level, calling him ‘Mr Baptist,’ but treating him like a baby, and laughing immoderately at his lively gestures and his childish English—more, because he didn’t mind it, and laughed too. They spoke to him in very loud voices as if he were stone deaf. They constructed sentences, by way of teaching him the language in its purity, such as were addressed by the savages to Captain Cook, or by Friday to Robinson Crusoe. Mrs Plornish was particularly ingenious in this art; and attained so much celebrity for saying ‘Me ope you leg well soon,’ that it was considered in the Yard but a very short remove indeed from speaking Italian. Even Mrs Plornish herself began to think that she had a natural call towards that language. As he became more popular, household objects were brought into requisition for his instruction in a copious vocabulary; and whenever he appeared in the Yard ladies would fly out at their doors crying ‘Mr Baptist—tea-pot!’ ‘Mr Baptist—dust-pan!’ ‘Mr Baptist—flour-dredger!’ ‘Mr Baptist—coffee-biggin!’ At the same time exhibiting those articles, and penetrating him with a sense of the appalling difficulties of the Anglo-Saxon tongue.
Against these challenges, the lame foreigner with the stick had to get by as best as he could; not entirely on his own, since Mr. Arthur Clennam had introduced him to the Plornishes (he lived at the top of the same building), but he still faced tough odds. However, the Bleeding Hearts were kind-hearted; and when they saw the little guy cheerfully limping around with a friendly face, doing no harm, pulling no knives, committing no outrageous immoral acts, primarily living on a diet of grains and milk, and playing with Mrs. Plornish’s kids in the evenings, they began to think that even though he could never be an Englishman, it would be unfair to hold that against him. They started to meet him halfway, calling him ‘Mr. Baptist,’ but treating him like a toddler, and laughing a lot at his animated gestures and his childish English—more so because he didn’t mind and laughed along too. They spoke to him in very loud voices as if he were completely deaf. They constructed sentences, trying to teach him the language in its purest form, similar to what savages would say to Captain Cook, or what Friday said to Robinson Crusoe. Mrs. Plornish was particularly creative in this approach; she became so famous for saying ‘Me ope you leg well soon’ that it was considered in the Yard only a small step away from speaking Italian. Even Mrs. Plornish herself started to think she had a natural talent for that language. As he became more popular, household objects were used for teaching him an extensive vocabulary; and whenever he showed up in the Yard, ladies would rush out of their doors yelling ‘Mr. Baptist—tea-pot!’ ‘Mr. Baptist—dust-pan!’ ‘Mr. Baptist—flour-dredger!’ ‘Mr. Baptist—coffee-biggin!’ while also showing him those items, making sure he felt the overwhelming challenges of the English language.
It was in this stage of his progress, and in about the third week of his occupation, that Mr Pancks’s fancy became attracted by the little man. Mounting to his attic, attended by Mrs Plornish as interpreter, he found Mr Baptist with no furniture but his bed on the ground, a table, and a chair, carving with the aid of a few simple tools, in the blithest way possible.
It was at this point in his journey, and around the third week of his work, that Mr. Pancks became interested in the little man. He went up to his attic, with Mrs. Plornish as his interpreter, and found Mr. Baptist with nothing but his bed on the floor, a table, and a chair, happily carving away with just a few simple tools.
‘Now, old chap,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘pay up!’
"Come on, buddy," Mr. Pancks said, "cough it up!"
He had his money ready, folded in a scrap of paper, and laughingly handed it in; then with a free action, threw out as many fingers of his right hand as there were shillings, and made a cut crosswise in the air for an odd sixpence.
He had his money ready, folded in a piece of paper, and jokingly handed it over; then with a casual motion, he extended as many fingers on his right hand as there were shillings, and made a slicing gesture in the air for an extra sixpence.
‘Oh!’ said Mr Pancks, watching him, wonderingly. ‘That’s it, is it? You’re a quick customer. It’s all right. I didn’t expect to receive it, though.’
‘Oh!’ said Mr. Pancks, watching him with curiosity. ‘Is that what it is? You’re fast, aren’t you? It’s fine. I didn’t think I’d actually get it, though.’
Mrs Plornish here interposed with great condescension, and explained to Mr Baptist. ‘E please. E glad get money.’
Mrs. Plornish interjected with a lot of condescension and explained to Mr. Baptist, "He pleases. He’s glad to get money."
The little man smiled and nodded. His bright face seemed uncommonly attractive to Mr Pancks. ‘How’s he getting on in his limb?’ he asked Mrs Plornish.
The little man smiled and nodded. His bright face looked unusually appealing to Mr. Pancks. “How’s he doing with his leg?” he asked Mrs. Plornish.
‘Oh, he’s a deal better, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘We expect next week he’ll be able to leave off his stick entirely.’ (The opportunity being too favourable to be lost, Mrs Plornish displayed her great accomplishment by explaining with pardonable pride to Mr Baptist, ‘E ope you leg well soon.’)
‘Oh, he's doing much better, sir,’ said Mrs. Plornish. ‘We expect that by next week he’ll be able to stop using his stick altogether.’ (Not wanting to miss the opportunity, Mrs. Plornish showed off her great skill by explaining with a bit of pride to Mr. Baptist, ‘I hope your leg gets better soon.’)
‘He’s a merry fellow, too,’ said Mr Pancks, admiring him as if he were a mechanical toy. ‘How does he live?’
‘He’s a cheerful guy, too,’ said Mr. Pancks, looking at him as if he were a mechanical toy. ‘How does he make a living?’
‘Why, sir,’ rejoined Mrs Plornish, ‘he turns out to have quite a power of carving them flowers that you see him at now.’ (Mr Baptist, watching their faces as they spoke, held up his work. Mrs Plornish interpreted in her Italian manner, on behalf of Mr Pancks, ‘E please. Double good!’)
‘Well, sir,’ replied Mrs. Plornish, ‘it turns out he has quite a talent for carving those flowers you see him working on now.’ (Mr. Baptist, observing their expressions as they talked, held up his creation. Mrs. Plornish translated in her Italian way, on behalf of Mr. Pancks, ‘It's very good. Double good!’)
‘Can he live by that?’ asked Mr Pancks.
"Can he survive on that?" Mr. Pancks asked.
‘He can live on very little, sir, and it is expected as he will be able, in time, to make a very good living. Mr Clennam got it him to do, and gives him odd jobs besides in at the Works next door—makes ‘em for him, in short, when he knows he wants ‘em.’
‘He can live on very little, sir, and it’s expected that, in time, he’ll be able to make a very good living. Mr. Clennam got him to do it, and gives him odd jobs at the Works next door—makes them for him, in short, when he knows he needs them.’
‘And what does he do with himself, now, when he ain’t hard at it?’ said Mr Pancks.
‘And what does he do with himself now when he’s not working hard?’ said Mr. Pancks.
‘Why, not much as yet, sir, on accounts I suppose of not being able to walk much; but he goes about the Yard, and he chats without particular understanding or being understood, and he plays with the children, and he sits in the sun—he’ll sit down anywhere, as if it was an arm-chair—and he’ll sing, and he’ll laugh!’
‘Well, not much yet, sir, probably because he can't walk very well; but he walks around the Yard, chats without really understanding or being understood, plays with the kids, and sits in the sun—he’ll sit down anywhere, like it's a comfy chair—and he’ll sing and laugh!’
‘Laugh!’ echoed Mr Pancks. ‘He looks to me as if every tooth in his head was always laughing.’
“Laugh!” Mr. Pancks exclaimed. “He looks to me like every tooth in his head is always grinning.”
‘But whenever he gets to the top of the steps at t’other end of the Yard,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘he’ll peep out in the curiousest way! So that some of us thinks he’s peeping out towards where his own country is, and some of us thinks he’s looking for somebody he don’t want to see, and some of us don’t know what to think.’
‘But whenever he reaches the top of the steps at the other end of the Yard,’ said Mrs. Plornish, ‘he peeks out in the strangest way! Some of us think he’s looking towards his own country, some of us believe he’s searching for someone he doesn’t want to see, and some of us don’t know what to think.’
Mr Baptist seemed to have a general understanding of what she said; or perhaps his quickness caught and applied her slight action of peeping. In any case he closed his eyes and tossed his head with the air of a man who had sufficient reasons for what he did, and said in his own tongue, it didn’t matter. Altro!
Mr. Baptist seemed to get what she was saying, or maybe he just picked up on her little gesture of peeking. Either way, he shut his eyes and tilted his head like a man who had good reasons for his actions, and he said in his own language, it didn’t matter. Altro!
‘What’s Altro?’ said Pancks.
“What's Altro?” asked Pancks.
‘Hem! It’s a sort of a general kind of expression, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish.
“Um! It’s kind of a general expression, sir,” Mrs. Plornish said.
‘Is it?’ said Pancks. ‘Why, then Altro to you, old chap. Good afternoon. Altro!’
‘Is it?’ said Pancks. ‘Well then, Altro to you, my friend. Good afternoon. Altro!’
Mr Baptist in his vivacious way repeating the word several times, Mr Pancks in his duller way gave it him back once. From that time it became a frequent custom with Pancks the gipsy, as he went home jaded at night, to pass round by Bleeding Heart Yard, go quietly up the stairs, look in at Mr Baptist’s door, and, finding him in his room, to say, ‘Hallo, old chap! Altro!’ To which Mr Baptist would reply with innumerable bright nods and smiles, ‘Altro, signore, altro, altro, altro!’ After this highly condensed conversation, Mr Pancks would go his way with an appearance of being lightened and refreshed.
Mr. Baptist, with his lively personality, repeated the word several times, while Mr. Pancks, in a more subdued manner, echoed it back once. From that moment on, it became a common habit for Pancks the gypsy, as he trudged home tired at night, to take a detour through Bleeding Heart Yard, quietly walk up the stairs, peek into Mr. Baptist’s room, and, finding him there, say, "Hey there, old buddy! Altro!" To this, Mr. Baptist would respond with countless cheerful nods and smiles, "Altro, signore, altro, altro, altro!" After this brief exchange, Mr. Pancks would continue on his way, looking noticeably lighter and more refreshed.
CHAPTER 26. Nobody’s State of Mind
If Arthur Clennam had not arrived at that wise decision firmly to restrain himself from loving Pet, he would have lived on in a state of much perplexity, involving difficult struggles with his own heart. Not the least of these would have been a contention, always waging within it, between a tendency to dislike Mr Henry Gowan, if not to regard him with positive repugnance, and a whisper that the inclination was unworthy. A generous nature is not prone to strong aversions, and is slow to admit them even dispassionately; but when it finds ill-will gaining upon it, and can discern between-whiles that its origin is not dispassionate, such a nature becomes distressed.
If Arthur Clennam hadn't made the wise decision to hold back from loving Pet, he would have been stuck in a confusing state, struggling with his own feelings. One of the biggest battles would have been the ongoing conflict inside him between a tendency to dislike Mr. Henry Gowan, if not actively despise him, and a nagging thought that such feelings were beneath him. A generous person doesn't easily develop strong dislikes and is slow to accept them, even logically; but when they notice that these negative feelings are creeping in and realize that they aren’t based on reason, it causes them distress.
Therefore Mr Henry Gowan would have clouded Clennam’s mind, and would have been far oftener present to it than more agreeable persons and subjects but for the great prudence of his decision aforesaid. As it was, Mr Gowan seemed transferred to Daniel Doyce’s mind; at all events, it so happened that it usually fell to Mr Doyce’s turn, rather than to Clennam’s, to speak of him in the friendly conversations they held together. These were of frequent occurrence now; as the two partners shared a portion of a roomy house in one of the grave old-fashioned City streets, lying not far from the Bank of England, by London Wall.
Therefore, Mr. Henry Gowan would have clouded Clennam’s thoughts and would have been more often on his mind than more pleasant people and topics, if it weren't for his earlier wise decision. As it was, Mr. Gowan seemed to occupy Daniel Doyce’s thoughts; in any case, it often turned out that Mr. Doyce was the one to bring him up in their friendly conversations. These chats happened frequently now, as the two partners shared part of a spacious house in one of the serious, traditional City streets, not far from the Bank of England, by London Wall.
Mr Doyce had been to Twickenham to pass the day. Clennam had excused himself. Mr Doyce was just come home. He put in his head at the door of Clennam’s sitting-room to say Good night.
Mr. Doyce had spent the day in Twickenham. Clennam had decided to stay back. Mr. Doyce had just returned home. He peeked into Clennam’s sitting room to say good night.
‘Come in, come in!’ said Clennam.
‘Come in, come in!’ Clennam said.
‘I saw you were reading,’ returned Doyce, as he entered, ‘and thought you might not care to be disturbed.’
"I noticed you were reading," Doyce said as he walked in, "and figured you might not want to be interrupted."
But for the notable resolution he had made, Clennam really might not have known what he had been reading; really might not have had his eyes upon the book for an hour past, though it lay open before him. He shut it up, rather quickly.
But for the important decision he had made, Clennam honestly might not have known what he had been reading; he might not have even had his eyes on the book for the past hour, even though it was open in front of him. He closed it rather quickly.
‘Are they well?’ he asked.
"Are they doing okay?" he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Doyce; ‘they are well. They are all well.’
‘Yes,’ Doyce said, ‘they’re all good. Everyone is fine.’
Daniel had an old workmanlike habit of carrying his pocket-handkerchief in his hat. He took it out and wiped his forehead with it, slowly repeating, ‘They are all well. Miss Minnie looking particularly well, I thought.’
Daniel had an old, practical habit of carrying his pocket handkerchief in his hat. He took it out and wiped his forehead with it, slowly saying, "They’re all doing fine. I thought Miss Minnie looked particularly good."
‘Any company at the cottage?’
"Any company at the cabin?"
‘No, no company.’
‘No, no business.’
‘And how did you get on, you four?’ asked Clennam gaily.
‘And how did you all do, you four?’ asked Clennam cheerfully.
‘There were five of us,’ returned his partner. ‘There was What’s-his-name. He was there.’
‘There were five of us,’ replied his partner. ‘There was What’s-his-name. He was there.’
‘Who is he?’ said Clennam.
"Who is he?" Clennam asked.
‘Mr Henry Gowan.’
'Mr. Henry Gowan.'
‘Ah, to be sure!’ cried Clennam with unusual vivacity, ‘Yes!—I forgot him.’
‘Oh, definitely!’ exclaimed Clennam with surprising energy, ‘Yes!—I totally forgot about him.’
‘As I mentioned, you may remember,’ said Daniel Doyce, ‘he is always there on Sunday.’
‘As I mentioned, you might recall,’ said Daniel Doyce, ‘he's always there on Sundays.’
‘Yes, yes,’ returned Clennam; ‘I remember now.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Clennam replied; ‘I remember now.’
Daniel Doyce, still wiping his forehead, ploddingly repeated. ‘Yes. He was there, he was there. Oh yes, he was there. And his dog. He was there too.’
Daniel Doyce, still wiping his forehead, slowly repeated, "Yeah. He was there, he was there. Oh yeah, he was there. And his dog. He was there too."
‘Miss Meagles is quite attached to—the—dog,’ observed Clennam.
“Miss Meagles is really fond of the dog,” Clennam noted.
‘Quite so,’ assented his partner. ‘More attached to the dog than I am to the man.’
"Absolutely," agreed his partner. "I'm more attached to the dog than I am to the man."
‘You mean Mr—?’
'You mean Mr. —?'
‘I mean Mr Gowan, most decidedly,’ said Daniel Doyce.
‘I mean Mr. Gowan, for sure,’ said Daniel Doyce.
There was a gap in the conversation, which Clennam devoted to winding up his watch.
There was a pause in the conversation, which Clennam used to wind up his watch.
‘Perhaps you are a little hasty in your judgment,’ he said. ‘Our judgments—I am supposing a general case—’
"Maybe you’re being a bit quick to judge," he said. "Our judgments—I’m assuming a general case—"
‘Of course,’ said Doyce.
"Sure," said Doyce.
‘Are so liable to be influenced by many considerations, which, almost without our knowing it, are unfair, that it is necessary to keep a guard upon them. For instance, Mr—’
‘Are so likely to be swayed by various factors that, almost without our realizing it, are unjust, that it’s essential to keep a check on them. For example, Mr—’
‘Gowan,’ quietly said Doyce, upon whom the utterance of the name almost always devolved.
‘Gowan,’ Doyce said softly, as he almost always ended up doing when that name was mentioned.
‘Is young and handsome, easy and quick, has talent, and has seen a good deal of various kinds of life. It might be difficult to give an unselfish reason for being prepossessed against him.’
‘He’s young and attractive, charming and quick-witted, talented, and has experienced a lot of different aspects of life. It might be hard to find a fair reason to have a negative opinion about him.’
‘Not difficult for me, I think, Clennam,’ returned his partner. ‘I see him bringing present anxiety, and, I fear, future sorrow, into my old friend’s house. I see him wearing deeper lines into my old friend’s face, the nearer he draws to, and the oftener he looks at, the face of his daughter. In short, I see him with a net about the pretty and affectionate creature whom he will never make happy.’
"Not hard for me, I think, Clennam," replied his partner. "I see him bringing current worry and, unfortunately, future sadness into my old friend's home. I see him carving deeper lines into my old friend's face the closer he gets to, and the more he gazes at, his daughter's face. In short, I see him ensnaring the lovely and caring person who he will never be able to make happy."
‘We don’t know,’ said Clennam, almost in the tone of a man in pain, ‘that he will not make her happy.’
‘We don’t know,’ said Clennam, almost like someone who is in pain, ‘that he won't make her happy.’
‘We don’t know,’ returned his partner, ‘that the earth will last another hundred years, but we think it highly probable.’
"We don’t know," his partner replied, "if the earth will last another hundred years, but we think it's very likely."
‘Well, well!’ said Clennam, ‘we must be hopeful, and we must at least try to be, if not generous (which, in this case, we have no opportunity of being), just. We will not disparage this gentleman, because he is successful in his addresses to the beautiful object of his ambition; and we will not question her natural right to bestow her love on one whom she finds worthy of it.’
‘Well, well!’ said Clennam, ‘we need to stay hopeful, and we should at least make an effort to be, if not generous (which, in this case, we can’t be), fair. We won’t put down this gentleman just because he’s succeeded in pursuing the lovely object of his desire; and we won’t challenge her right to give her love to someone she believes is deserving of it.’
‘Maybe, my friend,’ said Doyce. ‘Maybe also, that she is too young and petted, too confiding and inexperienced, to discriminate well.’
"Maybe, my friend," Doyce said. "Maybe she is also too young and spoiled, too trusting and inexperienced, to judge properly."
‘That,’ said Clennam, ‘would be far beyond our power of correction.’
"That," Clennam said, "would be way beyond our ability to fix."
Daniel Doyce shook his head gravely, and rejoined, ‘I fear so.’
Daniel Doyce shook his head seriously and replied, ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Therefore, in a word,’ said Clennam, ‘we should make up our minds that it is not worthy of us to say any ill of Mr Gowan. It would be a poor thing to gratify a prejudice against him. And I resolve, for my part, not to depreciate him.’
‘So, in short,’ said Clennam, ‘we should decide that it’s not right for us to speak badly of Mr. Gowan. It’s petty to fuel any bias against him. And I’ve made up my mind, for my part, not to put him down.’
‘I am not quite so sure of myself, and therefore I reserve my privilege of objecting to him,’ returned the other. ‘But, if I am not sure of myself, I am sure of you, Clennam, and I know what an upright man you are, and how much to be respected. Good night, my friend and partner!’ He shook his hand in saying this, as if there had been something serious at the bottom of their conversation; and they separated.
‘I’m not really confident, so I’ll stick to my right to object to him,’ the other replied. ‘But while I'm unsure of myself, I’m sure about you, Clennam. I know what a decent man you are and how much you deserve respect. Good night, my friend and partner!’ He shook his hand as he said this, as if there was something serious underlying their conversation, and then they parted ways.
By this time they had visited the family on several occasions, and had always observed that even a passing allusion to Mr Henry Gowan when he was not among them, brought back the cloud which had obscured Mr Meagles’s sunshine on the morning of the chance encounter at the Ferry. If Clennam had ever admitted the forbidden passion into his breast, this period might have been a period of real trial; under the actual circumstances, doubtless it was nothing—nothing.
By this point, they had seen the family multiple times and had always noticed that even a casual mention of Mr. Henry Gowan when he wasn't there brought back the gloom that had overshadowed Mr. Meagles's happiness on the morning of their random meeting at the Ferry. If Clennam had ever allowed himself to feel that forbidden desire, this time could have been a true test; but given the current situation, it was clearly nothing—nothing at all.
Equally, if his heart had given entertainment to that prohibited guest, his silent fighting of his way through the mental condition of this period might have been a little meritorious. In the constant effort not to be betrayed into a new phase of the besetting sin of his experience, the pursuit of selfish objects by low and small means, and to hold instead to some high principle of honour and generosity, there might have been a little merit. In the resolution not even to avoid Mr Meagles’s house, lest, in the selfish sparing of himself, he should bring any slight distress upon the daughter through making her the cause of an estrangement which he believed the father would regret, there might have been a little merit. In the modest truthfulness of always keeping in view the greater equality of Mr Gowan’s years and the greater attractions of his person and manner, there might have been a little merit. In doing all this and much more, in a perfectly unaffected way and with a manful and composed constancy, while the pain within him (peculiar as his life and history) was very sharp, there might have been some quiet strength of character. But, after the resolution he had made, of course he could have no such merits as these; and such a state of mind was nobody’s—nobody’s.
If his heart had entertained that unwelcome visitor, his silent struggle through this difficult time might have seemed somewhat admirable. In his ongoing effort to avoid falling into his usual flaw—pursuing selfish goals through petty means—while instead trying to stick to some high ideals of honor and generosity, there could have been a bit of merit. In deciding not to avoid Mr. Meagles's house, so he wouldn’t selfishly spare himself and cause any distress for the daughter by making her the reason for a fallout that he thought the father would regret, there might have been some merit. In recognizing the greater equality of Mr. Gowan’s age and the greater appeal of his looks and demeanor, there might have been a little merit too. By doing all this and more, in a totally genuine way and with a strong, composed attitude, despite the deep pain he felt (unique to his life and story), there could have been some quiet strength of character. But after the commitment he had made, he couldn’t claim any of those merits; that mindset didn’t belong to anyone—no one at all.
Mr Gowan made it no concern of his whether it was nobody’s or somebody’s. He preserved his perfect serenity of manner on all occasions, as if the possibility of Clennam’s presuming to have debated the great question were too distant and ridiculous to be imagined. He had always an affability to bestow on Clennam and an ease to treat him with, which might of itself (in the supposititious case of his not having taken that sagacious course) have been a very uncomfortable element in his state of mind.
Mr. Gowan didn't care at all whether it was nobody's business or somebody's. He maintained his calm demeanor at all times, as if the thought of Clennam even considering the big question was too far-fetched and laughable to consider. He was always friendly towards Clennam and interacted with him easily, which could have been quite stressful for him, especially if he hadn’t taken that smart path.
‘I quite regret you were not with us yesterday,’ said Mr Henry Gowan, calling on Clennam the next morning. ‘We had an agreeable day up the river there.’
"I really wish you could have been with us yesterday," said Mr. Henry Gowan, visiting Clennam the next morning. "We had a nice day up the river."
So he had heard, Arthur said.
So he had heard, Arthur said.
‘From your partner?’ returned Henry Gowan. ‘What a dear old fellow he is!’
‘From your partner?’ Henry Gowan replied. ‘What a sweet old guy he is!’
‘I have a great regard for him.’
‘I have a high opinion of him.’
‘By Jove, he is the finest creature!’ said Gowan. ‘So fresh, so green, trusts in such wonderful things!’
“Honestly, he is the best person!” Gowan said. “So fresh, so vibrant, believes in such amazing things!”
Here was one of the many little rough points that had a tendency to grate on Clennam’s hearing. He put it aside by merely repeating that he had a high regard for Mr Doyce.
Here was one of the many small annoyances that tended to irritate Clennam. He brushed it off by simply saying that he held Mr. Doyce in high regard.
‘He is charming! To see him mooning along to that time of life, laying down nothing by the way and picking up nothing by the way, is delightful. It warms a man. So unspoilt, so simple, such a good soul! Upon my life Mr Clennam, one feels desperately worldly and wicked in comparison with such an innocent creature. I speak for myself, let me add, without including you. You are genuine also.’
'He is charming! Watching him wander through that stage of life, not leaving anything behind or taking anything with him, is delightful. It warms one's heart. So untouched, so genuine, such a good person! Honestly, Mr. Clennam, you can't help but feel extremely worldly and guilty next to such an innocent being. I’m speaking for myself, I should add, not including you. You are genuine too.'
‘Thank you for the compliment,’ said Clennam, ill at ease; ‘you are too, I hope?’
"Thanks for the compliment," Clennam said, feeling uncomfortable. "I hope you are too?"
‘So so,’ rejoined the other. ‘To be candid with you, tolerably. I am not a great impostor. Buy one of my pictures, and I assure you, in confidence, it will not be worth the money. Buy one of another man’s—any great professor who beats me hollow—and the chances are that the more you give him, the more he’ll impose upon you. They all do it.’
‘Well,’ the other replied. ‘To be honest with you, it's okay. I’m not a big fraud. If you buy one of my paintings, I can guarantee you, just between us, it won't be worth the money. If you buy from someone else—any top artist who's way better than me—chances are the more you pay him, the more he’ll take advantage of you. They all do it.’
‘All painters?’
"All artists?"
‘Painters, writers, patriots, all the rest who have stands in the market. Give almost any man I know ten pounds, and he will impose upon you to a corresponding extent; a thousand pounds—to a corresponding extent; ten thousand pounds—to a corresponding extent. So great the success, so great the imposition. But what a capital world it is!’ cried Gowan with warm enthusiasm. ‘What a jolly, excellent, lovable world it is!’
‘Painters, writers, patriots, and everyone else who has a presence in the market. Give almost any man I know ten pounds, and he’ll take advantage of you to a similar degree; a thousand pounds—to a similar degree; ten thousand pounds—to a similar degree. The more success, the more deceit. But what a fantastic world it is!’ cried Gowan with warm enthusiasm. ‘What a fun, amazing, lovable world it is!’
‘I had rather thought,’ said Clennam, ‘that the principle you mention was chiefly acted on by—’
‘I had rather thought,’ said Clennam, ‘that the principle you mention was mainly followed by—’
‘By the Barnacles?’ interrupted Gowan, laughing.
‘By the Barnacles?’ Gowan interrupted, laughing.
‘By the political gentlemen who condescend to keep the Circumlocution Office.’
‘By the politicians who graciously take the time to manage the Circumlocution Office.’
‘Ah! Don’t be hard upon the Barnacles,’ said Gowan, laughing afresh, ‘they are darling fellows! Even poor little Clarence, the born idiot of the family, is the most agreeable and most endearing blockhead! And by Jupiter, with a kind of cleverness in him too that would astonish you!’
‘Ah! Don’t be too hard on the Barnacles,’ Gowan said, laughing again, ‘they’re charming guys! Even poor little Clarence, the family’s born idiot, is the most likable and lovable fool! And I swear, he has a sort of cleverness that would surprise you!’
‘It would. Very much,’ said Clennam, drily.
‘It would. Very much,’ Clennam replied dryly.
‘And after all,’ cried Gowan, with that characteristic balancing of his which reduced everything in the wide world to the same light weight, ‘though I can’t deny that the Circumlocution Office may ultimately shipwreck everybody and everything, still, that will probably not be in our time—and it’s a school for gentlemen.’
‘And after all,’ shouted Gowan, with that usual way he has of making everything seem equally trivial, ‘even though I can’t deny that the Circumlocution Office might eventually ruin everyone and everything, it probably won’t happen in our time—and it’s a place for gentlemen.’
‘It’s a very dangerous, unsatisfactory, and expensive school to the people who pay to keep the pupils there, I am afraid,’ said Clennam, shaking his head.
“It’s a really dangerous, unsatisfying, and costly school for the people who pay to keep the students there, I’m afraid,” Clennam said, shaking his head.
‘Ah! You are a terrible fellow,’ returned Gowan, airily. ‘I can understand how you have frightened that little donkey, Clarence, the most estimable of moon-calves (I really love him) nearly out of his wits. But enough of him, and of all the rest of them. I want to present you to my mother, Mr Clennam. Pray do me the favour to give me the opportunity.’
“Ah! You’re quite the character,” Gowan replied casually. “I can see how you’ve nearly terrified that little donkey, Clarence, the most admirable of simpletons (I really like him) out of his mind. But let’s move on from him and the others. I want to introduce you to my mother, Mr. Clennam. Please do me the favor of letting me have that chance.”
In nobody’s state of mind, there was nothing Clennam would have desired less, or would have been more at a loss how to avoid.
In nobody's state of mind, there was nothing Clennam would have wanted less, or would have been more confused about how to avoid.
‘My mother lives in a most primitive manner down in that dreary red-brick dungeon at Hampton Court,’ said Gowan. ‘If you would make your own appointment, suggest your own day for permitting me to take you there to dinner, you would be bored and she would be charmed. Really that’s the state of the case.’
‘My mom lives in a really basic way down in that gloomy red-brick basement at Hampton Court,’ said Gowan. ‘If you set your own time and suggest a day for me to bring you there for dinner, you'd find it boring and she'd be delighted. That's really how it is.’
What could Clennam say after this? His retiring character included a great deal that was simple in the best sense, because unpractised and unused; and in his simplicity and modesty, he could only say that he was happy to place himself at Mr Gowan’s disposal. Accordingly he said it, and the day was fixed. And a dreaded day it was on his part, and a very unwelcome day when it came and they went down to Hampton Court together.
What could Clennam say after this? His shy nature had a lot of simplicity in the best way, because it was untrained and unfamiliar; and in his straightforwardness and humility, he could only express that he was glad to put himself at Mr. Gowan’s service. So, he said it, and the date was set. And it was a day he dreaded, and one he really didn’t look forward to when it finally arrived, as they headed to Hampton Court together.
The venerable inhabitants of that venerable pile seemed, in those times, to be encamped there like a sort of civilised gipsies. There was a temporary air about their establishments, as if they were going away the moment they could get anything better; there was also a dissatisfied air about themselves, as if they took it very ill that they had not already got something much better. Genteel blinds and makeshifts were more or less observable as soon as their doors were opened; screens not half high enough, which made dining-rooms out of arched passages, and warded off obscure corners where footboys slept at nights with their heads among the knives and forks; curtains which called upon you to believe that they didn’t hide anything; panes of glass which requested you not to see them; many objects of various forms, feigning to have no connection with their guilty secret, a bed; disguised traps in walls, which were clearly coal-cellars; affectations of no thoroughfares, which were evidently doors to little kitchens. Mental reservations and artful mysteries grew out of these things. Callers looking steadily into the eyes of their receivers, pretended not to smell cooking three feet off; people, confronting closets accidentally left open, pretended not to see bottles; visitors with their heads against a partition of thin canvas, and a page and a young female at high words on the other side, made believe to be sitting in a primeval silence. There was no end to the small social accommodation-bills of this nature which the gipsies of gentility were constantly drawing upon, and accepting for, one another.
The respected residents of that old mansion seemed, during that time, to be camped out like a group of civilized gypsies. There was a temporary vibe about their setups, as if they were ready to leave as soon as they found something better; there was also an air of dissatisfaction about them, as if they felt wronged for not already having something much nicer. You could see makeshift arrangements as soon as their doors were opened; screens that were barely tall enough, creating dining areas in arched passages, and shielding off hidden corners where footmen slept at night with their heads among the cutlery; curtains that made you believe they didn’t conceal anything; panes of glass that seemed to ask you not to notice them; various objects pretending to have no link to their hidden secret, a bed; disguised doors in the walls, which were clearly coal cellars; pretenses of no thoroughfares, which were obviously doors to small kitchens. These things gave rise to mental reservations and clever mysteries. Visitors, looking directly into the eyes of their hosts, pretended not to smell food cooking just a few feet away; people, facing closets accidentally left ajar, pretended not to see bottles; guests with their heads against a flimsy wall while a servant and a young woman argued on the other side, acted like they were sitting in complete silence. There seemed to be no end to the little social compromises that these genteel gypsies were constantly making and accepting from each other.
Some of these Bohemians were of an irritable temperament, as constantly soured and vexed by two mental trials: the first, the consciousness that they had never got enough out of the public; the second, the consciousness that the public were admitted into the building. Under the latter great wrong, a few suffered dreadfully—particularly on Sundays, when they had for some time expected the earth to open and swallow the public up; but which desirable event had not yet occurred, in consequence of some reprehensible laxity in the arrangements of the Universe.
Some of these Bohemians had a short temper, constantly annoyed and frustrated by two mental struggles: first, the awareness that they had never received enough recognition from the public; second, the realization that the public was allowed into the building. Under this significant injustice, a few suffered terribly—especially on Sundays, when they had long hoped the ground would open up and swallow the public whole; however, this much-desired event hadn't happened yet due to some unacceptable looseness in the Universe's arrangements.
Mrs Gowan’s door was attended by a family servant of several years’ standing, who had his own crow to pluck with the public concerning a situation in the Post-Office which he had been for some time expecting, and to which he was not yet appointed. He perfectly knew that the public could never have got him in, but he grimly gratified himself with the idea that the public kept him out. Under the influence of this injury (and perhaps of some little straitness and irregularity in the matter of wages), he had grown neglectful of his person and morose in mind; and now beholding in Clennam one of the degraded body of his oppressors, received him with ignominy.
Mrs. Gowan’s door was answered by a family servant who had been working for them for several years. He had his own grudge against the public regarding a position at the Post Office that he had been expecting for a while but had not yet been given. He knew very well that the public would never choose him, but he grimly took satisfaction in the idea that they were keeping him out. Because of this resentment (and perhaps because of some issues with his pay), he had become neglectful of his appearance and sour in attitude; now, seeing Clennam as one of the lower class of his oppressors, he greeted him with disdain.
Mrs Gowan, however, received him with condescension. He found her a courtly old lady, formerly a Beauty, and still sufficiently well-favoured to have dispensed with the powder on her nose and a certain impossible bloom under each eye. She was a little lofty with him; so was another old lady, dark-browed and high-nosed, and who must have had something real about her or she could not have existed, but it was certainly not her hair or her teeth or her figure or her complexion; so was a grey old gentleman of dignified and sullen appearance; both of whom had come to dinner. But, as they had all been in the British Embassy way in sundry parts of the earth, and as a British Embassy cannot better establish a character with the Circumlocution Office than by treating its compatriots with illimitable contempt (else it would become like the Embassies of other countries), Clennam felt that on the whole they let him off lightly.
Mrs. Gowan, on the other hand, welcomed him with a sense of superiority. He found her to be an elegant old lady, once a beauty, and still attractive enough to go without the powder on her nose and some impossible pinkness under each eye. She was a bit aloof with him; so was another older woman, with dark brows and a prominent nose, who must have had some substance to her or she wouldn’t have survived, though it certainly wasn’t due to her hair, teeth, figure, or complexion; there was also a gray-haired gentleman with a dignified and grumpy look, both of whom had come for dinner. However, since they had all been involved with the British Embassy in various parts of the world, and since a British Embassy can establish its reputation with the Circumlocution Office by treating its fellow countrymen with utter disdain (otherwise, it might end up like the Embassies of other nations), Clennam felt that overall, they were relatively lenient with him.
The dignified old gentleman turned out to be Lord Lancaster Stiltstalking, who had been maintained by the Circumlocution Office for many years as a representative of the Britannic Majesty abroad. This noble Refrigerator had iced several European courts in his time, and had done it with such complete success that the very name of Englishman yet struck cold to the stomachs of foreigners who had the distinguished honour of remembering him at a distance of a quarter of a century.
The dignified old gentleman turned out to be Lord Lancaster Stiltstalking, who had been supported by the Circumlocution Office for many years as a representative of the British monarchy abroad. This noble figure had left his mark on several European courts in his time, doing so with such complete success that even now, the name Englishman sent chills down the spines of foreigners fortunate enough to remember him from a distance of twenty-five years.
He was now in retirement, and hence (in a ponderous white cravat, like a stiff snow-drift) was so obliging as to shade the dinner. There was a whisper of the pervading Bohemian character in the nomadic nature of the service and its curious races of plates and dishes; but the noble Refrigerator, infinitely better than plate or porcelain, made it superb. He shaded the dinner, cooled the wines, chilled the gravy, and blighted the vegetables.
He was now retired, so he was graciously taking care of the dinner, dressed in a heavy white cravat that looked like a stiff snowdrift. There was a hint of a Bohemian vibe in the way the service was set up and in the mismatched plates and dishes; however, the impressive Refrigerator, far superior to any plate or china, made it all exceptional. He kept the dinner shaded, chilled the wines, cooled the gravy, and ruined the vegetables.
There was only one other person in the room: a microscopically small footboy, who waited on the malevolent man who hadn’t got into the Post-Office. Even this youth, if his jacket could have been unbuttoned and his heart laid bare, would have been seen, as a distant adherent of the Barnacle family, already to aspire to a situation under Government.
There was only one other person in the room: a tiny footboy, who served the bitter man who hadn’t made it into the Post Office. Even this young man, if his jacket had been unbuttoned and his heart exposed, would have been seen, as a distant follower of the Barnacle family, already hoping for a position in the government.
Mrs Gowan with a gentle melancholy upon her, occasioned by her son’s being reduced to court the swinish public as a follower of the low Arts, instead of asserting his birthright and putting a ring through its nose as an acknowledged Barnacle, headed the conversation at dinner on the evil days. It was then that Clennam learned for the first time what little pivots this great world goes round upon.
Mrs. Gowan, feeling a soft sadness because her son had to seek approval from the unrefined public as a follower of the low Arts instead of claiming his rightful place and asserting his identity as an acknowledged Barnacle, led the dinner conversation about difficult times. It was then that Clennam discovered, for the first time, how surprisingly small the things are that keep this vast world turning.
‘If John Barnacle,’ said Mrs Gowan, after the degeneracy of the times had been fully ascertained, ‘if John Barnacle had but abandoned his most unfortunate idea of conciliating the mob, all would have been well, and I think the country would have been preserved.’
‘If John Barnacle,’ said Mrs. Gowan, after it was clear just how bad things had become, ‘if John Barnacle had only given up his unfortunate idea of trying to win over the mob, everything would have turned out fine, and I believe the country would have been saved.’
The old lady with the high nose assented; but added that if Augustus Stiltstalking had in a general way ordered the cavalry out with instructions to charge, she thought the country would have been preserved.
The old lady with the prominent nose agreed; but she added that if Augustus Stiltstalking had generally ordered the cavalry out with instructions to charge, she believed the country would have been saved.
The noble Refrigerator assented; but added that if William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, when they came over to one another and formed their ever-memorable coalition, had boldly muzzled the newspapers, and rendered it penal for any Editor-person to presume to discuss the conduct of any appointed authority abroad or at home, he thought the country would have been preserved.
The noble Refrigerator agreed; but stated that if William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, when they came together and formed their unforgettable coalition, had confidently silenced the newspapers and made it illegal for any editor to talk about the actions of any appointed authority, whether overseas or domestically, he believed the country would have been saved.
It was agreed that the country (another word for the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings) wanted preserving, but how it came to want preserving was not so clear. It was only clear that the question was all about John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, Tom, Dick, or Harry Barnacle or Stiltstalking, because there was nobody else but mob. And this was the feature of the conversation which impressed Clennam, as a man not used to it, very disagreeably: making him doubt if it were quite right to sit there, silently hearing a great nation narrowed to such little bounds. Remembering, however, that in the Parliamentary debates, whether on the life of that nation’s body or the life of its soul, the question was usually all about and between John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, Tom, Dick, or Harry Barnacle or Stiltstalking, and nobody else; he said nothing on the part of mob, bethinking himself that mob was used to it.
It was agreed that the country (another term for the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings) needed to be preserved, but how it ended up needing preservation wasn’t very clear. What was clear was that the discussion was all about John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle, and Tudor Stiltstalking, along with Tom, Dick, or Harry Barnacle or Stiltstalking, because there was no one else but the mob. This aspect of the conversation struck Clennam, as someone unaccustomed to it, as very off-putting: it made him question whether it was right to just sit there, quietly listening while a great nation was reduced to such narrow limits. However, recalling that in Parliamentary debates, whether about the nation's physical existence or its spirit, the focus typically revolved around John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle, Tudor Stiltstalking, and Tom, Dick, or Harry Barnacle or Stiltstalking, and no one else, he chose not to say anything on behalf of the mob, remembering that the mob was used to it.
Mr Henry Gowan seemed to have a malicious pleasure in playing off the three talkers against each other, and in seeing Clennam startled by what they said. Having as supreme a contempt for the class that had thrown him off as for the class that had not taken him on, he had no personal disquiet in anything that passed. His healthy state of mind appeared even to derive a gratification from Clennam’s position of embarrassment and isolation among the good company; and if Clennam had been in that condition with which Nobody was incessantly contending, he would have suspected it, and would have struggled with the suspicion as a meanness, even while he sat at the table.
Mr. Henry Gowan seemed to take a twisted pleasure in pitting the three speakers against each other and watching Clennam get startled by what they said. He had complete disdain for both the group that rejected him and the one that didn't accept him, so he felt no personal unease about anything that happened. His healthy mindset seemed to even find satisfaction in Clennam's awkwardness and isolation among the company; and if Clennam had been in that condition that Nobody was always dealing with, he would have sensed it and struggled with the suspicion as something petty, even while sitting at the table.
In the course of a couple of hours the noble Refrigerator, at no time less than a hundred years behind the period, got about five centuries in arrears, and delivered solemn political oracles appropriate to that epoch. He finished by freezing a cup of tea for his own drinking, and retiring at his lowest temperature.
In just a couple of hours, the noble Refrigerator, already a hundred years out of date, fell another five centuries behind and delivered serious political messages suitable for that time. He wrapped things up by freezing a cup of tea for himself and shutting down at his coldest setting.
Then Mrs Gowan, who had been accustomed in her days of a vacant arm-chair beside her to which to summon state to retain her devoted slaves, one by one, for short audiences as marks of her especial favour, invited Clennam with a turn of her fan to approach the presence. He obeyed, and took the tripod recently vacated by Lord Lancaster Stiltstalking.
Then Mrs. Gowan, who was used to having a vacant armchair beside her to call her devoted followers for brief meetings as a sign of her special favor, gestured with her fan for Clennam to come forward. He complied and took the tripod recently vacated by Lord Lancaster Stiltstalking.
‘Mr Clennam,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘apart from the happiness I have in becoming known to you, though in this odiously inconvenient place—a mere barrack—there is a subject on which I am dying to speak to you. It is the subject in connection with which my son first had, I believe, the pleasure of cultivating your acquaintance.’
‘Mr. Clennam,’ said Mrs. Gowan, ‘besides the happiness I feel in getting to know you, even in this ridiculously inconvenient place—a mere barrack—there’s a topic I’m eager to discuss with you. It’s related to the reason my son first had the pleasure of meeting you.’
Clennam inclined his head, as a generally suitable reply to what he did not yet quite understand.
Clennam nodded, as an appropriate response to what he still didn't fully understand.
‘First,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘now, is she really pretty?’
‘First,’ said Mrs. Gowan, ‘is she actually pretty?’
In nobody’s difficulties, he would have found it very difficult to answer; very difficult indeed to smile, and say ‘Who?’
In nobody's tough times, he would have found it really hard to respond; really hard to smile and say ‘Who?’
‘Oh! You know!’ she returned. ‘This flame of Henry’s. This unfortunate fancy. There! If it is a point of honour that I should originate the name—Miss Mickles—Miggles.’
‘Oh! You know!’ she replied. ‘This passion of Henry’s. This unfortunate crush. There! If it’s a matter of pride that I should come up with the name—Miss Mickles—Miggles.’
‘Miss Meagles,’ said Clennam, ‘is very beautiful.’
‘Miss Meagles,’ Clennam said, ‘is very beautiful.’
‘Men are so often mistaken on those points,’ returned Mrs Gowan, shaking her head, ‘that I candidly confess to you I feel anything but sure of it, even now; though it is something to have Henry corroborated with so much gravity and emphasis. He picked the people up at Rome, I think?’
“Men are often wrong about those things,” Mrs. Gowan said, shaking her head. “I honestly admit that I still don’t feel sure about it, even now; though it means a lot to have Henry back me up so seriously. He met those people in Rome, I think?”
The phrase would have given nobody mortal offence. Clennam replied, ‘Excuse me, I doubt if I understand your expression.’
The phrase wouldn't have offended anyone. Clennam replied, ‘Sorry, I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’
‘Picked the people up,’ said Mrs Gowan, tapping the sticks of her closed fan (a large green one, which she used as a hand-screen) on her little table. ‘Came upon them. Found them out. Stumbled against them.’
‘Picked the people up,’ said Mrs. Gowan, tapping the sticks of her closed fan (a large green one, which she used as a hand-screen) on her small table. ‘Came across them. Discovered them. Bumped into them.’
‘The people?’
‘The crowd?’
‘Yes. The Miggles people.’
“Yeah. The Miggles crew.”
‘I really cannot say,’ said Clennam, ‘where my friend Mr Meagles first presented Mr Henry Gowan to his daughter.’
‘I really can’t say,’ said Clennam, ‘where my friend Mr. Meagles first introduced Mr. Henry Gowan to his daughter.’
‘I am pretty sure he picked her up at Rome; but never mind where—somewhere. Now (this is entirely between ourselves), is she very plebeian?’
‘I’m pretty sure he picked her up in Rome; but it doesn't really matter where—somewhere. Now (this is just between us), is she very common?’
‘Really, ma’am,’ returned Clennam, ‘I am so undoubtedly plebeian myself, that I do not feel qualified to judge.’
“Honestly, ma’am,” Clennam replied, “I’m so definitely ordinary myself that I don’t feel qualified to judge.”
‘Very neat!’ said Mrs Gowan, coolly unfurling her screen. ‘Very happy! From which I infer that you secretly think her manner equal to her looks?’
“Very neat!” Mrs. Gowan said, casually opening her screen. “Very happy! From which I gather that you secretly believe her personality matches her appearance?”
Clennam, after a moment’s stiffness, bowed.
Clennam, after a brief pause, nodded.
‘That’s comforting, and I hope you may be right. Did Henry tell me you had travelled with them?’
‘That’s reassuring, and I hope you’re right. Did Henry mention that you traveled with them?’
‘I travelled with my friend Mr Meagles, and his wife and daughter, during some months.’ (Nobody’s heart might have been wrung by the remembrance.)
'I traveled with my friend Mr. Meagles, along with his wife and daughter, for several months.’ (Nobody’s heart might have been hurt by the memory.)
‘Really comforting, because you must have had a large experience of them. You see, Mr Clennam, this thing has been going on for a long time, and I find no improvement in it. Therefore to have the opportunity of speaking to one so well informed about it as yourself, is an immense relief to me. Quite a boon. Quite a blessing, I am sure.’
“It's really comforting, because you must have a lot of experience with this. You see, Mr. Clennam, this has been going on for a long time, and I don’t see any improvement. So being able to talk to someone as knowledgeable as you is a huge relief for me. It’s truly a gift. Truly a blessing, I’m sure.”
‘Pardon me,’ returned Clennam, ‘but I am not in Mr Henry Gowan’s confidence. I am far from being so well informed as you suppose me to be. Your mistake makes my position a very delicate one. No word on this topic has ever passed between Mr Henry Gowan and myself.’
“Excuse me,” Clennam replied, “but I don’t have Mr. Henry Gowan’s trust. I’m not nearly as informed as you think I am. Your assumption puts me in a very tricky spot. No conversation about this topic has ever taken place between Mr. Henry Gowan and me.”
Mrs Gowan glanced at the other end of the room, where her son was playing ecarte on a sofa, with the old lady who was for a charge of cavalry.
Mrs. Gowan glanced at the other end of the room, where her son was playing ecarte on a sofa with the older woman who was in charge of the cavalry.
‘Not in his confidence? No,’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘No word has passed between you? No. That I can imagine. But there are unexpressed confidences, Mr Clennam; and as you have been together intimately among these people, I cannot doubt that a confidence of that sort exists in the present case. Perhaps you have heard that I have suffered the keenest distress of mind from Henry’s having taken to a pursuit which—well!’ shrugging her shoulders, ‘a very respectable pursuit, I dare say, and some artists are, as artists, quite superior persons; still, we never yet in our family have gone beyond an Amateur, and it is a pardonable weakness to feel a little—’
“Not in his confidence? No,” Mrs. Gowan said. “No word has passed between you? No. I can imagine that. But there are unspoken confidences, Mr. Clennam; and since you’ve been close among these people, I can't doubt that a confidence of that kind exists in this case. Perhaps you’ve heard that I’ve experienced the deepest distress because Henry has taken up a pursuit that—well!” She shrugged her shoulders. “A very respectable pursuit, I’m sure, and some artists are, as artists, quite remarkable people; still, we’ve never gone beyond being Amateurs in our family, and it's a forgivable weakness to feel a little—”
As Mrs Gowan broke off to heave a sigh, Clennam, however resolute to be magnanimous, could not keep down the thought that there was mighty little danger of the family’s ever going beyond an Amateur, even as it was.
As Mrs. Gowan paused to let out a sigh, Clennam, determined to be generous, couldn't shake the feeling that there was very little chance of the family ever becoming more than just amateurs, even as things stood.
‘Henry,’ the mother resumed, ‘is self-willed and resolute; and as these people naturally strain every nerve to catch him, I can entertain very little hope, Mr Clennam, that the thing will be broken off. I apprehend the girl’s fortune will be very small; Henry might have done much better; there is scarcely anything to compensate for the connection: still, he acts for himself; and if I find no improvement within a short time, I see no other course than to resign myself and make the best of these people. I am infinitely obliged to you for what you have told me.’
“Henry,” the mother continued, “is strong-willed and determined; and since these people are doing everything they can to win him over, I don’t have much hope, Mr. Clennam, that this situation will change. I’m worried the girl doesn’t have much of a fortune; Henry could have done much better; there’s hardly anything to make this connection worthwhile. Still, he makes his own choices; and if I don’t see any improvement soon, I don’t see any other option but to accept it and make the best of these people. I’m truly grateful for what you’ve shared with me.”
As she shrugged her shoulders, Clennam stiffly bowed again. With an uneasy flush upon his face, and hesitation in his manner, he then said in a still lower tone than he had adopted yet:
As she shrugged her shoulders, Clennam awkwardly bowed again. With an uneasy blush on his face and uncertainty in his manner, he then said in an even lower tone than he had used before:
‘Mrs Gowan, I scarcely know how to acquit myself of what I feel to be a duty, and yet I must ask you for your kind consideration in attempting to discharge it. A misconception on your part, a very great misconception if I may venture to call it so, seems to require setting right. You have supposed Mr Meagles and his family to strain every nerve, I think you said—’
‘Mrs. Gowan, I hardly know how to express what feels like a duty, but I must ask for your understanding as I try to address it. There seems to be a significant misunderstanding on your part, if I may say so. You’ve believed that Mr. Meagles and his family are pushing themselves to the limit, I think you mentioned—’
‘Every nerve,’ repeated Mrs Gowan, looking at him in calm obstinacy, with her green fan between her face and the fire.
‘Every nerve,’ repeated Mrs. Gowan, looking at him with calm stubbornness, holding her green fan between her face and the fire.
‘To secure Mr Henry Gowan?’
"To secure Mr. Henry Gowan?"
The lady placidly assented.
The woman calmly agreed.
‘Now that is so far,’ said Arthur, ‘from being the case, that I know Mr Meagles to be unhappy in this matter; and to have interposed all reasonable obstacles with the hope of putting an end to it.’
"Actually, that's not true at all," Arthur said. "I know Mr. Meagles is unhappy about this situation and has put up all kinds of reasonable objections in hopes of stopping it."
Mrs Gowan shut up her great green fan, tapped him on the arm with it, and tapped her smiling lips. ‘Why, of course,’ said she. ‘Just what I mean.’
Mrs. Gowan closed her big green fan, tapped him on the arm with it, and then tapped her smiling lips. "Of course," she said. "That's exactly what I mean."
Arthur watched her face for some explanation of what she did mean.
Arthur watched her face, looking for some clue about what she actually meant.
‘Are you really serious, Mr Clennam? Don’t you see?’
‘Are you really serious, Mr. Clennam? Don’t you get it?’
Arthur did not see; and said so.
Arthur didn’t see it, and he said so.
‘Why, don’t I know my son, and don’t I know that this is exactly the way to hold him?’ said Mrs Gowan, contemptuously; ‘and do not these Miggles people know it, at least as well as I? Oh, shrewd people, Mr Clennam: evidently people of business! I believe Miggles belonged to a Bank. It ought to have been a very profitable Bank, if he had much to do with its management. This is very well done, indeed.’
‘Why, don't I know my son, and don't I know that this is exactly how to keep him?’ said Mrs. Gowan, with disdain; ‘and don't these Miggles people know it, at least as well as I do? Oh, sharp people, Mr. Clennam: clearly people who know business! I believe Miggles was part of a bank. It must have been a very successful bank if he had a significant role in its management. This is really well done, indeed.’
‘I beg and entreat you, ma’am—’ Arthur interposed.
"I beg you, ma'am—" Arthur interrupted.
‘Oh, Mr Clennam, can you really be so credulous?’
‘Oh, Mr. Clennam, can you really be that gullible?’
It made such a painful impression upon him to hear her talking in this haughty tone, and to see her patting her contemptuous lips with her fan, that he said very earnestly, ‘Believe me, ma’am, this is unjust, a perfectly groundless suspicion.’
It made such a painful impression on him to hear her speaking in this arrogant tone and to see her tapping her scornful lips with her fan that he said very earnestly, “Believe me, ma’am, this is unfair, a completely baseless suspicion.”
‘Suspicion?’ repeated Mrs Gowan. ‘Not suspicion, Mr Clennam, Certainty. It is very knowingly done indeed, and seems to have taken you in completely.’ She laughed; and again sat tapping her lips with her fan, and tossing her head, as if she added, ‘Don’t tell me. I know such people will do anything for the honour of such an alliance.’
‘Suspicion?’ repeated Mrs. Gowan. ‘Not suspicion, Mr. Clennam, Certainty. It’s very clear that this has been done on purpose, and it seems to have fooled you entirely.’ She laughed, and again began tapping her lips with her fan and tossing her head, as if to say, ‘Don't try to convince me otherwise. I know that people like this will do anything for the prestige of such a connection.’
At this opportune moment, the cards were thrown up, and Mr Henry Gowan came across the room saying, ‘Mother, if you can spare Mr Clennam for this time, we have a long way to go, and it’s getting late.’ Mr Clennam thereupon rose, as he had no choice but to do; and Mrs Gowan showed him, to the last, the same look and the same tapped contemptuous lips.
At that perfect moment, the cards were tossed up, and Mr. Henry Gowan walked across the room saying, “Mom, if you can let Mr. Clennam go this time, we have a long way to go, and it’s getting late.” Mr. Clennam then stood up, as he had no choice; and Mrs. Gowan gave him the same look and the same dismissive tap of her lips as before.
‘You have had a portentously long audience of my mother,’ said Gowan, as the door closed upon them. ‘I fervently hope she has not bored you?’
‘You’ve had an incredibly long meeting with my mom,’ Gowan said as the door closed behind them. ‘I really hope she didn’t bore you?’
‘Not at all,’ said Clennam.
“Not at all,” Clennam said.
They had a little open phaeton for the journey, and were soon in it on the road home. Gowan, driving, lighted a cigar; Clennam declined one. Do what he would, he fell into such a mood of abstraction that Gowan said again, ‘I am very much afraid my mother has bored you?’ To which he roused himself to answer, ‘Not at all!’ and soon relapsed again.
They had a small open carriage for the trip and were soon on the road home. Gowan, driving, lit a cigar; Clennam turned down the offer. No matter what he did, he slipped into a state of deep thought, prompting Gowan to say again, ‘I’m really worried that my mom has bored you?’ Clennam snapped back to attention to reply, ‘Not at all!’ but quickly drifted off again.
In that state of mind which rendered nobody uneasy, his thoughtfulness would have turned principally on the man at his side. He would have thought of the morning when he first saw him rooting out the stones with his heel, and would have asked himself, ‘Does he jerk me out of the path in the same careless, cruel way?’ He would have thought, had this introduction to his mother been brought about by him because he knew what she would say, and that he could thus place his position before a rival and loftily warn him off, without himself reposing a word of confidence in him? He would have thought, even if there were no such design as that, had he brought him there to play with his repressed emotions, and torment him? The current of these meditations would have been stayed sometimes by a rush of shame, bearing a remonstrance to himself from his own open nature, representing that to shelter such suspicions, even for the passing moment, was not to hold the high, unenvious course he had resolved to keep. At those times, the striving within him would have been hardest; and looking up and catching Gowan’s eyes, he would have started as if he had done him an injury.
In that calm state of mind that didn't make anyone uneasy, his thoughts would have mostly focused on the man next to him. He would have remembered the morning he first saw him digging out stones with his heel and would have wondered, "Does he shove me out of the way in the same careless, cruel manner?" He might have thought that if this introduction to his mother was orchestrated by him because he knew what she would say, then he could present his status to a rival and coolly warn him off, without ever showing him a hint of trust. He would have also considered that even if there was no such intention, did he bring him there just to toy with his hidden feelings and torture him? The flow of these thoughts would sometimes be interrupted by a wave of shame, pushing back against his own open nature, reminding him that holding onto such suspicions, even briefly, was not the noble, unjealous path he had committed to follow. In those moments, his internal struggle would have been the most intense; and when he looked up and met Gowan’s gaze, he would have flinched as if he had wronged him.
Then, looking at the dark road and its uncertain objects, he would have gradually trailed off again into thinking, ‘Where are we driving, he and I, I wonder, on the darker road of life? How will it be with us, and with her, in the obscure distance?’ Thinking of her, he would have been troubled anew with a reproachful misgiving that it was not even loyal to her to dislike him, and that in being so easily prejudiced against him he was less deserving of her than at first.
Then, looking at the dark road and its vague shapes, he would have drifted back into thought, ‘Where are we headed, he and I, I wonder, on this darker path of life? What will become of us, and of her, in the unclear distance?’ Remembering her, he would have felt a fresh wave of guilt, thinking it wasn’t even fair to her to dislike him, and that by being so easily biased against him, he was less worthy of her than he had been at first.
‘You are evidently out of spirits,’ said Gowan; ‘I am very much afraid my mother must have bored you dreadfully.’
‘You clearly seem down,’ said Gowan; ‘I’m really afraid my mom must have bored you to death.’
‘Believe me, not at all,’ said Clennam. ‘It’s nothing—nothing!’
"Trust me, not at all," said Clennam. "It's nothing—nothing!"
CHAPTER 27. Five-and-Twenty
A frequently recurring doubt, whether Mr Pancks’s desire to collect information relative to the Dorrit family could have any possible bearing on the misgivings he had imparted to his mother on his return from his long exile, caused Arthur Clennam much uneasiness at this period. What Mr Pancks already knew about the Dorrit family, what more he really wanted to find out, and why he should trouble his busy head about them at all, were questions that often perplexed him. Mr Pancks was not a man to waste his time and trouble in researches prompted by idle curiosity. That he had a specific object Clennam could not doubt. And whether the attainment of that object by Mr Pancks’s industry might bring to light, in some untimely way, secret reasons which had induced his mother to take Little Dorrit by the hand, was a serious speculation.
A recurring doubt about whether Mr. Pancks’s interest in gathering information about the Dorrit family could relate to the concerns he had shared with his mother after returning from his long absence troubled Arthur Clennam at this time. He often found himself wondering what Mr. Pancks already knew about the Dorrit family, what else he wanted to uncover, and why he was so invested in them at all. Mr. Pancks wasn’t the type to waste his time on research driven by mere curiosity. Clennam was certain that he had a specific purpose. And the thought that Mr. Pancks’s efforts could potentially reveal some hidden reasons behind his mother’s decision to take Little Dorrit under her wing was a serious consideration.
Not that he ever wavered either in his desire or his determination to repair a wrong that had been done in his father’s time, should a wrong come to light, and be reparable. The shadow of a supposed act of injustice, which had hung over him since his father’s death, was so vague and formless that it might be the result of a reality widely remote from his idea of it. But, if his apprehensions should prove to be well founded, he was ready at any moment to lay down all he had, and begin the world anew. As the fierce dark teaching of his childhood had never sunk into his heart, so that first article in his code of morals was, that he must begin, in practical humility, with looking well to his feet on Earth, and that he could never mount on wings of words to Heaven. Duty on earth, restitution on earth, action on earth; these first, as the first steep steps upward. Strait was the gate and narrow was the way; far straiter and narrower than the broad high road paved with vain professions and vain repetitions, motes from other men’s eyes and liberal delivery of others to the judgment—all cheap materials costing absolutely nothing.
Not that he ever wavered in his desire or determination to correct a wrong that occurred during his father's time, if any wrong were to come to light and could be fixed. The shadow of a supposed injustice that had loomed over him since his father’s death was so vague and formless that it could stem from a reality far removed from his perception of it. But if his fears turned out to be justified, he was prepared to give up everything he had and start over. Since the harsh lessons of his childhood never truly penetrated his heart, the first principle of his moral code was that he needed to begin, with practical humility, by paying close attention to where he stood on Earth, knowing he could never rise to Heaven on mere words. Duty on Earth, restitution on Earth, action on Earth; these came first, as the initial steep steps upward. The gate was narrow, and the path was tight; much more so than the broad highway filled with empty claims and pointless repetitions, the distractions from others' flaws and the easy judgments of others—all cheap materials costing absolutely nothing.
No. It was not a selfish fear or hesitation that rendered him uneasy, but a mistrust lest Pancks might not observe his part of the understanding between them, and, making any discovery, might take some course upon it without imparting it to him. On the other hand, when he recalled his conversation with Pancks, and the little reason he had to suppose that there was any likelihood of that strange personage being on that track at all, there were times when he wondered that he made so much of it. Labouring in this sea, as all barks labour in cross seas, he tossed about and came to no haven.
No. It wasn’t a selfish fear or hesitation that made him uneasy; it was a distrust that Pancks might not stick to their agreement. He worried that if Pancks discovered something, he might act on it without telling him. On the flip side, when he thought back on his conversation with Pancks and realized he had little reason to believe that peculiar person was actually on that path, he sometimes questioned why he was making such a big deal out of it. Struggling in this turmoil, like all boats do in rough seas, he was tossed around and found no safe place.
The removal of Little Dorrit herself from their customary association, did not mend the matter. She was so much out, and so much in her own room, that he began to miss her and to find a blank in her place. He had written to her to inquire if she were better, and she had written back, very gratefully and earnestly telling him not to be uneasy on her behalf, for she was quite well; but he had not seen her, for what, in their intercourse, was a long time.
The fact that Little Dorrit no longer spent time with them didn’t help the situation. She was often out and mostly in her own room, which made him start to feel her absence and notice the emptiness in her place. He had written to her to ask if she was feeling better, and she had replied, sincerely and gratefully, assuring him not to worry about her because she was perfectly fine; however, he hadn’t seen her in what felt like a long time for them.
He returned home one evening from an interview with her father, who had mentioned that she was out visiting—which was what he always said when she was hard at work to buy his supper—and found Mr Meagles in an excited state walking up and down his room. On his opening the door, Mr Meagles stopped, faced round, and said:
He came home one evening after meeting with her dad, who had mentioned that she was out visiting—which is what he always said when she was busy working to earn dinner for him—and found Mr. Meagles pacing back and forth in his room. When he opened the door, Mr. Meagles stopped, turned around, and said:
‘Clennam!—Tattycoram!’
‘Clennam!—Tattycoram!’
‘What’s the matter?’
"What's wrong?"
‘Lost!’
“Missing!”
‘Why, bless my heart alive!’ cried Clennam in amazement. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Wow, I can't believe this!’ exclaimed Clennam in shock. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Wouldn’t count five-and-twenty, sir; couldn’t be got to do it; stopped at eight, and took herself off.’
‘Wouldn’t count twenty-five, sir; couldn’t be persuaded to do it; stopped at eight and left.’
‘Left your house?’
"Have you left your house?"
‘Never to come back,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head. ‘You don’t know that girl’s passionate and proud character. A team of horses couldn’t draw her back now; the bolts and bars of the old Bastille couldn’t keep her.’
“Never to come back,” Mr. Meagles said, shaking his head. “You don’t realize how passionate and proud that girl is. Not even a team of horses could bring her back now; the bolts and bars of the old Bastille couldn’t hold her.”
‘How did it happen? Pray sit down and tell me.’
‘How did it happen? Please have a seat and tell me.’
‘As to how it happened, it’s not so easy to relate: because you must have the unfortunate temperament of the poor impetuous girl herself, before you can fully understand it. But it came about in this way. Pet and Mother and I have been having a good deal of talk together of late. I’ll not disguise from you, Clennam, that those conversations have not been of as bright a kind as I could wish; they have referred to our going away again. In proposing to do which, I have had, in fact, an object.’
‘As for how it happened, it’s not easy to explain: you really need to have the unfortunate temperament of the poor impulsive girl herself to fully understand it. But it happened like this. Pet, Mother, and I have been talking quite a bit lately. I won’t hide it from you, Clennam, those conversations haven’t been as uplifting as I’d like; we’ve been discussing our plans to leave again. In suggesting this, I actually had a specific reason.’
Nobody’s heart beat quickly.
No one's heart raced.
‘An object,’ said Mr Meagles, after a moment’s pause, ‘that I will not disguise from you, either, Clennam. There’s an inclination on the part of my dear child which I am sorry for. Perhaps you guess the person. Henry Gowan.’
"An object," Mr. Meagles said after a brief pause, "that I won’t hide from you, Clennam. There’s a tendency in my dear child that I regret. Maybe you can guess who I’m talking about. Henry Gowan."
‘I was not unprepared to hear it.’
'I was not surprised to hear it.'
‘Well!’ said Mr Meagles, with a heavy sigh, ‘I wish to God you had never had to hear it. However, so it is. Mother and I have done all we could to get the better of it, Clennam. We have tried tender advice, we have tried time, we have tried absence. As yet, of no use. Our late conversations have been upon the subject of going away for another year at least, in order that there might be an entire separation and breaking off for that term. Upon that question, Pet has been unhappy, and therefore Mother and I have been unhappy.’
“Well!” said Mr. Meagles, with a heavy sigh. “I wish to God you had never had to hear this. But it is what it is. Mother and I have done everything we could to deal with it, Clennam. We’ve tried gentle advice, time, and distance. So far, none of it has worked. Our recent conversations have focused on the possibility of leaving for at least another year, so there could be a complete separation during that time. On that matter, Pet has been upset, and as a result, Mother and I have been upset too.”
Clennam said that he could easily believe it.
Clennam said he could totally believe it.
‘Well!’ continued Mr Meagles in an apologetic way, ‘I admit as a practical man, and I am sure Mother would admit as a practical woman, that we do, in families, magnify our troubles and make mountains of our molehills in a way that is calculated to be rather trying to people who look on—to mere outsiders, you know, Clennam. Still, Pet’s happiness or unhappiness is quite a life or death question with us; and we may be excused, I hope, for making much of it. At all events, it might have been borne by Tattycoram. Now, don’t you think so?’
‘Well!’ Mr. Meagles continued, sounding a bit apologetic, ‘I’ll admit as a practical man, and I’m sure Mother would agree as a practical woman, that we often blow our issues out of proportion in families and make mountains out of molehills in ways that can be pretty frustrating for those who are just watching—like outsiders, you know, Clennam. Still, Pet’s happiness or unhappiness is a life-or-death matter for us; and I hope we can be forgiven for caring so much about it. In any case, Tattycoram could have handled it. Don’t you think so?’
‘I do indeed think so,’ returned Clennam, in most emphatic recognition of this very moderate expectation.
"I definitely think so," Clennam replied, strongly acknowledging this very modest expectation.
‘No, sir,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head ruefully. ‘She couldn’t stand it. The chafing and firing of that girl, the wearing and tearing of that girl within her own breast, has been such that I have softly said to her again and again in passing her, “Five-and-twenty, Tattycoram, five-and-twenty!” I heartily wish she could have gone on counting five-and-twenty day and night, and then it wouldn’t have happened.’
‘No, sir,’ said Mr. Meagles, shaking his head with a sad smile. ‘She just couldn’t take it. The stress and struggles of that girl, the emotional turmoil she’s been going through, have been so intense that I’ve gently told her over and over as she passed by, “Twenty-five, Tattycoram, twenty-five!” I really wish she could have just kept counting to twenty-five day and night; then maybe it wouldn't have happened.’
Mr Meagles with a despondent countenance in which the goodness of his heart was even more expressed than in his times of cheerfulness and gaiety, stroked his face down from his forehead to his chin, and shook his head again.
Mr. Meagles had a downcast expression that showed the goodness of his heart even more than when he was cheerful and happy. He ran his hand down his face from his forehead to his chin and shook his head again.
‘I said to Mother (not that it was necessary, for she would have thought it all for herself), we are practical people, my dear, and we know her story; we see in this unhappy girl some reflection of what was raging in her mother’s heart before ever such a creature as this poor thing was in the world; we’ll gloss her temper over, Mother, we won’t notice it at present, my dear, we’ll take advantage of some better disposition in her another time. So we said nothing. But, do what we would, it seems as if it was to be; she broke out violently one night.’
“I told Mom (not that it was really necessary, because she would have figured it out herself), we’re practical people, and we understand her story; we can see in this troubled girl some echo of what her mother was going through even before this poor thing was born; let’s overlook her bad attitude for now, Mom, we can take note of her better side another time. So we said nothing. But no matter what we did, it felt like it was meant to happen; she exploded one night.”
‘How, and why?’
"How and why?"
‘If you ask me Why,’ said Mr Meagles, a little disturbed by the question, for he was far more intent on softening her case than the family’s, ‘I can only refer you to what I have just repeated as having been pretty near my words to Mother. As to How, we had said Good night to Pet in her presence (very affectionately, I must allow), and she had attended Pet up-stairs—you remember she was her maid. Perhaps Pet, having been out of sorts, may have been a little more inconsiderate than usual in requiring services of her: but I don’t know that I have any right to say so; she was always thoughtful and gentle.’
‘If you ask me why,’ said Mr. Meagles, feeling a bit unsettled by the question, because he was more focused on making her situation better than dealing with the family’s, ‘I can only refer you to what I just said was pretty close to my words to Mother. As for how, we had said good night to Pet in front of her (very affectionately, I must say), and she had taken Pet upstairs—you remember she was her maid. Maybe Pet, feeling a bit off, could have been a little more demanding than usual about needing her services: but I don’t think I have the right to say that; she was always considerate and kind.’
‘The gentlest mistress in the world.’
‘The kindest mistress in the world.’
‘Thank you, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand; ‘you have often seen them together. Well! We presently heard this unfortunate Tattycoram loud and angry, and before we could ask what was the matter, Pet came back in a tremble, saying she was frightened of her. Close after her came Tattycoram in a flaming rage. “I hate you all three,” says she, stamping her foot at us. “I am bursting with hate of the whole house.”’
“Thank you, Clennam,” Mr. Meagles said, shaking his hand. “You’ve seen them together many times. So, we soon heard the unfortunate Tattycoram screaming with anger, and before we could ask what was going on, Pet rushed back, shaking, saying she was scared of her. Right behind her came Tattycoram, furious. ‘I hate all three of you,’ she said, stomping her foot at us. ‘I’m bursting with hate for the entire house.’”
‘Upon which you—?’
'On which you—?'
‘I?’ said Mr Meagles, with a plain good faith that might have commanded the belief of Mrs Gowan herself. ‘I said, count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’
‘I?’ said Mr. Meagles, with a straightforward honesty that could have earned the trust of Mrs. Gowan herself. ‘I said, count to twenty-five, Tattycoram.’
Mr Meagles again stroked his face and shook his head, with an air of profound regret.
Mr. Meagles stroked his face again and shook his head, looking very regretful.
‘She was so used to do it, Clennam, that even then, such a picture of passion as you never saw, she stopped short, looked me full in the face, and counted (as I made out) to eight. But she couldn’t control herself to go any further. There she broke down, poor thing, and gave the other seventeen to the four winds. Then it all burst out. She detested us, she was miserable with us, she couldn’t bear it, she wouldn’t bear it, she was determined to go away. She was younger than her young mistress, and would she remain to see her always held up as the only creature who was young and interesting, and to be cherished and loved? No. She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t! What did we think she, Tattycoram, might have been if she had been caressed and cared for in her childhood, like her young mistress? As good as her? Ah! Perhaps fifty times as good. When we pretended to be so fond of one another, we exulted over her; that was what we did; we exulted over her and shamed her. And all in the house did the same. They talked about their fathers and mothers, and brothers and sisters; they liked to drag them up before her face. There was Mrs Tickit, only yesterday, when her little grandchild was with her, had been amused by the child’s trying to call her (Tattycoram) by the wretched name we gave her; and had laughed at the name. Why, who didn’t; and who were we that we should have a right to name her like a dog or a cat? But she didn’t care. She would take no more benefits from us; she would fling us her name back again, and she would go. She would leave us that minute, nobody should stop her, and we should never hear of her again.’
‘She was so used to it, Clennam, that even then, in a moment of passion like you’ve never seen, she stopped, looked me right in the eye, and counted (as I realized) to eight. But she couldn’t hold back any longer. That’s when she broke down, poor thing, and let the other seventeen go to waste. Then everything came pouring out. She hated us, she was miserable with us, she couldn’t stand it, she wouldn’t accept it, she was determined to leave. She was younger than her young mistress, and would she really stay to watch her always be seen as the only person who was young and interesting, to be cherished and loved? No. She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t! What did we think she, Tattycoram, could have become if she had been cared for in her childhood like her young mistress? Just as good? Ah! Perhaps fifty times better. When we pretended to be so fond of each other, we reveled in her misfortune; that’s what we did; we reveled in her and shamed her. Everyone in the house did the same. They talked about their parents, brothers, and sisters; they enjoyed bringing them up in front of her. Just yesterday, Mrs. Tickit, while with her little grandchild, found it amusing that the child tried to call her (Tattycoram) by the horrible name we gave her; and she laughed at the name. Why, who didn’t; and who were we to have the right to name her like an animal? But she didn’t care. She wouldn’t take any more favors from us; she would throw her name back at us and leave. She would walk out right that minute, no one would stop her, and we’d never hear from her again.’
Mr Meagles had recited all this with such a vivid remembrance of his original, that he was almost as flushed and hot by this time as he described her to have been.
Mr. Meagles had recalled all this with such a vivid memory of his original that he was nearly as flushed and hot by this point as he described her to have been.
‘Ah, well!’ he said, wiping his face. ‘It was of no use trying reason then, with that vehement panting creature (Heaven knows what her mother’s story must have been); so I quietly told her that she should not go at that late hour of night, and I gave her my hand and took her to her room, and locked the house doors. But she was gone this morning.’
‘Ah, well!’ he said, wiping his face. ‘It was pointless to try reasoning with that breathless girl (God knows what her mother’s story must have been); so I calmly told her that she shouldn’t go out at this late hour, and I took her hand and led her to her room, then locked the house doors. But she was gone this morning.’
‘And you know no more of her?’
‘And you don’t know anything more about her?’
‘No more,’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘I have been hunting about all day. She must have gone very early and very silently. I have found no trace of her down about us.’
‘No more,’ replied Mr. Meagles. ‘I've been looking around all day. She must have left very early and very quietly. I haven't found any sign of her nearby.’
‘Stay! You want,’ said Clennam, after a moment’s reflection, ‘to see her? I assume that?’
‘Wait! You want,’ said Clennam, after a moment of thinking, ‘to see her? I take it that’s the case?’
‘Yes, assuredly; I want to give her another chance; Mother and Pet want to give her another chance; come! You yourself,’ said Mr Meagles, persuasively, as if the provocation to be angry were not his own at all, ‘want to give the poor passionate girl another chance, I know, Clennam.’
'Yes, definitely; I want to give her another chance; Mother and Pet want to give her another chance; come on! You yourself,’ said Mr. Meagles, in a convincing tone, as if the reason to be angry wasn't his at all, ‘want to give the poor, passionate girl another chance, I know you do, Clennam.’
‘It would be strange and hard indeed if I did not,’ said Clennam, ‘when you are all so forgiving. What I was going to ask you was, have you thought of that Miss Wade?’
“It would be really odd and difficult if I didn’t,” said Clennam, “given how forgiving you all are. What I wanted to ask you was, have you thought about that Miss Wade?”
‘I have. I did not think of her until I had pervaded the whole of our neighbourhood, and I don’t know that I should have done so then but for finding Mother and Pet, when I went home, full of the idea that Tattycoram must have gone to her. Then, of course, I recalled what she said that day at dinner when you were first with us.’
‘I have. I didn’t think about her until I had gotten through our entire neighborhood, and I’m not sure I would have thought of her then if I hadn't found Mother and Pet at home, convinced that Tattycoram must have gone to her. Then, of course, I remembered what she said that day at dinner when you were first with us.’
‘Have you any idea where Miss Wade is to be found?’
‘Do you have any idea where Miss Wade is?’
‘To tell you the truth,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘it’s because I have an addled jumble of a notion on that subject that you found me waiting here. There is one of those odd impressions in my house, which do mysteriously get into houses sometimes, which nobody seems to have picked up in a distinct form from anybody, and yet which everybody seems to have got hold of loosely from somebody and let go again, that she lives, or was living, thereabouts.’ Mr Meagles handed him a slip of paper, on which was written the name of one of the dull by-streets in the Grosvenor region, near Park Lane.
"Honestly," Mr. Meagles said, "the reason you found me waiting here is that I have this mixed-up idea about that subject. There's one of those strange feelings in my house, which sometimes just sort of creep into homes, and no one seems to have identified it clearly from anyone else, yet it feels like everyone has more or less got it from someone and let it go again, that she lives, or used to live, around here." Mr. Meagles handed him a piece of paper with the name of one of the boring side streets in the Grosvenor area, near Park Lane, written on it.
‘Here is no number,’ said Arthur looking over it.
‘There’s no number here,’ said Arthur, looking it over.
‘No number, my dear Clennam?’ returned his friend. ‘No anything! The very name of the street may have been floating in the air; for, as I tell you, none of my people can say where they got it from. However, it’s worth an inquiry; and as I would rather make it in company than alone, and as you too were a fellow-traveller of that immovable woman’s, I thought perhaps—’ Clennam finished the sentence for him by taking up his hat again, and saying he was ready.
‘No number, my dear Clennam?’ his friend replied. ‘No clue at all! The very name of the street might as well be floating in the air; because, as I mentioned, none of my people can say where it came from. Still, it’s worth looking into; and since I’d prefer to do it with company rather than alone, and since you’ve also traveled with that stubborn woman, I figured perhaps—’ Clennam completed his sentence by grabbing his hat again and saying he was ready.
It was now summer-time; a grey, hot, dusty evening. They rode to the top of Oxford Street, and there alighting, dived in among the great streets of melancholy stateliness, and the little streets that try to be as stately and succeed in being more melancholy, of which there is a labyrinth near Park Lane. Wildernesses of corner houses, with barbarous old porticoes and appurtenances; horrors that came into existence under some wrong-headed person in some wrong-headed time, still demanding the blind admiration of all ensuing generations and determined to do so until they tumbled down; frowned upon the twilight. Parasite little tenements, with the cramp in their whole frame, from the dwarf hall-door on the giant model of His Grace’s in the Square to the squeezed window of the boudoir commanding the dunghills in the Mews, made the evening doleful. Rickety dwellings of undoubted fashion, but of a capacity to hold nothing comfortably except a dismal smell, looked like the last result of the great mansions’ breeding in-and-in; and, where their little supplementary bows and balconies were supported on thin iron columns, seemed to be scrofulously resting upon crutches. Here and there a Hatchment, with the whole science of Heraldry in it, loomed down upon the street, like an Archbishop discoursing on Vanity. The shops, few in number, made no show; for popular opinion was as nothing to them. The pastrycook knew who was on his books, and in that knowledge could be calm, with a few glass cylinders of dowager peppermint-drops in his window, and half-a-dozen ancient specimens of currant-jelly. A few oranges formed the greengrocer’s whole concession to the vulgar mind. A single basket made of moss, once containing plovers’ eggs, held all that the poulterer had to say to the rabble. Everybody in those streets seemed (which is always the case at that hour and season) to be gone out to dinner, and nobody seemed to be giving the dinners they had gone to. On the doorsteps there were lounging footmen with bright parti-coloured plumage and white polls, like an extinct race of monstrous birds; and butlers, solitary men of recluse demeanour, each of whom appeared distrustful of all other butlers. The roll of carriages in the Park was done for the day; the street lamps were lighting; and wicked little grooms in the tightest fitting garments, with twists in their legs answering to the twists in their minds, hung about in pairs, chewing straws and exchanging fraudulent secrets. The spotted dogs who went out with the carriages, and who were so associated with splendid equipages that it looked like a condescension in those animals to come out without them, accompanied helpers to and fro on messages. Here and there was a retiring public-house which did not require to be supported on the shoulders of the people, and where gentlemen out of livery were not much wanted.
It was now summer; a gray, hot, dusty evening. They rode to the top of Oxford Street, and there, getting off, plunged into the grand streets with their sad elegance and the smaller ones trying to be just as elegant but ending up looking even more sorrowful, forming a maze near Park Lane. There were clusters of corner houses, with grim old porches and additions; eyesores that came about during some misguided era that still demanded blind admiration from future generations and would continue to do so until they fell apart; looming over the twilight. Tiny cramped apartment buildings, awkwardly designed from the small front doors mimicking the grand ones in the Square to the constricted windows of the cozy rooms overlooking the waste in the Mews, made the evening feel dreary. Rickety houses, definitely in style, but only capable of holding a terrible smell comfortably seemed like the last result of breeding among great mansions; and where their small extra balconies were propped up by flimsy iron columns, they looked like they were weakly supported by crutches. Here and there, a hatchment with the complete science of heraldry loomed over the street, like a high-ranking official lecturing on vanity. The few shops weren't impressive; public opinion didn't matter to them at all. The pastry chef knew his regular customers, and with that knowledge, he was calm, exhibiting just a few glass jars of old-fashioned peppermint drops in his window and half a dozen outdated jars of currant jelly. A couple of oranges made up the greengrocer's entire appeal to the common people. A single moss basket, once used for plover eggs, contained everything the poulterer had to say to the masses. Everyone in those streets seemed (which usually happens at that hour and season) to be out to dinner, and nobody seemed to be hosting the dinners they had gone to. On the doorsteps, lazy footmen with bright, colorful outfits and white wigs lounged about, resembling an extinct breed of strange birds; and butlers, solitary figures with reserved attitudes, each seemed suspicious of the other butlers. The carriages in the Park for the day had ceased; the street lamps were being lit; and cheeky little grooms in tight-fitting clothes, with legs that twisted like their thoughts, hung around in pairs, chewing straws and exchanging shady secrets. The spotted dogs that usually went out with the carriages, so associated with luxurious rides that it seemed beneath them to be out on their own, accompanied helpers back and forth with messages. Here and there was a quiet pub that didn't need the support of the locals and where gentlemen out of uniform weren't particularly wanted.
This last discovery was made by the two friends in pursuing their inquiries. Nothing was there, or anywhere, known of such a person as Miss Wade, in connection with the street they sought. It was one of the parasite streets; long, regular, narrow, dull and gloomy; like a brick and mortar funeral. They inquired at several little area gates, where a dejected youth stood spiking his chin on the summit of a precipitous little shoot of wooden steps, but could gain no information. They walked up the street on one side of the way, and down it on the other, what time two vociferous news-sellers, announcing an extraordinary event that had never happened and never would happen, pitched their hoarse voices into the secret chambers; but nothing came of it. At length they stood at the corner from which they had begun, and it had fallen quite dark, and they were no wiser.
This last discovery was made by the two friends during their search. There was no one, anywhere, who knew anything about a person named Miss Wade in connection with the street they were exploring. It was one of those depressing streets; long, straight, narrow, dull, and gloomy; like a brick-and-mortar funeral. They asked at several small gates, where a sad-looking young guy was resting his chin on the top of a steep little set of wooden steps, but got no useful information. They walked up one side of the street and down the other while two loud news vendors shouted about a crazy event that had never happened and never would, but nothing came of it. Finally, they found themselves back at the original corner, it had gotten quite dark, and they were no smarter.
It happened that in the street they had several times passed a dingy house, apparently empty, with bills in the windows, announcing that it was to let. The bills, as a variety in the funeral procession, almost amounted to a decoration. Perhaps because they kept the house separated in his mind, or perhaps because Mr Meagles and himself had twice agreed in passing, ‘It is clear she don’t live there,’ Clennam now proposed that they should go back and try that house before finally going away. Mr Meagles agreed, and back they went.
They had walked past a rundown house on the street several times, which seemed empty and had “For Rent” signs in the windows. The signs, like an odd addition to a funeral procession, almost served as decoration. Maybe because they kept the house distinct in his mind, or maybe because Mr. Meagles and he had both said twice while passing by, "It's obvious she doesn't live there," Clennam suggested they go back and check the place before leaving for good. Mr. Meagles agreed, and they turned around.
They knocked once, and they rang once, without any response. ‘Empty,’ said Mr Meagles, listening. ‘Once more,’ said Clennam, and knocked again. After that knock they heard a movement below, and somebody shuffling up towards the door.
They knocked once and rang the bell once, but got no response. “It’s empty,” Mr. Meagles said, listening. “One more time,” Clennam said, and knocked again. After that knock, they heard some movement below and someone shuffling toward the door.
The confined entrance was so dark that it was impossible to make out distinctly what kind of person opened the door; but it appeared to be an old woman. ‘Excuse our troubling you,’ said Clennam. ‘Pray can you tell us where Miss Wade lives?’ The voice in the darkness unexpectedly replied, ‘Lives here.’
The tight entrance was so dark that it was impossible to clearly see who opened the door; but it seemed to be an old woman. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ Clennam said. ‘Could you please tell us where Miss Wade lives?’ The voice in the darkness unexpectedly answered, ‘Lives here.’
‘Is she at home?’
"Is she home?"
No answer coming, Mr Meagles asked again. ‘Pray is she at home?’
No answer came, so Mr. Meagles asked again. “Is she home?”
After another delay, ‘I suppose she is,’ said the voice abruptly; ‘you had better come in, and I’ll ask.’
After another delay, “I guess she is,” the voice said suddenly; “you should come in, and I’ll ask.”
They were summarily shut into the close black house; and the figure rustling away, and speaking from a higher level, said, ‘Come up, if you please; you can’t tumble over anything.’ They groped their way up-stairs towards a faint light, which proved to be the light of the street shining through a window; and the figure left them shut in an airless room.
They were quickly locked inside the dark house; and the figure, rustling away and speaking from a higher position, said, ‘Come up, if you want; you won’t trip over anything.’ They felt their way upstairs toward a dim light, which turned out to be the streetlight shining through a window; and the figure left them trapped in a stuffy room.
‘This is odd, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, softly.
‘This is strange, Clennam,’ said Mr. Meagles, quietly.
‘Odd enough,’ assented Clennam in the same tone, ‘but we have succeeded; that’s the main point. Here’s a light coming!’
"Strange, but I agree," Clennam said in the same tone, "but we've succeeded; that's what really matters. Look, there's light coming!"
The light was a lamp, and the bearer was an old woman: very dirty, very wrinkled and dry. ‘She’s at home,’ she said (and the voice was the same that had spoken before); ‘she’ll come directly.’ Having set the lamp down on the table, the old woman dusted her hands on her apron, which she might have done for ever without cleaning them, looked at the visitors with a dim pair of eyes, and backed out.
The light was a lamp, and the person holding it was an old woman: very dirty, very wrinkled, and dry. “She's at home,” she said (and her voice was the same as before); “she’ll be here soon.” After placing the lamp on the table, the old woman wiped her hands on her apron, which she could have done for ages without getting them clean, glanced at the visitors with her dim eyes, and then backed out.
The lady whom they had come to see, if she were the present occupant of the house, appeared to have taken up her quarters there as she might have established herself in an Eastern caravanserai. A small square of carpet in the middle of the room, a few articles of furniture that evidently did not belong to the room, and a disorder of trunks and travelling articles, formed the whole of her surroundings. Under some former regular inhabitant, the stifling little apartment had broken out into a pier-glass and a gilt table; but the gilding was as faded as last year’s flowers, and the glass was so clouded that it seemed to hold in magic preservation all the fogs and bad weather it had ever reflected. The visitors had had a minute or two to look about them, when the door opened and Miss Wade came in.
The woman they had come to see, if she was indeed the current resident of the house, seemed to have set up her space there like she would in an Eastern inn. A small square of carpet in the center of the room, a few pieces of furniture that clearly didn’t belong to the room, and a messy collection of trunks and travel items made up her entire surroundings. Under some previous regular tenant, the cramped little apartment had once boasted a large mirror and a gilded table; however, the gold was as faded as last year’s flowers, and the mirror was so clouded that it appeared to hold onto every fog and bad weather it had ever reflected. The visitors had just a minute or two to take in their surroundings when the door opened and Miss Wade walked in.
She was exactly the same as when they had parted, just as handsome, just as scornful, just as repressed. She manifested no surprise in seeing them, nor any other emotion. She requested them to be seated; and declining to take a seat herself, at once anticipated any introduction of their business.
She was exactly the same as when they had parted, just as attractive, just as disdainful, just as reserved. She showed no surprise at seeing them, nor any other emotion. She asked them to sit down; and refusing to take a seat herself, she immediately anticipated any introduction to their business.
‘I apprehend,’ she said, ‘that I know the cause of your favouring me with this visit. We may come to it at once.’
“I understand,” she said, “that I know why you’ve come to see me. Let’s get to it right away.”
‘The cause then, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘is Tattycoram.’
‘So the reason, ma’am,’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘is Tattycoram.’
‘So I supposed.’
"I'm assuming so."
‘Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘will you be so kind as to say whether you know anything of her?’
‘Miss Wade,’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘could you please let us know if you know anything about her?’
‘Surely. I know she is here with me.’
‘Of course. I know she’s here with me.’
‘Then, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘allow me to make known to you that I shall be happy to have her back, and that my wife and daughter will be happy to have her back. She has been with us a long time: we don’t forget her claims upon us, and I hope we know how to make allowances.’
‘Then, ma’am,’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘let me let you know that I would be happy to have her back, and my wife and daughter will be happy to have her back as well. She has been with us for a long time; we don’t forget her needs, and I hope we know how to be understanding.’
‘You hope to know how to make allowances?’ she returned, in a level, measured voice. ‘For what?’
"You think you know how to make allowances?" she replied in a calm, even tone. "For what?"
‘I think my friend would say, Miss Wade,’ Arthur Clennam interposed, seeing Mr Meagles rather at a loss, ‘for the passionate sense that sometimes comes upon the poor girl, of being at a disadvantage. Which occasionally gets the better of better remembrances.’
‘I think my friend would say, Miss Wade,’ Arthur Clennam interjected, seeing Mr. Meagles a bit confused, ‘because of the intense feeling that sometimes overwhelms the poor girl, of being at a disadvantage. Which sometimes overshadows better memories.’
The lady broke into a smile as she turned her eyes upon him. ‘Indeed?’ was all she answered.
The woman smiled as she looked at him. "Really?" was all she said.
She stood by the table so perfectly composed and still after this acknowledgment of his remark that Mr Meagles stared at her under a sort of fascination, and could not even look to Clennam to make another move. After waiting, awkwardly enough, for some moments, Arthur said:
She stood by the table, perfectly composed and motionless after he acknowledged his comment, that Mr. Meagles stared at her in a kind of fascination, unable to even glance at Clennam to make another move. After waiting, rather awkwardly, for a few moments, Arthur said:
‘Perhaps it would be well if Mr Meagles could see her, Miss Wade?’
‘Maybe it would be good if Mr. Meagles could see her, Miss Wade?’
‘That is easily done,’ said she. ‘Come here, child.’ She had opened a door while saying this, and now led the girl in by the hand. It was very curious to see them standing together: the girl with her disengaged fingers plaiting the bosom of her dress, half irresolutely, half passionately; Miss Wade with her composed face attentively regarding her, and suggesting to an observer, with extraordinary force, in her composure itself (as a veil will suggest the form it covers), the unquenchable passion of her own nature.
"That's easy enough," she said. "Come here, kid." She had opened a door while saying this and now led the girl in by the hand. It was interesting to see them standing together: the girl with her loose fingers fiddling with the front of her dress, half unsure, half intense; Miss Wade with her calm face watching her closely, which suggested to anyone observing, with remarkable intensity, in her calmness itself (like a veil suggesting the shape it covers), the deep passion of her own nature.
‘See here,’ she said, in the same level way as before. ‘Here is your patron, your master. He is willing to take you back, my dear, if you are sensible of the favour and choose to go. You can be, again, a foil to his pretty daughter, a slave to her pleasant wilfulness, and a toy in the house showing the goodness of the family. You can have your droll name again, playfully pointing you out and setting you apart, as it is right that you should be pointed out and set apart. (Your birth, you know; you must not forget your birth.) You can again be shown to this gentleman’s daughter, Harriet, and kept before her, as a living reminder of her own superiority and her gracious condescension. You can recover all these advantages and many more of the same kind which I dare say start up in your memory while I speak, and which you lose in taking refuge with me—you can recover them all by telling these gentlemen how humbled and penitent you are, and by going back to them to be forgiven. What do you say, Harriet? Will you go?’
"Look," she said, in the same calm tone as before. "Here’s your patron, your master. He’s willing to take you back, my dear, if you appreciate the opportunity and decide to go. You can once again be a contrast to his pretty daughter, a servant to her charming stubbornness, and a token in the house showcasing the family's goodness. You can have your amusing name back, playfully highlighting you and setting you apart, as it’s only right that you should be highlighted and set apart. (Don’t forget your background; you know that.) You can be shown to this gentleman’s daughter, Harriet, and kept in her view, as a living reminder of her own superiority and her gracious kindness. You can regain all these benefits and more that I’m sure come to mind while I speak, and which you’re sacrificing by staying with me—you can regain them all by telling these gentlemen how sorry and repentant you are, and by going back to them to be forgiven. What do you think, Harriet? Will you go?"
The girl who, under the influence of these words, had gradually risen in anger and heightened in colour, answered, raising her lustrous black eyes for the moment, and clenching her hand upon the folds it had been puckering up, ‘I’d die sooner!’
The girl, stirred by these words, had slowly stood up in anger, her face flushed. She replied, lifting her shining black eyes for a moment and clenching her hand on the fabric she had been crumpling, "I’d rather die!"
Miss Wade, still standing at her side holding her hand, looked quietly round and said with a smile, ‘Gentlemen! What do you do upon that?’
Miss Wade, still standing next to her holding her hand, looked around calmly and said with a smile, ‘Gentlemen! What do you think about that?’
Poor Mr Meagles’s inexpressible consternation in hearing his motives and actions so perverted, had prevented him from interposing any word until now; but now he regained the power of speech.
Poor Mr. Meagles's indescribable shock at hearing his motives and actions so twisted had kept him from saying anything until now; but now he found his voice.
‘Tattycoram,’ said he, ‘for I’ll call you by that name still, my good girl, conscious that I meant nothing but kindness when I gave it to you, and conscious that you know it—’
‘Tattycoram,’ he said, ‘because I’ll still call you by that name, my good girl, knowing I meant nothing but kindness when I gave it to you, and knowing that you understand that—’
‘I don’t!’ said she, looking up again, and almost rending herself with the same busy hand.
'I don’t!' she said, looking up again and almost hurting herself with the same busy hand.
‘No, not now, perhaps,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘not with that lady’s eyes so intent upon you, Tattycoram,’ she glanced at them for a moment, ‘and that power over you, which we see she exercises; not now, perhaps, but at another time. Tattycoram, I’ll not ask that lady whether she believes what she has said, even in the anger and ill blood in which I and my friend here equally know she has spoken, though she subdues herself, with a determination that any one who has once seen her is not likely to forget. I’ll not ask you, with your remembrance of my house and all belonging to it, whether you believe it. I’ll only say that you have no profession to make to me or mine, and no forgiveness to entreat; and that all in the world that I ask you to do, is, to count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’
“No, not now, maybe,” said Mr. Meagles; “not with that lady’s eyes so focused on you, Tattycoram,” she glanced at them for a moment, “and that influence over you, which we see she has; not now, maybe, but at another time. Tattycoram, I won’t ask that lady whether she means what she has said, even in the anger and bad feelings that we all know she has expressed, though she controls herself with a determination that anyone who has seen her won’t likely forget. I won’t ask you, with your memories of my home and everything related to it, whether you believe it. I'll just say that you have no confession to make to me or my family, and no forgiveness to seek; and that all I ask of you is to count to twenty-five, Tattycoram.”
She looked at him for an instant, and then said frowningly, ‘I won’t. Miss Wade, take me away, please.’
She glanced at him for a moment and then said with a frown, ‘I won’t. Miss Wade, please take me away.’
The contention that raged within her had no softening in it now; it was wholly between passionate defiance and stubborn defiance. Her rich colour, her quick blood, her rapid breath, were all setting themselves against the opportunity of retracing their steps. ‘I won’t. I won’t. I won’t!’ she repeated in a low, thick voice. ‘I’d be torn to pieces first. I’d tear myself to pieces first!’
The struggle inside her was as intense as ever; it was purely a battle between fierce defiance and stubborn refusal. Her vibrant complexion, her quickened pulse, her fast breathing were all opposing the chance to turn back. “I won’t. I won’t. I won’t!” she repeated in a low, thick voice. “I’d rather be torn to shreds. I’d tear myself apart first!”
Miss Wade, who had released her hold, laid her hand protectingly on the girl’s neck for a moment, and then said, looking round with her former smile and speaking exactly in her former tone, ‘Gentlemen! What do you do upon that?’
Miss Wade, who had let go, placed her hand gently on the girl’s neck for a moment, then said, glancing around with her usual smile and speaking in her usual tone, “Gentlemen! What do you make of that?”
‘Oh, Tattycoram, Tattycoram!’ cried Mr Meagles, adjuring her besides with an earnest hand. ‘Hear that lady’s voice, look at that lady’s face, consider what is in that lady’s heart, and think what a future lies before you. My child, whatever you may think, that lady’s influence over you—astonishing to us, and I should hardly go too far in saying terrible to us to see—is founded in passion fiercer than yours, and temper more violent than yours. What can you two be together? What can come of it?’
‘Oh, Tattycoram, Tattycoram!’ cried Mr. Meagles, reaching out to her with a sincere gesture. ‘Listen to that lady’s voice, look at that lady’s face, think about what’s in that lady’s heart, and consider the future that awaits you. My child, no matter what you believe, that lady’s influence over you—remarkable to us, and I would hardly exaggerate by saying frightening to us—is rooted in a passion stronger than yours, and a temper more intense than yours. What can you two possibly have together? What will come of it?’
‘I am alone here, gentlemen,’ observed Miss Wade, with no change of voice or manner. ‘Say anything you will.’
‘I’m alone here, gentlemen,’ Miss Wade said, without changing her voice or demeanor. ‘Say whatever you want.’
‘Politeness must yield to this misguided girl, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘at her present pass; though I hope not altogether to dismiss it, even with the injury you do her so strongly before me. Excuse me for reminding you in her hearing—I must say it—that you were a mystery to all of us, and had nothing in common with any of us when she unfortunately fell in your way. I don’t know what you are, but you don’t hide, can’t hide, what a dark spirit you have within you. If it should happen that you are a woman, who, from whatever cause, has a perverted delight in making a sister-woman as wretched as she is (I am old enough to have heard of such), I warn her against you, and I warn you against yourself.’
“Politeness has to take a backseat with this misguided girl, ma’am,” Mr. Meagles said, “at this point; though I hope not to completely dismiss it, even with the harm you're doing her right in front of me. I apologize for bringing this up in her presence—I have to say it—that you were a mystery to all of us and had no connection with any of us when she unfortunately crossed paths with you. I don’t know what you are, but you don’t hide, and can’t hide, the darkness that’s inside you. If you happen to be a woman who, for whatever reason, takes a twisted pleasure in making another woman as miserable as she is (I've lived long enough to have heard of such cases), I warn her about you, and I warn you about yourself.”
‘Gentlemen!’ said Miss Wade, calmly. ‘When you have concluded—Mr Clennam, perhaps you will induce your friend—’
‘Gentlemen!’ said Miss Wade, calmly. ‘When you’re done—Mr. Clennam, could you please persuade your friend—’
‘Not without another effort,’ said Mr Meagles, stoutly. ‘Tattycoram, my poor dear girl, count five-and-twenty.’
‘Not without one more try,’ said Mr. Meagles firmly. ‘Tattycoram, my dear girl, count to twenty-five.’
Original
‘Do not reject the hope, the certainty, this kind man offers you,’ said Clennam in a low emphatic voice. ‘Turn to the friends you have not forgotten. Think once more!’
‘Don’t turn away from the hope and certainty this kind man is offering you,’ Clennam said in a firm, low voice. ‘Reach out to the friends you haven’t forgotten. Think again!’
‘I won’t! Miss Wade,’ said the girl, with her bosom swelling high, and speaking with her hand held to her throat, ‘take me away!’
"I won't! Miss Wade," the girl said, her chest rising high and speaking with her hand on her throat, "take me away!"
‘Tattycoram,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Once more yet! The only thing I ask of you in the world, my child! Count five-and-twenty!’
‘Tattycoram,’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘Once more! The only thing I ask of you in the world, my child! Count to twenty-five!’
She put her hands tightly over her ears, confusedly tumbling down her bright black hair in the vehemence of the action, and turned her face resolutely to the wall. Miss Wade, who had watched her under this final appeal with that strange attentive smile, and that repressing hand upon her own bosom with which she had watched her in her struggle at Marseilles, then put her arm about her waist as if she took possession of her for evermore.
She pressed her hands firmly over her ears, her bright black hair cascading down in a messy tumble from the intensity of the move, and turned her face determinedly toward the wall. Miss Wade, who had observed her during this last desperate act with that odd, focused smile and the calming hand resting on her own chest that she had used while watching her struggle in Marseille, then wrapped her arm around her waist as if claiming her for good.
And there was a visible triumph in her face when she turned it to dismiss the visitors.
And there was a clear sense of victory on her face when she turned it away to dismiss the visitors.
‘As it is the last time I shall have the honour,’ she said, ‘and as you have spoken of not knowing what I am, and also of the foundation of my influence here, you may now know that it is founded in a common cause. What your broken plaything is as to birth, I am. She has no name, I have no name. Her wrong is my wrong. I have nothing more to say to you.’
‘Since this is the last time I’ll have the honor,’ she said, ‘and as you’ve mentioned not knowing who I am, as well as the basis of my influence here, you should now understand that it’s rooted in a shared cause. What your broken plaything is in terms of birth, I am. She has no name, and I have no name. Her wrongs are my wrongs. I have nothing more to say to you.’
This was addressed to Mr Meagles, who sorrowfully went out. As Clennam followed, she said to him, with the same external composure and in the same level voice, but with a smile that is only seen on cruel faces: a very faint smile, lifting the nostril, scarcely touching the lips, and not breaking away gradually, but instantly dismissed when done with:
This was directed to Mr. Meagles, who sadly left the room. As Clennam followed, she spoke to him with the same calm demeanor and even tone, but with a smile that only cruel people wear: a very slight smile that lifted her nostril, barely grazed her lips, and didn't fade away slowly, but was quickly gone the moment it served its purpose.
‘I hope the wife of your dear friend Mr Gowan, may be happy in the contrast of her extraction to this girl’s and mine, and in the high good fortune that awaits her.’
‘I hope your dear friend Mr. Gowan's wife finds happiness in the difference between her background and that of this girl and me, as well as in the great fortune that lies ahead for her.’
CHAPTER 28. Nobody’s Disappearance
Not resting satisfied with the endeavours he had made to recover his lost charge, Mr Meagles addressed a letter of remonstrance, breathing nothing but goodwill, not only to her, but to Miss Wade too. No answer coming to these epistles, or to another written to the stubborn girl by the hand of her late young mistress, which might have melted her if anything could (all three letters were returned weeks afterwards as having been refused at the house-door), he deputed Mrs Meagles to make the experiment of a personal interview. That worthy lady being unable to obtain one, and being steadfastly denied admission, Mr Meagles besought Arthur to essay once more what he could do. All that came of his compliance was, his discovery that the empty house was left in charge of the old woman, that Miss Wade was gone, that the waifs and strays of furniture were gone, and that the old woman would accept any number of half-crowns and thank the donor kindly, but had no information whatever to exchange for those coins, beyond constantly offering for perusal a memorandum relative to fixtures, which the house-agent’s young man had left in the hall.
Not satisfied with his attempts to get back his lost charge, Mr. Meagles wrote a letter of complaint, full of goodwill, not just to her but also to Miss Wade. After not receiving any response to these letters, or to another one sent to the stubborn girl by her late young mistress, which might have softened her if anything could (all three letters were returned weeks later as being refused at the door), he asked Mrs. Meagles to try for a personal meeting. Since that kind lady was unable to get one and was firmly denied entry, Mr. Meagles urged Arthur to try once more to see what he could do. The only result of his efforts was his finding out that the empty house was being watched over by an old woman, that Miss Wade had left, that the random bits of furniture were gone, and that the old woman would gladly accept any number of half-crowns and thank the giver kindly, but she had no further information to exchange for those coins, except for a memorandum about fixtures that the house-agent's assistant had left in the hall.
Unwilling, even under this discomfiture, to resign the ingrate and leave her hopeless, in case of her better dispositions obtaining the mastery over the darker side of her character, Mr Meagles, for six successive days, published a discreetly covert advertisement in the morning papers, to the effect that if a certain young person who had lately left home without reflection, would at any time apply to his address at Twickenham, everything would be as it had been before, and no reproaches need be apprehended. The unexpected consequences of this notification suggested to the dismayed Mr Meagles for the first time that some hundreds of young persons must be leaving their homes without reflection every day; for shoals of wrong young people came down to Twickenham, who, not finding themselves received with enthusiasm, generally demanded compensation by way of damages, in addition to coach-hire there and back. Nor were these the only uninvited clients whom the advertisement produced. The swarm of begging-letter writers, who would seem to be always watching eagerly for any hook, however small, to hang a letter upon, wrote to say that having seen the advertisement, they were induced to apply with confidence for various sums, ranging from ten shillings to fifty pounds: not because they knew anything about the young person, but because they felt that to part with those donations would greatly relieve the advertiser’s mind. Several projectors, likewise, availed themselves of the same opportunity to correspond with Mr Meagles; as, for example, to apprise him that their attention having been called to the advertisement by a friend, they begged to state that if they should ever hear anything of the young person, they would not fail to make it known to him immediately, and that in the meantime if he would oblige them with the funds necessary for bringing to perfection a certain entirely novel description of Pump, the happiest results would ensue to mankind.
Unwilling, even in this awkward situation, to abandon the ungrateful person and leave her without hope, in case she managed to overcome the darker sides of her character, Mr. Meagles, for six consecutive days, placed a discreet ad in the morning papers. The ad stated that if a certain young woman who had recently left home impulsively wanted to come back, she could contact him at his address in Twickenham, and everything would return to how it was before, with no need for any blame. The unexpected outcomes of this notice led the troubled Mr. Meagles to realize for the first time that hundreds of young people must be leaving their homes without thinking every day. A flood of unfortunate young people showed up in Twickenham, and when they didn't get a warm welcome, they usually demanded compensation for their trouble, including the cost of their round-trip fare. But these weren’t the only unwanted visitors the ad attracted. A mob of people writing begging letters, always on the lookout for any opportunity, wrote to say that after seeing the ad, they felt encouraged to confidently ask for various amounts, from ten shillings to fifty pounds. Not because they knew anything about the young woman, but because they thought that giving those donations would greatly ease the advertiser's mind. Several entrepreneurs also seized the chance to write to Mr. Meagles; for instance, they mentioned that after hearing about the ad from a friend, they wanted to let him know that if they ever heard anything about the young woman, they would inform him immediately. In the meantime, if he could lend them the money needed to finalize a brand new type of pump, it would bring wonderful results for humanity.
Mr Meagles and his family, under these combined discouragements, had begun reluctantly to give up Tattycoram as irrecoverable, when the new and active firm of Doyce and Clennam, in their private capacities, went down on a Saturday to stay at the cottage until Monday. The senior partner took the coach, and the junior partner took his walking-stick.
Mr. Meagles and his family, facing these combined challenges, had started to reluctantly accept that they might never get Tattycoram back when the new and energetic firm of Doyce and Clennam, in their personal capacities, decided to visit the cottage from Saturday to Monday. The senior partner took the coach, while the junior partner brought his walking stick.
A tranquil summer sunset shone upon him as he approached the end of his walk, and passed through the meadows by the river side. He had that sense of peace, and of being lightened of a weight of care, which country quiet awakens in the breasts of dwellers in towns. Everything within his view was lovely and placid. The rich foliage of the trees, the luxuriant grass diversified with wild flowers, the little green islands in the river, the beds of rushes, the water-lilies floating on the surface of the stream, the distant voices in boats borne musically towards him on the ripple of the water and the evening air, were all expressive of rest. In the occasional leap of a fish, or dip of an oar, or twittering of a bird not yet at roost, or distant barking of a dog, or lowing of a cow—in all such sounds, there was the prevailing breath of rest, which seemed to encompass him in every scent that sweetened the fragrant air. The long lines of red and gold in the sky, and the glorious track of the descending sun, were all divinely calm. Upon the purple tree-tops far away, and on the green height near at hand up which the shades were slowly creeping, there was an equal hush. Between the real landscape and its shadow in the water, there was no division; both were so untroubled and clear, and, while so fraught with solemn mystery of life and death, so hopefully reassuring to the gazer’s soothed heart, because so tenderly and mercifully beautiful.
A peaceful summer sunset shone on him as he neared the end of his walk and passed through the meadows by the riverside. He felt a sense of calm and that weight lifted off his shoulders, a sentiment that countryside tranquility brings to city dwellers. Everything in his sight was beautiful and serene. The lush greenery of the trees, the vibrant grass dotted with wildflowers, the small green islands in the river, the patches of reeds, the water lilies floating on the stream's surface, and the distant voices from boats drifting melodically towards him on the gentle ripples of the water and the evening breeze were all a sign of peace. In the occasional splash of a fish, the stroke of an oar, the chirping of a bird still awake, the distant barking of a dog, or the mooing of a cow—each sound carried a sense of calm that wrapped around him in every sweet scent of the fragrant air. The long streaks of red and gold in the sky, and the magnificent path of the setting sun, were all wonderfully serene. The purple treetops far away, and the nearby green hill where shadows began to creep, were equally still. There was no separation between the real landscape and its reflection in the water; both were so undisturbed and clear, and while filled with the deep mystery of life and death, they were also so beautifully reassuring to the observer's soothed heart.
Clennam had stopped, not for the first time by many times, to look about him and suffer what he saw to sink into his soul, as the shadows, looked at, seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the water. He was slowly resuming his way, when he saw a figure in the path before him which he had, perhaps, already associated with the evening and its impressions.
Clennam had paused, not for the first time, to glance around and let what he saw soak into his mind, just like the shadows, when observed, seemed to settle deeper into the water. He was slowly starting to move again when he noticed a figure in the path ahead of him that he had, perhaps, already connected with the evening and its feelings.
Minnie was there, alone. She had some roses in her hand, and seemed to have stood still on seeing him, waiting for him. Her face was towards him, and she appeared to have been coming from the opposite direction. There was a flutter in her manner, which Clennam had never seen in it before; and as he came near her, it entered his mind all at once that she was there of a set purpose to speak to him.
Minnie was there, by herself. She was holding some roses and seemed to freeze when she saw him, as if waiting for him. Her face was turned toward him, and it looked like she had come from the opposite direction. There was a nervousness in her demeanor that Clennam had never noticed before; and as he approached her, it suddenly struck him that she was there intentionally to talk to him.
She gave him her hand, and said, ‘You wonder to see me here by myself? But the evening is so lovely, I have strolled further than I meant at first. I thought it likely I might meet you, and that made me more confident. You always come this way, do you not?’
She offered him her hand and said, “Are you surprised to see me here alone? The evening is so beautiful that I wandered further than I intended. I figured I might run into you, which gave me more courage. You always pass this way, right?”
As Clennam said that it was his favourite way, he felt her hand falter on his arm, and saw the roses shake.
As Clennam mentioned that it was his favorite way, he felt her hand hesitate on his arm and noticed the roses tremble.
‘Will you let me give you one, Mr Clennam? I gathered them as I came out of the garden. Indeed, I almost gathered them for you, thinking it so likely I might meet you. Mr Doyce arrived more than an hour ago, and told us you were walking down.’
‘Will you let me offer you one, Mr. Clennam? I picked them as I was leaving the garden. In fact, I almost picked them for you, thinking it was likely I’d run into you. Mr. Doyce showed up over an hour ago and mentioned that you were walking down.’
His own hand shook, as he accepted a rose or two from hers and thanked her. They were now by an avenue of trees. Whether they turned into it on his movement or on hers matters little. He never knew how that was.
His hand trembled as he took a rose or two from hers and thanked her. They were now by a tree-lined path. It doesn’t really matter whether they entered it because of his movement or hers. He never figured that out.
‘It is very grave here,’ said Clennam, ‘but very pleasant at this hour. Passing along this deep shade, and out at that arch of light at the other end, we come upon the ferry and the cottage by the best approach, I think.’
‘It’s pretty serious here,’ Clennam said, ‘but really nice at this time. Walking through this deep shade and out that arch of light at the other end, we reach the ferry and the cottage by the best route, in my opinion.’
In her simple garden-hat and her light summer dress, with her rich brown hair naturally clustering about her, and her wonderful eyes raised to his for a moment with a look in which regard for him and trustfulness in him were strikingly blended with a kind of timid sorrow for him, she was so beautiful that it was well for his peace—or ill for his peace, he did not quite know which—that he had made that vigorous resolution he had so often thought about.
In her plain garden hat and light summer dress, with her deep brown hair naturally gathered around her, and her incredible eyes focused on him for a moment with a mix of admiration and trust, along with a hint of gentle sadness for him, she was so beautiful that it was either good or bad for his peace—he wasn't quite sure which—that he had made that strong decision he had thought about so many times.
She broke a momentary silence by inquiring if he knew that papa had been thinking of another tour abroad? He said he had heard it mentioned. She broke another momentary silence by adding, with some hesitation, that papa had abandoned the idea.
She interrupted a brief silence by asking if he knew that Dad had been thinking about another trip abroad. He said he had heard it mentioned. She interrupted another brief silence by adding, with some hesitation, that Dad had given up on the idea.
At this, he thought directly, ‘they are to be married.’
At this, he thought directly, ‘they are getting married.’
‘Mr Clennam,’ she said, hesitating more timidly yet, and speaking so low that he bent his head to hear her. ‘I should very much like to give you my confidence, if you would not mind having the goodness to receive it. I should have very much liked to have given it to you long ago, because—I felt that you were becoming so much our friend.’
‘Mr. Clennam,’ she said, hesitating even more timidly, and speaking so softly that he leaned in to hear her. ‘I would really like to share my trust with you, if you wouldn’t mind being kind enough to accept it. I would have liked to offer it to you a long time ago because—I sensed that you were becoming such a good friend to us.’
‘How can I be otherwise than proud of it at any time! Pray give it to me. Pray trust me.’
‘How can I not be proud of it at any time? Please give it to me. Please trust me.’
‘I could never have been afraid of trusting you,’ she returned, raising her eyes frankly to his face. ‘I think I would have done so some time ago, if I had known how. But I scarcely know how, even now.’
‘I could never have been afraid to trust you,’ she replied, meeting his gaze openly. ‘I think I would have done it a while ago if I had known how. But I hardly know how, even now.’
‘Mr Gowan,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘has reason to be very happy. God bless his wife and him!’
'Mr. Gowan,' said Arthur Clennam, 'has every reason to be very happy. God bless him and his wife!'
She wept, as she tried to thank him. He reassured her, took her hand as it lay with the trembling roses in it on his arm, took the remaining roses from it, and put it to his lips. At that time, it seemed to him, he first finally resigned the dying hope that had flickered in nobody’s heart so much to its pain and trouble; and from that time he became in his own eyes, as to any similar hope or prospect, a very much older man who had done with that part of life.
She cried as she tried to thank him. He comforted her, took her hand which was trembling with the roses resting on his arm, took the remaining roses from it, and kissed it. At that moment, it felt to him like he was finally letting go of the fading hope that had caused so much pain and trouble in nobody's heart; from that moment on, he thought of himself as a much older man who had moved on from that chapter of life.
He put the roses in his breast and they walked on for a little while, slowly and silently, under the umbrageous trees. Then he asked her, in a voice of cheerful kindness, was there anything else that she would say to him as her friend and her father’s friend, many years older than herself; was there any trust she would repose in him, any service she would ask of him, any little aid to her happiness that she could give him the lasting gratification of believing it was in his power to render?
He tucked the roses in his shirt and they walked on for a bit, slowly and quietly, beneath the shady trees. Then he asked her, with a warm and friendly tone, if there was anything else she wanted to say to him as her friend and her father’s friend, who was many years older than she was; was there any trust she could place in him, any favor she would ask of him, or any small help with her happiness that would give him the lasting satisfaction of believing he could provide?
She was going to answer, when she was so touched by some little hidden sorrow or sympathy—what could it have been?—that she said, bursting into tears again: ‘O Mr Clennam! Good, generous, Mr Clennam, pray tell me you do not blame me.’
She was about to respond when she was overwhelmed by a small, hidden sorrow or sympathy—what could it have been?—that she exclaimed, bursting into tears once more: ‘Oh Mr. Clennam! Kind, generous Mr. Clennam, please tell me you don’t blame me.’
‘I blame you?’ said Clennam. ‘My dearest girl! I blame you? No!’
‘I blame you?’ said Clennam. ‘My dearest girl! I blame you? Absolutely not!’
After clasping both her hands upon his arm, and looking confidentially up into his face, with some hurried words to the effect that she thanked him from her heart (as she did, if it be the source of earnestness), she gradually composed herself, with now and then a word of encouragement from him, as they walked on slowly and almost silently under the darkening trees.
After clasping both her hands on his arm and looking up at him earnestly, she quickly said she genuinely thanked him (which she did, if that's what sincerity means). She slowly calmed down, with an occasional word of reassurance from him as they walked slowly and almost silently under the darkening trees.
‘And, now, Minnie Gowan,’ at length said Clennam, smiling; ‘will you ask me nothing?’
‘And now, Minnie Gowan,’ Clennam said with a smile, ‘aren’t you going to ask me anything?’
‘Oh! I have very much to ask of you.’
‘Oh! I have a lot to ask you.’
‘That’s well! I hope so; I am not disappointed.’
‘That’s great! I hope so; I’m not let down.’
‘You know how I am loved at home, and how I love home. You can hardly think it perhaps, dear Mr Clennam,’ she spoke with great agitation, ‘seeing me going from it of my own free will and choice, but I do so dearly love it!’
‘You know how much I'm loved at home and how much I love home. You might find it hard to believe, dear Mr. Clennam,’ she said with great emotion, ‘seeing me leave of my own free will, but I truly love it!’
‘I am sure of that,’ said Clennam. ‘Can you suppose I doubt it?’
"I know that's true," Clennam said. "Do you think I would doubt it?"
‘No, no. But it is strange, even to me, that loving it so much and being so much beloved in it, I can bear to cast it away. It seems so neglectful of it, so unthankful.’
‘No, no. But it’s odd, even for me, that despite loving it so much and being so loved in it, I can stand to let it go. It feels so careless of it, so ungrateful.’
‘My dear girl,’ said Clennam, ‘it is in the natural progress and change of time. All homes are left so.’
‘My dear girl,’ Clennam said, ‘it's just how time naturally progresses and changes. All homes are left behind like this.’
‘Yes, I know; but all homes are not left with such a blank in them as there will be in mine when I am gone. Not that there is any scarcity of far better and more endearing and more accomplished girls than I am; not that I am much, but that they have made so much of me!’
‘Yes, I know; but not every home will feel the same emptiness mine will when I'm gone. It's not that there aren't many better, more lovable, and more talented girls than me; it's just that they've made so much out of me!’
Pet’s affectionate heart was overcharged, and she sobbed while she pictured what would happen.
Pet's loving heart was overwhelmed, and she cried as she imagined what would happen.
‘I know what a change papa will feel at first, and I know that at first I cannot be to him anything like what I have been these many years. And it is then, Mr Clennam, then more than at any time, that I beg and entreat you to remember him, and sometimes to keep him company when you can spare a little while; and to tell him that you know I was fonder of him when I left him, than I ever was in all my life. For there is nobody—he told me so himself when he talked to me this very day—there is nobody he likes so well as you, or trusts so much.’
‘I know how much of a change this will be for Dad at first, and I realize that initially, I won’t be able to be to him what I have been for all these years. And it’s at this moment, Mr. Clennam, more than ever, that I ask you to remember him and to take some time to keep him company when you can; and to let him know that I cared for him more when I left than I ever have in my life. Because there’s nobody—he told me that himself when we talked today—there's nobody he likes as much as you or trusts more.’
A clue to what had passed between the father and daughter dropped like a heavy stone into the well of Clennam’s heart, and swelled the water to his eyes. He said, cheerily, but not quite so cheerily as he tried to say, that it should be done—that he gave her his faithful promise.
A hint about what happened between the father and daughter settled like a heavy stone in Clennam's heart, bringing tears to his eyes. He said, cheerfully, but not quite as cheerfully as he intended, that it would be done—that he gave her his sincere promise.
‘If I do not speak of mama,’ said Pet, more moved by, and more pretty in, her innocent grief, than Clennam could trust himself even to consider—for which reason he counted the trees between them and the fading light as they slowly diminished in number—‘it is because mama will understand me better in this action, and will feel my loss in a different way, and will look forward in a different manner. But you know what a dear, devoted mother she is, and you will remember her too; will you not?’
‘If I don’t talk about mom,’ said Pet, more affected by her innocent sadness and looking more beautiful than Clennam could bear to think about—so much so that he counted the trees between them and the fading light as they slowly faded away—‘it’s because mom will understand me better through what I’m doing, and she’ll feel my loss differently, and she’ll look ahead in her own way. But you know what a loving, devoted mother she is, and you will remember her too; won’t you?’
Let Minnie trust him, Clennam said, let Minnie trust him to do all she wished.
Let Minnie trust him, Clennam said, let Minnie trust him to do everything she wanted.
‘And, dear Mr Clennam,’ said Minnie, ‘because papa and one whom I need not name, do not fully appreciate and understand one another yet, as they will by-and-by; and because it will be the duty, and the pride, and pleasure of my new life, to draw them to a better knowledge of one another, and to be a happiness to one another, and to be proud of one another, and to love one another, both loving me so dearly; oh, as you are a kind, true man! when I am first separated from home (I am going a long distance away), try to reconcile papa to him a little more, and use your great influence to keep him before papa’s mind free from prejudice and in his real form. Will you do this for me, as you are a noble-hearted friend?’
‘And, dear Mr. Clennam,’ said Minnie, ‘because my dad and someone I don’t need to name don’t fully understand each other yet, but they will eventually; and because it will be my duty, my pride, and my joy in this new chapter of my life to help them get to know each other better, to bring happiness to one another, to take pride in one another, and to love one another, especially since they both love me so much; oh, as you are such a kind and genuine man! When I’m first away from home (I’ll be going a long distance), could you try to help my dad see him a little differently? Use your influence to keep him in my dad’s thoughts without any biases and show him for who he really is. Will you do this for me, as a noble-hearted friend?’
Poor Pet! Self-deceived, mistaken child! When were such changes ever made in men’s natural relations to one another: when was such reconcilement of ingrain differences ever effected! It has been tried many times by other daughters, Minnie; it has never succeeded; nothing has ever come of it but failure.
Poor Pet! Self-deceived, misguided child! When have such changes ever occurred in people's natural relationships with one another? When has such reconciliation of deep-rooted differences ever been achieved? Other daughters have tried it many times, Minnie; it has never worked; nothing has ever come of it except failure.
So Clennam thought. So he did not say; it was too late. He bound himself to do all she asked, and she knew full well that he would do it.
So Clennam thought. So he didn’t say; it was too late. He committed himself to do everything she asked, and she knew very well that he would do it.
They were now at the last tree in the avenue. She stopped, and withdrew her arm. Speaking to him with her eyes lifted up to his, and with the hand that had lately rested on his sleeve trembling by touching one of the roses in his breast as an additional appeal to him, she said:
They had arrived at the last tree in the avenue. She paused and pulled her arm away. Looking up into his eyes, and with the hand that had just been resting on his sleeve trembling as she touched one of the roses in his chest as an extra appeal to him, she said:
‘Dear Mr Clennam, in my happiness—for I am happy, though you have seen me crying—I cannot bear to leave any cloud between us. If you have anything to forgive me (not anything that I have wilfully done, but any trouble I may have caused you without meaning it, or having it in my power to help it), forgive me to-night out of your noble heart!’
‘Dear Mr. Clennam, in my happiness—because I am happy, even though you've seen me cry—I can't stand to leave any issues between us. If there's anything you need to forgive me for (not anything I did on purpose, but any trouble I may have caused you unintentionally or without being able to prevent it), please forgive me tonight from your kind heart!’
He stooped to meet the guileless face that met his without shrinking. He kissed it, and answered, Heaven knew that he had nothing to forgive. As he stooped to meet the innocent face once again, she whispered, ‘Good-bye!’ and he repeated it. It was taking leave of all his old hopes—all nobody’s old restless doubts. They came out of the avenue next moment, arm-in-arm as they had entered it: and the trees seemed to close up behind them in the darkness, like their own perspective of the past.
He bent down to meet the innocent face that looked back at him without flinching. He kissed it and said he had nothing to forgive. As he lowered himself to see her innocent face again, she whispered, "Good-bye!" and he echoed it. It was a farewell to all his old hopes and everyone's restless doubts. They stepped out of the avenue moments later, arm in arm like when they first entered it, and the trees seemed to close up behind them in the dark, like their own view of the past.
The voices of Mr and Mrs Meagles and Doyce were audible directly, speaking near the garden gate. Hearing Pet’s name among them, Clennam called out, ‘She is here, with me.’ There was some little wondering and laughing until they came up; but as soon as they had all come together, it ceased, and Pet glided away.
The voices of Mr. and Mrs. Meagles and Doyce could be heard clearly, talking near the garden gate. When Clennam heard Pet's name mentioned, he called out, "She's here, with me." There was some surprised laughter until they all arrived; but once everyone was together, it stopped, and Pet quietly slipped away.
Mr Meagles, Doyce, and Clennam, without speaking, walked up and down on the brink of the river, in the light of the rising moon, for a few minutes; and then Doyce lingered behind, and went into the house. Mr Meagles and Clennam walked up and down together for a few minutes more without speaking, until at length the former broke silence.
Mr. Meagles, Doyce, and Clennam silently walked back and forth on the edge of the river, bathed in the light of the rising moon, for a few minutes. Then, Doyce stayed behind and went into the house. Mr. Meagles and Clennam continued to walk together in silence for a few more minutes, until finally, Mr. Meagles spoke up.
‘Arthur,’ said he, using that familiar address for the first time in their communication, ‘do you remember my telling you, as we walked up and down one hot morning, looking over the harbour at Marseilles, that Pet’s baby sister who was dead seemed to Mother and me to have grown as she had grown, and changed as she had changed?’
‘Arthur,’ he said, using that familiar way of addressing him for the first time in their conversation, ‘do you remember when I told you, as we walked back and forth one hot morning, looking out at the harbour in Marseilles, that Pet’s baby sister who had died seemed to Mother and me to have grown and changed just like she had?’
‘Very well.’
'Okay.'
‘You remember my saying that our thoughts had never been able to separate those twin sisters, and that, in our fancy, whatever Pet was, the other was?’
‘Do you remember me saying that our thoughts could never distinguish those twin sisters, and that, in our imagination, whatever one was, the other was too?’
‘Yes, very well.’
"Yes, absolutely."
‘Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, much subdued, ‘I carry that fancy further to-night. I feel to-night, my dear fellow, as if you had loved my dead child very tenderly, and had lost her when she was like what Pet is now.’
‘Arthur,’ said Mr. Meagles, noticeably quieter, ‘I’m taking that thought further tonight. I feel tonight, my dear friend, as if you had loved my deceased child very dearly, and had lost her when she was like Pet is now.’
‘Thank you!’ murmured Clennam, ‘thank you!’ And pressed his hand.
"Thank you!" Clennam murmured, "thank you!" and shook his hand.
‘Will you come in?’ said Mr Meagles, presently.
"Will you come in?" Mr. Meagles asked after a moment.
‘In a little while.’
'In a bit.'
Original
Mr Meagles fell away, and he was left alone. When he had walked on the river’s brink in the peaceful moonlight for some half an hour, he put his hand in his breast and tenderly took out the handful of roses. Perhaps he put them to his heart, perhaps he put them to his lips, but certainly he bent down on the shore and gently launched them on the flowing river. Pale and unreal in the moonlight, the river floated them away.
Mr. Meagles stepped back, leaving him alone. After walking along the riverbank in the calm moonlight for about half an hour, he reached into his chest pocket and carefully took out a handful of roses. Maybe he pressed them to his heart, or perhaps he brought them to his lips, but he definitely leaned down by the shore and gently let them go into the flowing river. Pale and ghostly in the moonlight, the river carried them away.
The lights were bright within doors when he entered, and the faces on which they shone, his own face not excepted, were soon quietly cheerful. They talked of many subjects (his partner never had had such a ready store to draw upon for the beguiling of the time), and so to bed, and to sleep. While the flowers, pale and unreal in the moonlight, floated away upon the river; and thus do greater things that once were in our breasts, and near our hearts, flow from us to the eternal seas.
The lights were bright inside when he walked in, and the faces lit up by them, including his own, quickly became cheerful. They chatted about many topics (his partner had never been so full of interesting things to share to pass the time), and then they went to bed and fell asleep. Meanwhile, the flowers, looking pale and ghostly in the moonlight, drifted down the river; and in the same way, the bigger things that once lived in us and were close to our hearts flow away to the eternal seas.
CHAPTER 29. Mrs Flintwinch goes on Dreaming
The house in the city preserved its heavy dulness through all these transactions, and the invalid within it turned the same unvarying round of life. Morning, noon, and night, morning, noon, and night, each recurring with its accompanying monotony, always the same reluctant return of the same sequences of machinery, like a dragging piece of clockwork.
The house in the city kept its dullness throughout all these events, and the person inside followed the same repetitive pattern of life. Morning, noon, and night, morning, noon, and night, each coming back with its usual monotony, always the same unwilling return of the same sequences of routines, like a slow-moving clockwork mechanism.
The wheeled chair had its associated remembrances and reveries, one may suppose, as every place that is made the station of a human being has. Pictures of demolished streets and altered houses, as they formerly were when the occupant of the chair was familiar with them, images of people as they too used to be, with little or no allowance made for the lapse of time since they were seen; of these, there must have been many in the long routine of gloomy days. To stop the clock of busy existence at the hour when we were personally sequestered from it, to suppose mankind stricken motionless when we were brought to a stand-still, to be unable to measure the changes beyond our view by any larger standard than the shrunken one of our own uniform and contracted existence, is the infirmity of many invalids, and the mental unhealthiness of almost all recluses.
The wheeled chair carried memories and daydreams, just like any place where a person stays does. It held images of streets that have been torn down and houses that have changed, as they were when the person in the chair knew them well, and pictures of people as they used to be, with little thought given to how much time has passed since they were last seen; there must have been many of these in the long stretch of dreary days. To wish to stop the clock of busy life at the moment we were separated from it, to imagine humanity freeze in place when we were brought to a halt, to measure the changes beyond our sight by no larger standard than the limited one of our own narrow and isolated existence, is a weakness of many invalids and the mental unwellness of nearly all recluses.
What scenes and actors the stern woman most reviewed, as she sat from season to season in her one dark room, none knew but herself. Mr Flintwinch, with his wry presence brought to bear upon her daily like some eccentric mechanical force, would perhaps have screwed it out of her, if there had been less resistance in her; but she was too strong for him. So far as Mistress Affery was concerned, to regard her liege-lord and her disabled mistress with a face of blank wonder, to go about the house after dark with her apron over her head, always to listen for the strange noises and sometimes to hear them, and never to emerge from her ghostly, dreamy, sleep-waking state, was occupation enough for her.
What scenes and characters the stern woman focused on while sitting alone in her dark room from season to season, only she knew. Mr. Flintwinch, with his awkward presence looming over her daily like some weird mechanical force, might have tried to pry it out of her if she hadn’t been so resistant; but she was too strong for him. As far as Mistress Affery was concerned, her job was to look at her husband and her disabled mistress with a blank expression, wander around the house at night with her apron over her head, always listening for strange noises—sometimes hearing them—and never fully waking from her ghostly, dreamy, half-asleep state, which was enough to keep her occupied.
There was a fair stroke of business doing, as Mistress Affery made out, for her husband had abundant occupation in his little office, and saw more people than had been used to come there for some years. This might easily be, the house having been long deserted; but he did receive letters, and comers, and keep books, and correspond. Moreover, he went about to other counting-houses, and to wharves, and docks, and to the Custom House, and to Garraway’s Coffee House, and the Jerusalem Coffee House, and on ‘Change; so that he was much in and out. He began, too, sometimes of an evening, when Mrs Clennam expressed no particular wish for his society, to resort to a tavern in the neighbourhood to look at the shipping news and closing prices in the evening paper, and even to exchange small socialities with mercantile Sea Captains who frequented that establishment. At some period of every day, he and Mrs Clennam held a council on matters of business; and it appeared to Affery, who was always groping about, listening and watching, that the two clever ones were making money.
There was quite a bit of business going on, as Mistress Affery noticed, because her husband was busy in his little office and was seeing more people than had been coming there for several years. This could be easily explained since the house had been empty for a long time; but he did receive letters, had visitors, kept books, and corresponded. Furthermore, he went to other offices, wharves, docks, the Custom House, Garraway’s Coffee House, the Jerusalem Coffee House, and the Stock Exchange, so he was always coming and going. He even started, some evenings when Mrs. Clennam didn’t particularly want his company, to go to a nearby tavern to check out the shipping news and closing prices in the evening paper, and to chat a bit with the merchant sea captains who gathered there. At some point every day, he and Mrs. Clennam held discussions about business matters; and it seemed to Affery, who was always searching, listening, and watching, that the two smart ones were making money.
The state of mind into which Mr Flintwinch’s dazed lady had fallen, had now begun to be so expressed in all her looks and actions that she was held in very low account by the two clever ones, as a person, never of strong intellect, who was becoming foolish. Perhaps because her appearance was not of a commercial cast, or perhaps because it occurred to him that his having taken her to wife might expose his judgment to doubt in the minds of customers, Mr Flintwinch laid his commands upon her that she should hold her peace on the subject of her conjugal relations, and should no longer call him Jeremiah out of the domestic trio. Her frequent forgetfulness of this admonition intensified her startled manner, since Mr Flintwinch’s habit of avenging himself on her remissness by making springs after her on the staircase, and shaking her, occasioned her to be always nervously uncertain when she might be thus waylaid next.
The state of mind that Mr. Flintwinch’s dazed wife had fallen into was now showing in all her looks and actions, leading the two clever ones to regard her as someone who, never very smart, was becoming foolish. Maybe it was because her appearance didn’t seem practical, or maybe he thought that marrying her might make customers question his judgment, but Mr. Flintwinch instructed her to keep quiet about their marriage and to stop calling him Jeremiah when they were alone. Her frequent forgetfulness of this instruction only heightened her anxious demeanor, as Mr. Flintwinch had a habit of punishing her for her lapses by chasing her up the stairs and shaking her, making her constantly nervous about when she might be caught next.
Little Dorrit had finished a long day’s work in Mrs Clennam’s room, and was neatly gathering up her shreds and odds and ends before going home. Mr Pancks, whom Affery had just shown in, was addressing an inquiry to Mrs Clennam on the subject of her health, coupled with the remark that, ‘happening to find himself in that direction,’ he had looked in to inquire, on behalf of his proprietor, how she found herself. Mrs Clennam, with a deep contraction of her brows, was looking at him.
Little Dorrit had wrapped up a long day in Mrs. Clennam’s room and was tidying up her scraps and bits before heading home. Mr. Pancks, who Affery had just let in, was asking Mrs. Clennam about her health, adding that since he happened to be in the area, he stopped by to check on her behalf, as requested by his boss. Mrs. Clennam, with a deep furrow in her brow, was staring at him.
‘Mr Casby knows,’ said she, ‘that I am not subject to changes. The change that I await here is the great change.’
‘Mr. Casby knows,’ she said, ‘that I don’t easily change. The change I’m waiting for here is the big one.’
‘Indeed, ma’am?’ returned Mr Pancks, with a wandering eye towards the figure of the little seamstress on her knee picking threads and fraying of her work from the carpet. ‘You look nicely, ma’am.’
“Really, ma’am?” Mr. Pancks replied, glancing over at the little seamstress who was on her knees picking threads and frayed pieces from the carpet. “You look great, ma’am.”
‘I bear what I have to bear,’ she answered. ‘Do you what you have to do.’
"I handle what I need to handle," she replied. "You do what you need to do."
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘such is my endeavour.’
“Thank you, ma'am,” Mr. Pancks said, “that’s my goal.”
‘You are often in this direction, are you not?’ asked Mrs Clennam.
"You often come this way, don't you?" asked Mrs. Clennam.
‘Why, yes, ma’am,’ said Pancks, ‘rather so lately; I have lately been round this way a good deal, owing to one thing and another.’
“Yeah, of course, ma’am,” Pancks replied, “I’ve actually been around here quite a bit lately, because of one reason or another.”
‘Beg Mr Casby and his daughter not to trouble themselves, by deputy, about me. When they wish to see me, they know I am here to see them. They have no need to trouble themselves to send. You have no need to trouble yourself to come.’
‘Please tell Mr. Casby and his daughter not to worry about me through someone else. If they want to see me, they know how to find me. They don’t need to go out of their way to send a message. You don’t need to go out of your way to come.’
‘Not the least trouble, ma’am,’ said Mr Pancks. ‘You really are looking uncommonly nicely, ma’am.’
‘Not at all, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pancks. ‘You’re really looking exceptionally well, ma’am.’
‘Thank you. Good evening.’
“Thanks. Good evening.”
The dismissal, and its accompanying finger pointed straight at the door, was so curt and direct that Mr Pancks did not see his way to prolong his visit. He stirred up his hair with his sprightliest expression, glanced at the little figure again, said ‘Good evening, ma ‘am; don’t come down, Mrs Affery, I know the road to the door,’ and steamed out. Mrs Clennam, her chin resting on her hand, followed him with attentive and darkly distrustful eyes; and Affery stood looking at her as if she were spell-bound.
The dismissal, along with the finger pointed straight at the door, was so blunt and straightforward that Mr. Pancks decided not to extend his visit. He ruffled his hair with his brightest smile, glanced at the small figure again, said, “Good evening, ma'am; don’t come down, Mrs. Affery, I know the way to the door,” and marched out. Mrs. Clennam, resting her chin on her hand, watched him with keen and wary eyes, while Affery stood there, gazing at her as if she were under a spell.
Slowly and thoughtfully, Mrs Clennam’s eyes turned from the door by which Pancks had gone out, to Little Dorrit, rising from the carpet. With her chin drooping more heavily on her hand, and her eyes vigilant and lowering, the sick woman sat looking at her until she attracted her attention. Little Dorrit coloured under such a gaze, and looked down. Mrs Clennam still sat intent.
Slowly and thoughtfully, Mrs. Clennam’s eyes shifted from the door where Pancks had exited to Little Dorrit, who was getting up from the carpet. With her chin resting heavily on her hand and her eyes watchful and serious, the sick woman stared at her until she caught her attention. Little Dorrit blushed under that gaze and looked down. Mrs. Clennam continued to sit focused on her.
‘Little Dorrit,’ she said, when she at last broke silence, ‘what do you know of that man?’
‘Little Dorrit,’ she said, finally breaking the silence, ‘what do you know about that man?’
‘I don’t know anything of him, ma’am, except that I have seen him about, and that he has spoken to me.’
‘I don’t know anything about him, ma’am, except that I’ve seen him around, and that he’s talked to me.’
‘What has he said to you?’
'What did he say to you?'
‘I don’t understand what he has said, he is so strange. But nothing rough or disagreeable.’
‘I don’t understand what he said; he’s so strange. But nothing harsh or unpleasant.’
‘Why does he come here to see you?’
‘Why does he come here to see you?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ said Little Dorrit, with perfect frankness.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” said Little Dorrit, being completely honest.
‘You know that he does come here to see you?’
‘You know he comes here to see you?’
‘I have fancied so,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But why he should come here or anywhere for that, ma’am, I can’t think.’
‘I’ve thought that too,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But I can’t figure out why he would come here or anywhere for that, ma’am.’
Mrs Clennam cast her eyes towards the ground, and with her strong, set face, as intent upon a subject in her mind as it had lately been upon the form that seemed to pass out of her view, sat absorbed. Some minutes elapsed before she came out of this thoughtfulness, and resumed her hard composure.
Mrs. Clennam looked down at the ground, and with her strong, determined face, focused on something in her mind as intensely as she had just been on the figure that seemed to fade from her sight. Several minutes passed before she broke out of this deep thought and returned to her tough demeanor.
Little Dorrit in the meanwhile had been waiting to go, but afraid to disturb her by moving. She now ventured to leave the spot where she had been standing since she had risen, and to pass gently round by the wheeled chair. She stopped at its side to say ‘Good night, ma’am.’
Little Dorrit had been waiting to go, but she was too afraid to disturb her by moving. She finally decided to leave the spot where she had been standing since she got up and gently passed around the wheeled chair. She stopped by its side to say, “Good night, ma’am.”
Mrs Clennam put out her hand, and laid it on her arm. Little Dorrit, confused under the touch, stood faltering. Perhaps some momentary recollection of the story of the Princess may have been in her mind.
Mrs. Clennam reached out and placed her hand on Little Dorrit's arm. Little Dorrit, feeling confused by the touch, hesitated. Maybe a fleeting memory of the story of the Princess crossed her mind.
‘Tell me, Little Dorrit,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘have you many friends now?’
‘Tell me, Little Dorrit,’ said Mrs. Clennam, ‘do you have many friends now?’
‘Very few, ma’am. Besides you, only Miss Flora and—one more.’
‘Not many, ma’am. Besides you, just Miss Flora and—one more.’
‘Meaning,’ said Mrs Clennam, with her unbent finger again pointing to the door, ‘that man?’
“Meaning,” said Mrs. Clennam, with her stiff finger once more pointing to the door, “that man?”
‘Oh no, ma’am!’
‘Oh no, miss!’
‘Some friend of his, perhaps?’
“Maybe a friend of his?”
‘No ma’am.’ Little Dorrit earnestly shook her head. ‘Oh no! No one at all like him, or belonging to him.’
‘No ma’am.’ Little Dorrit earnestly shook her head. ‘Oh no! No one at all like him, or connected to him.’
‘Well!’ said Mrs Clennam, almost smiling. ‘It is no affair of mine. I ask, because I take an interest in you; and because I believe I was your friend when you had no other who could serve you. Is that so?’
‘Well!’ said Mrs. Clennam, almost smiling. ‘It’s not really my business. I’m asking because I care about you; and because I believe I was your friend when you had no one else to support you. Is that right?’
‘Yes, ma’am; indeed it is. I have been here many a time when, but for you and the work you gave me, we should have wanted everything.’
‘Yes, ma’am; it really is. I’ve been here many times when, without you and the work you gave me, we would have had nothing.’
‘We,’ repeated Mrs Clennam, looking towards the watch, once her dead husband’s, which always lay upon her table. ‘Are there many of you?’
‘We,’ Mrs. Clennam said again, glancing at the watch that used to belong to her late husband, which always rested on her table. ‘Are there many of you?’
‘Only father and I, now. I mean, only father and I to keep regularly out of what we get.’
‘It’s just my dad and me now. I mean, it’s just my dad and me who are consistently managing what we have.’
‘Have you undergone many privations? You and your father and who else there may be of you?’ asked Mrs Clennam, speaking deliberately, and meditatively turning the watch over and over.
“Have you experienced a lot of hardships? You, your father, and anyone else with you?” asked Mrs. Clennam, speaking slowly and thoughtfully turning the watch over and over.
‘Sometimes it has been rather hard to live,’ said Little Dorrit, in her soft voice, and timid uncomplaining way; ‘but I think not harder—as to that—than many people find it.’
‘Sometimes it has been pretty tough to live,’ said Little Dorrit, in her soft voice, with her timid and uncomplaining manner; ‘but I don’t think it’s been any harder—on that front—than it is for many people.’
‘That’s well said!’ Mrs Clennam quickly returned. ‘That’s the truth! You are a good, thoughtful girl. You are a grateful girl too, or I much mistake you.’
“That's well said!” Mrs. Clennam quickly replied. “That's the truth! You're a kind, thoughtful girl. You're a grateful girl too, unless I'm completely wrong.”
‘It is only natural to be that. There is no merit in being that,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘I am indeed.’
‘It’s only natural to feel that way. There’s no point in pretending otherwise,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘I really am.’
Mrs Clennam, with a gentleness of which the dreaming Affery had never dreamed her to be capable, drew down the face of her little seamstress, and kissed her on the forehead.
Mrs. Clennam, showing a kindness that the daydreaming Affery could never have imagined, lowered her face to that of her little seamstress and kissed her on the forehead.
‘Now go, Little Dorrit,’ said she, ‘or you will be late, poor child!’
‘Now go, Little Dorrit,’ she said, ‘or you’ll be late, poor thing!’
In all the dreams Mistress Affery had been piling up since she first became devoted to the pursuit, she had dreamed nothing more astonishing than this. Her head ached with the idea that she would find the other clever one kissing Little Dorrit next, and then the two clever ones embracing each other and dissolving into tears of tenderness for all mankind. The idea quite stunned her, as she attended the light footsteps down the stairs, that the house door might be safely shut.
In all the dreams Mistress Affery had been collecting since she first became dedicated to this pursuit, she had never imagined anything as incredible as this. Her head throbbed with the thought that she might find the other clever person kissing Little Dorrit next, and then the two clever people embracing and breaking down in tears of compassion for all humanity. The thought completely stunned her, as she listened to the light footsteps coming down the stairs, that the front door could be securely closed.
On opening it to let Little Dorrit out, she found Mr Pancks, instead of having gone his way, as in any less wonderful place and among less wonderful phenomena he might have been reasonably expected to do, fluttering up and down the court outside the house. The moment he saw Little Dorrit, he passed her briskly, said with his finger to his nose (as Mrs Affery distinctly heard), ‘Pancks the gipsy, fortune-telling,’ and went away. ‘Lord save us, here’s a gipsy and a fortune-teller in it now!’ cried Mistress Affery. ‘What next!’
When she opened the door to let Little Dorrit out, she discovered Mr. Pancks, instead of going on his way like anyone else might in a less remarkable place, bustling up and down the courtyard outside the house. The moment he saw Little Dorrit, he quickly passed her by and, with a finger to his nose (as Mrs. Affery clearly heard), said, ‘Pancks the gypsy, fortune-telling,’ and walked away. ‘Good heavens, now there’s a gypsy and a fortune-teller in this!’ exclaimed Mistress Affery. ‘What’s coming next!’
She stood at the open door, staggering herself with this enigma, on a rainy, thundery evening. The clouds were flying fast, and the wind was coming up in gusts, banging some neighbouring shutters that had broken loose, twirling the rusty chimney-cowls and weather-cocks, and rushing round and round a confined adjacent churchyard as if it had a mind to blow the dead citizens out of their graves. The low thunder, muttering in all quarters of the sky at once, seemed to threaten vengeance for this attempted desecration, and to mutter, ‘Let them rest! Let them rest!’
She stood at the open door, grappling with this mystery on a rainy, stormy evening. The clouds were racing by, and the wind was gusting, slamming against some nearby shutters that had come loose, spinning the rusty chimney caps and weather vanes, and swirling around a small adjacent graveyard as if it wanted to blow the dead out of their graves. The low thunder, rumbling from every corner of the sky at once, seemed to threaten punishment for this attempted disturbance, whispering, ‘Let them rest! Let them rest!’
Mistress Affery, whose fear of thunder and lightning was only to be equalled by her dread of the haunted house with a premature and preternatural darkness in it, stood undecided whether to go in or not, until the question was settled for her by the door blowing upon her in a violent gust of wind and shutting her out. ‘What’s to be done now, what’s to be done now!’ cried Mistress Affery, wringing her hands in this last uneasy dream of all; ‘when she’s all alone by herself inside, and can no more come down to open it than the churchyard dead themselves!’
Mistress Affery, who was just as scared of thunder and lightning as she was of the haunted house that had an eerie, unnatural darkness, stood there unsure whether to go in or not until the door swung open with a strong gust of wind and slammed shut behind her. “What am I supposed to do now, what am I supposed to do now!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands in this final unsettling moment; “when she’s all alone inside and can’t come down to open it any more than the dead in the graveyard!”
In this dilemma, Mistress Affery, with her apron as a hood to keep the rain off, ran crying up and down the solitary paved enclosure several times. Why she should then stoop down and look in at the keyhole of the door as if an eye would open it, it would be difficult to say; but it is none the less what most people would have done in the same situation, and it is what she did.
In this tough situation, Mistress Affery, using her apron as a makeshift hood to shield herself from the rain, ran back and forth crying in the empty paved area several times. It's hard to explain why she bent down to peek through the keyhole, as if her gaze could somehow unlock the door, but it's exactly what many others would do in the same predicament, and it's what she chose to do.
From this posture she started up suddenly, with a half scream, feeling something on her shoulder. It was the touch of a hand; of a man’s hand.
From this position, she jumped up suddenly, let out a half scream, feeling something on her shoulder. It was the touch of a hand; a man's hand.
The man was dressed like a traveller, in a foraging cap with fur about it, and a heap of cloak. He looked like a foreigner. He had a quantity of hair and moustache—jet black, except at the shaggy ends, where it had a tinge of red—and a high hook nose. He laughed at Mistress Affery’s start and cry; and as he laughed, his moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache.
The man was dressed like a traveler, wearing a fur-lined cap and a bulky cloak. He appeared to be a foreigner. He had a lot of hair and a mustache—jet black, except for the shaggy tips, which had a hint of red—and a prominent hooked nose. He chuckled at Mistress Affery’s startled reaction, and as he laughed, his mustache curled up under his nose while his nose dropped down over his mustache.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked in plain English. ‘What are you frightened at?’
“What's wrong?” he asked straightforwardly. “What are you afraid of?”
‘At you,’ panted Affery.
"At you," panted Affery.
‘Me, madam?’
'Me, ma'am?'
‘And the dismal evening, and—and everything,’ said Affery. ‘And here! The wind has been and blown the door to, and I can’t get in.’
‘And the gloomy evening, and—and everything,’ said Affery. ‘And look! The wind has blown the door shut, and I can’t get in.’
‘Hah!’ said the gentleman, who took that very coolly. ‘Indeed! Do you know such a name as Clennam about here?’
‘Ha!’ said the gentleman, who took that very calmly. ‘Really! Do you know a name like Clennam around here?’
‘Lord bless us, I should think I did, I should think I did!’ cried Affery, exasperated into a new wringing of hands by the inquiry.
“God help us, I’m pretty sure I did, I’m pretty sure I did!” shouted Affery, frustrated into another round of wringing her hands by the question.
‘Where about here?’
‘Where around here?’
‘Where!’ cried Affery, goaded into another inspection of the keyhole. ‘Where but here in this house? And she’s all alone in her room, and lost the use of her limbs and can’t stir to help herself or me, and t’other clever one’s out, and Lord forgive me!’ cried Affery, driven into a frantic dance by these accumulated considerations, ‘if I ain’t a-going headlong out of my mind!’
‘Where!’ cried Affery, pushed into checking the keyhole again. ‘Where else but here in this house? And she’s all alone in her room, has lost the use of her limbs, can’t move to help herself or me, and the other clever one’s out, and Lord forgive me!’ cried Affery, driven into a frantic dance by all these thoughts. ‘If I’m not going completely out of my mind!’
Taking a warmer view of the matter now that it concerned himself, the gentleman stepped back to glance at the house, and his eye soon rested on the long narrow window of the little room near the hall-door.
Taking a more personal view of the situation now that it involved him, the gentleman stepped back to look at the house, and his gaze quickly settled on the long, narrow window of the small room by the front door.
‘Where may the lady be who has lost the use of her limbs, madam?’ he inquired, with that peculiar smile which Mistress Affery could not choose but keep her eyes upon.
'Where is the lady who has lost the use of her limbs, ma'am?' he asked, with that strange smile that Mistress Affery couldn't help but watch.
‘Up there!’ said Affery. ‘Them two windows.’
‘Up there!’ said Affery. ‘Those two windows.’
‘Hah! I am of a fair size, but could not have the honour of presenting myself in that room without a ladder. Now, madam, frankly—frankness is a part of my character—shall I open the door for you?’
‘Ha! I’m of a decent size, but I wouldn’t be able to enter that room without a ladder. Now, ma'am, to be honest—honesty is part of my character—should I open the door for you?’
‘Yes, bless you, sir, for a dear creetur, and do it at once,’ cried Affery, ‘for she may be a-calling to me at this very present minute, or may be setting herself a fire and burning herself to death, or there’s no knowing what may be happening to her, and me a-going out of my mind at thinking of it!’
‘Yes, bless you, sir, for a dear creature, and do it right away,’ Affery exclaimed, ‘because she might be calling for me at this very moment, or she could be starting a fire and burning herself alive, or who knows what could be happening to her, and I'm going crazy just thinking about it!’
‘Stay, my good madam!’ He restrained her impatience with a smooth white hand. ‘Business-hours, I apprehend, are over for the day?’
‘Wait, my good lady!’ He held back her impatience with a smooth white hand. ‘I assume business hours are over for the day?’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ cried Affery. ‘Long ago.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ exclaimed Affery. ‘A long time ago.’
‘Let me make, then, a fair proposal. Fairness is a part of my character. I am just landed from the packet-boat, as you may see.’ He showed her that his cloak was very wet, and that his boots were saturated with water; she had previously observed that he was dishevelled and sallow, as if from a rough voyage, and so chilled that he could not keep his teeth from chattering. ‘I am just landed from the packet-boat, madam, and have been delayed by the weather: the infernal weather! In consequence of this, madam, some necessary business that I should otherwise have transacted here within the regular hours (necessary business because money-business), still remains to be done. Now, if you will fetch any authorised neighbouring somebody to do it in return for my opening the door, I’ll open the door. If this arrangement should be objectionable, I’ll—’ and with the same smile he made a significant feint of backing away.
“Let me make a fair proposal then. Fairness is part of who I am. I just arrived from the packet boat, as you can see.” He showed her that his cloak was soaking wet and his boots were drenched; she had already noticed he looked unkempt and pale, as if he had just come from a difficult journey, and he was so cold that his teeth were chattering. “I just got off the packet boat, ma’am, and was held up by the weather: the awful weather! Because of this, some important business I should have taken care of here during regular hours (important because it involves money) still needs to be done. Now, if you can bring someone authorized from the neighborhood to handle it in exchange for me opening the door, I’ll open the door. If that arrangement doesn’t work for you, I’ll—” and with the same smile, he made a noticeable motion as if to step back.
Mistress Affery, heartily glad to effect the proposed compromise, gave in her willing adhesion to it. The gentleman at once requested her to do him the favour of holding his cloak, took a short run at the narrow window, made a leap at the sill, clung his way up the bricks, and in a moment had his hand at the sash, raising it. His eyes looked so very sinister, as he put his leg into the room and glanced round at Mistress Affery, that she thought with a sudden coldness, if he were to go straight up-stairs to murder the invalid, what could she do to prevent him?
Mistress Affery, genuinely happy to agree to the proposed compromise, readily accepted it. The gentleman immediately asked her to do him the favor of holding his cloak, then took a quick run at the narrow window, jumped at the sill, climbed up the bricks, and in no time had his hand on the sash, raising it. His eyes looked so very menacing as he put his leg into the room and glanced around at Mistress Affery that she felt a sudden chill, wondering what she could do to stop him if he was about to go upstairs to harm the invalid.
Happily he had no such purpose; for he reappeared, in a moment, at the house door. ‘Now, my dear madam,’ he said, as he took back his cloak and threw it on, ‘if you have the goodness to—what the Devil’s that!’
Happily, he had no such intention, as he soon showed up again at the house door. "Now, my dear madam," he said, taking back his cloak and putting it on, "if you wouldn’t mind—what the hell is that!"
The strangest of sounds. Evidently close at hand from the peculiar shock it communicated to the air, yet subdued as if it were far off. A tremble, a rumble, and a fall of some light dry matter.
The oddest sounds. Clearly nearby because of the strange jolt it sent through the air, but muffled, as if it was far away. A shudder, a low roar, and the sound of some light, dry debris falling.
‘What the Devil is it?’
‘What the heck is it?’
‘I don’t know what it is, but I’ve heard the like of it over and over again,’ said Affery, who had caught his arm.
‘I don’t know what it is, but I’ve heard something like it over and over again,’ said Affery, who had grabbed his arm.
He could hardly be a very brave man, even she thought in her dreamy start and fright, for his trembling lips had turned colourless. After listening a few moments, he made light of it.
He couldn't really be a very brave man, even she thought in her dazed start and fear, since his trembling lips had gone pale. After listening for a few moments, he brushed it off.
‘Bah! Nothing! Now, my dear madam, I think you spoke of some clever personage. Will you be so good as to confront me with that genius?’ He held the door in his hand, as though he were quite ready to shut her out again if she failed.
‘Bah! Nothing! Now, my dear madam, I believe you mentioned some clever person. Would you be kind enough to introduce me to that genius?’ He held the door in his hand, as if he was ready to shut her out again if she didn’t deliver.
‘Don’t you say anything about the door and me, then,’ whispered Affery.
“Just don’t say anything about the door and me, okay?” Affery whispered.
‘Not a word.’
No comment.
‘And don’t you stir from here, or speak if she calls, while I run round the corner.’
‘And don’t you move from here, or say anything if she calls, while I go around the corner.’
‘Madam, I am a statue.’
"Ma'am, I'm a statue."
Affery had so vivid a fear of his going stealthily up-stairs the moment her back was turned, that after hurrying out of sight, she returned to the gateway to peep at him. Seeing him still on the threshold, more out of the house than in it, as if he had no love for darkness and no desire to probe its mysteries, she flew into the next street, and sent a message into the tavern to Mr Flintwinch, who came out directly. The two returning together—the lady in advance, and Mr Flintwinch coming up briskly behind, animated with the hope of shaking her before she could get housed—saw the gentleman standing in the same place in the dark, and heard the strong voice of Mrs Clennam calling from her room, ‘Who is it? What is it? Why does no one answer? Who is that, down there?’
Affery was so terrified of him sneaking upstairs the moment she turned her back that after rushing out of sight, she came back to the gateway to take a look at him. Seeing him still at the door, more outside than inside, as if he had no love for the dark and no interest in its secrets, she darted into the next street and sent a message to Mr. Flintwinch at the tavern, who came right out. The two of them returned together—the lady leading the way, and Mr. Flintwinch hurrying along behind, eager to catch her before she could get inside—saw the gentleman standing in the same spot in the dark, and heard Mrs. Clennam's strong voice calling from her room, “Who is it? What is it? Why isn’t anyone answering? Who is down there?”
CHAPTER 30. The Word of a Gentleman
When Mr and Mrs Flintwinch panted up to the door of the old house in the twilight, Jeremiah within a second of Affery, the stranger started back. ‘Death of my soul!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, how did you get here?’
When Mr. and Mrs. Flintwinch rushed to the door of the old house at twilight, Jeremiah just behind Affery, the stranger stepped back. “What the heck!” he said. “How did you get here?”
Mr Flintwinch, to whom these words were spoken, repaid the stranger’s wonder in full. He gazed at him with blank astonishment; he looked over his own shoulder, as expecting to see some one he had not been aware of standing behind him; he gazed at the stranger again, speechlessly, at a loss to know what he meant; he looked to his wife for explanation; receiving none, he pounced upon her, and shook her with such heartiness that he shook her cap off her head, saying between his teeth, with grim raillery, as he did it, ‘Affery, my woman, you must have a dose, my woman! This is some of your tricks! You have been dreaming again, mistress. What’s it about? Who is it? What does it mean! Speak out or be choked! It’s the only choice I’ll give you.’
Mr. Flintwinch, to whom these words were directed, was equally astonished. He stared at the stranger in complete shock; he glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting to see someone he hadn't noticed standing behind him; he looked back at the stranger, speechless and confused about what he meant; he turned to his wife for an explanation; but when he got none, he grabbed her and shook her so vigorously that her cap fell off, saying through gritted teeth, with a sarcastic tone, “Affery, my dear, you must have a dose, my dear! This is one of your tricks! You've been dreaming again, mistress. What's going on? Who is this? What does it mean? Speak up or be choked! That's the only choice I'm giving you.”
Original
Supposing Mistress Affery to have any power of election at the moment, her choice was decidedly to be choked; for she answered not a syllable to this adjuration, but, with her bare head wagging violently backwards and forwards, resigned herself to her punishment. The stranger, however, picking up her cap with an air of gallantry, interposed.
Assuming Mistress Affery had any say in the matter at that moment, her choice was clearly to be ignored; she didn’t say a word in response to this plea but, with her head shaking furiously back and forth, accepted her fate. The stranger, however, picking up her cap with a sense of charm, stepped in.
‘Permit me,’ said he, laying his hand on the shoulder of Jeremiah, who stopped and released his victim. ‘Thank you. Excuse me. Husband and wife I know, from this playfulness. Haha! Always agreeable to see that relation playfully maintained. Listen! May I suggest that somebody up-stairs, in the dark, is becoming energetically curious to know what is going on here?’
“Excuse me,” he said, putting his hand on Jeremiah's shoulder, who then stopped and let go of his victim. “Thanks. Sorry about that. I can tell you two are married from this playful banter. Haha! It’s always nice to see that relationship kept lively. Listen! Can I suggest that someone upstairs, in the dark, is getting really curious about what’s happening here?”
This reference to Mrs Clennam’s voice reminded Mr Flintwinch to step into the hall and call up the staircase. ‘It’s all right, I am here, Affery is coming with your light.’ Then he said to the latter flustered woman, who was putting her cap on, ‘Get out with you, and get up-stairs!’ and then turned to the stranger and said to him, ‘Now, sir, what might you please to want?’
This mention of Mrs. Clennam’s voice reminded Mr. Flintwinch to step into the hall and call up the stairs. “It’s all good, I’m here, Affery is coming with your light.” Then he said to the flustered woman, who was putting her cap on, “Get out of here and head upstairs!” After that, he turned to the stranger and asked, “Now, sir, what can I do for you?”
‘I am afraid,’ said the stranger, ‘I must be so troublesome as to propose a candle.’
“I’m sorry,” said the stranger, “but I have to be a bit of a bother and suggest a candle.”
‘True,’ assented Jeremiah. ‘I was going to do so. Please to stand where you are while I get one.’
‘True,’ agreed Jeremiah. ‘I was about to do that. Please stay where you are while I get one.’
The visitor was standing in the doorway, but turned a little into the gloom of the house as Mr Flintwinch turned, and pursued him with his eyes into the little room, where he groped about for a phosphorus box. When he found it, it was damp, or otherwise out of order; and match after match that he struck into it lighted sufficiently to throw a dull glare about his groping face, and to sprinkle his hands with pale little spots of fire, but not sufficiently to light the candle. The stranger, taking advantage of this fitful illumination of his visage, looked intently and wonderingly at him. Jeremiah, when he at last lighted the candle, knew he had been doing this, by seeing the last shade of a lowering watchfulness clear away from his face, as it broke into the doubtful smile that was a large ingredient in its expression.
The visitor was standing in the doorway but shifted slightly into the dimness of the house as Mr. Flintwinch turned and followed him with his eyes into the small room, where he fumbled around for a phosphorus box. When he finally found it, it was damp or otherwise malfunctioning; match after match that he struck lit just enough to cast a dull glow on his searching face and sprinkle his hands with faint little spots of light, but not enough to light the candle. The stranger, seizing the opportunity of this sporadic illumination of his face, looked at him intently and curiously. Jeremiah, when he finally lit the candle, realized he had been observing this by noticing the last hint of a brooding watchfulness fade from his face as it transformed into the uncertain smile that was a significant part of his expression.
‘Be so good,’ said Jeremiah, closing the house door, and taking a pretty sharp survey of the smiling visitor in his turn, ‘as to step into my counting-house.—It’s all right, I tell you!’ petulantly breaking off to answer the voice up-stairs, still unsatisfied, though Affery was there, speaking in persuasive tones. ‘Don’t I tell you it’s all right? Preserve the woman, has she no reason at all in her!’
“Please be so kind,” Jeremiah said as he closed the house door and gave the cheerful visitor a quick, sharp look in return. “Step into my office. It’s all good, trust me!” he abruptly interrupted himself to respond to the voice from upstairs, clearly still uneasy despite Affery being there and speaking soothingly. “Don’t I say it’s all good? Honestly, that woman has no sense at all!”
‘Timorous,’ remarked the stranger.
“Timid,” remarked the stranger.
‘Timorous?’ said Mr Flintwinch, turning his head to retort, as he went before with the candle. ‘More courageous than ninety men in a hundred, sir, let me tell you.’
‘Timid?’ said Mr. Flintwinch, turning his head to reply as he led the way with the candle. ‘More courageous than ninety out of a hundred men, sir, I assure you.’
‘Though an invalid?’
"Even though disabled?"
‘Many years an invalid. Mrs Clennam. The only one of that name left in the House now. My partner.’
‘Many years as an invalid. Mrs. Clennam. The only one with that name left in the House now. My partner.’
Saying something apologetically as he crossed the hall, to the effect that at that time of night they were not in the habit of receiving any one, and were always shut up, Mr Flintwinch led the way into his own office, which presented a sufficiently business-like appearance. Here he put the light on his desk, and said to the stranger, with his wryest twist upon him, ‘Your commands.’
Saying something apologetic as he walked through the hall, basically stating that they usually didn’t take anyone in at that hour and were always closed off, Mr. Flintwinch guided the stranger into his office, which looked quite professional. He turned on the light at his desk and said to the stranger, with a sarcastic twist, "What do you need?"
‘My name is Blandois.’
"My name is Blandois."
‘Blandois. I don’t know it,’ said Jeremiah.
‘Blandois. I don’t know it,’ said Jeremiah.
‘I thought it possible,’ resumed the other, ‘that you might have been advised from Paris—’
‘I thought it was possible,’ the other continued, ‘that you might have been advised from Paris—’
‘We have had no advice from Paris respecting anybody of the name of Blandois,’ said Jeremiah.
‘We haven't received any news from Paris about anyone named Blandois,’ said Jeremiah.
‘No?’
'No?'
‘No.’
‘Nope.’
Jeremiah stood in his favourite attitude. The smiling Mr Blandois, opening his cloak to get his hand to a breast-pocket, paused to say, with a laugh in his glittering eyes, which it occurred to Mr Flintwinch were too near together:
Jeremiah stood in his favorite pose. The smiling Mr. Blandois, opening his coat to reach a pocket on his chest, paused to say, with a laugh in his sparkling eyes, which Mr. Flintwinch thought were a little too close together:
‘You are so like a friend of mine! Not so identically the same as I supposed when I really did for the moment take you to be the same in the dusk—for which I ought to apologise; permit me to do so; a readiness to confess my errors is, I hope, a part of the frankness of my character—still, however, uncommonly like.’
'You remind me so much of a friend of mine! Not exactly the same as I thought when I briefly mistook you for them in the dim light—for which I should apologize; let me do that; I hope my willingness to admit my mistakes shows my honesty—still, you’re really quite similar.'
‘Indeed?’ said Jeremiah, perversely. ‘But I have not received any letter of advice from anywhere respecting anybody of the name of Blandois.’
‘Really?’ said Jeremiah, stubbornly. ‘But I haven’t received any letter of notice from anywhere about anyone named Blandois.’
‘Just so,’ said the stranger.
"Exactly," said the stranger.
‘Just so,’ said Jeremiah.
‘Exactly,’ said Jeremiah.
Mr Blandois, not at all put out by this omission on the part of the correspondents of the house of Clennam and Co., took his pocket-book from his breast-pocket, selected a letter from that receptacle, and handed it to Mr Flintwinch. ‘No doubt you are well acquainted with the writing. Perhaps the letter speaks for itself, and requires no advice. You are a far more competent judge of such affairs than I am. It is my misfortune to be, not so much a man of business, as what the world calls (arbitrarily) a gentleman.’
Mr. Blandois, completely unfazed by the oversight of the correspondents at Clennam and Co., took his wallet out of his breast pocket, picked out a letter from it, and gave it to Mr. Flintwinch. "You probably recognize the handwriting. Maybe the letter explains everything on its own and doesn't need any input. You're much more qualified to judge these matters than I am. Unfortunately, I'm not really a businessman; I'm what the world arbitrarily refers to as a 'gentleman.'"
Mr Flintwinch took the letter, and read, under date of Paris, ‘We have to present to you, on behalf of a highly esteemed correspondent of our Firm, M. Blandois, of this city,’ &c. &c. ‘Such facilities as he may require and such attentions as may lie in your power,’ &c. &c. ‘Also have to add that if you will honour M. Blandois’ drafts at sight to the extent of, say Fifty Pounds sterling (50l.),’ &c. &c.
Mr. Flintwinch took the letter and read, dated from Paris, "We need to present to you, on behalf of a highly valued associate of our Firm, M. Blandois, from this city," etc. "The support he may need and any attentions you can provide," etc. "We also need to mention that if you would be willing to honor M. Blandois' drafts at sight for up to Fifty Pounds sterling (50l.)," etc.
‘Very good, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Take a chair. To the extent of anything that our House can do—we are in a retired, old-fashioned, steady way of business, sir—we shall be happy to render you our best assistance. I observe, from the date of this, that we could not yet be advised of it. Probably you came over with the delayed mail that brings the advice.’
"Very good, sir," Mr. Flintwinch said. "Take a seat. To the extent that our firm can help—you see, we operate in a quiet, traditional, and reliable way—we’ll be glad to provide you with our best assistance. I notice from the date on this that we haven’t received any news about it yet. You probably arrived with the delayed mail that brings the information."
‘That I came over with the delayed mail, sir,’ returned Mr Blandois, passing his white hand down his high-hooked nose, ‘I know to the cost of my head and stomach: the detestable and intolerable weather having racked them both. You see me in the plight in which I came out of the packet within this half-hour. I ought to have been here hours ago, and then I should not have to apologise—permit me to apologise—for presenting myself so unreasonably, and frightening—no, by-the-bye, you said not frightening; permit me to apologise again—the esteemed lady, Mrs Clennam, in her invalid chamber above stairs.’
“I'm sorry I arrived with the delayed mail, sir,” Mr. Blandois said, running his white hand down his sharply hooked nose. “I know all too well the toll it takes on my head and stomach; the horrible and unbearable weather has made me feel terrible. You see me in the condition I just got out of the packet half an hour ago. I should have been here hours earlier, and then I wouldn't need to apologize—please allow me to apologize—for showing up so late and scaring—not that you mentioned scaring; let me apologize again—to the esteemed lady, Mrs. Clennam, in her sickroom upstairs.”
Swagger and an air of authorised condescension do so much, that Mr Flintwinch had already begun to think this a highly gentlemanly personage. Not the less unyielding with him on that account, he scraped his chin and said, what could he have the honour of doing for Mr Blandois to-night, out of business hours?
Swagger and an air of authorized arrogance do a lot, so Mr. Flintwinch had already started to see this as a highly distinguished individual. No less unyielding on that account, he rubbed his chin and asked what he could do for Mr. Blandois tonight, outside of business hours.
‘Faith!’ returned that gentleman, shrugging his cloaked shoulders, ‘I must change, and eat and drink, and be lodged somewhere. Have the kindness to advise me, a total stranger, where, and money is a matter of perfect indifference until to-morrow. The nearer the place, the better. Next door, if that’s all.’
‘Faith!’ replied that gentleman, shrugging his cloaked shoulders, ‘I need to change, eat and drink, and find a place to stay. Please help me, a complete stranger, by suggesting where I can go, and money doesn’t matter at all until tomorrow. The closer, the better. Next door would be fine, if that’s all.’
Mr Flintwinch was slowly beginning, ‘For a gentleman of your habits, there is not in this immediate neighbourhood any hotel—’ when Mr Blandois took him up.
Mr. Flintwinch was just starting to say, 'For a gentleman like you, there isn't any hotel in this area—' when Mr. Blandois interrupted him.
‘So much for my habits! my dear sir,’ snapping his fingers. ‘A citizen of the world has no habits. That I am, in my poor way, a gentleman, by Heaven! I will not deny, but I have no unaccommodating prejudiced habits. A clean room, a hot dish for dinner, and a bottle of not absolutely poisonous wine, are all I want tonight. But I want that much without the trouble of going one unnecessary inch to get it.’
‘So much for my habits! My dear sir,’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘A citizen of the world has no habits. That I am, in my humble way, a gentleman, I will not deny, but I have no stuck-up, prejudiced habits. A clean room, a hot meal for dinner, and a bottle of decent wine are all I want tonight. But I want that much without having to go even one unnecessary step to get it.’
‘There is,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with more than his usual deliberation, as he met, for a moment, Mr Blandois’ shining eyes, which were restless; ‘there is a coffee-house and tavern close here, which, so far, I can recommend; but there’s no style about it.’
‘There is,’ Mr. Flintwinch said, taking his time more than usual as he briefly met Mr. Blandois’ restless, bright eyes, ‘there's a coffeehouse and tavern nearby that I can recommend so far; but it doesn’t have any style.’
‘I dispense with style!’ said Mr Blandois, waving his hand. ‘Do me the honour to show me the house, and introduce me there (if I am not too troublesome), and I shall be infinitely obliged.’
“I don’t care about style!” said Mr. Blandois, waving his hand. “Please do me the honor of showing me the house and introducing me there (if I’m not too much trouble), and I would be very grateful.”
Mr Flintwinch, upon this, looked up his hat, and lighted Mr Blandois across the hall again. As he put the candle on a bracket, where the dark old panelling almost served as an extinguisher for it, he bethought himself of going up to tell the invalid that he would not be absent five minutes.
Mr. Flintwinch, hearing this, picked up his hat and walked Mr. Blandois across the hall again. As he placed the candle on a bracket, where the dark old paneling nearly acted as a snuffer for it, he remembered to go up and let the invalid know that he wouldn’t be gone for more than five minutes.
‘Oblige me,’ said the visitor, on his saying so, ‘by presenting my card of visit. Do me the favour to add that I shall be happy to wait on Mrs Clennam, to offer my personal compliments, and to apologise for having occasioned any agitation in this tranquil corner, if it should suit her convenience to endure the presence of a stranger for a few minutes, after he shall have changed his wet clothes and fortified himself with something to eat and drink.’
“Please oblige me,” said the visitor. “Present my visiting card. Also, do me the favor of mentioning that I would be happy to pay my respects to Mrs. Clennam, to offer my personal compliments, and to apologize for causing any disturbance in this peaceful space, if it suits her convenience to tolerate the presence of a stranger for a few minutes, after I’ve changed out of my wet clothes and had something to eat and drink.”
Jeremiah made all despatch, and said, on his return, ‘She’ll be glad to see you, sir; but, being conscious that her sick room has no attractions, wishes me to say that she won’t hold you to your offer, in case you should think better of it.’
Jeremiah hurried back and said, "She’ll be happy to see you, sir; but since she knows her sick room isn’t very appealing, she wants me to let you know that she won’t hold you to your offer if you decide to change your mind."
‘To think better of it,’ returned the gallant Blandois, ‘would be to slight a lady; to slight a lady would be to be deficient in chivalry towards the sex; and chivalry towards the sex is a part of my character!’ Thus expressing himself, he threw the draggled skirt of his cloak over his shoulder, and accompanied Mr Flintwinch to the tavern; taking up on the road a porter who was waiting with his portmanteau on the outer side of the gateway.
"To reconsider that," replied the brave Blandois, "would mean to disrespect a lady; to disrespect a lady would show a lack of chivalry towards women; and chivalry towards women is part of who I am!" With that, he tossed the wet hem of his cloak over his shoulder and followed Mr. Flintwinch to the tavern, picking up a porter waiting with his suitcase outside the gate along the way.
The house was kept in a homely manner, and the condescension of Mr Blandois was infinite. It seemed to fill to inconvenience the little bar in which the widow landlady and her two daughters received him; it was much too big for the narrow wainscoted room with a bagatelle-board in it, that was first proposed for his reception; it perfectly swamped the little private holiday sitting-room of the family, which was finally given up to him. Here, in dry clothes and scented linen, with sleeked hair, a great ring on each forefinger and a massive show of watch-chain, Mr Blandois waiting for his dinner, lolling on a window-seat with his knees drawn up, looked (for all the difference in the setting of the jewel) fearfully and wonderfully like a certain Monsieur Rigaud who had once so waited for his breakfast, lying on the stone ledge of the iron grating of a cell in a villainous dungeon at Marseilles.
The house was kept cozy, and Mr. Blandois's arrogance was off the charts. It seemed to crowd the small bar where the widow landlady and her two daughters welcomed him; it was way too big for the narrow, wood-paneled room with a bagatelle board that was initially suggested for him; it completely overwhelmed the family’s small private sitting room, which was ultimately given to him. Here, in dry clothes and fresh linen, with slicked-back hair, a large ring on each forefinger, and an impressive display of watch chain, Mr. Blandois waited for his dinner, lounging on a window seat with his knees drawn up. He looked eerily similar to a certain Monsieur Rigaud, who had once waited for his breakfast in a dungeon cell in Marseilles, lying on the cold stone ledge of an iron grate.
His greed at dinner, too, was closely in keeping with the greed of Monsieur Rigaud at breakfast. His avaricious manner of collecting all the eatables about him, and devouring some with his eyes while devouring others with his jaws, was the same manner. His utter disregard of other people, as shown in his way of tossing the little womanly toys of furniture about, flinging favourite cushions under his boots for a softer rest, and crushing delicate coverings with his big body and his great black head, had the same brute selfishness at the bottom of it. The softly moving hands that were so busy among the dishes had the old wicked facility of the hands that had clung to the bars. And when he could eat no more, and sat sucking his delicate fingers one by one and wiping them on a cloth, there wanted nothing but the substitution of vine-leaves to finish the picture.
His greed at dinner matched Monsieur Rigaud's greed at breakfast. His greedy way of gathering all the food around him, devouring some with his eyes while eating others, was the same. His complete disregard for other people was evident in the way he tossed little decorative furniture around, flung favorite cushions under his feet for a softer rest, and crushed delicate coverings with his heavy body and large head, all showing the same brutal selfishness. The hands that moved so expertly among the dishes had the same old wicked skill as hands that had once clung to bars. And when he could eat no more, sitting there sucking his delicate fingers one by one and wiping them on a cloth, the only thing missing to complete the scene was a substitution of vine leaves.
On this man, with his moustache going up and his nose coming down in that most evil of smiles, and with his surface eyes looking as if they belonged to his dyed hair, and had had their natural power of reflecting light stopped by some similar process, Nature, always true, and never working in vain, had set the mark, Beware! It was not her fault, if the warning were fruitless. She is never to blame in any such instance.
On this man, with his mustache curling up and his nose pointed down in that wicked smile, and with his shallow eyes looking like they matched his dyed hair, as if their natural ability to reflect light had been dulled by some similar process, Nature, always reliable and never acting without purpose, had placed a warning: Beware! It wasn't her fault if the warning went unheeded. She is never to blame in any case like this.
Mr Blandois, having finished his repast and cleaned his fingers, took a cigar from his pocket, and, lying on the window-seat again, smoked it out at his leisure, occasionally apostrophising the smoke as it parted from his thin lips in a thin stream:
Mr. Blandois, after finishing his meal and wiping his hands, pulled out a cigar from his pocket and, lying back on the window seat, smoked it at his leisure, sometimes speaking to the smoke as it drifted from his thin lips in a light stream:
‘Blandois, you shall turn the tables on society, my little child. Haha! Holy blue, you have begun well, Blandois! At a pinch, an excellent master in English or French; a man for the bosom of families! You have a quick perception, you have humour, you have ease, you have insinuating manners, you have a good appearance; in effect, you are a gentleman! A gentleman you shall live, my small boy, and a gentleman you shall die. You shall win, however the game goes. They shall all confess your merit, Blandois. You shall subdue the society which has grievously wronged you, to your own high spirit. Death of my soul! You are high spirited by right and by nature, my Blandois!’
‘Blandois, you’re going to turn society on its head, my little one. Haha! Wow, you’re off to a great start, Blandois! In a pinch, you could be an excellent teacher in English or French; a perfect fit for families! You’re quick to understand, you’ve got a sense of humor, you carry yourself well, you have charming manners, and you look good; essentially, you are a gentleman! You will live as a gentleman, my young friend, and you will die as one too. No matter how things unfold, you will come out on top. Everyone will recognize your worth, Blandois. You will conquer the society that has wronged you, with your strong spirit. Goodness! You’re naturally spirited, my Blandois!’
To such soothing murmurs did this gentleman smoke out his cigar and drink out his bottle of wine. Both being finished, he shook himself into a sitting attitude; and with the concluding serious apostrophe, ‘Hold, then! Blandois, you ingenious one, have all your wits about you!’ arose and went back to the house of Clennam and Co.
To the calming sounds around him, this man finished his cigar and his bottle of wine. Once done, he straightened up and, with a final serious remark, said, “Wait a second! Blandois, you clever one, are you fully aware of everything?” He then got up and went back to the Clennam and Co. office.
He was received at the door by Mistress Affery, who, under instructions from her lord, had lighted up two candles in the hall and a third on the staircase, and who conducted him to Mrs Clennam’s room. Tea was prepared there, and such little company arrangements had been made as usually attended the reception of expected visitors. They were slight on the greatest occasion, never extending beyond the production of the China tea-service, and the covering of the bed with a sober and sad drapery. For the rest, there was the bier-like sofa with the block upon it, and the figure in the widow’s dress, as if attired for execution; the fire topped by the mound of damped ashes; the grate with its second little mound of ashes; the kettle and the smell of black dye; all as they had been for fifteen years.
He was greeted at the door by Mistress Affery, who, following her master’s instructions, had lit two candles in the hallway and a third on the staircase, and who then led him to Mrs. Clennam’s room. Tea was ready there, and the usual small arrangements for expected visitors had been made. These were minimal even on significant occasions, consisting only of the China tea set and the bed draped with a somber, heavy covering. Aside from that, there was the coffin-like sofa with a block on it, and the figure in a widow’s dress, as if dressed for execution; the fire piled with a mound of cold ashes; the grate with its second little heap of ashes; the kettle and the smell of black dye; all unchanged for the past fifteen years.
Mr Flintwinch presented the gentleman commended to the consideration of Clennam and Co. Mrs Clennam, who had the letter lying before her, bent her head and requested him to sit. They looked very closely at one another. That was but natural curiosity.
Mr. Flintwinch introduced the man recommended to Clennam and Co. Mrs. Clennam, who had the letter in front of her, leaned her head forward and asked him to take a seat. They examined each other intently. That was just natural curiosity.
‘I thank you, sir, for thinking of a disabled woman like me. Few who come here on business have any remembrance to bestow on one so removed from observation. It would be idle to expect that they should have. Out of sight, out of mind. While I am grateful for the exception, I don’t complain of the rule.’
"I appreciate it, sir, for considering a disabled woman like me. Not many who come here for business take the time to remember someone so overlooked. It would be unrealistic to expect them to. Out of sight, out of mind. While I’m thankful for the exception, I don’t resent the norm."
Mr Blandois, in his most gentlemanly manner, was afraid he had disturbed her by unhappily presenting himself at such an unconscionable time. For which he had already offered his best apologies to Mr—he begged pardon—but by name had not the distinguished honour—
Mr. Blandois, in his most polite way, was worried he had upset her by showing up at such an inappropriate time. For this, he had already extended his sincerest apologies to Mr.—he was sorry—but he didn’t have the pleasure of knowing his name.
‘Mr Flintwinch has been connected with the House many years.’
‘Mr. Flintwinch has been associated with the House for many years.’
Mr Blandois was Mr Flintwinch’s most obedient humble servant. He entreated Mr Flintwinch to receive the assurance of his profoundest consideration.
Mr. Blandois was Mr. Flintwinch's most obedient and humble servant. He urged Mr. Flintwinch to accept the assurance of his deepest respect.
‘My husband being dead,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘and my son preferring another pursuit, our old House has no other representative in these days than Mr Flintwinch.’
‘My husband is dead,’ said Mrs. Clennam, ‘and my son prefers another path, so our old House has no other representative these days than Mr. Flintwinch.’
‘What do you call yourself?’ was the surly demand of that gentleman. ‘You have the head of two men.’
‘What do you call yourself?’ was the grumpy question from that guy. ‘You have the head of two men.’
‘My sex disqualifies me,’ she proceeded with merely a slight turn of her eyes in Jeremiah’s direction, ‘from taking a responsible part in the business, even if I had the ability; and therefore Mr Flintwinch combines my interest with his own, and conducts it. It is not what it used to be; but some of our old friends (principally the writers of this letter) have the kindness not to forget us, and we retain the power of doing what they entrust to us as efficiently as we ever did. This however is not interesting to you. You are English, sir?’
‘My gender disqualifies me,’ she said, slightly glancing at Jeremiah, ‘from taking a responsible role in the business, even if I had the ability; so Mr. Flintwinch combines my interests with his own and manages it. Things aren’t what they used to be; but some of our old friends (mainly the writers of this letter) are kind enough not to forget us, and we still have the ability to handle what they trust us with as efficiently as we ever did. However, this probably isn’t of interest to you. You’re English, right?’
‘Faith, madam, no; I am neither born nor bred in England. In effect, I am of no country,’ said Mr Blandois, stretching out his leg and smiting it: ‘I descend from half-a-dozen countries.’
‘Honestly, ma’am, no; I wasn’t born or raised in England. Actually, I’m from nowhere,’ said Mr. Blandois, stretching out his leg and hitting it: ‘I come from half a dozen different countries.’
‘You have been much about the world?’
'Have you traveled much?'
‘It is true. By Heaven, madam, I have been here and there and everywhere!’
'It's true. By Heaven, ma'am, I've been here, there, and everywhere!'
‘You have no ties, probably. Are not married?’
'You probably don't have any ties. You're not married, right?'
‘Madam,’ said Mr Blandois, with an ugly fall of his eyebrows, ‘I adore your sex, but I am not married—never was.’
‘Madam,’ said Mr. Blandois, raising his eyebrows in a strange way, ‘I admire your gender, but I’m not married—never have been.’
Mistress Affery, who stood at the table near him, pouring out the tea, happened in her dreamy state to look at him as he said these words, and to fancy that she caught an expression in his eyes which attracted her own eyes so that she could not get them away. The effect of this fancy was to keep her staring at him with the tea-pot in her hand, not only to her own great uneasiness, but manifestly to his, too; and, through them both, to Mrs Clennam’s and Mr Flintwinch’s. Thus a few ghostly moments supervened, when they were all confusedly staring without knowing why.
Mistress Affery, who was standing at the table pouring tea, happened to glance at him as he spoke, and she thought she saw something in his eyes that pulled her gaze in and wouldn’t let go. This momentary thought caused her to keep staring at him with the teapot in her hand, creating a great deal of discomfort for herself and clearly for him as well; and it also affected Mrs. Clennam and Mr. Flintwinch. So, a few eerie moments passed where they all stared blankly, not really understanding why.
‘Affery,’ her mistress was the first to say, ‘what is the matter with you?’
‘Affery,’ her mistress was the first to say, ‘what’s wrong with you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mistress Affery, with her disengaged left hand extended towards the visitor. ‘It ain’t me. It’s him!’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mistress Affery, with her free left hand extended towards the visitor. ‘It’s not me. It’s him!’
‘What does this good woman mean?’ cried Mr Blandois, turning white, hot, and slowly rising with a look of such deadly wrath that it contrasted surprisingly with the slight force of his words. ‘How is it possible to understand this good creature?’
‘What does this good woman mean?’ exclaimed Mr. Blandois, turning pale and heated, slowly rising with a look of such intense anger that it was surprisingly at odds with the mildness of his words. ‘How can anyone make sense of this good person?’
‘It’s not possible,’ said Mr Flintwinch, screwing himself rapidly in that direction. ‘She don’t know what she means. She’s an idiot, a wanderer in her mind. She shall have a dose, she shall have such a dose! Get along with you, my woman,’ he added in her ear, ‘get along with you, while you know you’re Affery, and before you’re shaken to yeast.’
“It’s not possible,” Mr. Flintwinch said, quickly turning in that direction. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s clueless, just wandering in her thoughts. She'll get what’s coming to her, she’ll really get it! Go on now, my dear,” he added in her ear, “go on while you still know you’re Affery, and before you lose your mind completely.”
Mistress Affery, sensible of the danger in which her identity stood, relinquished the tea-pot as her husband seized it, put her apron over her head, and in a twinkling vanished. The visitor gradually broke into a smile, and sat down again.
Mistress Affery, aware of the risk to her identity, dropped the teapot as her husband grabbed it, pulled her apron over her head, and quickly disappeared. The visitor slowly smiled and sat down again.
‘You’ll excuse her, Mr Blandois,’ said Jeremiah, pouring out the tea himself, ‘she’s failing and breaking up; that’s what she’s about. Do you take sugar, sir?’
‘You’ll excuse her, Mr. Blandois,’ said Jeremiah, pouring the tea himself, ‘she’s declining and falling apart; that’s what’s going on. Do you take sugar, sir?’
‘Thank you, no tea for me.—Pardon my observing it, but that’s a very remarkable watch!’
‘Thank you, I don’t want any tea. —Sorry to interrupt, but that’s a really impressive watch!’
The tea-table was drawn up near the sofa, with a small interval between it and Mrs Clennam’s own particular table. Mr Blandois in his gallantry had risen to hand that lady her tea (her dish of toast was already there), and it was in placing the cup conveniently within her reach that the watch, lying before her as it always did, attracted his attention. Mrs Clennam looked suddenly up at him.
The tea table was set up close to the sofa, with a small space between it and Mrs. Clennam's own table. Mr. Blandois, being polite, had gotten up to serve her tea (her plate of toast was already there), and while he was placing the cup within her reach, he noticed the watch lying in front of her, as it always did. Mrs. Clennam suddenly looked up at him.
‘May I be permitted? Thank you. A fine old-fashioned watch,’ he said, taking it in his hand. ‘Heavy for use, but massive and genuine. I have a partiality for everything genuine. Such as I am, I am genuine myself. Hah! A gentleman’s watch with two cases in the old fashion. May I remove it from the outer case? Thank you. Aye? An old silk watch-lining, worked with beads! I have often seen these among old Dutch people and Belgians. Quaint things!’
“May I?” Thank you. “What a nice old-fashioned watch,” he said, taking it in his hand. “It’s a bit heavy for wearing, but it’s solid and authentic. I really like everything that’s real. Just like I am, I’m real myself. Haha! A gentleman’s watch with two cases, just like they used to make. Can I take it out of the outer case? Thank you. Oh? An old silk lining with beads! I’ve seen these with many old Dutch and Belgian people. Such unique items!”
‘They are old-fashioned, too,’ said Mrs Clennam.
‘They’re old-fashioned too,’ said Mrs. Clennam.
‘Very. But this is not so old as the watch, I think?’
‘Very. But I don’t think this is as old as the watch, right?’
‘I think not.’
"I don't think so."
‘Extraordinary how they used to complicate these cyphers!’ remarked Mr Blandois, glancing up with his own smile again. ‘Now is this D. N. F.? It might be almost anything.’
‘It's amazing how they used to complicate these codes!’ said Mr. Blandois, looking up with a smile again. ‘Now, is this D. N. F.? It could mean just about anything.’
‘Those are the letters.’
"Those are the letters."
Mr Flintwinch, who had been observantly pausing all this time with a cup of tea in his hand, and his mouth open ready to swallow the contents, began to do so: always entirely filling his mouth before he emptied it at a gulp; and always deliberating again before he refilled it.
Mr. Flintwinch, who had been quietly pausing all this time with a cup of tea in his hand and his mouth open, ready to take a sip, finally began to drink: always filling his mouth completely before gulping it down; and always thinking again before refilling it.
‘D. N. F. was some tender, lovely, fascinating fair-creature, I make no doubt,’ observed Mr Blandois, as he snapped on the case again. ‘I adore her memory on the assumption. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, I adore but too readily. It may be a vice, it may be a virtue, but adoration of female beauty and merit constitutes three parts of my character, madam.’
‘D. N. F. was definitely a sweet, charming, captivating woman, no doubt about it,’ Mr. Blandois observed as he closed the case again. ‘I cherish her memory based on that. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, I tend to fall in love too easily. It might be a flaw, it might be a quality, but my admiration for female beauty and worth makes up a big part of who I am, ma'am.’
Mr Flintwinch had by this time poured himself out another cup of tea, which he was swallowing in gulps as before, with his eyes directed to the invalid.
Mr. Flintwinch had by this time poured himself another cup of tea, which he was gulping down as before, with his eyes focused on the invalid.
‘You may be heart-free here, sir,’ she returned to Mr Blandois. ‘Those letters are not intended, I believe, for the initials of any name.’
'You might be free from your feelings here, sir,' she replied to Mr. Blandois. 'I don't think those letters are meant to stand for any initials.'
‘Of a motto, perhaps,’ said Mr Blandois, casually.
"Maybe a motto," Mr. Blandois said casually.
‘Of a sentence. They have always stood, I believe, for Do Not Forget!’
‘Of a sentence. They have always represented, I believe, Do Not Forget!’
‘And naturally,’ said Mr Blandois, replacing the watch and stepping backward to his former chair, ‘you do not forget.’
"And of course," said Mr. Blandois, putting the watch back and stepping back to his previous chair, "you do not forget."
Mr Flintwinch, finishing his tea, not only took a longer gulp than he had taken yet, but made his succeeding pause under new circumstances: that is to say, with his head thrown back and his cup held still at his lips, while his eyes were still directed at the invalid. She had that force of face, and that concentrated air of collecting her firmness or obstinacy, which represented in her case what would have been gesture and action in another, as she replied with her deliberate strength of speech:
Mr. Flintwinch, finishing his tea, took a bigger gulp than he had taken before, but his next pause was under different conditions: he tilted his head back and held his cup still at his lips, while his eyes remained focused on the invalid. She had a strong expression and a focused demeanor that conveyed what would have been gestures and actions in someone else, as she responded with her purposeful and assertive tone:
‘No, sir, I do not forget. To lead a life as monotonous as mine has been during many years, is not the way to forget. To lead a life of self-correction is not the way to forget. To be sensible of having (as we all have, every one of us, all the children of Adam!) offences to expiate and peace to make, does not justify the desire to forget. Therefore I have long dismissed it, and I neither forget nor wish to forget.’
‘No, sir, I don’t forget. Living a life as dull as mine has been for many years isn’t a way to forget. A life of self-reflection doesn’t help you forget. Being aware that we all have wrongs to atone for and peace to achieve doesn’t make me want to forget. That's why I've long set aside that idea; I neither forget nor want to forget.’
Mr Flintwinch, who had latterly been shaking the sediment at the bottom of his tea-cup, round and round, here gulped it down, and putting the cup in the tea-tray, as done with, turned his eyes upon Mr Blandois as if to ask him what he thought of that?
Mr. Flintwinch, who had recently been swirling the dregs at the bottom of his teacup, finally gulped it down. After placing the cup on the tea tray, as if he were finished, he turned his gaze to Mr. Blandois, almost as if asking him what he thought about that.
‘All expressed, madam,’ said Mr Blandois, with his smoothest bow and his white hand on his breast, ‘by the word “naturally,” which I am proud to have had sufficient apprehension and appreciation (but without appreciation I could not be Blandois) to employ.’
“Everything is expressed, ma'am,” said Mr. Blandois, with his smoothest bow and his white hand on his chest, “by the word ‘naturally,’ which I’m proud to have had enough understanding and appreciation (but without appreciation, I couldn’t be Blandois) to use.”
‘Pardon me, sir,’ she returned, ‘if I doubt the likelihood of a gentleman of pleasure, and change, and politeness, accustomed to court and to be courted—’
“Excuse me, sir,” she replied, “if I question the possibility of a man of pleasure, change, and politeness, used to courting and being courted—”
‘Oh madam! By Heaven!’
"Oh my! By heaven!"
‘—If I doubt the likelihood of such a character quite comprehending what belongs to mine in my circumstances. Not to obtrude doctrine upon you,’ she looked at the rigid pile of hard pale books before her, ‘(for you go your own way, and the consequences are on your own head), I will say this much: that I shape my course by pilots, strictly by proved and tried pilots, under whom I cannot be shipwrecked—can not be—and that if I were unmindful of the admonition conveyed in those three letters, I should not be half as chastened as I am.’
‘—If I question whether someone like you can truly understand what I’m dealing with in my situation. Not to force my beliefs on you,’ she glanced at the stiff stack of hard pale books in front of her, ‘(since you choose your own path, and the outcomes are your responsibility), I’ll say this much: I navigate by trusted guides, only by proven and reliable ones, under whom I can’t fail—can’t fail—and that if I ignored the warning in those three letters, I wouldn’t be nearly as humbled as I am.’
It was curious how she seized the occasion to argue with some invisible opponent. Perhaps with her own better sense, always turning upon herself and her own deception.
It was interesting how she took the opportunity to argue with some unseen opponent. Maybe it was with her own better judgment, constantly reflecting on herself and her own lies.
‘If I forgot my ignorances in my life of health and freedom, I might complain of the life to which I am now condemned. I never do; I never have done. If I forgot that this scene, the Earth, is expressly meant to be a scene of gloom, and hardship, and dark trial, for the creatures who are made out of its dust, I might have some tenderness for its vanities. But I have no such tenderness. If I did not know that we are, every one, the subject (most justly the subject) of a wrath that must be satisfied, and against which mere actions are nothing, I might repine at the difference between me, imprisoned here, and the people who pass that gateway yonder. But I take it as a grace and favour to be elected to make the satisfaction I am making here, to know what I know for certain here, and to work out what I have worked out here. My affliction might otherwise have had no meaning to me. Hence I would forget, and I do forget, nothing. Hence I am contented, and say it is better with me than with millions.’
‘If I ignored my lack of knowledge in my life of health and freedom, I might complain about the life I’m stuck in now. I never do; I’ve never done that. If I forgot that this world, Earth, is meant to be a place of sadness, struggle, and hard challenges for those made from its dust, I might feel some compassion for its superficialities. But I have no such compassion. If I didn’t know that we all are, rightfully so, subject to a wrath that needs to be satisfied, and that mere actions mean nothing against it, I might resent the difference between myself, trapped here, and the people who pass through that gate over there. But I see it as a privilege and a blessing to be chosen to make the atonement I’m making here, to know what I know for certain here, and to work through what I’ve worked through here. My suffering might otherwise feel meaningless to me. That’s why I forget nothing, and I do forget nothing. That’s why I’m content and say I’m better off than millions.’
As she spoke these words, she put her hand upon the watch, and restored it to the precise spot on her little table which it always occupied. With her touch lingering upon it, she sat for some moments afterwards, looking at it steadily and half-defiantly.
As she said this, she placed her hand on the watch and returned it to the exact spot on her small table where it always belonged. With her fingers resting on it, she sat for a few moments afterwards, gazing at it intently and with a hint of defiance.
Mr Blandois, during this exposition, had been strictly attentive, keeping his eyes fastened on the lady, and thoughtfully stroking his moustache with his two hands. Mr Flintwinch had been a little fidgety, and now struck in.
Mr. Blandois had been completely focused during this explanation, his eyes locked on the lady as he thoughtfully stroked his mustache with both hands. Mr. Flintwinch had been a bit restless, and now he jumped in.
‘There, there, there!’ said he. ‘That is quite understood, Mrs Clennam, and you have spoken piously and well. Mr Blandois, I suspect, is not of a pious cast.’
‘There, there, there!’ he said. ‘That’s completely understood, Mrs. Clennam, and you’ve spoken thoughtfully and well. I suspect Mr. Blandois is not the religious type.’
‘On the contrary, sir!’ that gentleman protested, snapping his fingers. ‘Your pardon! It’s a part of my character. I am sensitive, ardent, conscientious, and imaginative. A sensitive, ardent, conscientious, and imaginative man, Mr Flintwinch, must be that, or nothing!’
‘On the contrary, sir!’ that gentleman protested, snapping his fingers. ‘Excuse me! It’s just part of who I am. I am sensitive, passionate, responsible, and imaginative. A sensitive, passionate, responsible, and imaginative man, Mr. Flintwinch, has to be that way, or he’s nothing!’
There was an inkling of suspicion in Mr Flintwinch’s face that he might be nothing, as he swaggered out of his chair (it was characteristic of this man, as it is of all men similarly marked, that whatever he did, he overdid, though it were sometimes by only a hairsbreadth), and approached to take his leave of Mrs Clennam.
There was a hint of suspicion on Mr. Flintwinch’s face, suggesting that he might be nothing, as he strutted out of his chair (it was typical of him, as it is for all men with a similar demeanor, that whatever he did, he did too much, even if it was just a tiny amount), and walked over to say goodbye to Mrs. Clennam.
‘With what will appear to you the egotism of a sick old woman, sir,’ she then said, ‘though really through your accidental allusion, I have been led away into the subject of myself and my infirmities. Being so considerate as to visit me, I hope you will be likewise so considerate as to overlook that. Don’t compliment me, if you please.’ For he was evidently going to do it. ‘Mr Flintwinch will be happy to render you any service, and I hope your stay in this city may prove agreeable.’
"With what might seem like the selfishness of a sick old woman, sir," she said, "I’ve ended up talking about myself and my problems because of your casual comment. Since you’ve been kind enough to visit me, I hope you’ll also be kind enough to overlook that. Please don’t compliment me." He was clearly about to do so. "Mr. Flintwinch will be glad to assist you, and I hope your time in this city is enjoyable."
Mr Blandois thanked her, and kissed his hand several times. ‘This is an old room,’ he remarked, with a sudden sprightliness of manner, looking round when he got near the door, ‘I have been so interested that I have not observed it. But it’s a genuine old room.’
Mr. Blandois thanked her and kissed his hand multiple times. "This is an old room," he said with a sudden cheerfulness as he looked around when he got close to the door. "I've been so intrigued that I didn't notice it. But it's a real old room."
‘It is a genuine old house,’ said Mrs Clennam, with her frozen smile. ‘A place of no pretensions, but a piece of antiquity.’
“It’s a real old house,” Mrs. Clennam said, her smile stiff. “A place with no pretensions, but a piece of history.”
‘Faith!’ cried the visitor. ‘If Mr Flintwinch would do me the favour to take me through the rooms on my way out, he could hardly oblige me more. An old house is a weakness with me. I have many weaknesses, but none greater. I love and study the picturesque in all its varieties. I have been called picturesque myself. It is no merit to be picturesque—I have greater merits, perhaps—but I may be, by an accident. Sympathy, sympathy!’
‘Faith!’ exclaimed the visitor. ‘If Mr. Flintwinch would be kind enough to show me around the rooms on my way out, he couldn’t do me a bigger favor. I have a soft spot for old houses. I have many weaknesses, but that one is the biggest. I love and appreciate the picturesque in all its forms. I’ve even been called picturesque myself. It’s not really a great quality—I might have greater qualities— but I could be, just by chance. Sympathy, sympathy!’
‘I tell you beforehand, Mr Blandois, that you’ll find it very dingy and very bare,’ said Jeremiah, taking up the candle. ‘It’s not worth your looking at.‘But Mr Blandois, smiting him in a friendly manner on the back, only laughed; so the said Blandois kissed his hand again to Mrs Clennam, and they went out of the room together.
‘I’m telling you in advance, Mr. Blandois, that it’s going to look pretty dreary and empty,’ said Jeremiah, picking up the candle. ‘It’s not worth your time to check it out.’ But Mr. Blandois, giving him a playful pat on the back, just laughed; so Blandois kissed his hand again to Mrs. Clennam, and they left the room together.
‘You don’t care to go up-stairs?’ said Jeremiah, on the landing.
‘You don’t want to go upstairs?’ said Jeremiah, on the landing.
‘On the contrary, Mr Flintwinch; if not tiresome to you, I shall be ravished!’
'On the contrary, Mr. Flintwinch; if it’s not too much trouble for you, I would be thrilled!'
Mr Flintwinch, therefore, wormed himself up the staircase, and Mr Blandois followed close. They ascended to the great garret bed-room which Arthur had occupied on the night of his return. ‘There, Mr Blandois!’ said Jeremiah, showing it, ‘I hope you may think that worth coming so high to see. I confess I don’t.’
Mr. Flintwinch, therefore, worked his way up the staircase, and Mr. Blandois followed closely behind. They climbed to the large attic bedroom that Arthur had stayed in on the night of his return. “There, Mr. Blandois!” said Jeremiah, pointing it out. “I hope you think it’s worth coming all this way to see. I have to admit, I don’t.”
Mr Blandois being enraptured, they walked through other garrets and passages, and came down the staircase again. By this time Mr Flintwinch had remarked that he never found the visitor looking at any room, after throwing one quick glance around, but always found the visitor looking at him, Mr Flintwinch. With this discovery in his thoughts, he turned about on the staircase for another experiment. He met his eyes directly; and on the instant of their fixing one another, the visitor, with that ugly play of nose and moustache, laughed (as he had done at every similar moment since they left Mrs Clennam’s chamber) a diabolically silent laugh.
Mr. Blandois, thrilled, walked through other attics and hallways, then came down the stairs again. By this point, Mr. Flintwinch had noticed that the visitor never seemed to look at any room after glancing around quickly; instead, he was always looking at Mr. Flintwinch. With this thought in mind, he turned on the staircase to try again. He met the visitor's gaze directly, and as their eyes locked, the visitor, with that strange twitch of his nose and moustache, let out a silent, sinister laugh, just like he had at every similar moment since leaving Mrs. Clennam’s room.
As a much shorter man than the visitor, Mr Flintwinch was at the physical disadvantage of being thus disagreeably leered at from a height; and as he went first down the staircase, and was usually a step or two lower than the other, this disadvantage was at the time increased. He postponed looking at Mr Blandois again until this accidental inequality was removed by their having entered the late Mr Clennam’s room. But, then twisting himself suddenly round upon him, he found his look unchanged.
As a much shorter man than the visitor, Mr. Flintwinch was at a physical disadvantage, being awkwardly stared at from above. As he went down the staircase first, usually a step or two lower than the other, this disadvantage was even more noticeable. He held off on looking at Mr. Blandois again until this accidental height difference was gone after they entered the late Mr. Clennam’s room. But when he suddenly turned around to face him, he found that Mr. Blandois's expression hadn’t changed.
‘A most admirable old house,’ smiled Mr Blandois. ‘So mysterious. Do you never hear any haunted noises here?’
"A really impressive old house," Mr. Blandois smiled. "So mysterious. Do you ever hear any spooky noises here?"
‘Noises,’ returned Mr Flintwinch. ‘No.’
"Sounds," Mr. Flintwinch replied. "No."
‘Nor see any devils?’
"Nor see any demons?"
‘Not,’ said Mr Flintwinch, grimly screwing himself at his questioner, ‘not any that introduce themselves under that name and in that capacity.’
‘Not,’ said Mr. Flintwinch, grimly turning towards his questioner, ‘not any that introduce themselves under that name and in that role.’
‘Haha! A portrait here, I see.’
‘Haha! I see there’s a portrait here.’
(Still looking at Mr Flintwinch, as if he were the portrait.)
(Still looking at Mr. Flintwinch, as if he were the picture.)
‘It’s a portrait, sir, as you observe.’
‘It’s a portrait, sir, as you see.’
‘May I ask the subject, Mr Flintwinch?’
‘Can I ask the topic, Mr. Flintwinch?’
‘Mr Clennam, deceased. Her husband.’
‘Mr. Clennam, passed away. Her husband.’
‘Former owner of the remarkable watch, perhaps?’ said the visitor.
“Maybe the previous owner of this amazing watch?” said the visitor.
Mr Flintwinch, who had cast his eyes towards the portrait, twisted himself about again, and again found himself the subject of the same look and smile. ‘Yes, Mr Blandois,’ he replied tartly. ‘It was his, and his uncle’s before him, and Lord knows who before him; and that’s all I can tell you of its pedigree.’
Mr. Flintwinch, who had been looking at the portrait, turned around again and found himself on the receiving end of the same gaze and smile. “Yes, Mr. Blandois,” he replied sharply. “It belonged to him, and to his uncle before him, and Lord knows who had it before that; and that’s all I can tell you about its history.”
‘That’s a strongly marked character, Mr Flintwinch, our friend up-stairs.’
‘That’s a very distinctive character, Mr. Flintwinch, our friend upstairs.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jeremiah, twisting himself at the visitor again, as he did during the whole of this dialogue, like some screw-machine that fell short of its grip; for the other never changed, and he always felt obliged to retreat a little. ‘She is a remarkable woman. Great fortitude—great strength of mind.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jeremiah, turning toward the visitor again, just like he had throughout this entire conversation, like a machine that couldn't get a good hold; the other person never changed, and he always felt he had to pull back a bit. ‘She is an amazing woman. Very strong—very resilient in her mind.’
‘They must have been very happy,’ said Blandois.
"They must have been really happy," said Blandois.
‘Who?’ demanded Mr Flintwinch, with another screw at him.
‘Who?’ asked Mr. Flintwinch, with another jab at him.
Mr Blandois shook his right forefinger towards the sick room, and his left forefinger towards the portrait, and then, putting his arms akimbo and striding his legs wide apart, stood smiling down at Mr Flintwinch with the advancing nose and the retreating moustache.
Mr. Blandois pointed his right forefinger toward the sick room and his left forefinger toward the portrait. Then, with his hands on his hips and his legs spread wide, he stood there smiling down at Mr. Flintwinch, who had a prominent nose and a fading mustache.
‘As happy as most other married people, I suppose,’ returned Mr Flintwinch. ‘I can’t say. I don’t know. There are secrets in all families.’
‘As happy as most other married people, I guess,’ replied Mr. Flintwinch. ‘I can’t say. I don’t know. Every family has its secrets.’
‘Secrets!’ cried Mr Blandois, quickly. ‘Say it again, my son.’
“Secrets!” Mr. Blandois shouted quickly. “Say it again, my son.”
‘I say,’ replied Mr Flintwinch, upon whom he had swelled himself so suddenly that Mr Flintwinch found his face almost brushed by the dilated chest. ‘I say there are secrets in all families.’
‘I say,’ replied Mr. Flintwinch, who had been so taken aback by the sudden expansion of the other man that he felt his face nearly touched the man's puffed-out chest. ‘I say there are secrets in every family.’
‘So there are,’ cried the other, clapping him on both shoulders, and rolling him backwards and forwards. ‘Haha! you are right. So there are! Secrets! Holy Blue! There are the devil’s own secrets in some families, Mr Flintwinch!’ With that, after clapping Mr Flintwinch on both shoulders several times, as if in a friendly and humorous way he were rallying him on a joke he had made, he threw up his arms, threw back his head, hooked his hands together behind it, and burst into a roar of laughter. It was in vain for Mr Flintwinch to try another screw at him. He had his laugh out.
"So there are!" the other exclaimed, patting him on both shoulders and rocking him back and forth. "Haha! You're right. So there are! Secrets! Holy cow! Some families have the craziest secrets, Mr. Flintwinch!" After giving Mr. Flintwinch a few more friendly shoulder pats, as if he were playfully teasing him about a joke, he threw up his arms, tilted his head back, linked his hands behind it, and burst into laughter. It was pointless for Mr. Flintwinch to try to get another reaction from him. He had gotten all his laughs out.
‘But, favour me with the candle a moment,’ he said, when he had done. ‘Let us have a look at the husband of the remarkable lady. Hah!’ holding up the light at arm’s length. ‘A decided expression of face here too, though not of the same character. Looks as if he were saying, what is it—Do Not Forget—does he not, Mr Flintwinch? By Heaven, sir, he does!’
‘But, could you lend me the candle for a moment?’ he said when he finished. ‘Let’s take a look at the husband of the impressive lady. Hah!’ holding the light out at arm’s length. ‘There’s definitely an expression on his face as well, though it’s not the same kind. It looks like he’s saying, what is it—Do Not Forget—doesn’t it, Mr. Flintwinch? By heaven, sir, it does!’
As he returned the candle, he looked at him once more; and then, leisurely strolling out with him into the hall, declared it to be a charming old house indeed, and one which had so greatly pleased him that he would not have missed inspecting it for a hundred pounds.
As he handed back the candle, he glanced at him again; then, casually walking out into the hall with him, he said it was a really charming old house and one that had impressed him so much he would have paid a hundred pounds just to see it.
Throughout these singular freedoms on the part of Mr Blandois, which involved a general alteration in his demeanour, making it much coarser and rougher, much more violent and audacious than before, Mr Flintwinch, whose leathern face was not liable to many changes, preserved its immobility intact. Beyond now appearing perhaps, to have been left hanging a trifle too long before that friendly operation of cutting down, he outwardly maintained an equable composure. They had brought their survey to a close in the little room at the side of the hall, and he stood there, eyeing Mr Blandois.
Throughout these unusual freedoms shown by Mr. Blandois, which led to a noticeable change in his behavior, making him much rougher, more aggressive, and bolder than before, Mr. Flintwinch, whose weathered face didn't show many changes, kept his expression completely still. Although he might have seemed like he had been left hanging a bit too long before that friendly act of being cut down, he still managed to maintain a calm demeanor. They had finished their discussion in the small room off the hall, and he stood there, watching Mr. Blandois.
‘I am glad you are so well satisfied, sir,’ was his calm remark. ‘I didn’t expect it. You seem to be quite in good spirits.’
“I’m glad to hear you’re so satisfied, sir,” was his calm response. “I didn’t expect that. You seem to be in good spirits.”
‘In admirable spirits,’ returned Blandois. ‘Word of honour! never more refreshed in spirits. Do you ever have presentiments, Mr Flintwinch?’
"In great spirits," replied Blandois. "I swear! I've never felt more refreshed. Do you ever get premonitions, Mr. Flintwinch?"
‘I am not sure that I know what you mean by the term, sir,’ replied that gentleman.
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean by that term, sir,’ replied the gentleman.
‘Say, in this case, Mr Flintwinch, undefined anticipations of pleasure to come.’
‘Say, in this case, Mr. Flintwinch, undefined expectations of pleasure to come.’
‘I can’t say I’m sensible of such a sensation at present,’ returned Mr Flintwinch with the utmost gravity. ‘If I should find it coming on, I’ll mention it.’
"I can’t say I’m feeling that way right now," Mr. Flintwinch replied seriously. "If I start to feel it, I’ll let you know."
‘Now I,’ said Blandois, ‘I, my son, have a presentiment to-night that we shall be well acquainted. Do you find it coming on?’
‘Now I,’ said Blandois, ‘I have a feeling tonight that we’re going to get to know each other well. Do you sense it too?’
‘N-no,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, deliberately inquiring of himself. ‘I can’t say I do.’
“Uh, no,” Mr. Flintwinch said, clearly questioning himself. “I can’t say that I do.”
‘I have a strong presentiment that we shall become intimately acquainted.—You have no feeling of that sort yet?’
‘I have a strong feeling that we’re going to get really close. Do you not feel the same way yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Mr Flintwinch.
"Not yet," said Mr. Flintwinch.
Mr Blandois, taking him by both shoulders again, rolled him about a little in his former merry way, then drew his arm through his own, and invited him to come off and drink a bottle of wine like a dear deep old dog as he was.
Mr. Blandois, grabbing him by both shoulders again, playfully rolled him around a bit like before, then linked his arm with his and invited him to go grab a bottle of wine like the lovable old dog he was.
Without a moment’s indecision, Mr Flintwinch accepted the invitation, and they went out to the quarters where the traveller was lodged, through a heavy rain which had rattled on the windows, roofs, and pavements, ever since nightfall. The thunder and lightning had long ago passed over, but the rain was furious. On their arrival at Mr Blandois’ room, a bottle of port wine was ordered by that gallant gentleman; who (crushing every pretty thing he could collect, in the soft disposition of his dainty figure) coiled himself upon the window-seat, while Mr Flintwinch took a chair opposite to him, with the table between them. Mr Blandois proposed having the largest glasses in the house, to which Mr Flintwinch assented. The bumpers filled, Mr Blandois, with a roystering gaiety, clinked the top of his glass against the bottom of Mr Flintwinch’s, and the bottom of his glass against the top of Mr Flintwinch’s, and drank to the intimate acquaintance he foresaw. Mr Flintwinch gravely pledged him, and drank all the wine he could get, and said nothing. As often as Mr Blandois clinked glasses (which was at every replenishment), Mr Flintwinch stolidly did his part of the clinking, and would have stolidly done his companion’s part of the wine as well as his own: being, except in the article of palate, a mere cask.
Without a second thought, Mr. Flintwinch accepted the invitation, and they walked to the quarters where the traveler was staying, through a heavy rain that had been pounding on the windows, roofs, and sidewalks since nightfall. The thunder and lightning had long passed, but the rain was intense. When they arrived at Mr. Blandois’ room, that charming gentleman ordered a bottle of port wine; he settled himself on the window seat, making himself comfortable, while Mr. Flintwinch took a chair across from him, with the table between them. Mr. Blandois suggested they use the largest glasses in the house, and Mr. Flintwinch agreed. With their glasses filled, Mr. Blandois, in high spirits, clinked the top of his glass against the bottom of Mr. Flintwinch’s, then the bottom of his glass against the top of Mr. Flintwinch’s, and toasted to the close friendship he anticipated. Mr. Flintwinch solemnly reciprocated and drank as much wine as he could, saying nothing. Each time Mr. Blandois clinked glasses (which he did with every refill), Mr. Flintwinch mechanically clinked his own, and would have mechanically consumed his companion’s share of the wine as well as his own: being, aside from his taste, just a reliable container.
In short, Mr Blandois found that to pour port wine into the reticent Flintwinch was, not to open him but to shut him up. Moreover, he had the appearance of a perfect ability to go on all night; or, if occasion were, all next day and all next night; whereas Mr Blandois soon grew indistinctly conscious of swaggering too fiercely and boastfully. He therefore terminated the entertainment at the end of the third bottle.
In short, Mr. Blandois realized that pouring port wine into the quiet Flintwinch didn’t open him up; it only made him more withdrawn. Besides, Flintwinch seemed fully capable of talking all night—or, if needed, all the next day and night too—while Mr. Blandois became vaguely aware that he was being overly loud and arrogant. So, he decided to wrap up the evening after the third bottle.
‘You will draw upon us to-morrow, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with a business-like face at parting.
‘You will rely on us tomorrow, sir,’ said Mr. Flintwinch, with a professional expression as they parted.
‘My Cabbage,’ returned the other, taking him by the collar with both hands, ‘I’ll draw upon you; have no fear. Adieu, my Flintwinch. Receive at parting;’ here he gave him a southern embrace, and kissed him soundly on both cheeks; ‘the word of a gentleman! By a thousand Thunders, you shall see me again!’
‘My Cabbage,’ replied the other, grabbing him by the collar with both hands, ‘I’ll count on you; don’t worry. Goodbye, my Flintwinch. Here’s a parting gift;’ then he gave him a warm hug and kissed him firmly on both cheeks; ‘the word of a gentleman! By a thousand Thunders, you will see me again!’
He did not present himself next day, though the letter of advice came duly to hand. Inquiring after him at night, Mr Flintwinch found, with surprise, that he had paid his bill and gone back to the Continent by way of Calais. Nevertheless, Jeremiah scraped out of his cogitating face a lively conviction that Mr Blandois would keep his word on this occasion, and would be seen again.
He didn't show up the next day, even though the letter with the advice arrived on time. When Mr. Flintwinch asked about him that night, he was surprised to learn that he had settled his bill and left for the Continent via Calais. Still, Jeremiah managed to convince himself that Mr. Blandois would stick to his word this time and would be back.
CHAPTER 31. Spirit
Anybody may pass, any day, in the thronged thoroughfares of the metropolis, some meagre, wrinkled, yellow old man (who might be supposed to have dropped from the stars, if there were any star in the Heavens dull enough to be suspected of casting off so feeble a spark), creeping along with a scared air, as though bewildered and a little frightened by the noise and bustle. This old man is always a little old man. If he were ever a big old man, he has shrunk into a little old man; if he were always a little old man, he has dwindled into a less old man. His coat is a colour, and cut, that never was the mode anywhere, at any period. Clearly, it was not made for him, or for any individual mortal. Some wholesale contractor measured Fate for five thousand coats of such quality, and Fate has lent this old coat to this old man, as one of a long unfinished line of many old men. It has always large dull metal buttons, similar to no other buttons. This old man wears a hat, a thumbed and napless and yet an obdurate hat, which has never adapted itself to the shape of his poor head. His coarse shirt and his coarse neckcloth have no more individuality than his coat and hat; they have the same character of not being his—of not being anybody’s. Yet this old man wears these clothes with a certain unaccustomed air of being dressed and elaborated for the public ways; as though he passed the greater part of his time in a nightcap and gown. And so, like the country mouse in the second year of a famine, come to see the town mouse, and timidly threading his way to the town-mouse’s lodging through a city of cats, this old man passes in the streets.
Anyone can see, any day, in the crowded streets of the city, a frail, wrinkled, yellow old man (who might seem to have fallen from the stars, if there were a star in the sky dull enough to be thought capable of shedding such a weak light), shuffling along with a nervous expression, as if confused and a bit scared by the noise and chaos. This old man is always a tiny old man. If he was ever a big old man, he has shrunk down to a little old man; if he was always a little old man, he has diminished into an even smaller old man. His coat is a color and style that has never been fashionable anywhere at any time. Clearly, it wasn’t made for him or for any particular person. Some mass producer must have measured Fate for five thousand coats of this kind, and Fate has given this old coat to this old man, as part of a long, unfinished series of many old men. It always has large, dull metal buttons that resemble no others. This old man wears a hat, a worn-out and threadbare hat that stubbornly refuses to fit the shape of his poor head. His rough shirt and coarse necktie have no more identity than his coat and hat; they share the same quality of not being his—of not belonging to anyone. Yet this old man wears these clothes with a certain unfamiliar air of being dressed up for public view; as though he spends most of his time in a nightcap and gown. So, like the country mouse in the second year of a famine, visiting the town mouse and nervously making his way through a city filled with cats, this old man walks along the streets.
Sometimes, on holidays towards evening, he will be seen to walk with a slightly increased infirmity, and his old eyes will glimmer with a moist and marshy light. Then the little old man is drunk. A very small measure will overset him; he may be bowled off his unsteady legs with a half-pint pot. Some pitying acquaintance—chance acquaintance very often—has warmed up his weakness with a treat of beer, and the consequence will be the lapse of a longer time than usual before he shall pass again. For the little old man is going home to the Workhouse; and on his good behaviour they do not let him out often (though methinks they might, considering the few years he has before him to go out in, under the sun); and on his bad behaviour they shut him up closer than ever in a grove of two score and nineteen more old men, every one of whom smells of all the others.
Sometimes, on holidays in the evening, you can see him walking with a bit more of a limp, and his old eyes will shine with a damp and misty light. At those times, the little old man is drunk. Just a small drink can knock him off his shaky legs; he could easily be toppled by a half-pint glass. Some sympathetic acquaintance—often a random one—has indulged his weakness with a round of beer, and as a result, it will take him longer than usual to return. Because the little old man is heading back to the Workhouse, and due to his behavior, they don’t let him out very often (though I think they should, given the few years he has left to enjoy the outside world); when he misbehaves, they keep him shut in tighter than ever, surrounded by nineteen other old men, each one smelling like the rest.
Mrs Plornish’s father,—a poor little reedy piping old gentleman, like a worn-out bird; who had been in what he called the music-binding business, and met with great misfortunes, and who had seldom been able to make his way, or to see it or to pay it, or to do anything at all with it but find it no thoroughfare,—had retired of his own accord to the Workhouse which was appointed by law to be the Good Samaritan of his district (without the twopence, which was bad political economy), on the settlement of that execution which had carried Mr Plornish to the Marshalsea College. Previous to his son-in-law’s difficulties coming to that head, Old Nandy (he was always so called in his legal Retreat, but he was Old Mr Nandy among the Bleeding Hearts) had sat in a corner of the Plornish fireside, and taken his bite and sup out of the Plornish cupboard. He still hoped to resume that domestic position when Fortune should smile upon his son-in-law; in the meantime, while she preserved an immovable countenance, he was, and resolved to remain, one of these little old men in a grove of little old men with a community of flavour.
Mrs. Plornish’s father was a frail, worn-out old man, much like a tired bird. He used to be in what he referred to as the music-binding business, but faced many hardships and rarely managed to get by, see any prospects, pay his debts, or do anything other than realize that there was no way forward. He had voluntarily gone to the Workhouse, which was supposed to serve as the Good Samaritan for his area (minus the two pence, which was poor economic policy), after the legal troubles that had put Mr. Plornish in Marshalsea College. Before his son-in-law’s problems escalated, Old Nandy—always referred to as that in his legal retreat, but known as Old Mr. Nandy among the Bleeding Hearts—would sit in a corner by the Plornish fireplace, enjoying his meals from their cupboard. He still hoped to reclaim that family role when luck turned in his son-in-law's favor. In the meantime, while luck maintained a stern expression, he was, and intended to stay, one of those little old men in a grove of little old men, sharing a common sense of character.
But no poverty in him, and no coat on him that never was the mode, and no Old Men’s Ward for his dwelling-place, could quench his daughter’s admiration. Mrs Plornish was as proud of her father’s talents as she could possibly have been if they had made him Lord Chancellor. She had as firm a belief in the sweetness and propriety of his manners as she could possibly have had if he had been Lord Chamberlain. The poor little old man knew some pale and vapid little songs, long out of date, about Chloe, and Phyllis, and Strephon being wounded by the son of Venus; and for Mrs Plornish there was no such music at the Opera as the small internal flutterings and chirpings wherein he would discharge himself of these ditties, like a weak, little, broken barrel-organ, ground by a baby. On his ‘days out,’ those flecks of light in his flat vista of pollard old men,’ it was at once Mrs Plornish’s delight and sorrow, when he was strong with meat, and had taken his full halfpenny-worth of porter, to say, ‘Sing us a song, Father.’ Then he would give them Chloe, and if he were in pretty good spirits, Phyllis also—Strephon he had hardly been up to since he went into retirement—and then would Mrs Plornish declare she did believe there never was such a singer as Father, and wipe her eyes.
But there was no poverty in him, and he didn’t wear a coat that was ever in style, and his home wasn’t some old men's ward, but that didn’t dim his daughter’s admiration. Mrs. Plornish was just as proud of her father's talents as she would have been if he had become Lord Chancellor. She believed firmly in the charm and dignity of his manners as if he had been Lord Chamberlain. The poor old man knew a few faded and bland songs, long past their prime, about Chloe, and Phyllis, and Strephon being hurt by Venus’s son; and for Mrs. Plornish, there was no music at the Opera that compared to the soft, fluttering notes he would produce when he sang, like a weak little barrel organ turning out tunes under the influence of a kid. On his days out, those rare moments of brightness in his dreary life among the old men, it was both joy and sadness for Mrs. Plornish when he was well-fed and had his fill of porter, as she would say, “Sing us a song, Father.” Then he would belt out Chloe, and if he was feeling good, he’d add Phyllis—he hadn’t really managed Strephon since retiring—and then Mrs. Plornish would proclaim that she truly believed there had never been such a singer as Father, wiping her eyes.
If he had come from Court on these occasions, nay, if he had been the noble Refrigerator come home triumphantly from a foreign court to be presented and promoted on his last tremendous failure, Mrs Plornish could not have handed him with greater elevation about Bleeding Heart Yard. ‘Here’s Father,’ she would say, presenting him to a neighbour. ‘Father will soon be home with us for good, now. Ain’t Father looking well? Father’s a sweeter singer than ever; you’d never have forgotten it, if you’d aheard him just now.’ As to Mr Plornish, he had married these articles of belief in marrying Mr Nandy’s daughter, and only wondered how it was that so gifted an old gentleman had not made a fortune. This he attributed, after much reflection, to his musical genius not having been scientifically developed in his youth. ‘For why,’ argued Mr Plornish, ‘why go a-binding music when you’ve got it in yourself? That’s where it is, I consider.’
If he had come from the Court on these occasions, or even if he had been the noble Refrigerator returning home triumphantly from some foreign court to be honored and recognized for his last big failure, Mrs. Plornish couldn’t have introduced him with more pride around Bleeding Heart Yard. “Here’s Father,” she would say, presenting him to a neighbor. “Father will soon be home with us for good now. Doesn’t Father look well? He’s singing sweeter than ever; you would have remembered it if you had heard him just now.” As for Mr. Plornish, he had embraced these beliefs when he married Mr. Nandy’s daughter and could only wonder how such a talented old gentleman hadn’t made a fortune. After much thought, he came to the conclusion that it was because his musical talent hadn’t been properly nurtured in his youth. “Because why,” Mr. Plornish argued, “why formalize music when you’ve already got it in you? That’s what I think.”
Old Nandy had a patron: one patron. He had a patron who in a certain sumptuous way—an apologetic way, as if he constantly took an admiring audience to witness that he really could not help being more free with this old fellow than they might have expected, on account of his simplicity and poverty—was mightily good to him. Old Nandy had been several times to the Marshalsea College, communicating with his son-in-law during his short durance there; and had happily acquired to himself, and had by degrees and in course of time much improved, the patronage of the Father of that national institution.
Old Nandy had one patron. He had a patron who, in a rather lavish and somewhat apologetic way—as if he always had an audience watching to see that he really couldn’t help being more generous with this old man than they might have expected due to his simple life and poverty—was very kind to him. Old Nandy had visited the Marshalsea College several times, keeping in touch with his son-in-law during his brief stay there; and over time, he had happily gained and much improved the support of the Father of that national institution.
Mr Dorrit was in the habit of receiving this old man as if the old man held of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure. He made little treats and teas for him, as if he came in with his homage from some outlying district where the tenantry were in a primitive state. It seemed as if there were moments when he could by no means have sworn but that the old man was an ancient retainer of his, who had been meritoriously faithful. When he mentioned him, he spoke of him casually as his old pensioner. He had a wonderful satisfaction in seeing him, and in commenting on his decayed condition after he was gone. It appeared to him amazing that he could hold up his head at all, poor creature. ‘In the Workhouse, sir, the Union; no privacy, no visitors, no station, no respect, no speciality. Most deplorable!’
Mr. Dorrit usually welcomed this old man as if he were a servant who owed him fealty under some old feudal system. He prepared little treats and teas for him, as if the old man were coming from a distant area where the inhabitants lived in a very simple way. There were times when he felt he could swear that the old man was a longtime loyal servant, deserving of his loyalty. When he talked about him, he referred to him casually as his old pensioner. He took great satisfaction in seeing him and in discussing his declining health after he left. It was astonishing to him that the poor man could even hold his head up at all. “In the Workhouse, sir, the Union; no privacy, no visitors, no status, no respect, no individuality. It’s truly deplorable!”
It was Old Nandy’s birthday, and they let him out. He said nothing about its being his birthday, or they might have kept him in; for such old men should not be born. He passed along the streets as usual to Bleeding Heart Yard, and had his dinner with his daughter and son-in-law, and gave them Phyllis. He had hardly concluded, when Little Dorrit looked in to see how they all were.
It was Old Nandy’s birthday, and they let him out. He didn’t mention it was his birthday, or they might have kept him inside; after all, old men like him shouldn’t be celebrated. He walked through the streets as usual to Bleeding Heart Yard, had dinner with his daughter and son-in-law, and handed over Phyllis. Just as he finished, Little Dorrit stopped by to check on how everyone was doing.
‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘here’s Father! Ain’t he looking nice? And such voice he’s in!’
‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs. Plornish, ‘here’s Father! Doesn’t he look nice? And what a great voice he has!’
Little Dorrit gave him her hand, and smilingly said she had not seen him this long time.
Little Dorrit took his hand and smiled as she said she hadn't seen him in a long time.
‘No, they’re rather hard on poor Father,’ said Mrs Plornish with a lengthening face, ‘and don’t let him have half as much change and fresh air as would benefit him. But he’ll soon be home for good, now. Won’t you, Father?’
‘No, they’re pretty tough on poor Father,’ said Mrs. Plornish with a growing frown, ‘and they don’t give him anywhere near enough change and fresh air to help him. But he’ll be home for good soon, right, Father?’
‘Yes, my dear, I hope so. In good time, please God.’
‘Yes, my dear, I hope so. In due time, if God wills.’
Here Mr Plornish delivered himself of an oration which he invariably made, word for word the same, on all such opportunities. It was couched in the following terms:
Here Mr. Plornish gave a speech that he always delivered exactly the same way on all such occasions. It went like this:
‘John Edward Nandy. Sir. While there’s a ounce of wittles or drink of any sort in this present roof, you’re fully welcome to your share on it. While there’s a handful of fire or a mouthful of bed in this present roof, you’re fully welcome to your share on it. If so be as there should be nothing in this present roof, you should be as welcome to your share on it as if it was something, much or little. And this is what I mean and so I don’t deceive you, and consequently which is to stand out is to entreat of you, and therefore why not do it?’
‘John Edward Nandy. Sir. As long as there's any food or drink under this roof, you're completely welcome to your share of it. As long as there's a bit of fire or a spot to sleep here, you're completely welcome to your share of that too. Even if there’s nothing in this place, you’re just as welcome to your share as if there were something, whether it’s a lot or a little. This is what I mean, and I’m not trying to deceive you, so I’m here to ask of you, and so why not do it?’
To this lucid address, which Mr Plornish always delivered as if he had composed it (as no doubt he had) with enormous labour, Mrs Plornish’s father pipingly replied:
To this clear speech, which Mr. Plornish always gave as if he had written it (as he probably did) with a lot of effort, Mrs. Plornish’s father responded in a lively manner:
‘I thank you kindly, Thomas, and I know your intentions well, which is the same I thank you kindly for. But no, Thomas. Until such times as it’s not to take it out of your children’s mouths, which take it is, and call it by what name you will it do remain and equally deprive, though may they come, and too soon they can not come, no Thomas, no!’
‘I really appreciate it, Thomas, and I understand your good intentions, which is why I thank you for them. But no, Thomas. Until it no longer comes at the expense of your children, which it does, no matter what you call it, it will still take away from them. Even if they could come soon, they can't, so no, Thomas, no!’
Mrs Plornish, who had been turning her face a little away with a corner of her apron in her hand, brought herself back to the conversation again by telling Miss Dorrit that Father was going over the water to pay his respects, unless she knew of any reason why it might not be agreeable.
Mrs. Plornish, who had been turning her face slightly away while holding a corner of her apron, rejoined the conversation by telling Miss Dorrit that Father was going across the water to pay his respects, unless she knew of any reason why that wouldn't be a good idea.
Her answer was, ‘I am going straight home, and if he will come with me I shall be so glad to take care of him—so glad,’ said Little Dorrit, always thoughtful of the feelings of the weak, ‘of his company.’
Her answer was, ‘I’m going straight home, and if he wants to come with me, I’ll be really happy to take care of him—so happy,’ said Little Dorrit, always considerate of the feelings of the vulnerable, ‘to have his company.’
‘There, Father!’ cried Mrs Plornish. ‘Ain’t you a gay young man to be going for a walk along with Miss Dorrit! Let me tie your neck-handkerchief into a regular good bow, for you’re a regular beau yourself, Father, if ever there was one.’
‘There, Dad!’ exclaimed Mrs. Plornish. ‘Aren’t you a dapper young man going for a walk with Miss Dorrit! Let me tie your neck scarf into a nice bow, because you’re quite the catch yourself, Dad, if there ever was one.’
With this filial joke his daughter smartened him up, and gave him a loving hug, and stood at the door with her weak child in her arms, and her strong child tumbling down the steps, looking after her little old father as he toddled away with his arm under Little Dorrit’s.
With this playful joke, his daughter brightened his mood, gave him a warm hug, and stood at the door with her fragile child in her arms, while her energetic child tumbled down the steps, watching her little old father as he walked away with his arm around Little Dorrit’s.
They walked at a slow pace, and Little Dorrit took him by the Iron Bridge and sat him down there for a rest, and they looked over at the water and talked about the shipping, and the old man mentioned what he would do if he had a ship full of gold coming home to him (his plan was to take a noble lodging for the Plornishes and himself at a Tea Gardens, and live there all the rest of their lives, attended on by the waiter), and it was a special birthday of the old man. They were within five minutes of their destination, when, at the corner of her own street, they came upon Fanny in her new bonnet bound for the same port.
They walked slowly, and Little Dorrit led him to the Iron Bridge and had him sit down to take a break. They gazed at the water and chatted about the ships. The old man shared what he would do if a ship full of gold were returning to him (his plan was to secure a nice place for the Plornishes and himself at a Tea Gardens, and live there for the rest of their lives, served by a waiter). It was also the old man's special birthday. They were just five minutes away from their destination when, at the corner of her street, they ran into Fanny in her new bonnet, heading toward the same place.
‘Why, good gracious me, Amy!’ cried that young lady starting. ‘You never mean it!’
‘Oh my goodness, Amy!’ exclaimed the young lady, startled. ‘You can't be serious!’
‘Mean what, Fanny dear?’
"Mean what, Fanny?"
‘Well! I could have believed a great deal of you,’ returned the young lady with burning indignation, ‘but I don’t think even I could have believed this, of even you!’
‘Well! I could have believed a lot about you,’ the young lady replied with intense anger, ‘but I don’t think even I could have believed this, even from you!’
‘Fanny!’ cried Little Dorrit, wounded and astonished.
‘Fanny!’ cried Little Dorrit, hurt and shocked.
‘Oh! Don’t Fanny me, you mean little thing, don’t! The idea of coming along the open streets, in the broad light of day, with a Pauper!’ (firing off the last word as if it were a ball from an air-gun).
‘Oh! Don’t Fanny me, you mean little thing, don’t! The idea of walking along the open streets, in the bright light of day, with a Pauper!’ (firing off the last word as if it were a shot from a BB gun).
‘O Fanny!’
‘Oh Fanny!’
‘I tell you not to Fanny me, for I’ll not submit to it! I never knew such a thing. The way in which you are resolved and determined to disgrace us on all occasions, is really infamous. You bad little thing!’
‘I’m telling you not to mess with me, because I won’t put up with it! I’ve never seen anything like it. The way you’re set on embarrassing us at every turn is truly awful. You naughty little thing!’
‘Does it disgrace anybody,’ said Little Dorrit, very gently, ‘to take care of this poor old man?’
"Does it shame anyone," Little Dorrit said softly, "to look after this poor old man?"
‘Yes, miss,’ returned her sister, ‘and you ought to know it does. And you do know it does, and you do it because you know it does. The principal pleasure of your life is to remind your family of their misfortunes. And the next great pleasure of your existence is to keep low company. But, however, if you have no sense of decency, I have. You’ll please to allow me to go on the other side of the way, unmolested.’
‘Yes, miss,’ her sister replied, ‘and you should realize that it does. And you do know it does, and you act that way because you know it does. The main source of your enjoyment in life is reminding your family of their troubles. And the next biggest pleasure for you is hanging around with shady people. But, even if you lack any sense of decency, I have some. Please let me cross to the other side of the street without being bothered.’
With this, she bounced across to the opposite pavement. The old disgrace, who had been deferentially bowing a pace or two off (for Little Dorrit had let his arm go in her wonder, when Fanny began), and who had been hustled and cursed by impatient passengers for stopping the way, rejoined his companion, rather giddy, and said, ‘I hope nothing’s wrong with your honoured father, Miss? I hope there’s nothing the matter in the honoured family?’
With that, she skipped over to the other side of the street. The old man, who had been politely standing a little ways off (since Little Dorrit had let go of his arm in surprise when Fanny started), and who had been pushed and yelled at by annoyed passersby for blocking the path, caught up with his companion, feeling a bit dizzy, and said, “I hope everything’s okay with your esteemed father, Miss? I hope there’s nothing wrong with your respected family?”
‘No, no,’ returned Little Dorrit. ‘No, thank you. Give me your arm again, Mr Nandy. We shall soon be there now.’
‘No, no,’ replied Little Dorrit. ‘No, thank you. Please give me your arm again, Mr. Nandy. We’ll be there soon.’
So she talked to him as she had talked before, and they came to the Lodge and found Mr Chivery on the lock, and went in. Now, it happened that the Father of the Marshalsea was sauntering towards the Lodge at the moment when they were coming out of it, entering the prison arm in arm. As the spectacle of their approach met his view, he displayed the utmost agitation and despondency of mind; and—altogether regardless of Old Nandy, who, making his reverence, stood with his hat in his hand, as he always did in that gracious presence—turned about, and hurried in at his own doorway and up the staircase.
So she talked to him as she had before, and they went to the Lodge and found Mr. Chivery at the entrance, and they went inside. At that moment, the Father of the Marshalsea was walking towards the Lodge just as they were coming out of it, entering the prison arm in arm. When he saw them approaching, he showed the highest level of agitation and despair; completely ignoring Old Nandy, who stood with his hat in hand as he always did in that respectful presence, he turned around and rushed through his own door and up the stairs.
Leaving the old unfortunate, whom in an evil hour she had taken under her protection, with a hurried promise to return to him directly, Little Dorrit hastened after her father, and, on the staircase, found Fanny following her, and flouncing up with offended dignity. The three came into the room almost together; and the Father sat down in his chair, buried his face in his hands, and uttered a groan.
Leaving the unfortunate man, whom she had taken under her wing at a bad time, with a quick promise to return soon, Little Dorrit rushed after her father. On the staircase, she found Fanny trailing behind her, striding with hurt dignity. The three of them entered the room almost at the same time; and the father sat down in his chair, buried his face in his hands, and groaned.
‘Of course,’ said Fanny. ‘Very proper. Poor, afflicted Pa! Now, I hope you believe me, Miss?’
"Of course," Fanny said. "That's very appropriate. Poor, suffering Pa! Now, I hope you believe me, Miss?"
‘What is it, father?’ cried Little Dorrit, bending over him. ‘Have I made you unhappy, father? Not I, I hope!’
‘What is it, Dad?’ cried Little Dorrit, leaning over him. ‘Did I make you unhappy? I hope I didn’t!’
‘You hope, indeed! I dare say! Oh, you’—Fanny paused for a sufficiently strong expression—‘you Common-minded little Amy! You complete prison-child!’
‘You hope, really! I can’t believe it! Oh, you’—Fanny paused for a strong expression—‘you small-minded little Amy! You complete sheltered child!’
He stopped these angry reproaches with a wave of his hand, and sobbed out, raising his face and shaking his melancholy head at his younger daughter, ‘Amy, I know that you are innocent in intention. But you have cut me to the soul.’
He waved his hand to stop the angry accusations and, with tears in his eyes, looked up, shaking his sad head at his younger daughter. "Amy, I know you didn’t mean any harm, but you’ve hurt me deeply."
‘Innocent in intention!’ the implacable Fanny struck in. ‘Stuff in intention! Low in intention! Lowering of the family in intention!’
'Innocent in intention!' the unyielding Fanny interrupted. 'Intentions mean nothing! Low intentions! Bringing down the family with those intentions!'
‘Father!’ cried Little Dorrit, pale and trembling. ‘I am very sorry. Pray forgive me. Tell me how it is, that I may not do it again!’
‘Father!’ cried Little Dorrit, pale and shaking. ‘I’m really sorry. Please forgive me. Tell me what's going on so I don’t do it again!’
‘How it is, you prevaricating little piece of goods!’ cried Fanny. ‘You know how it is. I have told you already, so don’t fly in the face of Providence by attempting to deny it!’
‘What’s going on with you, you lying piece of work!’ shouted Fanny. ‘You know what's up. I've already told you, so don’t go against fate by trying to deny it!’
‘Hush! Amy,’ said the father, passing his pocket-handkerchief several times across his face, and then grasping it convulsively in the hand that dropped across his knee, ‘I have done what I could to keep you select here; I have done what I could to retain you a position here. I may have succeeded; I may not. You may know it; you may not. I give no opinion. I have endured everything here but humiliation. That I have happily been spared—until this day.’
"Hush! Amy," said the father, wiping his face with his handkerchief several times and then gripping it tightly in the hand resting on his knee. "I've done my best to keep you in this exclusive place; I've done my best to maintain your position here. I might have succeeded; I might not. You may know, or you may not. I won't say anything about it. I've put up with everything here except humiliation. Fortunately, I've been spared from that—until today."
Here his convulsive grasp unclosed itself, and he put his pocket-handkerchief to his eyes again. Little Dorrit, on the ground beside him, with her imploring hand upon his arm, watched him remorsefully. Coming out of his fit of grief, he clenched his pocket-handkerchief once more.
Here, his gripping hand relaxed, and he wiped his eyes with his pocket-handkerchief again. Little Dorrit, sitting beside him on the ground, earnestly placed her hand on his arm and looked at him with remorse. Emerging from his bout of grief, he clenched his pocket-handkerchief once more.
‘Humiliation I have happily been spared until this day. Through all my troubles there has been that—Spirit in myself, and that—that submission to it, if I may use the term, in those about me, which has spared me—ha—humiliation. But this day, this minute, I have keenly felt it.’
‘I've been lucky enough to avoid humiliation until now. Despite all my troubles, there has been that—spirit within me, and that—acceptance of it, if I can put it that way, from those around me, which has saved me—ha—from humiliation. But today, at this very moment, I have felt it deeply.’
‘Of course! How could it be otherwise?’ exclaimed the irrepressible Fanny. ‘Careering and prancing about with a Pauper!’ (air-gun again).
‘Of course! How could it be any different?’ exclaimed the lively Fanny. ‘Running around and showing off with a beggar!’ (air-gun again).
‘But, dear father,’ cried Little Dorrit, ‘I don’t justify myself for having wounded your dear heart—no! Heaven knows I don’t!’ She clasped her hands in quite an agony of distress. ‘I do nothing but beg and pray you to be comforted and overlook it. But if I had not known that you were kind to the old man yourself, and took much notice of him, and were always glad to see him, I would not have come here with him, father, I would not, indeed. What I have been so unhappy as to do, I have done in mistake. I would not wilfully bring a tear to your eyes, dear love!’ said Little Dorrit, her heart well-nigh broken, ‘for anything the world could give me, or anything it could take away.’
‘But, dear Dad,’ cried Little Dorrit, ‘I don’t excuse myself for hurting your dear heart—no! Heaven knows I don’t!’ She clasped her hands in deep distress. ‘All I do is beg and pray for you to be comforted and overlook it. But if I hadn’t known that you were kind to the old man yourself, and paid a lot of attention to him, and were always happy to see him, I wouldn’t have come here with him, Dad, I really wouldn’t. What I’ve done, which has made me so unhappy, was a mistake. I would never willingly bring a tear to your eyes, dear love!’ said Little Dorrit, her heart nearly broken, ‘for anything the world could give me, or anything it could take away.’
Fanny, with a partly angry and partly repentant sob, began to cry herself, and to say—as this young lady always said when she was half in passion and half out of it, half spiteful with herself and half spiteful with everybody else—that she wished she were dead.
Fanny, with a mix of anger and regret, started to cry and said—just like she always did when she was feeling intense emotions, partly angry with herself and partly angry with everyone else—that she wished she were dead.
The Father of the Marshalsea in the meantime took his younger daughter to his breast, and patted her head.
The Father of the Marshalsea, in the meantime, held his younger daughter close and gently patted her head.
‘There, there! Say no more, Amy, say no more, my child. I will forget it as soon as I can. I,’ with hysterical cheerfulness, ‘I—shall soon be able to dismiss it. It is perfectly true, my dear, that I am always glad to see my old pensioner—as such, as such—and that I do—ha—extend as much protection and kindness to the—hum—the bruised reed—I trust I may so call him without impropriety—as in my circumstances, I can. It is quite true that this is the case, my dear child. At the same time, I preserve in doing this, if I may—ha—if I may use the expression—Spirit. Becoming Spirit. And there are some things which are,’ he stopped to sob, ‘irreconcilable with that, and wound that—wound it deeply. It is not that I have seen my good Amy attentive, and—ha—condescending to my old pensioner—it is not that that hurts me. It is, if I am to close the painful subject by being explicit, that I have seen my child, my own child, my own daughter, coming into this College out of the public streets—smiling! smiling!—arm in arm with—O my God, a livery!’
"Hey, hey! Don’t say anything more, Amy, don’t say anything more, my child. I’ll forget it as soon as I can. I," with forced cheerfulness, "I—will soon be able to brush it aside. It’s true, my dear, that I’m always happy to see my old pensioner—as a pensioner, of course—and that I do—ha—offer as much protection and kindness to the—um—the bruised reed—I hope I can call him that without it being inappropriate—as I can under my circumstances. It’s absolutely true that this is how I feel, my dear child. At the same time, I maintain—if I may—ha—if I may say so—Spirit. Uplifting Spirit. And there are some things which are," he paused to cry, "irreconcilable with that, and hurt that—hurt it deeply. It’s not that I’ve seen my good Amy being attentive and—ha—looking down on my old pensioner—it’s not that that pains me. It’s, if I must be clear to close this painful topic, that I’ve seen my child, my own child, my own daughter, coming into this College from the public streets—smiling! smiling!—arm in arm with—Oh my God, a servant!"
This reference to the coat of no cut and no time, the unfortunate gentleman gasped forth, in a scarcely audible voice, and with his clenched pocket-handkerchief raised in the air. His excited feelings might have found some further painful utterance, but for a knock at the door, which had been already twice repeated, and to which Fanny (still wishing herself dead, and indeed now going so far as to add, buried) cried ‘Come in!’
This mention of the coat that had no size and no time, the unfortunate man sighed out, in a barely audible voice, with his clenched handkerchief raised in the air. His intense emotions might have found some more painful expression, but then there was a knock at the door, which had already happened twice, and to which Fanny (still wishing she were dead, and even going so far as to add, buried) shouted, "Come in!"
‘Ah, Young John!’ said the Father, in an altered and calmed voice. ‘What is it, Young John?’
'Ah, Young John!' said the Father, in a changed and soothing voice. 'What's going on, Young John?'
‘A letter for you, sir, being left in the Lodge just this minute, and a message with it, I thought, happening to be there myself, sir, I would bring it to your room.’ The speaker’s attention was much distracted by the piteous spectacle of Little Dorrit at her father’s feet, with her head turned away.
‘A letter for you, sir, just arrived at the Lodge, and a message that came with it. Since I was there, I thought I would bring it to your room.’ The speaker’s focus was largely diverted by the heartbreaking sight of Little Dorrit at her father’s feet, with her head turned away.
‘Indeed, John? Thank you.’
"Really, John? Thanks."
‘The letter is from Mr Clennam, sir—it’s the answer—and the message was, sir, that Mr Clennam also sent his compliments, and word that he would do himself the pleasure of calling this afternoon, hoping to see you, and likewise,’ attention more distracted than before, ‘Miss Amy.’
‘The letter is from Mr. Clennam, sir—it's the response—and the message was, sir, that Mr. Clennam also sent his regards and said he would be happy to visit this afternoon, hoping to see you, and also,’ attention more distracted than before, ‘Miss Amy.’
‘Oh!’ As the Father glanced into the letter (there was a bank-note in it), he reddened a little, and patted Amy on the head afresh. ‘Thank you, Young John. Quite right. Much obliged to you for your attention. No one waiting?’
‘Oh!’ As the Father looked at the letter (there was a banknote in it), he blushed a bit and patted Amy on the head again. ‘Thank you, Young John. That’s exactly right. I really appreciate your thoughtfulness. Is there no one else waiting?’
‘No, sir, no one waiting.’
'No, sir, no one is waiting.'
‘Thank you, John. How is your mother, Young John?’
‘Thank you, John. How’s your mom, Young John?’
‘Thank you, sir, she’s not quite as well as we could wish—in fact, we none of us are, except father—but she’s pretty well, sir.’
“Thank you, sir. She’s not doing as well as we’d like—in fact, none of us are, except for Dad—but she’s doing okay, sir.”
‘Say we sent our remembrances, will you? Say kind remembrances, if you please, Young John.’
‘If we sent our best wishes, would you? Please send kind regards, if you could, Young John.’
‘Thank you, sir, I will.’ And Mr Chivery junior went his way, having spontaneously composed on the spot an entirely new epitaph for himself, to the effect that Here lay the body of John Chivery, Who, Having at such a date, Beheld the idol of his life, In grief and tears, And feeling unable to bear the harrowing spectacle, Immediately repaired to the abode of his inconsolable parents, And terminated his existence by his own rash act.
‘Thank you, sir, I will.’ And Mr. Chivery Jr. went on his way, having spontaneously come up with a completely new epitaph for himself, which read: Here lies the body of John Chivery, Who, on this date, Saw the idol of his life, In grief and tears, And, unable to bear the heartbreaking sight, Immediately went to the home of his inconsolable parents, And ended his life by his own reckless act.
‘There, there, Amy!’ said the Father, when Young John had closed the door, ‘let us say no more about it.’ The last few minutes had improved his spirits remarkably, and he was quite lightsome. ‘Where is my old pensioner all this while? We must not leave him by himself any longer, or he will begin to suppose he is not welcome, and that would pain me. Will you fetch him, my child, or shall I?’
“There, there, Amy!” said the Father, when Young John had closed the door, “let’s not talk about it anymore.” The last few minutes had really lifted his spirits, and he felt quite cheerful. “Where is my old pensioner all this time? We can’t leave him alone any longer, or he might start to think he isn’t welcome, and that would hurt me. Will you go get him, my child, or should I?”
‘If you wouldn’t mind, father,’ said Little Dorrit, trying to bring her sobbing to a close.
‘If you don’t mind, Dad,’ said Little Dorrit, trying to stop her crying.
‘Certainly I will go, my dear. I forgot; your eyes are rather red. There! Cheer up, Amy. Don’t be uneasy about me. I am quite myself again, my love, quite myself. Go to your room, Amy, and make yourself look comfortable and pleasant to receive Mr Clennam.’
‘Of course I'll go, my dear. I just noticed your eyes are a bit red. There! Cheer up, Amy. Don’t worry about me. I'm totally fine now, my love, really fine. Go to your room, Amy, and get yourself looking nice and pleasant to welcome Mr. Clennam.’
‘I would rather stay in my own room, Father,’ returned Little Dorrit, finding it more difficult than before to regain her composure. ‘I would far rather not see Mr Clennam.’
‘I’d rather stay in my own room, Father,’ Little Dorrit replied, finding it harder than before to get her composure back. ‘I’d much prefer not to see Mr. Clennam.’
‘Oh, fie, fie, my dear, that’s folly. Mr Clennam is a very gentlemanly man—very gentlemanly. A little reserved at times; but I will say extremely gentlemanly. I couldn’t think of your not being here to receive Mr Clennam, my dear, especially this afternoon. So go and freshen yourself up, Amy; go and freshen yourself up, like a good girl.’
‘Oh, come on, my dear, that’s nonsense. Mr. Clennam is a very gentlemanly man—very gentlemanly. A bit reserved at times; but I must say extremely gentlemanly. I can’t imagine you not being here to greet Mr. Clennam, my dear, especially this afternoon. So go and freshen up, Amy; go and freshen up, like a good girl.’
Thus directed, Little Dorrit dutifully rose and obeyed: only pausing for a moment as she went out of the room, to give her sister a kiss of reconciliation. Upon which, that young lady, feeling much harassed in her mind, and having for the time worn out the wish with which she generally relieved it, conceived and executed the brilliant idea of wishing Old Nandy dead, rather than that he should come bothering there like a disgusting, tiresome, wicked wretch, and making mischief between two sisters.
Thus directed, Little Dorrit obediently got up and complied, stopping for a moment as she left the room to give her sister a kiss to make up. In response, her sister, feeling quite overwhelmed and having exhausted her usual way of coping, came up with the clever idea of wishing Old Nandy were dead rather than having him come around, bothering them like a horrible, annoying, wicked creep and causing trouble between the two sisters.
The Father of the Marshalsea, even humming a tune, and wearing his black velvet cap a little on one side, so much improved were his spirits, went down into the yard, and found his old pensioner standing there hat in hand just within the gate, as he had stood all this time. ‘Come, Nandy!’ said he, with great suavity. ‘Come up-stairs, Nandy; you know the way; why don’t you come up-stairs?’ He went the length, on this occasion, of giving him his hand and saying, ‘How are you, Nandy? Are you pretty well?’ To which that vocalist returned, ‘I thank you, honoured sir, I am all the better for seeing your honour.’ As they went along the yard, the Father of the Marshalsea presented him to a Collegian of recent date. ‘An old acquaintance of mine, sir, an old pensioner.’ And then said, ‘Be covered, my good Nandy; put your hat on,’ with great consideration.
The Father of the Marshalsea, even humming a tune and wearing his black velvet cap tilted to one side, felt so much better that he went down into the yard and found his old pensioner standing there with his hat in hand, just inside the gate, as he had been all this time. "Come on, Nandy!” he said, very pleasantly. “Come upstairs, Nandy; you know the way. Why don’t you come upstairs?” On this occasion, he even went so far as to shake his hand and say, “How are you, Nandy? You feeling okay?” To which the vocalist replied, “Thank you, honored sir, I’m doing better for seeing you.” As they walked through the yard, the Father of the Marshalsea introduced him to a new Collegian. “An old acquaintance of mine, sir, an old pensioner.” Then he added, “Put your hat on, my good Nandy; cover yourself up,” with great care.
His patronage did not stop here; for he charged Maggy to get the tea ready, and instructed her to buy certain tea-cakes, fresh butter, eggs, cold ham, and shrimps: to purchase which collation he gave her a bank-note for ten pounds, laying strict injunctions on her to be careful of the change. These preparations were in an advanced stage of progress, and his daughter Amy had come back with her work, when Clennam presented himself; whom he most graciously received, and besought to join their meal.
His support didn't end there; he asked Maggy to prepare the tea and instructed her to buy specific tea cakes, fresh butter, eggs, cold ham, and shrimp. He gave her a ten-pound banknote to purchase these snacks and insisted she be careful with the change. These preparations were well underway by the time his daughter Amy returned with her work, just as Clennam arrived; he welcomed Clennam warmly and invited him to join their meal.
‘Amy, my love, you know Mr Clennam even better than I have the happiness of doing. Fanny, my dear, you are acquainted with Mr Clennam.’ Fanny acknowledged him haughtily; the position she tacitly took up in all such cases being that there was a vast conspiracy to insult the family by not understanding it, or sufficiently deferring to it, and here was one of the conspirators. ‘This, Mr Clennam, you must know, is an old pensioner of mine, Old Nandy, a very faithful old man.’ (He always spoke of him as an object of great antiquity, but he was two or three years younger than himself.) ‘Let me see. You know Plornish, I think? I think my daughter Amy has mentioned to me that you know poor Plornish?’
"Amy, my love, you know Mr. Clennam even better than I do. Fanny, my dear, you know Mr. Clennam." Fanny acknowledged him with a haughty attitude; her unspoken stance in situations like this was that there was a huge conspiracy to insult the family by not understanding it or showing it enough respect, and here was one of the conspirators. "This, Mr. Clennam, you must know, is an old pensioner of mine, Old Nandy, a very loyal old man." (He always referred to him as if he were incredibly old, but he was actually just a couple of years younger than himself.) "Let me see. You know Plornish, right? I believe my daughter Amy mentioned to me that you know poor Plornish?"
‘O yes!’ said Arthur Clennam.
"Yes!" said Arthur Clennam.
‘Well, sir, this is Mrs Plornish’s father.’
‘Well, sir, this is Mrs. Plornish’s dad.’
‘Indeed? I am glad to see him.’
‘Really? I'm glad to see him.’
‘You would be more glad if you knew his many good qualities, Mr Clennam.’
'You would be much happier if you knew about his many good qualities, Mr. Clennam.'
‘I hope I shall come to know them through knowing him,’ said Arthur, secretly pitying the bowed and submissive figure.
‘I hope I’ll get to know them by getting to know him,’ said Arthur, secretly feeling sorry for the bowed and submissive figure.
‘It is a holiday with him, and he comes to see his old friends, who are always glad to see him,’ observed the Father of the Marshalsea. Then he added behind his hand, (‘Union, poor old fellow. Out for the day.’)
‘It’s a holiday for him, and he visits his old friends, who are always happy to see him,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea. Then he whispered to himself, (‘Union, poor guy. Out for the day.’)
Original
By this time Maggy, quietly assisted by her Little Mother, had spread the board, and the repast was ready. It being hot weather and the prison very close, the window was as wide open as it could be pushed. ‘If Maggy will spread that newspaper on the window-sill, my dear,’ remarked the Father complacently and in a half whisper to Little Dorrit, ‘my old pensioner can have his tea there, while we are having ours.’
By this time, Maggy, quietly helped by her Little Mother, had set the table, and the meal was ready. Since it was hot out and the prison was really stuffy, the window was pushed wide open. “If Maggy will put that newspaper on the window sill, my dear,” the Father said with a satisfied tone and in a quiet voice to Little Dorrit, “my old pensioner can have his tea there while we enjoy ours.”
So, with a gulf between him and the good company of about a foot in width, standard measure, Mrs Plornish’s father was handsomely regaled. Clennam had never seen anything like his magnanimous protection by that other Father, he of the Marshalsea; and was lost in the contemplation of its many wonders.
So, with about a foot of space between him and the nice company, Mrs. Plornish’s father was well taken care of. Clennam had never seen anything like the generous support from that other Father, the one from the Marshalsea; and he was deep in thought about its many wonders.
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.
The most striking of these was perhaps the way he enjoyed pointing out the pensioner’s weaknesses and shortcomings, as if he were a kind Keeper giving a live commentary on the decline of the harmless creature he was showing off.
‘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.’)
‘Not ready for more ham yet, Nandy? Wow, you’re taking your time! (His last teeth,’ he explained to the group, ‘are giving out, the poor old guy.’)
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, ‘No shrimp, Nandy?’ and when Nandy didn't respond right away, he noted, (‘His hearing is getting really bad. He'll be deaf soon.’)
At another time he asked him, ‘Do you walk much, Nandy, about the yard within the walls of that place of yours?’
At another time, he asked him, "Do you walk around much, Nandy, in the yard within the walls of your place?"
‘No, sir; no. I haven’t any great liking for that.’
‘No, sir; no. I don’t really like that.’
‘No, to be sure,’ he assented. ‘Very natural.’ Then he privately informed the circle (‘Legs going.’)
‘No, for sure,’ he agreed. ‘Totally natural.’ Then he quietly let the group know (‘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?
Once he asked the pensioner, in that general kindness that made him inquire about anything to keep him engaged, 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.’
‘John Edward,’ said the retiree, slowly setting down his knife and fork to think. ‘How old is he, sir? Let me see now.’
The Father of the Marshalsea tapped his forehead (‘Memory weak.’)
The Father of the Marshalsea tapped his forehead ('Memory's failing me.')
‘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.’
‘John Edward, sir? Well, I honestly can’t remember. I can’t tell you right now, sir, if it’s two months and two weeks, or two months and five weeks. 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!’)
“Don’t stress yourself out by overthinking it,” he replied, with endless patience. (“Clearly losing his faculties—old man is just fading away in the life he’s living!”)
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.
The more discoveries he convinced himself he was making about the pensioner, the more he seemed to like him; and when he got up from his chair after tea to say goodbye to the pensioner, who hinted that he feared, honored sir, his time was running out, he straightened up and tried to look as strong as possible.
‘We don’t call this a shilling, Nandy, you know,’ he said, putting one in his hand. ‘We call it tobacco.’
‘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.’
‘Honored sir, thank you. It will buy tobacco. My thanks and regards 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!’
“And don’t forget about us, Nandy,” said the Father. “You have to come back, you hear? Whenever you have an afternoon free. Don’t leave without seeing us, or we’ll be jealous. Good night, Nandy. Be really careful going down the stairs, Nandy; they’re a bit uneven and worn.” With that, he stood on the landing, watching the old man leave, and when he returned to the room, he said with a serious satisfaction, “It’s a sad sight, Mr. Clennam, but at least we know he doesn’t feel it. The poor old guy is a complete wreck. His spirit is broken—absolutely crushed, sir!”
As Clennam had a purpose in remaining, he said what he could responsive to these sentiments, and stood at the window with their enunciator, while Maggy and her Little Mother washed the tea-service and cleared it away. He noticed that his companion stood at the window with the air of an affable and accessible Sovereign, and that, when any of his people in the yard below looked up, his recognition of their salutes just stopped short of a blessing.
As Clennam had his reasons for staying, he replied as best he could to these feelings and stood at the window with the person expressing them, while Maggy and her Little Mother washed and put away the tea set. He noticed that his companion stood by the window like a friendly and approachable ruler, and that whenever any of the people in the yard below looked up, his acknowledgment of their greetings was almost like a blessing.
When Little Dorrit had her work on the table, and Maggy hers on the bedstead, Fanny fell to tying her bonnet as a preliminary to her departure. Arthur, still having his purpose, still remained. At this time the door opened, without any notice, and Mr Tip came in. He kissed Amy as she started up to meet him, nodded to Fanny, nodded to his father, gloomed on the visitor without further recognition, and sat down.
When Little Dorrit had her work spread out on the table, and Maggy had hers on the bed, Fanny started tying her bonnet as she got ready to leave. Arthur, still focused on his goal, stayed. Just then, the door opened unexpectedly, and Mr. Tip walked in. He kissed Amy as she jumped up to greet him, nodded to Fanny, nodded to his father, scowled at the visitor without saying anything more, and sat down.
‘Tip, dear,’ said Little Dorrit, mildly, shocked by this, ‘don’t you see—’
‘Tip, dear,’ said Little Dorrit, gently, taken aback by this, ‘don’t you see—’
‘Yes, I see, Amy. If you refer to the presence of any visitor you have here—I say, if you refer to that,’ answered Tip, jerking his head with emphasis towards his shoulder nearest Clennam, ‘I see!’
‘Yes, I get it, Amy. If you’re talking about the presence of any visitor you have here—I mean, if that’s what you’re talking about,’ answered Tip, nodding his head with emphasis towards his shoulder closest to Clennam, ‘I get it!’
‘Is that all you say?’
"Is that all you're saying?"
‘That’s all I say. And I suppose,’ added the lofty young man, after a moment’s pause, ‘that visitor will understand me, when I say that’s all I say. In short, I suppose the visitor will understand that he hasn’t used me like a gentleman.’
‘That’s all I’m going to say. And I guess,’ added the arrogant young man, after a brief pause, ‘that the visitor will get what I mean when I say that’s all I’m going to say. Essentially, I think the visitor will realize that he hasn’t treated me like a gentleman.’
‘I do not understand that,’ observed the obnoxious personage referred to with tranquillity.
‘I don't get that,’ the annoying person said calmly.
‘No? Why, then, to make it clearer to you, sir, I beg to let you know that when I address what I call a properly-worded appeal, and an urgent appeal, and a delicate appeal, to an individual, for a small temporary accommodation, easily within his power—easily within his power, mind!—and when that individual writes back word to me that he begs to be excused, I consider that he doesn’t treat me like a gentleman.’
‘No? Well, to put it more clearly for you, sir, I want you to know that when I make what I call a properly-worded request, an urgent request, and a delicate request to someone for a small temporary favor that’s easily within their ability—easily within their ability, mind you!—and that person replies that they’d like to be excused, I feel like they’re not treating me like a gentleman.’
The Father of the Marshalsea, who had surveyed his son in silence, no sooner heard this sentiment, than he began in angry voice:—
The Father of the Marshalsea, having watched his son quietly, immediately reacted to this statement with an angry tone:—
‘How dare you—’ But his son stopped him.
‘How dare you—’ But his son interrupted him.
‘Now, don’t ask me how I dare, father, because that’s bosh. As to the fact of the line of conduct I choose to adopt towards the individual present, you ought to be proud of my showing a proper spirit.’
‘Now, don’t ask me how I have the guts, dad, because that’s nonsense. As for the way I decide to treat the person here, you should be proud of me for having the right attitude.’
‘I should think so!’ cried Fanny.
"I would think so!" shouted Fanny.
‘A proper spirit?’ said the Father. ‘Yes, a proper spirit; a becoming spirit. Is it come to this that my son teaches me—me—spirit!’
‘A proper spirit?’ said the Father. ‘Yes, a proper spirit; a fitting spirit. Has it come to this that my son teaches me—me—about spirit!’
‘Now, don’t let us bother about it, father, or have any row on the subject. I have fully made up my mind that the individual present has not treated me like a gentleman. And there’s an end of it.’
‘Now, let's not worry about it, Dad, or make a fuss over it. I've made up my mind that the person here hasn’t treated me like a gentleman. That's it.’
‘But there is not an end of it, sir,’ returned the Father. ‘But there shall not be an end of it. You have made up your mind? You have made up your mind?’
‘But this isn't the end of it, sir,’ replied the Father. ‘And it won't be the end of it. Have you made up your mind? Have you made up your mind?’
‘Yes, I have. What’s the good of keeping on like that?’
‘Yes, I have. What’s the point of continuing like that?’
‘Because,’ returned the Father, in a great heat, ‘you had no right to make up your mind to what is monstrous, to what is—ha—immoral, to what is—hum—parricidal. No, Mr Clennam, I beg, sir. Don’t ask me to desist; there is a—hum—a general principle involved here, which rises even above considerations of—ha—hospitality. I object to the assertion made by my son. I—ha—I personally repel it.’
‘Because,’ replied the Father, heatedly, ‘you had no right to decide on something so outrageous, something that is—uh—immoral, something that is—um—parricidal. No, Mr. Clennam, I insist, sir. Don’t ask me to stop; there is a—um—a fundamental principle at stake here that goes beyond mere questions of—uh—hospitality. I disagree with the claim made by my son. I—uh—I personally reject it.’
‘Why, what is it to you, father?’ returned the son, over his shoulder.
‘Why does it matter to you, Dad?’ the son replied, glancing back.
‘What is it to me, sir? I have a—hum—a spirit, sir, that will not endure it. I,’ he took out his pocket-handkerchief again and dabbed his face. ‘I am outraged and insulted by it. Let me suppose the case that I myself may at a certain time—ha—or times, have made a—hum—an appeal, and a properly-worded appeal, and a delicate appeal, and an urgent appeal to some individual for a small temporary accommodation. Let me suppose that that accommodation could have been easily extended, and was not extended, and that that individual informed me that he begged to be excused. Am I to be told by my own son, that I therefore received treatment not due to a gentleman, and that I—ha—I submitted to it?’
‘What does it matter to me, sir? I have a—um—a spirit, sir, that can’t tolerate it. I,’ he pulled out his handkerchief again and wiped his face. ‘I am deeply offended and insulted by it. Let’s say I might have, at some time—ha—or even several times, made a—um—a request, and a properly worded request, and a sensitive request, and a pressing request to someone for a small, temporary favor. Let’s say that favor could have been easily granted but wasn’t, and that person told me they needed to decline. Am I supposed to be told by my own son that I then received treatment unworthy of a gentleman, and that I—ha—I accepted it?’
His daughter Amy gently tried to calm him, but he would not on any account be calmed. He said his spirit was up, and wouldn’t endure this.
His daughter Amy softly tried to soothe him, but he absolutely would not be calmed. He said he was feeling energized and wouldn't tolerate this.
Was he to be told that, he wished to know again, by his own son on his own hearth, to his own face? Was that humiliation to be put upon him by his own blood?
Was he really going to be told that, he wanted to know again, by his own son in his own home, to his own face? Was that kind of humiliation going to be forced upon him by his own flesh and blood?
‘You are putting it on yourself, father, and getting into all this injury of your own accord!’ said the young gentleman morosely. ‘What I have made up my mind about has nothing to do with you. What I said had nothing to do with you. Why need you go trying on other people’s hats?’
‘You’re doing this to yourself, Dad, and causing all this trouble on your own!’ said the young man gloomily. ‘What I’ve decided has nothing to do with you. What I said wasn’t about you. Why do you have to go trying on other people’s hats?’
‘I reply it has everything to do with me,’ returned the Father. ‘I point out to you, sir, with indignation, that—hum—the—ha—delicacy and peculiarity of your father’s position should strike you dumb, sir, if nothing else should, in laying down such—ha—such unnatural principles. Besides; if you are not filial, sir, if you discard that duty, you are at least—hum—not a Christian? Are you—ha—an Atheist? And is it Christian, let me ask you, to stigmatise and denounce an individual for begging to be excused this time, when the same individual may—ha—respond with the required accommodation next time? Is it the part of a Christian not to—hum—not to try him again?’ He had worked himself into quite a religious glow and fervour.
"I answer that it has everything to do with me," the Father responded. "I point out to you, sir, with indignation, that—um—the—uh—delicacy and uniqueness of your father's position should leave you speechless, sir, if nothing else does, for laying down such—uh—such unnatural principles. Besides, if you're not being a good son, sir, if you reject that responsibility, then you're at least—um—not a Christian? Are you—uh—an Atheist? And is it Christian, let me ask you, to label and condemn someone for asking to be excused this time when that same person might—uh—be able to meet the expectations next time? Is it not Christian to—um—not to give them another chance?" He had worked himself up into quite a religious fervor.
‘I see precious well,’ said Mr Tip, rising, ‘that I shall get no sensible or fair argument here to-night, and so the best thing I can do is to cut. Good night, Amy. Don’t be vexed. I am very sorry it happens here, and you here, upon my soul I am; but I can’t altogether part with my spirit, even for your sake, old girl.’
‘I see quite clearly,’ said Mr. Tip, standing up, ‘that I won’t get any sensible or fair argument here tonight, so the best thing I can do is leave. Good night, Amy. Don’t be upset. I truly regret that this is happening here, and that you’re involved, I really do; but I can’t completely give up my spirit, even for you, old girl.’
With those words he put on his hat and went out, accompanied by Miss Fanny; who did not consider it spirited on her part to take leave of Clennam with any less opposing demonstration than a stare, importing that she had always known him for one of the large body of conspirators.
With that, he put on his hat and left, accompanied by Miss Fanny, who felt it was only right to bid Clennam farewell with nothing less than a stare, suggesting that she had always seen him as part of a larger group of conspirators.
When they were gone, the Father of the Marshalsea was at first inclined to sink into despondency again, and would have done so, but that a gentleman opportunely came up within a minute or two to attend him to the Snuggery. It was the gentleman Clennam had seen on the night of his own accidental detention there, who had that impalpable grievance about the misappropriated Fund on which the Marshal was supposed to batten. He presented himself as deputation to escort the Father to the Chair, it being an occasion on which he had promised to preside over the assembled Collegians in the enjoyment of a little Harmony.
When they left, the Father of the Marshalsea initially felt like sinking back into despair, and he might have if a gentleman hadn’t conveniently approached him just a minute or two later to guide him to the Snuggery. It was the same gentleman Clennam had seen on the night he was accidentally held there, who had that vague complaint about the misused Fund that the Marshal was supposed to benefit from. He showed up as a representative to escort the Father to the Chair, as it was an occasion when he had promised to lead the assembled Collegians in enjoying some Harmony.
‘Such, you see, Mr Clennam,’ said the Father, ‘are the incongruities of my position here. But a public duty! No man, I am sure, would more readily recognise a public duty than yourself.’
‘You see, Mr. Clennam,’ said the Father, ‘these are the contradictions of my position here. But it’s a public duty! No one, I’m sure, would be quicker to recognize a public duty than you.’
Clennam besought him not to delay a moment.
Clennam urged him not to waste a moment.
‘Amy, my dear, if you can persuade Mr Clennam to stay longer, I can leave the honours of our poor apology for an establishment with confidence in your hands, and perhaps you may do something towards erasing from Mr Clennam’s mind the—ha—untoward and unpleasant circumstance which has occurred since tea-time.’
‘Amy, my dear, if you can convince Mr. Clennam to stay longer, I can confidently leave the honors of our humble excuse for a place in your hands, and maybe you can help remove from Mr. Clennam’s mind the—uh—unfortunate and awkward situation that happened since tea-time.’
Clennam assured him that it had made no impression on his mind, and therefore required no erasure.
Clennam assured him that it hadn't left any mark on his mind, so there was no need to erase it.
‘My dear sir,’ said the Father, with a removal of his black cap and a grasp of Clennam’s hand, combining to express the safe receipt of his note and enclosure that afternoon, ‘Heaven ever bless you!’
‘My dear sir,’ said the Father, taking off his black cap and shaking Clennam’s hand, which showed that he had safely received his note and the enclosed materials that afternoon, ‘May heaven always bless you!’
So, at last, Clennam’s purpose in remaining was attained, and he could speak to Little Dorrit with nobody by. Maggy counted as nobody, and she was by.
So, finally, Clennam's goal in staying was achieved, and he could talk to Little Dorrit without anyone around. Maggy didn't count as anyone, and she was there.
CHAPTER 32. More Fortune-Telling
Maggy sat at her work in her great white cap with its quantity of opaque frilling hiding what profile she had (she had none to spare), and her serviceable eye brought to bear upon her occupation, on the window side of the room. What with her flapping cap, and what with her unserviceable eye, she was quite partitioned off from her Little Mother, whose seat was opposite the window. The tread and shuffle of feet on the pavement of the yard had much diminished since the taking of the Chair, the tide of Collegians having set strongly in the direction of Harmony. Some few who had no music in their souls, or no money in their pockets, dawdled about; and the old spectacle of the visitor-wife and the depressed unseasoned prisoner still lingered in corners, as broken cobwebs and such unsightly discomforts draggle in corners of other places. It was the quietest time the College knew, saving the night hours when the Collegians took the benefit of the act of sleep. The occasional rattle of applause upon the tables of the Snuggery, denoted the successful termination of a morsel of Harmony; or the responsive acceptance, by the united children, of some toast or sentiment offered to them by their Father. Occasionally, a vocal strain more sonorous than the generality informed the listener that some boastful bass was in blue water, or in the hunting field, or with the reindeer, or on the mountain, or among the heather; but the Marshal of the Marshalsea knew better, and had got him hard and fast.
Maggy sat at her work in her large white cap, with its sheer frills hiding her features (she didn’t have much to show), and her practical eye focused on her task by the window. With her flapping cap and her ineffective eye, she was completely separated from her Little Mother, who sat opposite her at the window. The sounds of footsteps on the yard pavement had greatly decreased since the Chair was taken, as most of the Collegians had headed towards Harmony. A few who lacked music in their souls or money in their pockets lingered around, and the familiar sight of the visitor-wife and the unhappy, inexperienced prisoner still hung around in corners, much like those tattered cobwebs and ugly remnants found in various places. This was the quietest time the College experienced, aside from the night hours when the Collegians took their well-deserved sleep. The occasional sound of applause from the tables in the Snuggery signaled the end of a piece of Harmony, or the collective agreement of the united children to a toast or sentiment presented by their Father. Every now and then, a deeper vocal note, louder than the rest, alerted listeners to a show-off bass being out in blue water, in the hunting field, with the reindeer, on the mountain, or among the heather; but the Marshal of the Marshalsea knew better and had him firmly in control.
As Arthur Clennam moved to sit down by the side of Little Dorrit, she trembled so that she had much ado to hold her needle. Clennam gently put his hand upon her work, and said, ‘Dear Little Dorrit, let me lay it down.’
As Arthur Clennam sat down next to Little Dorrit, she shook so much that she struggled to hold her needle. Clennam softly placed his hand on her work and said, “Dear Little Dorrit, let me set it down.”
She yielded it to him, and he put it aside. Her hands were then nervously clasping together, but he took one of them.
She gave it to him, and he set it aside. Her hands were nervously clasped together, but he took one of them.
‘How seldom I have seen you lately, Little Dorrit!’
‘How rarely I’ve seen you lately, Little Dorrit!’
‘I have been busy, sir.’
"I've been busy, sir."
‘But I heard only to-day,’ said Clennam, ‘by mere accident, of your having been with those good people close by me. Why not come to me, then?’
“But I just found out today,” Clennam said, “by total accident, that you were with those nice people who live nearby. So why didn’t you come to see me?”
‘I—I don’t know. Or rather, I thought you might be busy too. You generally are now, are you not?’
‘I—I don’t know. Or actually, I thought you might be busy as well. You usually are now, right?’
He saw her trembling little form and her downcast face, and the eyes that drooped the moment they were raised to his—he saw them almost with as much concern as tenderness.
He saw her trembling little body and her downcast face, and the eyes that dropped as soon as they were lifted to his—he regarded them with almost as much concern as affection.
‘My child, your manner is so changed!’
‘My child, you’ve changed so much!’
The trembling was now quite beyond her control. Softly withdrawing her hand, and laying it in her other hand, she sat before him with her head bent and her whole form trembling.
The shaking was now completely out of her control. Gently pulling her hand away and resting it in her other hand, she sat in front of him with her head down and her entire body shaking.
‘My own Little Dorrit,’ said Clennam, compassionately.
‘My own Little Dorrit,’ Clennam said with compassion.
She burst into tears. Maggy looked round of a sudden, and stared for at least a minute; but did not interpose. Clennam waited some little while before he spoke again.
She started crying. Maggy suddenly looked around and stared for at least a minute, but didn’t say anything. Clennam waited a little while before he spoke again.
‘I cannot bear,’ he said then, ‘to see you weep; but I hope this is a relief to an overcharged heart.’
‘I can’t stand,’ he said then, ‘to see you cry; but I hope this brings relief to your heavy heart.’
‘Yes it is, sir. Nothing but that.’
'Yes, it is, sir. Just that.'
‘Well, well! I feared you would think too much of what passed here just now. It is of no moment; not the least. I am only unfortunate to have come in the way. Let it go by with these tears. It is not worth one of them. One of them? Such an idle thing should be repeated, with my glad consent, fifty times a day, to save you a moment’s heart-ache, Little Dorrit.’
‘Well, well! I was worried you’d overthink what just happened here. It doesn’t matter at all; not even a little. I just happened to be in the way. Let it pass along with these tears. It’s not worth a single one of them. A single one? Such a trivial thing should be said, with my full agreement, fifty times a day, to spare you even a moment of heartache, Little Dorrit.’
She had taken courage now, and answered, far more in her usual manner, ‘You are so good! But even if there was nothing else in it to be sorry for and ashamed of, it is such a bad return to you—’
She had gained some confidence now and replied, much like she usually did, ‘You’re so kind! But even if there was nothing else to regret and feel ashamed of, it’s such a poor way to repay you—’
‘Hush!’ said Clennam, smiling and touching her lips with his hand. ‘Forgetfulness in you who remember so many and so much, would be new indeed. Shall I remind you that I am not, and that I never was, anything but the friend whom you agreed to trust? No. You remember it, don’t you?’
‘Hush!’ Clennam said, smiling and gently touching her lips with his hand. ‘It would be quite unusual for someone like you, who remembers so many things, to forget. Should I remind you that I am nothing more than the friend you chose to trust? No. You do remember that, don’t you?’
‘I try to do so, or I should have broken the promise just now, when my mistaken brother was here. You will consider his bringing-up in this place, and will not judge him hardly, poor fellow, I know!’ In raising her eyes with these words, she observed his face more nearly than she had done yet, and said, with a quick change of tone, ‘You have not been ill, Mr Clennam?’
‘I’m trying to do that, or I would have just broken my promise when my confused brother was here. You’ll think about how he was raised here, and you won’t judge him too harshly, poor guy, I know!’ As she lifted her eyes while saying this, she noticed his face more closely than before and asked, with a sudden change of tone, ‘You haven’t been sick, Mr. Clennam?’
‘No.’
‘Nope.’
‘Nor tried? Nor hurt?’ she asked him, anxiously.
“Never tried? Never hurt?” she asked him, worried.
It fell to Clennam now, to be not quite certain how to answer. He said in reply:
It was now up to Clennam, who wasn't completely sure how to respond. He said in reply:
‘To speak the truth, I have been a little troubled, but it is over. Do I show it so plainly? I ought to have more fortitude and self-command than that. I thought I had. I must learn them of you. Who could teach me better!’
'To be honest, I've been a bit unsettled, but that's behind me now. Do I show it that clearly? I should have more strength and self-control than that. I thought I did. I need to learn those from you. Who could teach me better!'
He never thought that she saw in him what no one else could see. He never thought that in the whole world there were no other eyes that looked upon him with the same light and strength as hers.
He never realized that she saw something in him that no one else could. He never thought that there were no other eyes in the world that looked at him with the same brightness and intensity as hers.
‘But it brings me to something that I wish to say,’ he continued, ‘and therefore I will not quarrel even with my own face for telling tales and being unfaithful to me. Besides, it is a privilege and pleasure to confide in my Little Dorrit. Let me confess then, that, forgetting how grave I was, and how old I was, and how the time for such things had gone by me with the many years of sameness and little happiness that made up my long life far away, without marking it—that, forgetting all this, I fancied I loved some one.’
‘But this leads me to something I want to say,’ he continued, ‘so I won’t argue with my own face for telling stories and betraying me. Also, it’s a privilege and a joy to confide in my Little Dorrit. Let me admit, then, that, forgetting how serious I was, and how old I was, and how the time for such things had passed me by during the many years of monotony and little happiness that made up my long life far away, without registering it—that, forgetting all this, I thought I loved someone.’
‘Do I know her, sir?’ asked Little Dorrit.
‘Do I know her, sir?’ asked Little Dorrit.
‘No, my child.’
'No, sweetheart.'
‘Not the lady who has been kind to me for your sake?’
'Not the woman who has been nice to me for your sake?'
‘Flora. No, no. Do you think—’
‘Flora. No, no. Do you think—’
‘I never quite thought so,’ said Little Dorrit, more to herself than him. ‘I did wonder at it a little.’
‘I never really thought that,’ said Little Dorrit, more to herself than to him. ‘I was a bit surprised by it.’
‘Well!’ said Clennam, abiding by the feeling that had fallen on him in the avenue on the night of the roses, the feeling that he was an older man, who had done with that tender part of life, ‘I found out my mistake, and I thought about it a little—in short, a good deal—and got wiser. Being wiser, I counted up my years and considered what I am, and looked back, and looked forward, and found that I should soon be grey. I found that I had climbed the hill, and passed the level ground upon the top, and was descending quickly.’
"Well!" Clennam said, holding onto the feeling he had experienced in the avenue on the night of the roses, the feeling that he was an older man who had moved on from that delicate phase of life. "I realized my mistake and thought about it for a while—in fact, a lot—and became wiser. With this newfound wisdom, I added up my years and reflected on who I am, looking back and looking ahead, and I realized that I would soon be grey. I realized that I had climbed the hill, passed the flat ground at the top, and was quickly descending."
If he had known the sharpness of the pain he caused the patient heart, in speaking thus! While doing it, too, with the purpose of easing and serving her.
If he had known how much pain he was causing the patient's heart by speaking like that! And he was doing it with the intention of helping her.
‘I found that the day when any such thing would have been graceful in me, or good in me, or hopeful or happy for me or any one in connection with me, was gone, and would never shine again.’
‘I realized that the day when anything like that would have been elegant in me, or kind or promising or joyful for me or anyone associated with me, had passed, and it would never come again.’
O! If he had known, if he had known! If he could have seen the dagger in his hand, and the cruel wounds it struck in the faithful bleeding breast of his Little Dorrit!
O! If he had known, if he had known! If he could have seen the dagger in his hand and the cruel wounds it inflicted on the faithful, bleeding heart of his Little Dorrit!
‘All that is over, and I have turned my face from it. Why do I speak of this to Little Dorrit? Why do I show you, my child, the space of years that there is between us, and recall to you that I have passed, by the amount of your whole life, the time that is present to you?’
‘All that is behind me now, and I've turned away from it. Why do I tell this to Little Dorrit? Why do I show you, my child, the years that separate us, and remind you that I've lived through, by the length of your entire life, the time that is happening for you right now?’
‘Because you trust me, I hope. Because you know that nothing can touch you without touching me; that nothing can make you happy or unhappy, but it must make me, who am so grateful to you, the same.’
‘Because you trust me, I hope. Because you know that nothing can affect you without affecting me; that nothing can make you happy or unhappy without also making me, who is so grateful to you, feel the same.’
He heard the thrill in her voice, he saw her earnest face, he saw her clear true eyes, he saw the quickened bosom that would have joyfully thrown itself before him to receive a mortal wound directed at his breast, with the dying cry, ‘I love him!’ and the remotest suspicion of the truth never dawned upon his mind. No. He saw the devoted little creature with her worn shoes, in her common dress, in her jail-home; a slender child in body, a strong heroine in soul; and the light of her domestic story made all else dark to him.
He heard the excitement in her voice, he saw her sincere face, he looked into her clear, genuine eyes, he noticed her quickened breath that seemed ready to take a lethal blow for him, crying out, ‘I love him!’ and he never suspected the truth for a moment. No. He saw the devoted little person with her worn-out shoes, in her simple dress, in her jail-home; a slender girl in body, a strong heroine in spirit; and the brightness of her life story made everything else seem dark to him.
‘For those reasons assuredly, Little Dorrit, but for another too. So far removed, so different, and so much older, I am the better fitted for your friend and adviser. I mean, I am the more easily to be trusted; and any little constraint that you might feel with another, may vanish before me. Why have you kept so retired from me? Tell me.’
‘For those reasons, definitely, Little Dorrit, but also for another. I’m so far removed, so different, and so much older that I’m better suited to be your friend and adviser. I mean, I'm easier to trust, and any little awkwardness you might feel with someone else can disappear with me. Why have you kept yourself so distant from me? Tell me.’
‘I am better here. My place and use are here. I am much better here,’ said Little Dorrit, faintly.
‘I’m better here. This is where I belong and what I’m meant to do. I’m really much better here,’ said Little Dorrit, quietly.
‘So you said that day upon the bridge. I thought of it much afterwards. Have you no secret you could entrust to me, with hope and comfort, if you would!’
‘So you said that day on the bridge. I've thought about it a lot since then. Don't you have a secret you could share with me, hoping it would bring you comfort, if you want to!’
‘Secret? No, I have no secret,’ said Little Dorrit in some trouble.
‘Secret? No, I don’t have a secret,’ said Little Dorrit, feeling a bit uneasy.
They had been speaking in low voices; more because it was natural to what they said to adopt that tone, than with any care to reserve it from Maggy at her work. All of a sudden Maggy stared again, and this time spoke:
They had been talking in quiet voices; more because it felt natural for what they were discussing to use that tone, rather than out of any concern to keep it from Maggy while she worked. Suddenly, Maggy stared again, and this time she spoke:
‘I say! Little Mother!’
"Hey! Little Mother!"
‘Yes, Maggy.’
"Yeah, Maggy."
‘If you an’t got no secret of your own to tell him, tell him that about the Princess. She had a secret, you know.’
‘If you don’t have any secret of your own to share with him, tell him about the Princess. She had a secret, you know.’
‘The Princess had a secret?’ said Clennam, in some surprise. ‘What Princess was that, Maggy?’
‘The Princess had a secret?’ Clennam said, a bit surprised. ‘Which Princess was that, Maggy?’
‘Lor! How you do go and bother a gal of ten,’ said Maggy, ‘catching the poor thing up in that way. Whoever said the Princess had a secret? I never said so.’
“Wow! Why are you bothering a girl of ten?” said Maggy, “picking her up like that. Who said the Princess had a secret? I never said that.”
‘I beg your pardon. I thought you did.’
‘I’m sorry. I thought you did.’
‘No, I didn’t. How could I, when it was her as wanted to find it out? It was the little woman as had the secret, and she was always a spinning at her wheel. And so she says to her, why do you keep it there? And so the t’other one says to her, no I don’t; and so the t’other one says to her, yes you do; and then they both goes to the cupboard, and there it is. And she wouldn’t go into the Hospital, and so she died. You know, Little Mother; tell him that. For it was a reg’lar good secret, that was!’ cried Maggy, hugging herself.
‘No, I didn’t. How could I, when it was her who wanted to find it out? It was the little woman who had the secret, and she was always spinning at her wheel. So she asked her, why do you keep it there? And the other one said to her, no I don’t; and then the other one said to her, yes you do; and then they both went to the cupboard, and there it was. And she wouldn’t go into the Hospital, and so she died. You know, Little Mother; tell him that. Because it was a really good secret, that was!’ cried Maggy, hugging herself.
Arthur looked at Little Dorrit for help to comprehend this, and was struck by seeing her so timid and red. But, when she told him that it was only a Fairy Tale she had one day made up for Maggy, and that there was nothing in it which she wouldn’t be ashamed to tell again to anybody else, even if she could remember it, he left the subject where it was.
Arthur looked at Little Dorrit for help to understand this and was taken aback by how shy and flustered she seemed. But when she explained that it was just a fairy tale she had created one day for Maggy, and that there was nothing in it she wouldn’t be embarrassed to share with anyone else, even if she could remember it, he dropped the topic.
However, he returned to his own subject by first entreating her to see him oftener, and to remember that it was impossible to have a stronger interest in her welfare than he had, or to be more set upon promoting it than he was. When she answered fervently, she well knew that, she never forgot it, he touched upon his second and more delicate point—the suspicion he had formed.
However, he got back to his main topic by first asking her to see him more often and to remember that no one was more invested in her well-being than he was, or more determined to support it. When she responded passionately, affirming that she really did understand and never forgot it, he mentioned his second and more sensitive issue—the suspicion he had developed.
‘Little Dorrit,’ he said, taking her hand again, and speaking lower than he had spoken yet, so that even Maggy in the small room could not hear him, ‘another word. I have wanted very much to say this to you; I have tried for opportunities. Don’t mind me, who, for the matter of years, might be your father or your uncle. Always think of me as quite an old man. I know that all your devotion centres in this room, and that nothing to the last will ever tempt you away from the duties you discharge here. If I were not sure of it, I should, before now, have implored you, and implored your father, to let me make some provision for you in a more suitable place. But you may have an interest—I will not say, now, though even that might be—may have, at another time, an interest in some one else; an interest not incompatible with your affection here.’
"Little Dorrit," he said, taking her hand again and speaking softer than he had so far, so that even Maggy in the small room couldn't hear him, "just one more thing. I've really wanted to say this to you; I’ve been looking for the right moment. Don’t mind me, who, given the number of years, could be your father or your uncle. Always think of me as an old man. I know that all your devotion is focused in this room, and that nothing will ever pull you away from the responsibilities you have here. If I weren't sure of that, I would have pleaded with you and your father to let me make some arrangements for you in a better situation by now. But you might have an interest—I won’t say now, although even that could be—might have, at some point, an interest in someone else; an interest that wouldn’t conflict with your feelings here."
She was very, very pale, and silently shook her head.
She was extremely pale and shook her head silently.
‘It may be, dear Little Dorrit.’
‘It might be, dear Little Dorrit.’
‘No. No. No.’ She shook her head, after each slow repetition of the word, with an air of quiet desolation that he remembered long afterwards. The time came when he remembered it well, long afterwards, within those prison walls; within that very room.
‘No. No. No.’ She shook her head slowly with each repetition, an air of quiet despair that stayed with him for a long time. Eventually, he remembered it vividly, long after, within those prison walls; in that very room.
‘But, if it ever should be, tell me so, my dear child. Entrust the truth to me, point out the object of such an interest to me, and I will try with all the zeal, and honour, and friendship and respect that I feel for you, good Little Dorrit of my heart, to do you a lasting service.’
‘But if that ever happens, let me know, my dear child. Trust me with the truth, tell me what has your interest, and I will do my best with all the enthusiasm, honor, friendship, and respect I have for you, dear Little Dorrit, to do you a lasting favor.’
‘O thank you, thank you! But, O no, O no, O no!’ She said this, looking at him with her work-worn hands folded together, and in the same resigned accents as before.
'Oh, thank you, thank you! But, oh no, oh no, oh no!' She said this, looking at him with her tired hands clasped together, and in the same resigned tone as before.
‘I press for no confidence now. I only ask you to repose unhesitating trust in me.’
‘I’m not asking for any doubts right now. I just want you to have complete trust in me.’
‘Can I do less than that, when you are so good!’
'How can I do less than that when you’re so great!'
‘Then you will trust me fully? Will have no secret unhappiness, or anxiety, concealed from me?’
‘So you'll trust me completely? There won't be any hidden unhappiness or anxiety that you keep from me?’
‘Almost none.’
'Barely any.'
‘And you have none now?’
‘So you don’t have any now?’
She shook her head. But she was very pale.
She shook her head. But she looked really pale.
‘When I lie down to-night, and my thoughts come back—as they will, for they do every night, even when I have not seen you—to this sad place, I may believe that there is no grief beyond this room, now, and its usual occupants, which preys on Little Dorrit’s mind?’
‘When I lie down tonight, and my thoughts return—as they always do, even when I haven’t seen you—to this sad place, I might convince myself that there’s no sorrow beyond this room, right now, and its usual inhabitants, which troubles Little Dorrit’s mind?’
She seemed to catch at these words—that he remembered, too, long afterwards—and said, more brightly, ‘Yes, Mr Clennam; yes, you may!’
She seemed to latch onto his words—that he remembered, too, long afterwards—and said, more cheerfully, ‘Yes, Mr. Clennam; yes, you can!’
The crazy staircase, usually not slow to give notice when any one was coming up or down, here creaked under a quick tread, and a further sound was heard upon it, as if a little steam-engine with more steam than it knew what to do with, were working towards the room. As it approached, which it did very rapidly, it laboured with increased energy; and, after knocking at the door, it sounded as if it were stooping down and snorting in at the keyhole.
The noisy staircase, which usually made a fuss when someone was coming up or down, creaked under quick footsteps, and there was an additional noise, as if a little steam engine with more steam than it could handle was making its way to the room. As it got closer, moving very fast, it worked harder; and after knocking at the door, it sounded like it was bending down and snorting at the keyhole.
Before Maggy could open the door, Mr Pancks, opening it from without, stood without a hat and with his bare head in the wildest condition, looking at Clennam and Little Dorrit, over her shoulder. He had a lighted cigar in his hand, and brought with him airs of ale and tobacco smoke.
Before Maggy could open the door, Mr. Pancks, opening it from the outside, stood there without a hat and with his messy hair all over the place, looking at Clennam and Little Dorrit over her shoulder. He had a lit cigar in his hand, and he brought with him the smell of beer and tobacco smoke.
‘Pancks the gipsy,’ he observed out of breath, ‘fortune-telling.’
‘Pancks the gypsy,’ he said, breathing heavily, ‘is into fortune-telling.’
He stood dingily smiling, and breathing hard at them, with a most curious air; as if, instead of being his proprietor’s grubber, he were the triumphant proprietor of the Marshalsea, the Marshal, all the turnkeys, and all the Collegians. In his great self-satisfaction he put his cigar to his lips (being evidently no smoker), and took such a pull at it, with his right eye shut up tight for the purpose, that he underwent a convulsion of shuddering and choking. But even in the midst of that paroxysm, he still essayed to repeat his favourite introduction of himself, ‘Pa-ancks the gi-ipsy, fortune-telling.’
He stood there, dimly smiling and breathing hard at them, with the strangest expression, as if he were not just the property of his boss but the proud owner of the Marshalsea, the Marshal, all the guards, and all the Collegians. In his overwhelming confidence, he put a cigar to his lips (clearly not a smoker) and took a big puff, closing his right eye tightly for the occasion, which made him convulse with shuddering and choking. But even amid that fit, he still tried to repeat his favorite way of introducing himself, "Pa-ancks the gi-ipsy, fortune-telling."
‘I am spending the evening with the rest of ‘em,’ said Pancks. ‘I’ve been singing. I’ve been taking a part in White sand and grey sand. I don’t know anything about it. Never mind. I’ll take any part in anything. It’s all the same, if you’re loud enough.’
‘I’m hanging out with the others tonight,’ said Pancks. ‘I’ve been singing. I’ve been involved in White sand and grey sand. I don’t know anything about it. Whatever. I’ll take any role in anything. It’s all good, as long as you’re loud enough.’
At first Clennam supposed him to be intoxicated. But he soon perceived that though he might be a little the worse (or better) for ale, the staple of his excitement was not brewed from malt, or distilled from any grain or berry.
At first, Clennam thought he might be drunk. But he quickly realized that while he might be slightly affected by beer, the main source of his excitement wasn't from alcohol at all.
‘How d’ye do, Miss Dorrit?’ said Pancks. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind my running round, and looking in for a moment. Mr Clennam I heard was here, from Mr Dorrit. How are you, Sir?’
‘How are you, Miss Dorrit?’ said Pancks. ‘I figured you wouldn’t mind me stopping by for a moment. I heard from Mr. Dorrit that Mr. Clennam was here. How are you, Sir?’
Clennam thanked him, and said he was glad to see him so gay.
Clennam thanked him and said he was happy to see him so cheerful.
‘Gay!’ said Pancks. ‘I’m in wonderful feather, sir. I can’t stop a minute, or I shall be missed, and I don’t want ‘em to miss me.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Awesome!’ said Pancks. ‘I’m feeling great, sir. I can’t stick around for long, or I’ll be noticed, and I don’t want them to notice me.—Right, Miss Dorrit?’
He seemed to have an insatiate delight in appealing to her and looking at her; excitedly sticking his hair up at the same moment, like a dark species of cockatoo.
He appeared to take endless pleasure in engaging with her and gazing at her; enthusiastically spiking his hair up at the same time, like a dark type of cockatoo.
‘I haven’t been here half an hour. I knew Mr Dorrit was in the chair, and I said, “I’ll go and support him!” I ought to be down in Bleeding Heart Yard by rights; but I can worry them to-morrow.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’
‘I haven’t been here for even half an hour. I knew Mr. Dorrit was in charge, and I said, “I’ll go and back him up!” I should really be down in Bleeding Heart Yard; but I can deal with them tomorrow.—Right, Miss Dorrit?’
His little black eyes sparkled electrically. His very hair seemed to sparkle as he roughened it. He was in that highly-charged state that one might have expected to draw sparks and snaps from him by presenting a knuckle to any part of his figure.
His small black eyes sparkled with energy. His hair seemed to shine as he tousled it. He was in such an excited state that you might expect to see sparks and hear snaps just by touching him with your knuckles.
‘Capital company here,’ said Pancks.—‘Eh, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Capital company here,’ said Pancks. — ‘Right, Miss Dorrit?’
She was half afraid of him, and irresolute what to say. He laughed, with a nod towards Clennam.
She was partly scared of him and unsure of what to say. He laughed, giving a nod toward Clennam.
‘Don’t mind him, Miss Dorrit. He’s one of us. We agreed that you shouldn’t take on to mind me before people, but we didn’t mean Mr Clennam. He’s one of us. He’s in it. An’t you, Mr Clennam?—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Don’t worry about him, Miss Dorrit. He’s one of us. We decided that you shouldn’t have to worry about me in front of others, but we didn’t mean Mr. Clennam. He’s one of us. He’s involved. Right, Mr. Clennam?—Isn’t that right, Miss Dorrit?’
The excitement of this strange creature was fast communicating itself to Clennam. Little Dorrit with amazement, saw this, and observed that they exchanged quick looks.
The excitement of this strange creature quickly passed on to Clennam. Little Dorrit, astonished, noticed this and saw that they exchanged quick glances.
‘I was making a remark,’ said Pancks, ‘but I declare I forget what it was. Oh, I know! Capital company here. I’ve been treating ‘em all round.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’
‘I was saying something,’ said Pancks, ‘but I can’t remember what it was. Oh, now I remember! Great group here. I’ve been buying drinks for everyone.—Right, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Very generous of you,’ she returned, noticing another of the quick looks between the two.
‘Very generous of you,’ she said, catching another one of those quick glances exchanged between the two.
‘Not at all,’ said Pancks. ‘Don’t mention it. I’m coming into my property, that’s the fact. I can afford to be liberal. I think I’ll give ‘em a treat here. Tables laid in the yard. Bread in stacks. Pipes in faggots. Tobacco in hayloads. Roast beef and plum-pudding for every one. Quart of double stout a head. Pint of wine too, if they like it, and the authorities give permission.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Not at all,’ said Pancks. ‘Don’t mention it. I’m getting access to my property, that’s the truth. I can afford to be generous. I think I’ll give them a treat here. Tables set up in the yard. Bread in piles. Pipes in bundles. Tobacco in heaps. Roast beef and plum pudding for everyone. A quart of double stout per person. A pint of wine too, if they want it, and if the authorities allow it.—Right, Miss Dorrit?’
She was thrown into such a confusion by his manner, or rather by Clennam’s growing understanding of his manner (for she looked to him after every fresh appeal and cockatoo demonstration on the part of Mr Pancks), that she only moved her lips in answer, without forming any word.
She was so confused by his behavior, or more accurately by Clennam’s increasing insight into his behavior (since she glanced at him after every new request and flashy display from Mr. Pancks), that she only moved her lips in response, without actually saying anything.
‘And oh, by-the-bye!’ said Pancks, ‘you were to live to know what was behind us on that little hand of yours. And so you shall, you shall, my darling.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’
‘And oh, by the way!’ said Pancks, ‘you were meant to find out what was behind us on that little hand of yours. And so you will, you will, my dear.—Right, Miss Dorrit?’
He had suddenly checked himself. Where he got all the additional black prongs from, that now flew up all over his head like the myriads of points that break out in the large change of a great firework, was a wonderful mystery.
He suddenly stopped himself. The source of all the extra black spikes that now shot up all over his head like the countless sparks that burst forth in the big display of a major firework was a complete mystery.
‘But I shall be missed;’ he came back to that; ‘and I don’t want ‘em to miss me. Mr Clennam, you and I made a bargain. I said you should find me stick to it. You shall find me stick to it now, sir, if you’ll step out of the room a moment. Miss Dorrit, I wish you good night. Miss Dorrit, I wish you good fortune.’
‘But they will miss me,’ he kept returning to that thought; ‘and I don’t want them to miss me. Mr. Clennam, you and I made a deal. I said you would find me true to it. You will find me true to it now, sir, if you’ll just step out of the room for a moment. Miss Dorrit, I wish you good night. Miss Dorrit, I wish you all the best.’
He rapidly shook her by both hands, and puffed down stairs. Arthur followed him with such a hurried step, that he had very nearly tumbled over him on the last landing, and rolled him down into the yard.
He quickly shook her hands and rushed down the stairs. Arthur followed him so fast that he nearly tripped over him on the last landing and sent him tumbling down into the yard.
‘What is it, for Heaven’s sake!’ Arthur demanded, when they burst out there both together.
‘What is it, for heaven's sake!’ Arthur asked as they both rushed out together.
‘Stop a moment, sir. Mr Rugg. Let me introduce him.’
‘Hold on a second, sir. Mr. Rugg. Let me introduce you.’
With those words he presented another man without a hat, and also with a cigar, and also surrounded with a halo of ale and tobacco smoke, which man, though not so excited as himself, was in a state which would have been akin to lunacy but for its fading into sober method when compared with the rampancy of Mr Pancks.
With those words, he introduced another man without a hat, who also had a cigar and was surrounded by a cloud of beer and tobacco smoke. This man, although not as agitated as him, was in a state that would have seemed crazy if it hadn't settled into a more sensible demeanor compared to Mr. Pancks' wildness.
‘Mr Clennam, Mr Rugg,’ said Pancks. ‘Stop a moment. Come to the pump.’
‘Mr. Clennam, Mr. Rugg,’ said Pancks. ‘Hold on a second. Come over to the pump.’
They adjourned to the pump. Mr Pancks, instantly putting his head under the spout, requested Mr Rugg to take a good strong turn at the handle. Mr Rugg complying to the letter, Mr Pancks came forth snorting and blowing to some purpose, and dried himself on his handkerchief.
They moved over to the pump. Mr. Pancks quickly stuck his head under the spout and asked Mr. Rugg to give the handle a good, strong turn. Mr. Rugg followed his instructions perfectly, and Mr. Pancks emerged snorting and blowing quite a bit, then dried himself with his handkerchief.
‘I am the clearer for that,’ he gasped to Clennam standing astonished. ‘But upon my soul, to hear her father making speeches in that chair, knowing what we know, and to see her up in that room in that dress, knowing what we know, is enough to—give me a back, Mr Rugg—a little higher, sir,—that’ll do!’
‘I feel much better after that,’ he gasped to Clennam, who stood in shock. ‘But honestly, to hear her father giving speeches in that chair, knowing what we know, and to see her up in that room in that dress, knowing what we know, is enough to—give me a hand, Mr. Rugg—a bit higher, sir,—that’ll do!’
Then and there, on that Marshalsea pavement, in the shades of evening, did Mr Pancks, of all mankind, fly over the head and shoulders of Mr Rugg of Pentonville, General Agent, Accountant, and Recoverer of Debts. Alighting on his feet, he took Clennam by the button-hole, led him behind the pump, and pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of papers.
Then and there, on that Marshalsea pavement, in the evening shadows, Mr. Pancks, of all people, leaped over Mr. Rugg from Pentonville, who was a General Agent, Accountant, and Debt Collector. Landing on his feet, he grabbed Clennam by the buttonhole, led him behind the pump, and breathlessly pulled a bundle of papers from his pocket.
Mr Rugg, also, pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of papers.
Mr. Rugg also, out of breath, pulled a bundle of papers from his pocket.
‘Stay!’ said Clennam in a whisper.‘You have made a discovery.’
"Stay!" Clennam whispered. "You've uncovered something."
Mr Pancks answered, with an unction which there is no language to convey, ‘We rather think so.’
Mr. Pancks replied, with a sincerity that words can't capture, ‘We think so too.’
‘Does it implicate any one?’
"Does it accuse anyone?"
‘How implicate, sir?’
"How does this involve you, sir?"
‘In any suppression or wrong dealing of any kind?’
‘In any kind of suppression or wrongdoing?’
‘Not a bit of it.’
'Not at all.'
‘Thank God!’ said Clennam to himself. ‘Now show me.’
‘Thank God!’ Clennam said to himself. ‘Now show me.’
‘You are to understand’—snorted Pancks, feverishly unfolding papers, and speaking in short high-pressure blasts of sentences, ‘Where’s the Pedigree? Where’s Schedule number four, Mr Rugg? Oh! all right! Here we are.—You are to understand that we are this very day virtually complete. We shan’t be legally for a day or two. Call it at the outside a week. We’ve been at it night and day for I don’t know how long. Mr Rugg, you know how long? Never mind. Don’t say. You’ll only confuse me. You shall tell her, Mr Clennam. Not till we give you leave. Where’s that rough total, Mr Rugg? Oh! Here we are! There sir! That’s what you’ll have to break to her. That man’s your Father of the Marshalsea!’
"You need to understand," Pancks said with a snort, feverishly unfolding papers and speaking in quick, intense bursts, "Where’s the Pedigree? Where’s Schedule number four, Mr. Rugg? Oh! Alright! Here we go.—You need to understand that we are almost done today. We won’t be legally complete for a day or two. Let’s say at most a week. We’ve been working on this day and night for I don’t know how long. Mr. Rugg, do you know how long? Never mind. Don’t say it. You’ll just confuse me. You’ll tell her, Mr. Clennam. Not until we give you the go-ahead. Where’s that rough total, Mr. Rugg? Oh! Here we are! There it is, sir! That’s what you’ll have to explain to her. That man is your Father of the Marshalsea!"
CHAPTER 33. Mrs Merdle’s Complaint
Resigning herself to inevitable fate by making the best of those people, the Miggleses, and submitting her philosophy to the draught upon it, of which she had foreseen the likelihood in her interview with Arthur, Mrs Gowan handsomely resolved not to oppose her son’s marriage. In her progress to, and happy arrival at, this resolution, she was possibly influenced, not only by her maternal affections but by three politic considerations.
Realizing that her fate was unavoidable, and trying to make the best of the Miggleses, and accepting the challenge to her beliefs that she had anticipated during her conversation with Arthur, Mrs. Gowan confidently decided not to stand in the way of her son’s marriage. In reaching this decision, she was likely swayed not just by her motherly love but also by three strategic considerations.
Of these, the first may have been that her son had never signified the smallest intention to ask her consent, or any mistrust of his ability to dispense with it; the second, that the pension bestowed upon her by a grateful country (and a Barnacle) would be freed from any little filial inroads, when her Henry should be married to the darling only child of a man in very easy circumstances; the third, that Henry’s debts must clearly be paid down upon the altar-railing by his father-in-law. When, to these three-fold points of prudence there is added the fact that Mrs Gowan yielded her consent the moment she knew of Mr Meagles having yielded his, and that Mr Meagles’s objection to the marriage had been the sole obstacle in its way all along, it becomes the height of probability that the relict of the deceased Commissioner of nothing particular, turned these ideas in her sagacious mind.
Of these, the first was that her son had never shown the slightest intention of asking for her permission or any doubt about his ability to go without it; the second was that the pension given to her by a grateful country (and a Barnacle) would be protected from any minor financial claims from her son when Henry married the beloved only child of a man in comfortable circumstances; the third was that Henry’s debts would clearly need to be paid off by his father-in-law. When you consider these three sensible points along with the fact that Mrs. Gowan gave her consent as soon as she learned that Mr. Meagles had given his, and that Mr. Meagles’s objection to the marriage had been the only thing holding it back, it becomes very likely that the widow of the late Commissioner of nothing in particular was mulling over these ideas in her wise mind.
Among her connections and acquaintances, however, she maintained her individual dignity and the dignity of the blood of the Barnacles, by diligently nursing the pretence that it was a most unfortunate business; that she was sadly cut up by it; that this was a perfect fascination under which Henry laboured; that she had opposed it for a long time, but what could a mother do; and the like. She had already called Arthur Clennam to bear witness to this fable, as a friend of the Meagles family; and she followed up the move by now impounding the family itself for the same purpose. In the first interview she accorded to Mr Meagles, she slided herself into the position of disconsolately but gracefully yielding to irresistible pressure. With the utmost politeness and good-breeding, she feigned that it was she—not he—who had made the difficulty, and who at length gave way; and that the sacrifice was hers—not his. The same feint, with the same polite dexterity, she foisted on Mrs Meagles, as a conjuror might have forced a card on that innocent lady; and, when her future daughter-in-law was presented to her by her son, she said on embracing her, ‘My dear, what have you done to Henry that has bewitched him so!’ at the same time allowing a few tears to carry before them, in little pills, the cosmetic powder on her nose; as a delicate but touching signal that she suffered much inwardly for the show of composure with which she bore her misfortune.
Among her connections and acquaintances, she held on to her personal dignity and the dignity of the Barnacle family by carefully maintaining the act that it was a very unfortunate situation; that she was deeply upset by it; that this was a complete obsession for Henry; that she had fought against it for a long time, but what could a mother do; and so on. She had already enlisted Arthur Clennam to back up this story, as a friend of the Meagles family; and she reinforced this by now involving the family itself for the same reason. In her first meeting with Mr. Meagles, she positioned herself as sadly but gracefully giving in to unavoidable pressure. With the utmost politeness and good manners, she pretended that it was she—not he—who had caused the trouble, and who ultimately capitulated; and that the sacrifice was hers—not his. She pulled the same trick, with the same polite skill, on Mrs. Meagles, as if a magician were forcing a card on that unsuspecting lady; and when her future daughter-in-law was introduced to her by her son, she said while embracing her, ‘My dear, what have you done to Henry that has enchanted him so!’ at the same time letting a few tears discreetly smudge the cosmetic powder on her nose; as a delicate but heartfelt sign that she was suffering greatly inside, despite the composed exterior she presented in response to her misfortune.
Among the friends of Mrs Gowan (who piqued herself at once on being Society, and on maintaining intimate and easy relations with that Power), Mrs Merdle occupied a front row. True, the Hampton Court Bohemians, without exception, turned up their noses at Merdle as an upstart; but they turned them down again, by falling flat on their faces to worship his wealth. In which compensating adjustment of their noses, they were pretty much like Treasury, Bar, and Bishop, and all the rest of them.
Among Mrs. Gowan's friends (who took pride in being part of Society and in keeping close and casual connections with that elite group), Mrs. Merdle held a prominent position. Admittedly, the Hampton Court Bohemians all looked down on Merdle as a pretender; however, they quickly changed their tune, prostrating themselves to admire his wealth. In this balancing act with their attitudes, they were quite similar to the Treasury, Bar, Bishop, and everyone else.
To Mrs Merdle, Mrs Gowan repaired on a visit of self-condolence, after having given the gracious consent aforesaid. She drove into town for the purpose in a one-horse carriage irreverently called at that period of English history, a pill-box. It belonged to a job-master in a small way, who drove it himself, and who jobbed it by the day, or hour, to most of the old ladies in Hampton Court Palace; but it was a point of ceremony, in that encampment, that the whole equipage should be tacitly regarded as the private property of the jobber for the time being, and that the job-master should betray personal knowledge of nobody but the jobber in possession. So the Circumlocution Barnacles, who were the largest job-masters in the universe, always pretended to know of no other job but the job immediately in hand.
Mrs. Gowan visited Mrs. Merdle for a little self-pity after getting the gracious nod mentioned earlier. She drove into town in a one-horse carriage, which at that time in English history was irreverently called a pill-box. It belonged to a small-time job-master who drove it himself and rented it out by the day or hour to most of the elderly ladies in Hampton Court Palace. However, it was an unspoken rule in that area that the entire setup should be considered the personal property of whoever was renting it at the time, and the job-master should pretend to know no one but the current renter. So, the Circumlocution Barnacles, the biggest job-masters in the world, always acted like they knew nothing beyond the job at hand.
Mrs Merdle was at home, and was in her nest of crimson and gold, with the parrot on a neighbouring stem watching her with his head on one side, as if he took her for another splendid parrot of a larger species. To whom entered Mrs Gowan, with her favourite green fan, which softened the light on the spots of bloom.
Mrs. Merdle was at home, nestled in her crimson and gold setup, with the parrot on a nearby branch watching her with its head tilted, as if it saw her as another magnificent parrot of a bigger variety. At that moment, Mrs. Gowan walked in, waving her favorite green fan, which softened the light on the blooming flowers.
‘My dear soul,’ said Mrs Gowan, tapping the back of her friend’s hand with this fan after a little indifferent conversation, ‘you are my only comfort. That affair of Henry’s that I told you of, is to take place. Now, how does it strike you? I am dying to know, because you represent and express Society so well.’
‘My dear,’ Mrs. Gowan said, tapping the back of her friend’s hand with her fan after a bit of uninterested conversation, ‘you are my only source of comfort. That thing with Henry that I mentioned is actually happening. What do you think about it? I'm eager to find out, because you represent and articulate Society so well.’
Mrs Merdle reviewed the bosom which Society was accustomed to review; and having ascertained that show-window of Mr Merdle’s and the London jewellers’ to be in good order, replied:
Mrs. Merdle looked over the display that Society usually examined, and after making sure that Mr. Merdle's showcase and the London jewelers' were looking good, she replied:
‘As to marriage on the part of a man, my dear, Society requires that he should retrieve his fortunes by marriage. Society requires that he should gain by marriage. Society requires that he should found a handsome establishment by marriage. Society does not see, otherwise, what he has to do with marriage. Bird, be quiet!’
‘When it comes to marriage for a man, my dear, society expects him to improve his situation through marriage. Society expects him to benefit from marriage. Society expects him to build a nice life through marriage. Otherwise, society doesn't see what marriage has to do with him. Bird, be quiet!’
Original
For the parrot on his cage above them, presiding over the conference as if he were a judge (and indeed he looked rather like one), had wound up the exposition with a shriek.
For the parrot in its cage above them, overseeing the meeting as if it were a judge (and it actually looked quite similar to one), had ended the presentation with a loud squawk.
‘Cases there are,’ said Mrs Merdle, delicately crooking the little finger of her favourite hand, and making her remarks neater by that neat action; ‘cases there are where a man is not young or elegant, and is rich, and has a handsome establishment already. Those are of a different kind. In such cases—’
‘There are situations,’ said Mrs. Merdle, delicately bending the little finger of her favorite hand, making her remarks look more polished with that tidy gesture; ‘there are situations where a man isn't young or charming, but is wealthy and already has a nice setup. Those are a different kind of situation. In such cases—’
Mrs Merdle shrugged her snowy shoulders and put her hand upon the jewel-stand, checking a little cough, as though to add, ‘why, a man looks out for this sort of thing, my dear.’ Then the parrot shrieked again, and she put up her glass to look at him, and said, ‘Bird! Do be quiet!’
Mrs. Merdle shrugged her white shoulders and placed her hand on the jewelry stand, stifling a slight cough, as if to say, ‘Well, a man keeps an eye out for this kind of thing, my dear.’ Then the parrot squawked again, and she raised her glasses to look at him and said, ‘Bird! Please be quiet!’
‘But, young men,’ resumed Mrs Merdle, ‘and by young men you know what I mean, my love—I mean people’s sons who have the world before them—they must place themselves in a better position towards Society by marriage, or Society really will not have any patience with their making fools of themselves. Dreadfully worldly all this sounds,’ said Mrs Merdle, leaning back in her nest and putting up her glass again, ‘does it not?’
‘But, young men,’ continued Mrs. Merdle, ‘and you know what I mean by young men, my dear—I’m talking about the sons of people who have the world ahead of them—they really need to improve their standing in society through marriage, or society simply won't tolerate them making fools of themselves. This sounds incredibly superficial,’ said Mrs. Merdle, leaning back in her chair and adjusting her glasses again, ‘doesn’t it?’
‘But it is true,’ said Mrs Gowan, with a highly moral air.
"But it's true," Mrs. Gowan said, adopting a very moralistic tone.
‘My dear, it is not to be disputed for a moment,’ returned Mrs Merdle; ‘because Society has made up its mind on the subject, and there is nothing more to be said. If we were in a more primitive state, if we lived under roofs of leaves, and kept cows and sheep and creatures instead of banker’s accounts (which would be delicious; my dear, I am pastoral to a degree, by nature), well and good. But we don’t live under leaves, and keep cows and sheep and creatures. I perfectly exhaust myself sometimes, in pointing out the distinction to Edmund Sparkler.’
"My dear, there’s no arguing about it," Mrs. Merdle replied. "Society has already made its decision on this matter, and there’s nothing more to discuss. If we were in a simpler time, living under roofs of leaves and tending to cows and sheep instead of dealing with bank accounts (which would be lovely; my dear, I have a natural inclination for the pastoral), that would be one thing. But we don’t live that way anymore. I often wear myself out trying to explain this difference to Edmund Sparkler."
Mrs Gowan, looking over her green fan when this young gentleman’s name was mentioned, replied as follows:
Mrs. Gowan, peeking over her green fan when this young man's name came up, replied as follows:
‘My love, you know the wretched state of the country—those unfortunate concessions of John Barnacle’s!—and you therefore know the reasons for my being as poor as Thingummy.’
‘My love, you know how terrible things are in the country—those unfortunate concessions by John Barnacle!—and you therefore understand why I’m as broke as can be.’
‘A church mouse?’ Mrs Merdle suggested with a smile.
‘A church mouse?’ Mrs. Merdle suggested with a smile.
‘I was thinking of the other proverbial church person—Job,’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘Either will do. It would be idle to disguise, consequently, that there is a wide difference between the position of your son and mine. I may add, too, that Henry has talent—’
‘I was thinking of the other well-known church person—Job,’ said Mrs. Gowan. ‘Either will work. It would be pointless to hide the fact that there’s a big difference between the situation of your son and mine. I can also mention that Henry has talent—’
‘Which Edmund certainly has not,’ said Mrs Merdle, with the greatest suavity.
‘Which Edmund definitely has not,’ Mrs. Merdle said, with the utmost charm.
‘—and that his talent, combined with disappointment,’ Mrs Gowan went on, ‘has led him into a pursuit which—ah dear me! You know, my dear. Such being Henry’s different position, the question is what is the most inferior class of marriage to which I can reconcile myself.’
‘—and that his talent, along with disappointment,’ Mrs. Gowan continued, ‘has pushed him into a pursuit that—oh dear! You know, my dear. Given Henry’s different situation, the question is what’s the lowest form of marriage I can accept.’
Mrs Merdle was so much engaged with the contemplation of her arms (beautiful-formed arms, and the very thing for bracelets), that she omitted to reply for a while. Roused at length by the silence, she folded the arms, and with admirable presence of mind looked her friend full in the face, and said interrogatively, ‘Ye-es? And then?’
Mrs. Merdle was so caught up in admiring her arms (which were beautifully shaped and perfect for bracelets) that she didn't respond for a while. Eventually, noticing the silence, she folded her arms and, with impressive composure, looked her friend straight in the face and said, "Yes? And then?"
‘And then, my dear,’ said Mrs Gowan not quite so sweetly as before, ‘I should be glad to hear what you have to say to it.’
‘And then, my dear,’ said Mrs. Gowan, not quite as sweetly as before, ‘I’d like to hear what you have to say about it.’
Here the parrot, who had been standing on one leg since he screamed last, burst into a fit of laughter, bobbed himself derisively up and down on both legs, and finished by standing on one leg again, and pausing for a reply, with his head as much awry as he could possibly twist it.
Here the parrot, who had been standing on one leg since he last screamed, burst into laughter, bounced mockingly up and down on both legs, and ended by standing on one leg again, pausing for a response, with his head twisted in the most awkward way possible.
‘Sounds mercenary to ask what the gentleman is to get with the lady,’ said Mrs Merdle; ‘but Society is perhaps a little mercenary, you know, my dear.’
“Seems a bit mercenary to ask what the guy is getting from the woman,” said Mrs. Merdle; “but Society is maybe a little mercenary, you know, my dear.”
‘From what I can make out,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘I believe I may say that Henry will be relieved from debt—’
‘From what I can tell,’ said Mrs. Gowan, ‘I think I can say that Henry will be free from debt—’
‘Much in debt?’ asked Mrs Merdle through her eyeglass.
"Deep in debt?" asked Mrs. Merdle through her eyeglass.
‘Why tolerably, I should think,’ said Mrs Gowan.
‘Well, I guess that’s reasonable,’ said Mrs. Gowan.
‘Meaning the usual thing; I understand; just so,’ Mrs Merdle observed in a comfortable sort of way.
‘Meaning the usual thing; I get it; right,’ Mrs. Merdle noted in a relaxed kind of way.
‘And that the father will make them an allowance of three hundred a-year, or perhaps altogether something more, which, in Italy-’
‘And that the father will give them an allowance of three hundred a year, or maybe even a bit more, which, in Italy-’
‘Oh! Going to Italy?’ said Mrs Merdle.
‘Oh! You’re going to Italy?’ said Mrs. Merdle.
‘For Henry to study. You need be at no loss to guess why, my dear. That dreadful Art—’
‘For Henry to study. You shouldn't be surprised to guess why, my dear. That awful Art—’
True. Mrs Merdle hastened to spare the feelings of her afflicted friend. She understood. Say no more!
True. Mrs. Merdle quickly tried to spare her friend's feelings. She got it. No more needs to be said!
‘And that,’ said Mrs Gowan, shaking her despondent head, ‘that’s all. That,’ repeated Mrs Gowan, furling her green fan for the moment, and tapping her chin with it (it was on the way to being a double chin; might be called a chin and a half at present), ‘that’s all! On the death of the old people, I suppose there will be more to come; but how it may be restricted or locked up, I don’t know. And as to that, they may live for ever. My dear, they are just the kind of people to do it.’
‘And that,’ said Mrs. Gowan, shaking her head in disappointment, ‘that’s all. That,’ repeated Mrs. Gowan, closing her green fan for a moment and tapping her chin with it (it was on its way to becoming a double chin; you could say it was a chin and a half at the moment), ‘that’s all! When the old folks pass away, I guess there’ll be more to deal with; but how it might be managed or held back, I have no idea. And as for that, they could live forever. My dear, they are exactly the type of people who would do that.’
Now, Mrs Merdle, who really knew her friend Society pretty well, and who knew what Society’s mothers were, and what Society’s daughters were, and what Society’s matrimonial market was, and how prices ruled in it, and what scheming and counter-scheming took place for the high buyers, and what bargaining and huckstering went on, thought in the depths of her capacious bosom that this was a sufficiently good catch. Knowing, however, what was expected of her, and perceiving the exact nature of the fiction to be nursed, she took it delicately in her arms, and put her required contribution of gloss upon it.
Now, Mrs. Merdle, who really knew her friend Society pretty well, and who understood what Society’s mothers were like, what Society’s daughters were like, what Society’s dating scene was like, and how the market worked, and what scheming and counter-scheming occurred for the top prospects, and what bargaining and haggling took place, thought deep down that this was a pretty good catch. However, knowing what was expected of her and grasping the exact nature of the pretense to be maintained, she handled it carefully and added the necessary touch of polish to it.
‘And that is all, my dear?’ said she, heaving a friendly sigh. ‘Well, well! The fault is not yours. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. You must exercise the strength of mind for which you are renowned, and make the best of it.’
‘And that’s it, my dear?’ she said, letting out a friendly sigh. ‘Well, well! It’s not your fault. You have nothing to blame yourself for. You need to show the mental strength you’re known for and make the best of it.’
‘The girl’s family have made,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘of course, the most strenuous endeavours to—as the lawyers say—to have and to hold Henry.’
‘The girl’s family has made,’ said Mrs. Gowan, ‘of course, the most intense efforts to—as the lawyers say—to have and to keep Henry.’
‘Of course they have, my dear,’ said Mrs Merdle.
‘Of course they have, my dear,’ said Mrs. Merdle.
‘I have persisted in every possible objection, and have worried myself morning, noon, and night, for means to detach Henry from the connection.’
‘I have fought against every possible objection and have stressed myself out morning, noon, and night, looking for ways to separate Henry from the relationship.’
‘No doubt you have, my dear,’ said Mrs Merdle.
‘No doubt you have, my dear,’ Mrs. Merdle said.
‘And all of no use. All has broken down beneath me. Now tell me, my love. Am I justified in at last yielding my most reluctant consent to Henry’s marrying among people not in Society; or, have I acted with inexcusable weakness?’
‘And it's all useless. Everything has fallen apart around me. Now tell me, my love. Am I justified in finally giving my most hesitant approval to Henry marrying someone outside of Society; or have I acted with unforgivable weakness?’
In answer to this direct appeal, Mrs Merdle assured Mrs Gowan (speaking as a Priestess of Society) that she was highly to be commended, that she was much to be sympathised with, that she had taken the highest of parts, and had come out of the furnace refined. And Mrs Gowan, who of course saw through her own threadbare blind perfectly, and who knew that Mrs Merdle saw through it perfectly, and who knew that Society would see through it perfectly, came out of this form, notwithstanding, as she had gone into it, with immense complacency and gravity.
In response to this straightforward request, Mrs. Merdle assured Mrs. Gowan (acting as a Priestess of Society) that she deserved high praise, that she was greatly to be sympathized with, that she had taken on the highest role, and had emerged from the ordeal refined. And Mrs. Gowan, who clearly recognized her own worn-out facade and knew that Mrs. Merdle saw right through it, and understood that Society would see through it as well, left this interaction, just like she entered it, with a grand sense of self-satisfaction and seriousness.
The conference was held at four or five o’clock in the afternoon, when all the region of Harley Street, Cavendish Square, was resonant of carriage-wheels and double-knocks. It had reached this point when Mr Merdle came home from his daily occupation of causing the British name to be more and more respected in all parts of the civilised globe capable of the appreciation of world-wide commercial enterprise and gigantic combinations of skill and capital. For, though nobody knew with the least precision what Mr Merdle’s business was, except that it was to coin money, these were the terms in which everybody defined it on all ceremonious occasions, and which it was the last new polite reading of the parable of the camel and the needle’s eye to accept without inquiry.
The conference took place around four or five in the afternoon, when the area around Harley Street and Cavendish Square was filled with the sound of carriage wheels and the banging of doors. It had reached this point when Mr. Merdle returned home from his daily job of making the British name more respected in every corner of the civilized world that valued global business and massive combinations of talent and money. Although no one really knew exactly what Mr. Merdle’s business was, apart from the fact that it involved making money, these were the terms everyone used to describe it at formal occasions, and it was the latest polite way to interpret the story of the camel and the needle’s eye without question.
For a gentleman who had this splendid work cut out for him, Mr Merdle looked a little common, and rather as if, in the course of his vast transactions, he had accidentally made an interchange of heads with some inferior spirit. He presented himself before the two ladies in the course of a dismal stroll through his mansion, which had no apparent object but escape from the presence of the chief butler.
For a guy with such a big job ahead of him, Mr. Merdle looked a bit ordinary, almost like he had swapped heads with someone much less impressive during his many dealings. He approached the two ladies while taking a gloomy walk through his mansion, which seemed to have no purpose other than to get away from the head butler.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, stopping short in confusion; ‘I didn’t know there was anybody here but the parrot.’
"I’m sorry," he said, suddenly stopping in confusion. "I didn’t realize there was anyone here except the parrot."
However, as Mrs Merdle said, ‘You can come in!’ and as Mrs Gowan said she was just going, and had already risen to take her leave, he came in, and stood looking out at a distant window, with his hands crossed under his uneasy coat-cuffs, clasping his wrists as if he were taking himself into custody. In this attitude he fell directly into a reverie from which he was only aroused by his wife’s calling to him from her ottoman, when they had been for some quarter of an hour alone.
However, as Mrs. Merdle said, “You can come in!” and as Mrs. Gowan mentioned she was about to leave and had already gotten up to say goodbye, he entered and stood looking out a distant window, his hands crossed under his uncomfortable coat cuffs, clasping his wrists as if he were apprehending himself. In this position, he drifted into a daydream from which he was only brought back by his wife calling to him from her ottoman, after they had been alone for about fifteen minutes.
‘Eh? Yes?’ said Mr Merdle, turning towards her. ‘What is it?’
‘Huh? Yeah?’ Mr. Merdle said, turning to her. ‘What’s up?’
‘What is it?’ repeated Mrs Merdle. ‘It is, I suppose, that you have not heard a word of my complaint.’
‘What is it?’ repeated Mrs. Merdle. ‘I guess it’s that you haven’t heard a single word of my complaint.’
‘Your complaint, Mrs Merdle?’ said Mr Merdle. ‘I didn’t know that you were suffering from a complaint. What complaint?’
‘Your complaint, Mrs. Merdle?’ said Mr. Merdle. ‘I didn’t know you had any issues. What’s bothering you?’
‘A complaint of you,’ said Mrs Merdle.
‘I have a complaint about you,’ said Mrs. Merdle.
‘Oh! A complaint of me,’ said Mr Merdle. ‘What is the—what have I—what may you have to complain of in me, Mrs Merdle?’
‘Oh! A complaint about me,’ said Mr. Merdle. ‘What is it—what have I—what could you have to complain about regarding me, Mrs. Merdle?’
In his withdrawing, abstracted, pondering way, it took him some time to shape this question. As a kind of faint attempt to convince himself that he was the master of the house, he concluded by presenting his forefinger to the parrot, who expressed his opinion on that subject by instantly driving his bill into it.
In his withdrawn, thoughtful manner, it took him a while to frame this question. As a subtle way to convince himself that he was in charge of the house, he ended by pointing his index finger at the parrot, who quickly expressed his thoughts on that matter by pecking at it.
‘You were saying, Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, with his wounded finger in his mouth, ‘that you had a complaint against me?’
‘You were saying, Mrs. Merdle,’ said Mr. Merdle, with his injured finger in his mouth, ‘that you had a complaint about me?’
‘A complaint which I could scarcely show the justice of more emphatically, than by having to repeat it,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘I might as well have stated it to the wall. I had far better have stated it to the bird. He would at least have screamed.’
‘A complaint that I could hardly emphasize more than by having to repeat it,’ said Mrs. Merdle. ‘I might as well have told it to the wall. I would’ve been better off telling it to the bird. At least he would have screamed.’
‘You don’t want me to scream, Mrs Merdle, I suppose,’ said Mr Merdle, taking a chair.
‘You don’t want me to scream, Mrs. Merdle, I guess,’ said Mr. Merdle, taking a seat.
‘Indeed I don’t know,’ retorted Mrs Merdle, ‘but that you had better do that, than be so moody and distraught. One would at least know that you were sensible of what was going on around you.’
‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ replied Mrs. Merdle, ‘but you should probably do that instead of being so gloomy and upset. At least then, we’d know you were aware of what’s happening around you.’
‘A man might scream, and yet not be that, Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, heavily.
‘A man might scream, and yet not be that, Mrs. Merdle,’ said Mr. Merdle, heavily.
‘And might be dogged, as you are at present, without screaming,’ returned Mrs Merdle. ‘That’s very true. If you wish to know the complaint I make against you, it is, in so many plain words, that you really ought not to go into Society unless you can accommodate yourself to Society.’
‘And you could be as stubborn as you are now, without shouting,’ Mrs. Merdle replied. ‘That’s absolutely correct. If you want to know what I’m upset about, it’s simply this: you shouldn’t be part of Society unless you can fit in with it.’
Mr Merdle, so twisting his hands into what hair he had upon his head that he seemed to lift himself up by it as he started out of his chair, cried:
Mr. Merdle, so twisting his hands into whatever hair he had on his head that it seemed he was lifting himself up by it as he got out of his chair, shouted:
‘Why, in the name of all the infernal powers, Mrs Merdle, who does more for Society than I do? Do you see these premises, Mrs Merdle? Do you see this furniture, Mrs Merdle? Do you look in the glass and see yourself, Mrs Merdle? Do you know the cost of all this, and who it’s all provided for? And yet will you tell me that I oughtn’t to go into Society? I, who shower money upon it in this way? I, who might always be said—to—to—to harness myself to a watering-cart full of money, and go about saturating Society every day of my life.’
‘Why, in the name of all that’s hellish, Mrs. Merdle, who does more for Society than I do? Do you see this place, Mrs. Merdle? Do you see this furniture, Mrs. Merdle? Do you look in the mirror and see yourself, Mrs. Merdle? Do you know the cost of all this and who it’s all for? And yet will you tell me that I shouldn’t be part of Society? I, who give it money like this? I, who might as well be strapped to a money-filled watering cart, going around soaking Society every day of my life?’
‘Pray, don’t be violent, Mr Merdle,’ said Mrs Merdle.
“Please, don’t be violent, Mr. Merdle,” said Mrs. Merdle.
‘Violent?’ said Mr Merdle. ‘You are enough to make me desperate. You don’t know half of what I do to accommodate Society. You don’t know anything of the sacrifices I make for it.’
“Violent?” said Mr. Merdle. “You’re driving me to despair. You have no idea what I do to please Society. You don’t know anything about the sacrifices I make for it.”
‘I know,’ returned Mrs Merdle, ‘that you receive the best in the land. I know that you move in the whole Society of the country. And I believe I know (indeed, not to make any ridiculous pretence about it, I know I know) who sustains you in it, Mr Merdle.’
“I know,” replied Mrs. Merdle, “that you get the best of the best. I know that you’re part of the entire Society of the country. And I believe I know (not to pretend otherwise, I really do know) who supports you in it, Mr. Merdle.”
‘Mrs Merdle,’ retorted that gentleman, wiping his dull red and yellow face, ‘I know that as well as you do. If you were not an ornament to Society, and if I was not a benefactor to Society, you and I would never have come together. When I say a benefactor to it, I mean a person who provides it with all sorts of expensive things to eat and drink and look at. But, to tell me that I am not fit for it after all I have done for it—after all I have done for it,’ repeated Mr Merdle, with a wild emphasis that made his wife lift up her eyelids, ‘after all—all!—to tell me I have no right to mix with it after all, is a pretty reward.’
“Mrs. Merdle,” he shot back, wiping his plain red and yellow face, “I know that just as well as you do. If you weren’t a status symbol in Society, and if I wasn’t a patron of Society, we wouldn’t have crossed paths. When I say a patron, I mean someone who provides it with all kinds of fancy food, drinks, and entertainment. But to tell me I’m not fit for it after everything I’ve done for it—after everything I’ve done for it,” Mr. Merdle repeated, with a frantic intensity that made his wife raise her eyebrows, “after all—all!—to tell me I have no right to be part of it after everything is quite the slap in the face.”
‘I say,’ answered Mrs Merdle composedly, ‘that you ought to make yourself fit for it by being more degage, and less preoccupied. There is a positive vulgarity in carrying your business affairs about with you as you do.’
"I say," replied Mrs. Merdle calmly, "that you should make yourself more relaxed and less distracted to fit in. There's something quite tacky about how you carry your business around with you like this."
‘How do I carry them about, Mrs Merdle?’ asked Mr Merdle.
‘How do I carry them around, Mrs. Merdle?’ asked Mr. Merdle.
‘How do you carry them about?’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘Look at yourself in the glass.’
‘How do you carry them around?’ Mrs. Merdle asked. ‘Look at yourself in the mirror.’
Mr Merdle involuntarily turned his eyes in the direction of the nearest mirror, and asked, with a slow determination of his turbid blood to his temples, whether a man was to be called to account for his digestion?
Mr. Merdle involuntarily looked toward the nearest mirror and asked, with a sluggish rush of blood to his temples, whether a man could be held accountable for his digestion?
‘You have a physician,’ said Mrs Merdle.
'You have a doctor,' said Mrs. Merdle.
‘He does me no good,’ said Mr Merdle.
‘He doesn’t do me any good,’ said Mr. Merdle.
Mrs Merdle changed her ground.
Mrs. Merdle changed her mind.
‘Besides,’ said she, ‘your digestion is nonsense. I don’t speak of your digestion. I speak of your manner.’
"Besides," she said, "your digestion is irrelevant. I'm not talking about your digestion. I'm talking about your attitude."
‘Mrs Merdle,’ returned her husband, ‘I look to you for that. You supply manner, and I supply money.’
‘Mrs. Merdle,’ her husband replied, ‘I count on you for that. You provide the style, and I provide the funds.’
‘I don’t expect you,’ said Mrs Merdle, reposing easily among her cushions, ‘to captivate people. I don’t want you to take any trouble upon yourself, or to try to be fascinating. I simply request you to care about nothing—or seem to care about nothing—as everybody else does.’
‘I don’t expect you,’ said Mrs. Merdle, reclining comfortably among her cushions, ‘to charm people. I don’t want you to stress yourself or try to be interesting. I just ask you to not care about anything—or to act like you don’t care about anything—like everyone else does.’
‘Do I ever say I care about anything?’ asked Mr Merdle.
‘Do I ever say I care about anything?’ Mr. Merdle asked.
‘Say? No! Nobody would attend to you if you did. But you show it.’
‘Say? No! Nobody would pay attention to you if you did. But you make it obvious.’
‘Show what? What do I show?’ demanded Mr Merdle hurriedly.
‘Show what? What am I supposed to show?’ demanded Mr. Merdle hurriedly.
‘I have already told you. You show that you carry your business cares an projects about, instead of leaving them in the City, or wherever else they belong to,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘Or seeming to. Seeming would be quite enough: I ask no more. Whereas you couldn’t be more occupied with your day’s calculations and combinations than you habitually show yourself to be, if you were a carpenter.’
‘I already told you. You can tell that you bring your work and projects with you instead of leaving them in the City or wherever they belong,’ said Mrs. Merdle. ‘Or at least pretending to. Pretending would be more than enough; I don’t ask for anything more. Yet you couldn’t be more focused on your daily calculations and plans than you usually let on, even if you were a carpenter.’
‘A carpenter!’ repeated Mr Merdle, checking something like a groan. ‘I shouldn’t so much mind being a carpenter, Mrs Merdle.’
‘A carpenter!’ repeated Mr. Merdle, suppressing what sounded like a groan. ‘I wouldn’t actually mind being a carpenter, Mrs. Merdle.’
‘And my complaint is,’ pursued the lady, disregarding the low remark, ‘that it is not the tone of Society, and that you ought to correct it, Mr Merdle. If you have any doubt of my judgment, ask even Edmund Sparkler.’ The door of the room had opened, and Mrs Merdle now surveyed the head of her son through her glass. ‘Edmund; we want you here.’
‘And my issue is,’ the lady continued, ignoring the quiet comment, ‘that it’s not how Society should act, and you need to change it, Mr. Merdle. If you doubt my judgment, just ask Edmund Sparkler.’ The door of the room had opened, and Mrs. Merdle now looked at her son’s head through her glass. ‘Edmund; we need you here.’
Mr Sparkler, who had merely put in his head and looked round the room without entering (as if he were searching the house for that young lady with no nonsense about her), upon this followed up his head with his body, and stood before them. To whom, in a few easy words adapted to his capacity, Mrs Merdle stated the question at issue.
Mr. Sparkler, who had just popped his head in and glanced around the room without actually stepping inside (as if he were on the hunt for that straightforward young lady), then followed up by bringing in his body and stood in front of them. To him, in a few simple words that suited his understanding, Mrs. Merdle explained the issue at hand.
The young gentleman, after anxiously feeling his shirt-collar as if it were his pulse and he were hypochondriacal, observed, ‘That he had heard it noticed by fellers.’
The young man, nervously touching his collar as if it were his pulse and he were a worrier, remarked, ‘He had heard guys mention it.’
‘Edmund Sparkler has heard it noticed,’ said Mrs Merdle, with languid triumph. ‘Why, no doubt everybody has heard it noticed!’ Which in truth was no unreasonable inference; seeing that Mr Sparkler would probably be the last person, in any assemblage of the human species, to receive an impression from anything that passed in his presence.
‘Edmund Sparkler has heard people talking about it,’ said Mrs. Merdle, with lazy triumph. ‘Well, I’m sure everyone has heard about it!’ Which wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion; considering that Mr. Sparkler would likely be the last person, in any group of people, to notice anything happening around him.
‘And Edmund Sparkler will tell you, I dare say,’ said Mrs Merdle, waving her favourite hand towards her husband, ‘how he has heard it noticed.’
‘And Edmund Sparkler will tell you, I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Merdle, waving her favorite hand towards her husband, ‘about how he has heard it mentioned.’
‘I couldn’t,’ said Mr Sparkler, after feeling his pulse as before, ‘couldn’t undertake to say what led to it—‘cause memory desperate loose. But being in company with the brother of a doosed fine gal—well educated too—with no biggodd nonsense about her—at the period alluded to—’
‘I couldn’t,’ said Mr. Sparkler, after checking his pulse like before, ‘couldn’t say what caused it—my memory’s pretty hazy. But being with the brother of an incredibly nice girl—very well educated too—without any of that nonsense about her—at the time in question—’
‘There! Never mind the sister,’ remarked Mrs Merdle, a little impatiently. ‘What did the brother say?’
‘There! Forget about the sister,’ Mrs. Merdle said, a bit impatiently. ‘What did the brother say?’
‘Didn’t say a word, ma’am,’ answered Mr Sparkler. ‘As silent a feller as myself. Equally hard up for a remark.’
"Didn't say a word, ma'am," replied Mr. Sparkler. "Just as quiet as I am. equally stuck for something to say."
‘Somebody said something,’ returned Mrs Merdle. ‘Never mind who it was.’
‘Someone said something,’ replied Mrs. Merdle. ‘It doesn’t matter who it was.’
(‘Assure you I don’t in the least,’ said Mr Sparkler.)
('I assure you, I really don't at all,' said Mr. Sparkler.)
‘But tell us what it was.’
‘But please tell us what it was.’
Mr Sparkler referred to his pulse again, and put himself through some severe mental discipline before he replied:
Mr. Sparkler checked his pulse again and put himself through some intense mental training before he responded:
‘Fellers referring to my Governor—expression not my own—occasionally compliment my Governor in a very handsome way on being immensely rich and knowing—perfect phenomenon of Buyer and Banker and that—but say the Shop sits heavily on him. Say he carried the Shop about, on his back rather—like Jew clothesmen with too much business.’
‘Guys talking about my Governor—that’s not a phrase I’d use—sometimes praise him in a really flattering way for being incredibly wealthy and knowledgeable—an absolute example of Buyer and Banker and all that—but they say the Shop weighs him down. They say he carries the Shop on his back, kind of like Jewish tailors who have too much business.’
‘Which,’ said Mrs Merdle, rising, with her floating drapery about her, ‘is exactly my complaint. Edmund, give me your arm up-stairs.’
‘Which,’ said Mrs. Merdle, standing up with her flowing clothing around her, ‘is exactly my complaint. Edmund, give me your arm upstairs.’
Mr Merdle, left alone to meditate on a better conformation of himself to Society, looked out of nine windows in succession, and appeared to see nine wastes of space. When he had thus entertained himself he went down-stairs, and looked intently at all the carpets on the ground-floor; and then came up-stairs again, and looked intently at all the carpets on the first-floor; as if they were gloomy depths, in unison with his oppressed soul. Through all the rooms he wandered, as he always did, like the last person on earth who had any business to approach them. Let Mrs Merdle announce, with all her might, that she was at Home ever so many nights in a season, she could not announce more widely and unmistakably than Mr Merdle did that he was never at home.
Mr. Merdle, left alone to think about how to fit in better with Society, looked out of nine windows in a row and seemed to see nothing but empty space. After entertaining himself this way, he went downstairs and examined all the carpets on the ground floor closely; then he went back upstairs and did the same with the carpets on the first floor, as if they were dark depths that matched his troubled soul. He strolled through all the rooms, as he always did, like the last person on earth who had any business being there. No matter how loudly Mrs. Merdle announced that she was home on many nights during the season, she couldn’t make it clearer or more obvious than Mr. Merdle did that he was never home.
At last he met the chief butler, the sight of which splendid retainer always finished him. Extinguished by this great creature, he sneaked to his dressing-room, and there remained shut up until he rode out to dinner, with Mrs Merdle, in her own handsome chariot. At dinner, he was envied and flattered as a being of might, was Treasuried, Barred, and Bishoped, as much as he would; and an hour after midnight came home alone, and being instantly put out again in his own hall, like a rushlight, by the chief butler, went sighing to bed.
At last he met the head butler, whose impressive presence always overwhelmed him. Sensing the intimidation from this formidable figure, he slipped away to his dressing room and stayed there until it was time to leave for dinner with Mrs. Merdle in her elegant carriage. During dinner, he was the center of envy and flattery, treated like someone of great importance, honored and celebrated as much as he liked. However, an hour after midnight, he returned home alone, and as soon as he stepped into his own hallway, he was quickly dismissed like a flickering candle by the head butler, which left him sighing as he went to bed.
CHAPTER 34. A Shoal of Barnacles
Mr Henry Gowan and the dog were established frequenters of the cottage, and the day was fixed for the wedding. There was to be a convocation of Barnacles on the occasion, in order that that very high and very large family might shed as much lustre on the marriage as so dim an event was capable of receiving.
Mr. Henry Gowan and the dog were regular visitors at the cottage, and the date for the wedding was set. A gathering of the Barnacles was planned for the event so that this prominent and well-connected family could add some shine to a marriage that was otherwise quite ordinary.
To have got the whole Barnacle family together would have been impossible for two reasons. Firstly, because no building could have held all the members and connections of that illustrious house. Secondly, because wherever there was a square yard of ground in British occupation under the sun or moon, with a public post upon it, sticking to that post was a Barnacle. No intrepid navigator could plant a flag-staff upon any spot of earth, and take possession of it in the British name, but to that spot of earth, so soon as the discovery was known, the Circumlocution Office sent out a Barnacle and a despatch-box. Thus the Barnacles were all over the world, in every direction—despatch-boxing the compass.
Getting the entire Barnacle family together would have been impossible for two reasons. First, no building could hold all the members and relatives of that famous family. Second, wherever there was even a square yard of land under British control, with a public post on it, a Barnacle would be clinging to that post. No brave navigator could plant a flagpole on any piece of land and claim it for Britain without that spot soon being visited by the Circumlocution Office, which would send a Barnacle and a dispatch box to it. So, the Barnacles were spread all over the world in every direction—dispatch-boxing their way around the globe.
But, while the so-potent art of Prospero himself would have failed in summoning the Barnacles from every speck of ocean and dry land on which there was nothing (except mischief) to be done and anything to be pocketed, it was perfectly feasible to assemble a good many Barnacles. This Mrs Gowan applied herself to do; calling on Mr Meagles frequently with new additions to the list, and holding conferences with that gentleman when he was not engaged (as he generally was at this period) in examining and paying the debts of his future son-in-law, in the apartment of scales and scoop.
But, while even Prospero's powerful magic would have struggled to summon the Barnacles from every corner of the ocean and dry land—where there was nothing to do but cause trouble and take what they could—it was definitely possible to gather quite a few Barnacles. Mrs. Gowan worked hard at this, often visiting Mr. Meagles with new names to add to the list and holding meetings with him when he wasn't busy (which he usually was at this time) checking and settling the debts of his future son-in-law in the room filled with scales and scoops.
One marriage guest there was, in reference to whose presence Mr Meagles felt a nearer interest and concern than in the attendance of the most elevated Barnacle expected; though he was far from insensible of the honour of having such company. This guest was Clennam. But Clennam had made a promise he held sacred, among the trees that summer night, and, in the chivalry of his heart, regarded it as binding him to many implied obligations. In forgetfulness of himself, and delicate service to her on all occasions, he was never to fail; to begin it, he answered Mr Meagles cheerfully, ‘I shall come, of course.’
One guest at the wedding caught Mr. Meagles' attention more than even the most important Barnacle invited, even though he appreciated the honor of having such company. This guest was Clennam. However, Clennam had made a promise that he held dear among the trees that summer night, and, with his noble heart, he saw it as binding him to many unspoken duties. He was always to put her needs first and offer thoughtful support, never forgetting himself. To start off, he responded to Mr. Meagles happily, “I’ll be there, of course.”
His partner, Daniel Doyce, was something of a stumbling-block in Mr Meagles’s way, the worthy gentleman being not at all clear in his own anxious mind but that the mingling of Daniel with official Barnacleism might produce some explosive combination, even at a marriage breakfast. The national offender, however, lightened him of his uneasiness by coming down to Twickenham to represent that he begged, with the freedom of an old friend, and as a favour to one, that he might not be invited. ‘For,’ said he, ‘as my business with this set of gentlemen was to do a public duty and a public service, and as their business with me was to prevent it by wearing my soul out, I think we had better not eat and drink together with a show of being of one mind.’ Mr Meagles was much amused by his friend’s oddity; and patronised him with a more protecting air of allowance than usual, when he rejoined: ‘Well, well, Dan, you shall have your own crotchety way.’
His partner, Daniel Doyce, was a bit of an obstacle for Mr. Meagles, who was quite anxious and uncertain that mixing Daniel with the official Barnacle crowd could lead to some awkward situation, even at a wedding breakfast. However, the national offender eased his worries by coming down to Twickenham to request, as a friend and as a favor, that he not be invited. "Because," he said, "my dealings with this group of gentlemen were to fulfill a public duty and service, and their dealings with me were to hinder that by wearing me down, so I think it’s best we don’t pretend to be on the same page while eating and drinking together." Mr. Meagles found his friend's eccentricity quite amusing and treated him with a more protective attitude than usual when he responded, "Alright, Dan, you can have your quirky way."
To Mr Henry Gowan, as the time approached, Clennam tried to convey by all quiet and unpretending means, that he was frankly and disinterestedly desirous of tendering him any friendship he would accept. Mr Gowan treated him in return with his usual ease, and with his usual show of confidence, which was no confidence at all.
To Mr. Henry Gowan, as the time got closer, Clennam tried to express through all subtle and unassuming ways that he genuinely wanted to offer him any friendship he would be willing to accept. Mr. Gowan responded with his typical casualness and his usual display of confidence, which actually wasn’t confidence at all.
‘You see, Clennam,’ he happened to remark in the course of conversation one day, when they were walking near the Cottage within a week of the marriage, ‘I am a disappointed man. That you know already.’
‘You see, Clennam,’ he happened to say during a conversation one day, when they were walking near the Cottage a week after the wedding, ‘I am a disappointed man. You already know that.’
‘Upon my word,’ said Clennam, a little embarrassed, ‘I scarcely know how.’
"Honestly," Clennam said, feeling a bit awkward, "I hardly know how."
‘Why,’ returned Gowan, ‘I belong to a clan, or a clique, or a family, or a connection, or whatever you like to call it, that might have provided for me in any one of fifty ways, and that took it into its head not to do it at all. So here I am, a poor devil of an artist.’
‘Why,’ replied Gowan, ‘I’m part of a clan, or a group, or a family, or whatever you want to call it, that could have supported me in any number of ways, but instead decided not to help me at all. So here I am, just a struggling artist.’
Clennam was beginning, ‘But on the other hand—’ when Gowan took him up.
Clennam was starting to say, ‘But on the other hand—’ when Gowan interrupted him.
‘Yes, yes, I know. I have the good fortune of being beloved by a beautiful and charming girl whom I love with all my heart.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. I’m lucky to be loved by a beautiful and charming girl whom I love with all my heart.’
(‘Is there much of it?’ Clennam thought. And as he thought it, felt ashamed of himself.)
(‘Is there a lot of it?’ Clennam thought. And as he thought this, he felt ashamed of himself.)
‘And of finding a father-in-law who is a capital fellow and a liberal good old boy. Still, I had other prospects washed and combed into my childish head when it was washed and combed for me, and I took them to a public school when I washed and combed it for myself, and I am here without them, and thus I am a disappointed man.’
‘And of finding a father-in-law who is a great guy and a generous old chap. Still, I had other expectations drilled into my head when it was groomed for me, and I took those to a public school when I took care of it myself, and now I'm here without them, and so I am a disappointed man.’
Clennam thought (and as he thought it, again felt ashamed of himself), was this notion of being disappointed in life, an assertion of station which the bridegroom brought into the family as his property, having already carried it detrimentally into his pursuit? And was it a hopeful or a promising thing anywhere?
Clennam thought (and as he thought it, he felt ashamed of himself again), was this idea of being let down by life something that the groom claimed as his own when he joined the family, having already brought it negatively into his ambitions? And was it a hopeful or promising thing anywhere?
‘Not bitterly disappointed, I think,’ he said aloud.
"Not extremely disappointed, I think," he said out loud.
‘Hang it, no; not bitterly,’ laughed Gowan. ‘My people are not worth that—though they are charming fellows, and I have the greatest affection for them. Besides, it’s pleasant to show them that I can do without them, and that they may all go to the Devil. And besides, again, most men are disappointed in life, somehow or other, and influenced by their disappointment. But it’s a dear good world, and I love it!’
“Come on, no; not bitterly,” Gowan laughed. “My people aren’t worth that—although they’re great guys, and I care about them a lot. Plus, it’s nice to show them that I can get by without them, and they can all go to hell. And let’s be honest, most people end up disappointed in life, one way or another, and that shapes how they feel. But it’s a truly wonderful world, and I love it!”
‘It lies fair before you now,’ said Arthur.
“It’s right there in front of you now,” Arthur said.
‘Fair as this summer river,’ cried the other, with enthusiasm, ‘and by Jove I glow with admiration of it, and with ardour to run a race in it. It’s the best of old worlds! And my calling! The best of old callings, isn’t it?’
‘As beautiful as this summer river,’ shouted the other excitedly, ‘and honestly, I’m filled with admiration for it, and I have such a strong desire to race in it. It’s the best of the old worlds! And my profession! The best of the old professions, right?’
‘Full of interest and ambition, I conceive,’ said Clennam.
“Full of interest and ambition, I think,” said Clennam.
‘And imposition,’ added Gowan, laughing; ‘we won’t leave out the imposition. I hope I may not break down in that; but there, my being a disappointed man may show itself. I may not be able to face it out gravely enough. Between you and me, I think there is some danger of my being just enough soured not to be able to do that.’
"And the pressure," Gowan added with a laugh; "we can't skip the pressure. I hope I won't crack under it; but then again, being a disappointed man may show through. I might not be able to handle it seriously enough. Between you and me, I think there's a real chance that I'm a bit too jaded to pull that off."
‘To do what?’ asked Clennam.
“Do what?” asked Clennam.
‘To keep it up. To help myself in my turn, as the man before me helps himself in his, and pass the bottle of smoke. To keep up the pretence as to labour, and study, and patience, and being devoted to my art, and giving up many solitary days to it, and abandoning many pleasures for it, and living in it, and all the rest of it—in short, to pass the bottle of smoke according to rule.’
‘To keep it going. To help myself in the same way the guy before me helps himself, and to share the smoke. To maintain the illusion of hard work, and study, and patience, and being committed to my art, and sacrificing many lonely days for it, and giving up lots of pleasures for it, and living in it, and all that—basically, to share the smoke according to the rules.’
‘But it is well for a man to respect his own vocation, whatever it is; and to think himself bound to uphold it, and to claim for it the respect it deserves; is it not?’ Arthur reasoned. ‘And your vocation, Gowan, may really demand this suit and service. I confess I should have thought that all Art did.’
‘But it's important for a person to value their own profession, no matter what it is; and to believe they have a responsibility to support it and to demand the respect it deserves; isn't that right?’ Arthur argued. ‘And your profession, Gowan, might actually call for this suit and service. Honestly, I would have thought that was true for all Art.’
‘What a good fellow you are, Clennam!’ exclaimed the other, stopping to look at him, as if with irrepressible admiration. ‘What a capital fellow! You have never been disappointed. That’s easy to see.’
‘What a great guy you are, Clennam!’ the other exclaimed, stopping to look at him with obvious admiration. ‘What an amazing guy! You have never been let down. That’s clear to see.’
It would have been so cruel if he had meant it, that Clennam firmly resolved to believe he did not mean it. Gowan, without pausing, laid his hand upon his shoulder, and laughingly and lightly went on:
It would have been so cruel if he really meant it, so Clennam made a strong decision to believe he didn't. Gowan, without hesitating, put his hand on his shoulder and continued on, laughing and casually.
‘Clennam, I don’t like to dispel your generous visions, and I would give any money (if I had any), to live in such a rose-coloured mist. But what I do in my trade, I do to sell. What all we fellows do, we do to sell. If we didn’t want to sell it for the most we can get for it, we shouldn’t do it. Being work, it has to be done; but it’s easily enough done. All the rest is hocus-pocus. Now here’s one of the advantages, or disadvantages, of knowing a disappointed man. You hear the truth.’
‘Clennam, I don’t want to burst your hopeful bubble, and I’d give anything (if I had it) to live in that kind of dreamy world. But what I do for a living, I do to sell. Everything we guys do is for selling. If we didn’t intend to sell it for the highest price possible, we wouldn’t bother. It’s work, so it needs to be done; but honestly, it’s pretty straightforward. The rest is just smoke and mirrors. Now, here’s one of the upsides, or downsides, of knowing someone who’s been let down. You get to hear the truth.’
Whatever he had heard, and whether it deserved that name or another, it sank into Clennam’s mind. It so took root there, that he began to fear Henry Gowan would always be a trouble to him, and that so far he had gained little or nothing from the dismissal of Nobody, with all his inconsistencies, anxieties, and contradictions. He found a contest still always going on in his breast between his promise to keep Gowan in none but good aspects before the mind of Mr Meagles, and his enforced observation of Gowan in aspects that had no good in them. Nor could he quite support his own conscientious nature against misgivings that he distorted and discoloured himself, by reminding himself that he never sought those discoveries, and that he would have avoided them with willingness and great relief. For he never could forget what he had been; and he knew that he had once disliked Gowan for no better reason than that he had come in his way.
Whatever he had heard, and whether it deserved that name or another, it sank into Clennam’s mind. It took such root there that he began to worry Henry Gowan would always be a problem for him, and that so far he had gained little or nothing from the dismissal of Nobody, with all his inconsistencies, anxieties, and contradictions. He found there was still a struggle in his heart between his promise to present Gowan in only a positive light to Mr. Meagles and his enforced observation of Gowan in ways that had no good in them. Nor could he quite convince his own conscientious nature against doubts that he twisted and distorted himself, by reminding himself that he never sought those discoveries, and that he would have willingly avoided them. For he could never forget what he had been; and he knew that he had once disliked Gowan for no better reason than that he had gotten in his way.
Harassed by these thoughts, he now began to wish the marriage over, Gowan and his young wife gone, and himself left to fulfil his promise, and discharge the generous function he had accepted. This last week was, in truth, an uneasy interval for the whole house. Before Pet, or before Gowan, Mr Meagles was radiant; but Clennam had more than once found him alone, with his view of the scales and scoop much blurred, and had often seen him look after the lovers, in the garden or elsewhere when he was not seen by them, with the old clouded face on which Gowan had fallen like a shadow. In the arrangement of the house for the great occasion, many little reminders of the old travels of the father and mother and daughter had to be disturbed and passed from hand to hand; and sometimes, in the midst of these mute witnesses, to the life they had had together, even Pet herself would yield to lamenting and weeping. Mrs Meagles, the blithest and busiest of mothers, went about singing and cheering everybody; but she, honest soul, had her flights into store rooms, where she would cry until her eyes were red, and would then come out, attributing that appearance to pickled onions and pepper, and singing clearer than ever. Mrs Tickit, finding no balsam for a wounded mind in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, suffered greatly from low spirits, and from moving recollections of Minnie’s infancy. When the latter was powerful with her, she usually sent up secret messages importing that she was not in parlour condition as to her attire, and that she solicited a sight of ‘her child’ in the kitchen; there, she would bless her child’s face, and bless her child’s heart, and hug her child, in a medley of tears and congratulations, chopping-boards, rolling-pins, and pie-crust, with the tenderness of an old attached servant, which is a very pretty tenderness indeed.
Harassed by these thoughts, he now wished the marriage to be over, with Gowan and his young wife gone, leaving him to fulfill his promise and take on the generous role he had accepted. This last week was, in fact, an uncomfortable time for the whole house. In front of Pet or Gowan, Mr. Meagles was radiant; but Clennam had caught him alone more than once, his perspective on things clouded, and had often seen him watching the couple in the garden or elsewhere when they didn’t notice, with the same troubled expression Gowan had cast over him like a shadow. In preparing the house for the big event, many little reminders of the past travels of the father, mother, and daughter had to be rearranged and passed around; and sometimes, amidst these silent reminders of their shared life, even Pet would break down in sadness and tears. Mrs. Meagles, the happiest and most active of mothers, walked around singing and uplifting everyone; but she, bless her heart, would sneak into storage rooms to cry until her eyes were red, then come out claiming her appearance was due to pickled onions and pepper, singing even more cheerfully than before. Mrs. Tickit, finding no cure for her heavy heart in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, suffered greatly from low spirits and memories of Minnie’s childhood. When those memories overwhelmed her, she would secretly send messages indicating she wasn’t dressed to be seen in the parlor and wanted to see “her child” in the kitchen; there, she would bless her child's face, bless her child's heart, and hug her child, amidst tears and congratulations, surrounded by chopping boards, rolling pins, and pie crust, with the affection of a devoted old servant, which is a very lovely kind of tenderness indeed.
But all days come that are to be; and the marriage-day was to be, and it came; and with it came all the Barnacles who were bidden to the feast.
But all days that are meant to be will come; and the wedding day was meant to be, and it arrived; and with it came all the Barnacles who were invited to the celebration.
There was Mr Tite Barnacle, from the Circumlocution Office, and Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, with the expensive Mrs Tite Barnacle nee Stiltstalking, who made the Quarter Days so long in coming, and the three expensive Miss Tite Barnacles, double-loaded with accomplishments and ready to go off, and yet not going off with the sharpness of flash and bang that might have been expected, but rather hanging fire. There was Barnacle junior, also from the Circumlocution Office, leaving the Tonnage of the country, which he was somehow supposed to take under his protection, to look after itself, and, sooth to say, not at all impairing the efficiency of its protection by leaving it alone. There was the engaging Young Barnacle, deriving from the sprightly side of the family, also from the Circumlocution Office, gaily and agreeably helping the occasion along, and treating it, in his sparkling way, as one of the official forms and fees of the Church Department of How not to do it. There were three other Young Barnacles from three other offices, insipid to all the senses, and terribly in want of seasoning, doing the marriage as they would have ‘done’ the Nile, Old Rome, the new singer, or Jerusalem.
There was Mr. Tite Barnacle from the Circumlocution Office and Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, along with his expensive wife Mrs. Tite Barnacle née Stiltstalking, who made the Quarter Days seem to take forever, and the three costly Miss Tite Barnacles, loaded with skills and ready to shine, yet not making quite the splash one might expect; instead, they seemed to be holding back. There was Barnacle junior, also from the Circumlocution Office, leaving the country's Tonnage, which he was supposed to oversee, to take care of itself, and honestly, not hurting its protection at all by leaving it alone. There was the charming Young Barnacle, coming from the lively side of the family, also from the Circumlocution Office, cheerfully helping the event along and treating it, in his entertaining way, as one of the official rituals and fees of the Church Department of How Not to Do It. There were three more Young Barnacles from three different offices, bland to all the senses, and desperately lacking flavor, experiencing the wedding as they would have tackled the Nile, Old Rome, the new singer, or Jerusalem.
But there was greater game than this. There was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle himself, in the odour of Circumlocution—with the very smell of Despatch-Boxes upon him. Yes, there was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, who had risen to official heights on the wings of one indignant idea, and that was, My Lords, that I am yet to be told that it behoves a Minister of this free country to set bounds to the philanthropy, to cramp the charity, to fetter the public spirit, to contract the enterprise, to damp the independent self-reliance, of its people. That was, in other words, that this great statesman was always yet to be told that it behoved the Pilot of the ship to do anything but prosper in the private loaf and fish trade ashore, the crew being able, by dint of hard pumping, to keep the ship above water without him. On this sublime discovery in the great art How not to do it, Lord Decimus had long sustained the highest glory of the Barnacle family; and let any ill-advised member of either House but try How to do it by bringing in a Bill to do it, that Bill was as good as dead and buried when Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle rose up in his place and solemnly said, soaring into indignant majesty as the Circumlocution cheering soared around him, that he was yet to be told, My Lords, that it behoved him as the Minister of this free country, to set bounds to the philanthropy, to cramp the charity, to fetter the public spirit, to contract the enterprise, to damp the independent self-reliance, of its people. The discovery of this Behoving Machine was the discovery of the political perpetual motion. It never wore out, though it was always going round and round in all the State Departments.
But there was an even bigger target than this. There was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle himself, wrapped in the scent of Circumlocution—with the unmistakable smell of Despatch-Boxes on him. Yes, there was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, who had climbed to official heights driven by one outraged idea, and that was, My Lords, that I am still to be told that it is the duty of a Minister in this free country to limit philanthropy, to restrict charity, to constrain public spirit, to narrow opportunity, to stifle independent self-reliance of its people. In other words, this great statesman believed he still needed to be told that it was not the Pilot’s duty to do anything but thrive in private trade, while the crew could keep the ship afloat through hard work without him. On this profound discovery of how not to do it, Lord Decimus had long upheld the highest honor of the Barnacle family; and if any misguided member of either House dared to try showing how to do it by introducing a Bill to do so, that Bill was as good as dead when Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle stood up and solemnly declared, soaring into indignant grandeur as the Circumlocution cheers rose around him, that he was still to be told, My Lords, that it was his duty as the Minister of this free country to limit philanthropy, to restrict charity, to constrain public spirit, to narrow opportunity, to stifle independent self-reliance of its people. The discovery of this Behoving Machine was the discovery of political perpetual motion. It never wore out, though it kept going around and around in all the State Departments.
And there, with his noble friend and relative Lord Decimus, was William Barnacle, who had made the ever-famous coalition with Tudor Stiltstalking, and who always kept ready his own particular recipe for How not to do it; sometimes tapping the Speaker, and drawing it fresh out of him, with a ‘First, I will beg you, sir, to inform the House what Precedent we have for the course into which the honourable gentleman would precipitate us;’ sometimes asking the honourable gentleman to favour him with his own version of the Precedent; sometimes telling the honourable gentleman that he (William Barnacle) would search for a Precedent; and oftentimes crushing the honourable gentleman flat on the spot by telling him there was no Precedent. But Precedent and Precipitate were, under all circumstances, the well-matched pair of battle-horses of this able Circumlocutionist. No matter that the unhappy honourable gentleman had been trying in vain, for twenty-five years, to precipitate William Barnacle into this—William Barnacle still put it to the House, and (at second-hand or so) to the country, whether he was to be precipitated into this. No matter that it was utterly irreconcilable with the nature of things and course of events that the wretched honourable gentleman could possibly produce a Precedent for this—William Barnacle would nevertheless thank the honourable gentleman for that ironical cheer, and would close with him upon that issue, and would tell him to his teeth that there Was NO Precedent for this. It might perhaps have been objected that the William Barnacle wisdom was not high wisdom or the earth it bamboozled would never have been made, or, if made in a rash mistake, would have remained blank mud. But Precedent and Precipitate together frightened all objection out of most people.
And there, with his noble friend and relative Lord Decimus, was William Barnacle, who had formed the well-known coalition with Tudor Stiltstalking, and who always had his own personal strategy for How not to do it; sometimes he would nudge the Speaker and draw fresh commentary from him, saying, ‘First, could you please inform the House what precedent we have for the course the honorable gentleman wants to push us into?’ other times he would ask the honorable gentleman to share his own take on the precedent; sometimes he would tell the honorable gentleman that he (William Barnacle) would look for a precedent; and often he would completely shut down the honorable gentleman right then and there by declaring there was no precedent. But Precedent and Precipitate were, in all situations, the well-matched pair of battle-horses for this skilled Circumlocutionist. No matter that the unfortunate honorable gentleman had been trying unsuccessfully for twenty-five years to force William Barnacle into this—William Barnacle still presented it to the House, and (indirectly or so) to the country, asking whether he should be forced into this. No matter that it was completely impossible, given the nature of things and the course of events, for the miserable honorable gentleman to produce a precedent for this—William Barnacle would still thank the honorable gentleman for that mocking cheer, would agree to settle this issue with him, and would tell him outright that there was NO precedent for this. It might have been argued that William Barnacle’s wisdom was not truly wise, or the earth it deceived would never have been created, or, if it were created by some hasty mistake, it would have remained barren mud. But Precedent and Precipitate together scared away all objections from most people.
And there, too, was another Barnacle, a lively one, who had leaped through twenty places in quick succession, and was always in two or three at once, and who was the much-respected inventor of an art which he practised with great success and admiration in all Barnacle Governments. This was, when he was asked a Parliamentary question on any one topic, to return an answer on any other. It had done immense service, and brought him into high esteem with the Circumlocution Office.
And there was another Barnacle, a lively one, who had jumped through twenty positions in quick succession and was always involved in two or three at once. He was also the highly respected inventor of a skill that he practiced with great success and admiration in all Barnacle Governments. This skill involved answering a Parliamentary question about one topic by responding with information about another. It had been extremely useful and earned him great respect at the Circumlocution Office.
And there, too, was a sprinkling of less distinguished Parliamentary Barnacles, who had not as yet got anything snug, and were going through their probation to prove their worthiness. These Barnacles perched upon staircases and hid in passages, waiting their orders to make houses or not to make houses; and they did all their hearing, and ohing, and cheering, and barking, under directions from the heads of the family; and they put dummy motions on the paper in the way of other men’s motions; and they stalled disagreeable subjects off until late in the night and late in the session, and then with virtuous patriotism cried out that it was too late; and they went down into the country, whenever they were sent, and swore that Lord Decimus had revived trade from a swoon, and commerce from a fit, and had doubled the harvest of corn, quadrupled the harvest of hay, and prevented no end of gold from flying out of the Bank. Also these Barnacles were dealt, by the heads of the family, like so many cards below the court-cards, to public meetings and dinners; where they bore testimony to all sorts of services on the part of their noble and honourable relatives, and buttered the Barnacles on all sorts of toasts. And they stood, under similar orders, at all sorts of elections; and they turned out of their own seats, on the shortest notice and the most unreasonable terms, to let in other men; and they fetched and carried, and toadied and jobbed, and corrupted, and ate heaps of dirt, and were indefatigable in the public service. And there was not a list, in all the Circumlocution Office, of places that might fall vacant anywhere within half a century, from a lord of the Treasury to a Chinese consul, and up again to a governor-general of India, but as applicants for such places, the names of some or of every one of these hungry and adhesive Barnacles were down.
And there, too, was a mix of less prominent Parliamentary Barnacles, who still hadn’t secured anything stable, and were proving themselves worthy. These Barnacles lounged on staircases and hid in hallways, waiting for their orders to build houses or not; and they did all their listening, cheering, and barking under the direction of the family leaders. They put fake motions on paper alongside other people’s motions; they pushed annoying topics off until late at night and late in the session, then with righteous pride claimed it was too late; and they traveled to the countryside whenever sent, insisting that Lord Decimus had revived trade from a slump, and commerce from a crisis, doubled the corn harvest, quadrupled the hay harvest, and prevented a ton of gold from leaving the Bank. These Barnacles were also dealt out, like so many cards beneath the court cards, to public meetings and dinners; where they testified to all sorts of services by their noble and honorable relatives, and cheered the Barnacles during all sorts of toasts. They stood, under similar instructions, at every kind of election; and they vacated their own seats, with little notice and unreasonable terms, to let in others; they fetched and carried, flattered and schemed, corrupted, swallowed their pride, and were tireless in public service. And there wasn't a list in the entire Circumlocution Office of positions that might become available anywhere in the next fifty years, from a lord of the Treasury to a Chinese consul, and up to a governor-general of India, without the names of some, or all, of these hungry and clingy Barnacles being listed as applicants.
It was necessarily but a sprinkling of any class of Barnacles that attended the marriage, for there were not two score in all, and what is that subtracted from Legion! But the sprinkling was a swarm in the Twickenham cottage, and filled it. A Barnacle (assisted by a Barnacle) married the happy pair, and it behoved Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle himself to conduct Mrs Meagles to breakfast.
It was just a small group of Barnacles that attended the wedding, as there were fewer than twenty in total, which is nothing compared to Legion! But that small group filled the Twickenham cottage. A Barnacle (with help from another Barnacle) officiated the ceremony for the happy couple, and it was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle’s duty to escort Mrs. Meagles to breakfast.
The entertainment was not as agreeable and natural as it might have been. Mr Meagles, hove down by his good company while he highly appreciated it, was not himself. Mrs Gowan was herself, and that did not improve him. The fiction that it was not Mr Meagles who had stood in the way, but that it was the Family greatness, and that the Family greatness had made a concession, and there was now a soothing unanimity, pervaded the affair, though it was never openly expressed. Then the Barnacles felt that they for their parts would have done with the Meagleses when the present patronising occasion was over; and the Meagleses felt the same for their parts. Then Gowan asserting his rights as a disappointed man who had his grudge against the family, and who, perhaps, had allowed his mother to have them there, as much in the hope it might give them some annoyance as with any other benevolent object, aired his pencil and his poverty ostentatiously before them, and told them he hoped in time to settle a crust of bread and cheese on his wife, and that he begged such of them as (more fortunate than himself) came in for any good thing, and could buy a picture, to please to remember the poor painter. Then Lord Decimus, who was a wonder on his own Parliamentary pedestal, turned out to be the windiest creature here: proposing happiness to the bride and bridegroom in a series of platitudes that would have made the hair of any sincere disciple and believer stand on end; and trotting, with the complacency of an idiotic elephant, among howling labyrinths of sentences which he seemed to take for high roads, and never so much as wanted to get out of. Then Mr Tite Barnacle could not but feel that there was a person in company, who would have disturbed his life-long sitting to Sir Thomas Lawrence in full official character, if such disturbance had been possible: while Barnacle junior did, with indignation, communicate to two vapid gentlemen, his relatives, that there was a feller here, look here, who had come to our Department without an appointment and said he wanted to know, you know; and that, look here, if he was to break out now, as he might you know (for you never could tell what an ungentlemanly Radical of that sort would be up to next), and was to say, look here, that he wanted to know this moment, you know, that would be jolly; wouldn’t it?
The entertainment wasn’t as enjoyable and natural as it could have been. Mr. Meagles, weighed down by his good company while he appreciated it, wasn’t himself. Mrs. Gowan was fully herself, and that didn’t help him. The idea that it was not Mr. Meagles blocking things, but rather the Family greatness, which had made a concession, creating a calm agreement among everyone, influenced the situation, even though it was never directly stated. The Barnacles felt that they would be done with the Meagleses after this patronizing occasion was over, and the Meagleses felt the same way. Then Gowan, asserting himself as a disappointed man with a grudge against the family, and who perhaps had let his mother invite them there partly hoping it might annoy them, showed off his drawing skills and his financial struggles before them. He mentioned he hoped to provide a simple meal for his wife someday, and asked those who were luckier than him and could afford to buy a painting to please remember the poor artist. Then Lord Decimus, who was a spectacle on his own pedestal in Parliament, turned out to be the most ridiculous person there: proposing happiness to the newlyweds with a series of clichés that would have shocked any sincere follower; and waddling about, with the cluelessness of a huge elephant, in a maze of sentences he mistook for main roads, never even attempting to escape it. Mr. Tite Barnacle couldn’t help but feel there was someone present who would have interrupted his lifetime of posing for Sir Thomas Lawrence in full official capacity, if that had been possible: while Barnacle junior indignantly informed two bland gentlemen, his relatives, about a guy who had come to their Department without an appointment asking for information; and that, if he were to go off right now—which was unpredictable because you could never tell what an ungentlemanly Radical might do next—and demand to know something immediately, that would be amusing, wouldn’t it?
The pleasantest part of the occasion by far, to Clennam, was the painfullest. When Mr and Mrs Meagles at last hung about Pet in the room with the two pictures (where the company were not), before going with her to the threshold which she could never recross to be the old Pet and the old delight, nothing could be more natural and simple than the three were. Gowan himself was touched, and answered Mr Meagles’s ‘O Gowan, take care of her, take care of her!’ with an earnest ‘Don’t be so broken-hearted, sir. By Heaven I will!’
The best part of the event for Clennam was also the hardest. When Mr. and Mrs. Meagles finally lingered with Pet in the room with the two pictures (where no one else was), before taking her to the threshold she could never return from to be the old Pet and the old joy, the three of them were completely natural and at ease. Gowan himself was moved and responded to Mr. Meagles's heartfelt "O Gowan, take care of her, take care of her!" with a sincere "Don't be so heartbroken, sir. I swear I will!"
And so, with the last sobs and last loving words, and a last look to Clennam of confidence in his promise, Pet fell back in the carriage, and her husband waved his hand, and they were away for Dover; though not until the faithful Mrs Tickit, in her silk gown and jet black curls, had rushed out from some hiding-place, and thrown both her shoes after the carriage: an apparition which occasioned great surprise to the distinguished company at the windows.
And so, with the last sobs and final loving words, and one last look at Clennam, filled with trust in his promise, Pet leaned back in the carriage. Her husband waved goodbye, and they were off to Dover; but not before the devoted Mrs. Tickit, in her silk dress and sleek black curls, darted out from her hiding spot and threw both her shoes after the carriage. This sudden appearance shocked the distinguished guests at the windows.
The said company being now relieved from further attendance, and the chief Barnacles being rather hurried (for they had it in hand just then to send a mail or two which was in danger of going straight to its destination, beating about the seas like the Flying Dutchman, and to arrange with complexity for the stoppage of a good deal of important business otherwise in peril of being done), went their several ways; with all affability conveying to Mr and Mrs Meagles that general assurance that what they had been doing there, they had been doing at a sacrifice for Mr and Mrs Meagles’s good, which they always conveyed to Mr John Bull in their official condescension to that most unfortunate creature.
The company, now free from any further obligations, and the chief Barnacles, who were in a rush (because they were about to send a couple of mail items that risked going straight to their destination, wandering the seas like the Flying Dutchman, and needed to sort out some complicated arrangements to halt a lot of important business that was otherwise at risk of getting done), went their separate ways. With all friendliness, they assured Mr. and Mrs. Meagles that their efforts had been a sacrifice for the couple's benefit, a sentiment they always expressed to Mr. John Bull in their official patronizing manner toward that very unfortunate man.
A miserable blank remained in the house and in the hearts of the father and mother and Clennam. Mr Meagles called only one remembrance to his aid, that really did him good.
A painful emptiness lingered in the house and in the hearts of the father, mother, and Clennam. Mr. Meagles brought up just one memory that genuinely lifted his spirits.
‘It’s very gratifying, Arthur,’ he said, ‘after all, to look back upon.’
"It’s really rewarding, Arthur," he said, "after all, to reflect on."
‘The past?’ said Clennam.
"The past?" Clennam asked.
‘Yes—but I mean the company.’
"Yes—but I’m talking about the company."
It had made him much more low and unhappy at the time, but now it really did him good. ‘It’s very gratifying,’ he said, often repeating the remark in the course of the evening. ‘Such high company!’
It had made him feel much poorer and unhappier at the time, but now it genuinely uplifted him. "It’s very satisfying," he said, often repeating the remark throughout the evening. "Such esteemed company!"
CHAPTER 35. What was behind Mr Pancks on Little Dorrit’s Hand
It was at this time that Mr Pancks, in discharge of his compact with Clennam, revealed to him the whole of his gipsy story, and told him Little Dorrit’s fortune. Her father was heir-at-law to a great estate that had long lain unknown of, unclaimed, and accumulating. His right was now clear, nothing interposed in his way, the Marshalsea gates stood open, the Marshalsea walls were down, a few flourishes of his pen, and he was extremely rich.
It was around this time that Mr. Pancks, fulfilling his agreement with Clennam, shared the entire story of his gypsy background and told him about Little Dorrit’s future. Her father was the rightful heir to a huge estate that had been forgotten, unclaimed, and growing in value for a long time. His claim was now indisputable, nothing stood in his way, the gates of Marshalsea were open, the walls of Marshalsea were down, and with just a few strokes of his pen, he would be extremely wealthy.
In his tracking out of the claim to its complete establishment, Mr Pancks had shown a sagacity that nothing could baffle, and a patience and secrecy that nothing could tire. ‘I little thought, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘when you and I crossed Smithfield that night, and I told you what sort of a Collector I was, that this would come of it. I little thought, sir, when I told you you were not of the Clennams of Cornwall, that I was ever going to tell you who were of the Dorrits of Dorsetshire.’ He then went on to detail. How, having that name recorded in his note-book, he was first attracted by the name alone. How, having often found two exactly similar names, even belonging to the same place, to involve no traceable consanguinity, near or distant, he did not at first give much heed to this, except in the way of speculation as to what a surprising change would be made in the condition of a little seamstress, if she could be shown to have any interest in so large a property. How he rather supposed himself to have pursued the idea into its next degree, because there was something uncommon in the quiet little seamstress, which pleased him and provoked his curiosity. How he had felt his way inch by inch, and ‘Moled it out, sir’ (that was Mr Pancks’s expression), grain by grain. How, in the beginning of the labour described by this new verb, and to render which the more expressive Mr Pancks shut his eyes in pronouncing it and shook his hair over them, he had alternated from sudden lights and hopes to sudden darkness and no hopes, and back again, and back again. How he had made acquaintances in the Prison, expressly that he might come and go there as all other comers and goers did; and how his first ray of light was unconsciously given him by Mr Dorrit himself and by his son; to both of whom he easily became known; with both of whom he talked much, casually (‘but always Moleing you’ll observe,’ said Mr Pancks): and from whom he derived, without being at all suspected, two or three little points of family history which, as he began to hold clues of his own, suggested others. How it had at length become plain to Mr Pancks that he had made a real discovery of the heir-at-law to a great fortune, and that his discovery had but to be ripened to legal fulness and perfection. How he had, thereupon, sworn his landlord, Mr Rugg, to secrecy in a solemn manner, and taken him into Moleing partnership. How they had employed John Chivery as their sole clerk and agent, seeing to whom he was devoted. And how, until the present hour, when authorities mighty in the Bank and learned in the law declared their successful labours ended, they had confided in no other human being.
In tracking down the claim to its full establishment, Mr. Pancks demonstrated an insight that nothing could confuse, along with a patience and secrecy that nothing could diminish. “I never imagined, sir,” said Pancks, “when you and I crossed Smithfield that night, and I told you what kind of Collector I was, that this would come of it. I never imagined, sir, when I told you that you weren’t one of the Clennams of Cornwall, that I would ever tell you who belonged to the Dorrits of Dorsetshire.” He then went on to explain. How, having that name noted in his notebook, he was first drawn in by the name itself. How, having often found two exactly similar names, even from the same place, that showed no traceable family connection, he didn’t initially pay much attention to this, except to speculate about the surprising change it would make in the life of a little seamstress if she could be proven to have any stake in such a large estate. How he thought he had pursued the idea further because something unusual about the quiet little seamstress intrigued him and sparked his curiosity. How he had carefully felt his way forward, and “Mole-d it out, sir” (that was Mr. Pancks’s phrase), grain by grain. How, at the start of this new effort, which he described with that term—and to emphasize it, Mr. Pancks shut his eyes while saying it and shook his hair over them—he had oscillated between sudden feelings of hope and sudden hopelessness, back and forth. How he had made acquaintances in the Prison specifically so he could come and go like everyone else; and how his first glimpse of understanding had come unexpectedly from Mr. Dorrit himself and his son; both of whom he soon got to know well; with whom he talked a lot casually (“but always Moleing, you’ll notice," said Mr. Pancks): and from whom he gleaned, without raising any suspicion, a few bits of family history that, as he started to hold clues of his own, led him to discover more. How it eventually became clear to Mr. Pancks that he had made a real discovery of the rightful heir to a great fortune, and that his discovery just needed to be finalized legally. How he had then sworn his landlord, Mr. Rugg, to secrecy in a serious manner and brought him into the Moleing partnership. How they had hired John Chivery as their only clerk and agent, considering his loyalty to them. And how, until this very moment, when influential authorities in the Bank and legal experts declared their successful efforts complete, they had trusted no one else.
‘So if the whole thing had broken down, sir,’ concluded Pancks, ‘at the very last, say the day before the other day when I showed you our papers in the Prison yard, or say that very day, nobody but ourselves would have been cruelly disappointed, or a penny the worse.’
‘So if everything had fallen apart, sir,’ Pancks finished, ‘at the very end, like the day before yesterday when I showed you our papers in the prison yard, or even that very day, no one but us would have been severely disappointed, or a penny worse off.’
Clennam, who had been almost incessantly shaking hands with him throughout the narrative, was reminded by this to say, in an amazement which even the preparation he had had for the main disclosure smoothed down, ‘My dear Mr Pancks, this must have cost you a great sum of money.’
Clennam, who had been nearly nonstop shaking hands with him throughout the story, was reminded by this to exclaim, with a surprise that even the buildup he had for the main revelation couldn't fully ease, ‘My dear Mr. Pancks, this must have cost you a lot of money.’
‘Pretty well, sir,’ said the triumphant Pancks. ‘No trifle, though we did it as cheap as it could be done. And the outlay was a difficulty, let me tell you.’
‘Pretty good, sir,’ said the triumphant Pancks. ‘Not a small amount, although we did it as cheaply as possible. And the expenses were a challenge, just so you know.’
‘A difficulty!’ repeated Clennam. ‘But the difficulties you have so wonderfully conquered in the whole business!’ shaking his hand again.
‘A problem!’ Clennam repeated. ‘But the challenges you have so impressively overcome in everything!’ shaking his hand again.
‘I’ll tell you how I did it,’ said the delighted Pancks, putting his hair into a condition as elevated as himself. ‘First, I spent all I had of my own. That wasn’t much.’
“I’ll tell you how I did it,” said the excited Pancks, styling his hair to match his high spirits. “First, I used up all my own money. That wasn’t much.”
‘I am sorry for it,’ said Clennam: ‘not that it matters now, though. Then, what did you do?’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Clennam said. ‘Not that it matters now, though. So, what did you do?’
‘Then,’ answered Pancks, ‘I borrowed a sum of my proprietor.’
'Then,' replied Pancks, 'I borrowed some money from my boss.'
‘Of Mr Casby?’ said Clennam. ‘He’s a fine old fellow.’
‘About Mr. Casby?’ said Clennam. ‘He's a great guy.’
‘Noble old boy; an’t he?’ said Mr Pancks, entering on a series of the dryest snorts. ‘Generous old buck. Confiding old boy. Philanthropic old buck. Benevolent old boy! Twenty per cent. I engaged to pay him, sir. But we never do business for less at our shop.’
‘Noble old guy; isn’t he?’ said Mr. Pancks, letting out a series of dry snorts. ‘Generous old chap. Trusting old guy. Charitable old chap. Kind-hearted old guy! I agreed to pay him twenty percent, sir. But we never do business for less at our place.’
Arthur felt an awkward consciousness of having, in his exultant condition, been a little premature.
Arthur felt a strange awareness that, in his excited state, he had been a bit too hasty.
‘I said to that boiling-over old Christian,’ Mr Pancks pursued, appearing greatly to relish this descriptive epithet, ‘that I had got a little project on hand; a hopeful one; I told him a hopeful one; which wanted a certain small capital. I proposed to him to lend me the money on my note. Which he did, at twenty; sticking the twenty on in a business-like way, and putting it into the note, to look like a part of the principal. If I had broken down after that, I should have been his grubber for the next seven years at half wages and double grind. But he’s a perfect Patriarch; and it would do a man good to serve him on such terms—on any terms.’
"I told that angry old Christian," Mr. Pancks continued, clearly enjoying this description, "that I had a little plan in mind; a hopeful one; I told him it was hopeful; that needed a bit of capital. I asked him to lend me the money on my note. He agreed, adding twenty on in a practical way and including it in the note to make it look like part of the principal. If I had failed after that, I would have been working for him for the next seven years at half pay and a lot more work. But he’s a true Patriarch; serving him under those conditions—under any conditions—would be a good experience for anyone."
Arthur for his life could not have said with confidence whether Pancks really thought so or not.
Arthur could never say for sure whether Pancks actually believed that or not.
‘When that was gone, sir,’ resumed Pancks, ‘and it did go, though I dribbled it out like so much blood, I had taken Mr Rugg into the secret. I proposed to borrow of Mr Rugg (or of Miss Rugg; it’s the same thing; she made a little money by a speculation in the Common Pleas once). He lent it at ten, and thought that pretty high. But Mr Rugg’s a red-haired man, sir, and gets his hair cut. And as to the crown of his hat, it’s high. And as to the brim of his hat, it’s narrow. And there’s no more benevolence bubbling out of him, than out of a ninepin.’
‘When that was over, sir,’ Pancks continued, ‘and it did pass, though I let it go slowly like blood dripping, I had let Mr. Rugg in on the secret. I suggested borrowing from Mr. Rugg (or Miss Rugg; it’s the same thing; she made a bit of money from a venture in the Common Pleas once). He lent it at ten percent, which he thought was quite high. But Mr. Rugg is a red-haired guy, sir, and he gets his hair cut. And his hat is tall. And the brim of his hat is narrow. And there’s as much kindness coming from him as from a bowling pin.’
‘Your own recompense for all this, Mr Pancks,’ said Clennam, ‘ought to be a large one.’
'You should get a big reward for all this, Mr. Pancks,' Clennam said.
‘I don’t mistrust getting it, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘I have made no bargain. I owed you one on that score; now I have paid it. Money out of pocket made good, time fairly allowed for, and Mr Rugg’s bill settled, a thousand pounds would be a fortune to me. That matter I place in your hands. I authorize you now to break all this to the family in any way you think best. Miss Amy Dorrit will be with Mrs Finching this morning. The sooner done the better. Can’t be done too soon.’
"I don’t have any doubts about getting it, sir," Pancks said. "I haven't made any deal. I owed you one for that; now I've settled it. Money that I spent is covered, time is accounted for, and Mr. Rugg’s bill is taken care of. A thousand pounds would be a fortune for me. I leave this matter in your hands. I trust you to explain everything to the family in whatever way you think is best. Miss Amy Dorrit will be with Mrs. Finching this morning. The sooner this is done, the better. It can't happen too soon."
This conversation took place in Clennam’s bed-room, while he was yet in bed. For Mr Pancks had knocked up the house and made his way in, very early in the morning; and, without once sitting down or standing still, had delivered himself of the whole of his details (illustrated with a variety of documents) at the bedside. He now said he would ‘go and look up Mr Rugg’, from whom his excited state of mind appeared to require another back; and bundling up his papers, and exchanging one more hearty shake of the hand with Clennam, he went at full speed down-stairs, and steamed off.
This conversation happened in Clennam’s bedroom while he was still in bed. Mr. Pancks had knocked on the door and come in very early in the morning; and without sitting down or pausing for a moment, he shared all his details (backed up with various documents) at the bedside. He then mentioned that he would “go and look for Mr. Rugg,” as his agitated state seemed to need another dose of support; and after bundling up his papers and giving Clennam one last hearty handshake, he dashed down the stairs and left in a hurry.
Clennam, of course, resolved to go direct to Mr Casby’s. He dressed and got out so quickly that he found himself at the corner of the patriarchal street nearly an hour before her time; but he was not sorry to have the opportunity of calming himself with a leisurely walk.
Clennam decided to head straight to Mr. Casby’s. He got ready and left so quickly that he arrived at the end of the old-fashioned street almost an hour early; but he was glad for the chance to relax and take a slow walk.
When he returned to the street, and had knocked at the bright brass knocker, he was informed that she had come, and was shown up-stairs to Flora’s breakfast-room. Little Dorrit was not there herself, but Flora was, and testified the greatest amazement at seeing him.
When he got back to the street and knocked on the shiny brass knocker, he was told that she had arrived and was led upstairs to Flora’s breakfast room. Little Dorrit wasn’t there, but Flora was, and she was really surprised to see him.
‘Good gracious, Arthur—Doyce and Clennam!’ cried that lady, ‘who would have ever thought of seeing such a sight as this and pray excuse a wrapper for upon my word I really never and a faded check too which is worse but our little friend is making me, not that I need mind mentioning it to you for you must know that there are such things a skirt, and having arranged that a trying on should take place after breakfast is the reason though I wish not so badly starched.’
‘Goodness, Arthur—Doyce and Clennam!’ she exclaimed, ‘who would have ever imagined seeing something like this? And please excuse my wrap; I swear, I never expected to look like this, and a faded check at that, which is even worse. But our little friend is making me—but I don’t need to mention it to you because you must know that there are such things as skirts. We arranged to try one on after breakfast, which is why I’m here, although I wish it didn’t feel so stiff.’
‘I ought to make an apology,’ said Arthur, ‘for so early and abrupt a visit; but you will excuse it when I tell you the cause.’
"I should apologize," Arthur said, "for coming to visit so early and unexpectedly; but you'll forgive me once I explain the reason."
‘In times for ever fled Arthur,’ returned Mrs Finching, ‘pray excuse me Doyce and Clennam infinitely more correct and though unquestionably distant still ‘tis distance lends enchantment to the view, at least I don’t mean that and if I did I suppose it would depend considerably on the nature of the view, but I’m running on again and you put it all out of my head.’
‘In times long gone, Arthur,’ Mrs. Finching replied, ‘please forgive me. Doyce and Clennam are infinitely more proper, and while they may be distant, distance does add a certain charm to the view. At least that’s not what I meant, and even if I did, I guess it would depend a lot on what the view is like. But I’m rambling again, and you made me lose my train of thought.’
She glanced at him tenderly, and resumed:
She looked at him with affection and continued:
‘In times for ever fled I was going to say it would have sounded strange indeed for Arthur Clennam—Doyce and Clennam naturally quite different—to make apologies for coming here at any time, but that is past and what is past can never be recalled except in his own case as poor Mr F. said when he was in spirits Cucumber and therefore never ate it.’
‘In times long gone, I was going to say it would have sounded really strange for Arthur Clennam—Doyce and Clennam are naturally quite different—to apologize for coming here at any time, but that is in the past and what is in the past can never be brought back except in his own case, as poor Mr. F. said when he was feeling good, Cucumber, and thus never ate it.’
She was making the tea when Arthur came in, and now hastily finished that operation.
She was brewing the tea when Arthur walked in, and now she quickly wrapped that up.
‘Papa,’ she said, all mystery and whisper, as she shut down the tea-pot lid, ‘is sitting prosingly breaking his new laid egg in the back parlour over the City article exactly like the Woodpecker Tapping and need never know that you are here, and our little friend you are well aware may be fully trusted when she comes down from cutting out on the large table overhead.’
‘Dad,’ she said, full of mystery and in a whisper, as she closed the tea-pot lid, ‘is sitting in the back room, casually breaking his new laid egg while reading the City article, just like the Woodpecker Tapping, and he’ll never know you’re here. And our little friend, as you know, can be completely trusted when she comes down from cutting out things on the big table upstairs.’
Arthur then told her, in the fewest words, that it was their little friend he came to see; and what he had to announce to their little friend. At which astounding intelligence, Flora clasped her hands, fell into a tremble, and shed tears of sympathy and pleasure, like the good-natured creature she really was.
Arthur then told her, in the fewest words, that he had come to see their little friend and had something to share with them. At this surprising news, Flora clasped her hands, trembled, and shed tears of sympathy and joy, just like the kind-hearted person she truly was.
‘For gracious sake let me get out of the way first,’ said Flora, putting her hands to her ears and moving towards the door, ‘or I know I shall go off dead and screaming and make everybody worse, and the dear little thing only this morning looking so nice and neat and good and yet so poor and now a fortune is she really and deserves it too! and might I mention it to Mr F.‘s Aunt Arthur not Doyce and Clennam for this once or if objectionable not on any account.’
"Please, let me step aside first," Flora said, covering her ears and heading for the door. "If I don’t, I know I’ll freak out and make everything worse. The sweet little thing looked so nice, neat, and good this morning, even though she’s so poor, and now she really deserves this fortune! Would it be okay if I mentioned it to Mr. F.’s Aunt Arthur, not Doyce and Clennam, just this once? But if that's not okay, then never mind."
Arthur nodded his free permission, since Flora shut out all verbal communication. Flora nodded in return to thank him, and hurried out of the room.
Arthur nodded his consent, as Flora blocked any verbal communication. Flora nodded back to thank him and quickly left the room.
Little Dorrit’s step was already on the stairs, and in another moment she was at the door. Do what he could to compose his face, he could not convey so much of an ordinary expression into it, but that the moment she saw it she dropped her work, and cried, ‘Mr Clennam! What’s the matter?’
Little Dorrit was already on the stairs, and in a moment, she was at the door. No matter how hard he tried to make his face look neutral, he couldn’t manage to hide his feelings, so when she saw him, she dropped her work and exclaimed, ‘Mr. Clennam! What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, nothing. That is, no misfortune has happened. I have come to tell you something, but it is a piece of great good-fortune.’
‘Nothing, nothing. I mean, no bad luck has struck. I’ve come to share something with you, and it’s some really great news.’
‘Good-fortune?’
‘Good fortune?’
‘Wonderful fortune!’
‘Awesome luck!’
They stood in a window, and her eyes, full of light, were fixed upon his face. He put an arm about her, seeing her likely to sink down. She put a hand upon that arm, partly to rest upon it, and partly so to preserve their relative positions as that her intent look at him should be shaken by no change of attitude in either of them. Her lips seemed to repeat ‘Wonderful fortune?’ He repeated it again, aloud.
They stood by a window, and her bright eyes were fixed on his face. He wrapped an arm around her, noticing she seemed about to collapse. She placed a hand on his arm, partly to lean on it, and partly to keep their positions steady so that her intense gaze on him wouldn’t be disrupted by any shift in either of them. Her lips seemed to echo, "Wonderful fortune?" He said it aloud again.
‘Dear Little Dorrit! Your father.’
‘Dear Little Dorrit! Your dad.’
The ice of the pale face broke at the word, and little lights and shoots of expression passed all over it. They were all expressions of pain. Her breath was faint and hurried. Her heart beat fast. He would have clasped the little figure closer, but he saw that the eyes appealed to him not to be moved.
The coldness of her pale face changed at his words, and small flashes of emotion flickered across it. All those emotions were filled with pain. Her breath was shallow and quick. Her heart raced. He wanted to pull the small figure closer, but he noticed that her eyes were asking him not to react.
‘Your father can be free within this week. He does not know it; we must go to him from here, to tell him of it. Your father will be free within a few days. Your father will be free within a few hours. Remember we must go to him from here, to tell him of it!’
‘Your dad can be free within this week. He doesn’t know it; we have to go to him from here to let him know. Your dad will be free in a few days. Your dad will be free in a few hours. Remember, we have to go to him from here to tell him!’
That brought her back. Her eyes were closing, but they opened again.
That brought her back. Her eyes were shutting, but then they opened again.
‘This is not all the good-fortune. This is not all the wonderful good-fortune, my dear Little Dorrit. Shall I tell you more?’
‘This isn’t all the good fortune. This isn’t all the amazing good fortune, my dear Little Dorrit. Should I tell you more?’
Her lips shaped ‘Yes.’
Her lips formed 'Yes.'
‘Your father will be no beggar when he is free. He will want for nothing. Shall I tell you more? Remember! He knows nothing of it; we must go to him, from here, to tell him of it!’
‘Your father won't be a beggar when he's free. He'll want for nothing. Should I tell you more? Remember! He doesn't know anything about it; we need to go to him from here to tell him!’
She seemed to entreat him for a little time. He held her in his arm, and, after a pause, bent down his ear to listen.
She looked like she was asking him for a moment. He held her in his arms, and after a brief pause, leaned down to listen.
‘Did you ask me to go on?’
‘Did you want me to continue?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yep.’
‘He will be a rich man. He is a rich man. A great sum of money is waiting to be paid over to him as his inheritance; you are all henceforth very wealthy. Bravest and best of children, I thank Heaven that you are rewarded!’
‘He will be a rich man. He is a rich man. A large sum of money is ready to be given to him as his inheritance; you are all now very wealthy. Bravest and best of children, I thank Heaven that you are being rewarded!’
As he kissed her, she turned her head towards his shoulder, and raised her arm towards his neck; cried out ‘Father! Father! Father!’ and swooned away.
As he kissed her, she turned her head toward his shoulder and lifted her arm toward his neck, crying out, "Dad! Dad! Dad!" before fainting.
Upon which Flora returned to take care of her, and hovered about her on a sofa, intermingling kind offices and incoherent scraps of conversation in a manner so confounding, that whether she pressed the Marshalsea to take a spoonful of unclaimed dividends, for it would do her good; or whether she congratulated Little Dorrit’s father on coming into possession of a hundred thousand smelling-bottles; or whether she explained that she put seventy-five thousand drops of spirits of lavender on fifty thousand pounds of lump sugar, and that she entreated Little Dorrit to take that gentle restorative; or whether she bathed the foreheads of Doyce and Clennam in vinegar, and gave the late Mr F. more air; no one with any sense of responsibility could have undertaken to decide. A tributary stream of confusion, moreover, poured in from an adjoining bedroom, where Mr F.‘s Aunt appeared, from the sound of her voice, to be in a horizontal posture, awaiting her breakfast; and from which bower that inexorable lady snapped off short taunts, whenever she could get a hearing, as, ‘Don’t believe it’s his doing!’ and ‘He needn’t take no credit to himself for it!’ and ‘It’ll be long enough, I expect, afore he’ll give up any of his own money!’ all designed to disparage Clennam’s share in the discovery, and to relieve those inveterate feelings with which Mr F.‘s Aunt regarded him.
Flora came back to look after her and flitted around her on a sofa, mixing thoughtful gestures with jumbled bits of conversation in a way that was so confusing that it was hard to tell if she was urging the Marshalsea to take a spoonful of unclaimed dividends because it would help her; or congratulating Little Dorrit’s father on owning a hundred thousand smelling bottles; or explaining that she mixed seventy-five thousand drops of lavender oil with fifty thousand pounds of lump sugar, and asking Little Dorrit to take that gentle remedy; or if she was bathing the foreheads of Doyce and Clennam in vinegar and giving the late Mr. F. more air. No one with any sense of responsibility could have figured it out. Additionally, a stream of confusion spilled in from an adjoining bedroom, where Mr. F.'s Aunt seemed to be lying down, waiting for her breakfast, and from there that relentless lady shot out snappy remarks whenever she could be heard, like, “Don’t believe it’s his doing!” and “He doesn’t deserve any credit for it!” and “It’ll be a long time before he gives up any of his own money!” all meant to undermine Clennam’s role in the discovery and to vent her long-standing feelings toward him.
But Little Dorrit’s solicitude to get to her father, and to carry the joyful tidings to him, and not to leave him in his jail a moment with this happiness in store for him and still unknown to him, did more for her speedy restoration than all the skill and attention on earth could have done. ‘Come with me to my dear father. Pray come and tell my dear father!’ were the first words she said. Her father, her father. She spoke of nothing but him, thought of nothing but him. Kneeling down and pouring out her thankfulness with uplifted hands, her thanks were for her father.
But Little Dorrit's determination to reach her father and deliver the joyful news to him, and to keep him from spending another moment in his jail without knowing this happiness that awaited him, did more for her quick recovery than all the medical expertise and care in the world could have achieved. "Come with me to my dear father. Please come and tell my dear father!" were the first words she spoke. Her father, her father. She talked about nothing else but him, thought about nothing else but him. Kneeling down and expressing her gratitude with raised hands, her thanks were all for her father.
Flora’s tenderness was quite overcome by this, and she launched out among the cups and saucers into a wonderful flow of tears and speech.
Flora's sensitivity was completely overwhelmed by this, and she burst out among the cups and saucers in a beautiful outpouring of tears and words.
‘I declare,’ she sobbed, ‘I never was so cut up since your mama and my papa not Doyce and Clennam for this once but give the precious little thing a cup of tea and make her put it to her lips at least pray Arthur do, not even Mr F.‘s last illness for that was of another kind and gout is not a child’s affection though very painful for all parties and Mr F. a martyr with his leg upon a rest and the wine trade in itself inflammatory for they will do it more or less among themselves and who can wonder, it seems like a dream I am sure to think of nothing at all this morning and now Mines of money is it really, but you must know my darling love because you never will be strong enough to tell him all about it upon teaspoons, mightn’t it be even best to try the directions of my own medical man for though the flavour is anything but agreeable still I force myself to do it as a prescription and find the benefit, you’d rather not why no my dear I’d rather not but still I do it as a duty, everybody will congratulate you some in earnest and some not and many will congratulate you with all their hearts but none more so I do assure you from the bottom of my own I do myself though sensible of blundering and being stupid, and will be judged by Arthur not Doyce and Clennam for this once so good-bye darling and God bless you and may you be very happy and excuse the liberty, vowing that the dress shall never be finished by anybody else but shall be laid by for a keepsake just as it is and called Little Dorrit though why that strangest of denominations at any time I never did myself and now I never shall!’
“I swear,” she cried, “I’ve never been so upset since your mom and my dad—not Doyce and Clennam this time—but please, just give the precious little thing a cup of tea and make her at least bring it to her lips. Please, Arthur, do it. Not even Mr. F.’s last illness was like this, as that was different, and gout isn’t something children get, even though it’s really painful for everyone involved. Mr. F. was a martyr with his leg propped up, and the wine trade is inflammatory in itself because they’ll handle it among themselves to some extent, and who can blame them? It feels like a dream to think I’m not focusing on anything at all this morning, and now, is there really a fortune to be found? But you have to know, my darling, because you’ll never be strong enough to explain it all to him. Might it even be better to follow the advice of my own doctor? Because even though the taste is far from pleasant, I push myself to take it as a prescription and find it beneficial. You’d rather not? Well, I’d rather not either, but I still do it out of duty. Everyone will congratulate you—some genuinely, some not so much—and many will congratulate you with all their hearts, but I assure you, no one more than I do, from the bottom of my own, even though I know I’m clumsy and foolish. I’ll be judged by Arthur, not Doyce and Clennam this time, so goodbye, darling, and God bless you. May you be very happy and forgive the imposition, promising that the dress will never be finished by anyone else but will be kept just as it is, called Little Dorrit. Though I still don’t understand why that’s such a strange name!”
Thus Flora, in taking leave of her favourite. Little Dorrit thanked her, and embraced her, over and over again; and finally came out of the house with Clennam, and took coach for the Marshalsea.
Thus Flora, as she said goodbye to her favorite, Little Dorrit thanked her and hugged her repeatedly; and finally, she left the house with Clennam and took a coach to the Marshalsea.
It was a strangely unreal ride through the old squalid streets, with a sensation of being raised out of them into an airy world of wealth and grandeur. When Arthur told her that she would soon ride in her own carriage through very different scenes, when all the familiar experiences would have vanished away, she looked frightened. But when he substituted her father for herself, and told her how he would ride in his carriage, and how great and grand he would be, her tears of joy and innocent pride fell fast. Seeing that the happiness her mind could realise was all shining upon him, Arthur kept that single figure before her; and so they rode brightly through the poor streets in the prison neighbourhood to carry him the great news.
It was a strangely surreal ride through the old, rundown streets, with a feeling of being lifted out of them into a light-filled world of wealth and splendor. When Arthur told her that she would soon be riding in her own carriage through very different scenes, where all the familiar experiences would be gone, she looked scared. But when he replaced her with her father and described how he would ride in his carriage, how great and successful he would be, her tears of joy and innocent pride flowed freely. Realizing that the happiness her mind could envision was all focused on him, Arthur kept that single image in front of her; and so they rode brightly through the poor streets in the prison area to bring him the great news.
When Mr Chivery, who was on duty, admitted them into the Lodge, he saw something in their faces which filled him with astonishment. He stood looking after them, when they hurried into the prison, as though he perceived that they had come back accompanied by a ghost a-piece. Two or three Collegians whom they passed, looked after them too, and presently joining Mr Chivery, formed a little group on the Lodge steps, in the midst of which there spontaneously originated a whisper that the Father was going to get his discharge. Within a few minutes, it was heard in the remotest room in the College.
When Mr. Chivery, who was on duty, let them into the Lodge, he noticed something in their faces that left him completely shocked. He stood there watching them as they rushed into the prison, as if he sensed that they had returned each with a ghost by their side. A couple of Collegians they passed also watched them, and soon they joined Mr. Chivery, forming a small group on the Lodge steps, where a rumor began to spread that the Father was about to get his discharge. Within a few minutes, word had reached the farthest room in the College.
Little Dorrit opened the door from without, and they both entered. He was sitting in his old grey gown and his old black cap, in the sunlight by the window, reading his newspaper. His glasses were in his hand, and he had just looked round; surprised at first, no doubt, by her step upon the stairs, not expecting her until night; surprised again, by seeing Arthur Clennam in her company. As they came in, the same unwonted look in both of them which had already caught attention in the yard below, struck him. He did not rise or speak, but laid down his glasses and his newspaper on the table beside him, and looked at them with his mouth a little open and his lips trembling. When Arthur put out his hand, he touched it, but not with his usual state; and then he turned to his daughter, who had sat down close beside him with her hands upon his shoulder, and looked attentively in her face.
Little Dorrit opened the door from the outside, and they both walked in. He was sitting in his old gray robe and black cap, soaking up the sunlight by the window while reading his newspaper. His glasses were in his hand, and he had just looked around; first surprised, no doubt, by her footsteps on the stairs, not expecting her until evening; then surprised again to see Arthur Clennam with her. As they entered, the same unusual look in both of them that had caught attention in the yard below struck him. He didn’t get up or speak, but set down his glasses and newspaper on the table next to him, staring at them with his mouth slightly open and his lips quivering. When Arthur reached out his hand, he touched it, but not with his usual demeanor; then he turned to his daughter, who had sat down close beside him with her hands on his shoulder, and gazed intently into her face.
‘Father! I have been made so happy this morning!’
‘Dad! I have never been so happy this morning!’
‘You have been made so happy, my dear?’
‘Have you been made so happy, my dear?’
‘By Mr Clennam, father. He brought me such joyful and wonderful intelligence about you! If he had not with his great kindness and gentleness, prepared me for it, father—prepared me for it, father—I think I could not have borne it.’
‘By Mr. Clennam, Dad. He brought me such joyful and amazing news about you! If he hadn’t, with his great kindness and gentleness, gotten me ready for it, Dad—gotten me ready for it, Dad—I don’t think I could have handled it.’
Her agitation was exceedingly great, and the tears rolled down her face. He put his hand suddenly to his heart, and looked at Clennam.
Her agitation was intense, and tears streamed down her face. He suddenly placed his hand on his heart and looked at Clennam.
‘Compose yourself, sir,’ said Clennam, ‘and take a little time to think. To think of the brightest and most fortunate accidents of life. We have all heard of great surprises of joy. They are not at an end, sir. They are rare, but not at an end.’
‘Calm down, sir,’ said Clennam, ‘and take a moment to think. Think about the most amazing and lucky moments in life. We’ve all heard of incredible surprises of joy. They’re not gone forever, sir. They’re rare, but they’re not gone.’
‘Mr Clennam? Not at an end? Not at an end for—’ He touched himself upon the breast, instead of saying ‘me.’
‘Mr. Clennam? Not finished? Not finished for—’ He touched himself on the chest instead of saying ‘me.’
‘No,’ returned Clennam.
'No,' Clennam replied.
‘What surprise,’ he asked, keeping his left hand over his heart, and there stopping in his speech, while with his right hand he put his glasses exactly level on the table: ‘what such surprise can be in store for me?’
‘What a surprise,’ he asked, keeping his left hand over his heart and pausing in his speech, while with his right hand he set his glasses evenly on the table: ‘what kind of surprise could be waiting for me?’
‘Let me answer with another question. Tell me, Mr Dorrit, what surprise would be the most unlooked for and the most acceptable to you. Do not be afraid to imagine it, or to say what it would be.’
‘Let me respond with a question. Tell me, Mr. Dorrit, what surprise would be the most unexpected and the most welcome to you? Don’t hesitate to imagine it or to say what it would be.’
He looked steadfastly at Clennam, and, so looking at him, seemed to change into a very old haggard man. The sun was bright upon the wall beyond the window, and on the spikes at top. He slowly stretched out the hand that had been upon his heart, and pointed at the wall.
He stared intently at Clennam, and in doing so, seemed to transform into a very old, worn-out man. The sun shone brightly on the wall outside the window and on the spikes at the top. He slowly extended the hand that had been resting on his heart and pointed at the wall.
‘It is down,’ said Clennam. ‘Gone!’
‘It’s down,’ said Clennam. ‘It’s gone!’
He remained in the same attitude, looking steadfastly at him.
He stayed in the same position, looking intently at him.
‘And in its place,’ said Clennam, slowly and distinctly, ‘are the means to possess and enjoy the utmost that they have so long shut out. Mr Dorrit, there is not the smallest doubt that within a few days you will be free, and highly prosperous. I congratulate you with all my soul on this change of fortune, and on the happy future into which you are soon to carry the treasure you have been blest with here—the best of all the riches you can have elsewhere—the treasure at your side.’
‘And in its place,’ said Clennam, slowly and clearly, ‘are the means to possess and enjoy everything they’ve held you back from for so long. Mr. Dorrit, there’s no doubt that in just a few days you’ll be free and very successful. I wholeheartedly congratulate you on this change in fortune and on the bright future you’re about to take with you—the best kind of wealth you can find anywhere else—the treasure at your side.’
With those words, he pressed his hand and released it; and his daughter, laying her face against his, encircled him in the hour of his prosperity with her arms, as she had in the long years of his adversity encircled him with her love and toil and truth; and poured out her full heart in gratitude, hope, joy, blissful ecstasy, and all for him.
With those words, he clasped her hand and let it go; and his daughter, resting her face against his, wrapped her arms around him in his moment of success, just as she had embraced him with her love, hard work, and honesty during the long years of his struggles; and she expressed her heartfelt gratitude, hope, joy, sheer happiness, and everything for him.
‘I shall see him as I never saw him yet. I shall see my dear love, with the dark cloud cleared away. I shall see him, as my poor mother saw him long ago. O my dear, my dear! O father, father! O thank God, thank God!’
‘I will see him like I’ve never seen him before. I will see my dear love, with the dark cloud gone. I will see him as my poor mother saw him long ago. Oh my dear, my dear! Oh father, father! Oh thank God, thank God!’
He yielded himself to her kisses and caresses, but did not return them, except that he put an arm about her. Neither did he say one word. His steadfast look was now divided between her and Clennam, and he began to shake as if he were very cold. Explaining to Little Dorrit that he would run to the coffee-house for a bottle of wine, Arthur fetched it with all the haste he could use. While it was being brought from the cellar to the bar, a number of excited people asked him what had happened; when he hurriedly informed them that Mr Dorrit had succeeded to a fortune.
He accepted her kisses and touches but didn’t reciprocate, except for putting an arm around her. He didn’t say a word either. His intense gaze was now split between her and Clennam, and he started to tremble as if he were freezing. Telling Little Dorrit that he would quickly run to the coffee house for a bottle of wine, Arthur hurried to get it as fast as he could. As it was being brought from the cellar to the bar, several excited people asked him what was going on; when he rushed to tell them that Mr. Dorrit had come into a fortune.
On coming back with the wine in his hand, he found that she had placed her father in his easy chair, and had loosened his shirt and neckcloth. They filled a tumbler with wine, and held it to his lips. When he had swallowed a little, he took the glass himself and emptied it. Soon after that, he leaned back in his chair and cried, with his handkerchief before his face.
When he returned with the wine, he saw that she had put her father in his comfortable chair and had loosened his shirt and tie. They filled a tumbler with wine and held it to his lips. After he drank a little, he took the glass and finished it. Soon after, he leaned back in his chair and cried, with his handkerchief covering his face.
After this had lasted a while Clennam thought it a good season for diverting his attention from the main surprise, by relating its details. Slowly, therefore, and in a quiet tone of voice, he explained them as best he could, and enlarged on the nature of Pancks’s service.
After this went on for a while, Clennam thought it was a good time to shift his focus from the main surprise by sharing its details. So, he slowly and quietly explained them as best he could and elaborated on what Pancks's service was like.
‘He shall be—ha—he shall be handsomely recompensed, sir,’ said the Father, starting up and moving hurriedly about the room. ‘Assure yourself, Mr Clennam, that everybody concerned shall be—ha—shall be nobly rewarded. No one, my dear sir, shall say that he has an unsatisfied claim against me. I shall repay the—hum—the advances I have had from you, sir, with peculiar pleasure. I beg to be informed at your earliest convenience, what advances you have made my son.’
"He's going to be—uh—he's going to be generously compensated, sir," said the Father, suddenly standing up and moving quickly around the room. "Rest assured, Mr. Clennam, that everyone involved will be—uh—will be well rewarded. No one, my dear sir, will say that he has an unpaid claim against me. I’ll pay back the—um—the help you've provided me, sir, with great pleasure. Please let me know at your earliest convenience what support you’ve given my son."
He had no purpose in going about the room, but he was not still a moment.
He had no reason to walk around the room, but he couldn’t stay still for even a moment.
‘Everybody,’ he said, ‘shall be remembered. I will not go away from here in anybody’s debt. All the people who have been—ha—well behaved towards myself and my family, shall be rewarded. Chivery shall be rewarded. Young John shall be rewarded. I particularly wish, and intend, to act munificently, Mr Clennam.’
‘Everyone,’ he said, ‘will be remembered. I won’t leave here with anyone owing me anything. All the people who have treated me and my family well will be rewarded. Chivery will be rewarded. Young John will be rewarded. I especially want to, and plan to, be generous, Mr Clennam.’
‘Will you allow me,’ said Arthur, laying his purse on the table, ‘to supply any present contingencies, Mr Dorrit? I thought it best to bring a sum of money for the purpose.’
‘Will you let me,’ said Arthur, putting his wallet on the table, ‘cover any immediate expenses, Mr. Dorrit? I figured it would be a good idea to bring some cash for that.’
‘Thank you, sir, thank you. I accept with readiness, at the present moment, what I could not an hour ago have conscientiously taken. I am obliged to you for the temporary accommodation. Exceedingly temporary, but well timed—well timed.’ His hand had closed upon the money, and he carried it about with him. ‘Be so kind, sir, as to add the amount to those former advances to which I have already referred; being careful, if you please, not to omit advances made to my son. A mere verbal statement of the gross amount is all I shall—ha—all I shall require.’
“Thank you, sir, thank you. I accept what I couldn’t have taken an hour ago. I appreciate your temporary help. Extremely temporary, but well timed—very well timed.” He had taken the money and was carrying it with him. “Please be kind enough to add this amount to the previous advances I mentioned; and be sure not to forget the advances made to my son. A simple verbal statement of the total amount is all I’ll—ha—all I’ll need.”
His eye fell upon his daughter at this point, and he stopped for a moment to kiss her, and to pat her head.
His gaze landed on his daughter at that moment, and he paused to kiss her and give her a gentle pat on the head.
‘It will be necessary to find a milliner, my love, and to make a speedy and complete change in your very plain dress. Something must be done with Maggy too, who at present is—ha—barely respectable, barely respectable. And your sister, Amy, and your brother. And my brother, your uncle—poor soul, I trust this will rouse him—messengers must be despatched to fetch them. They must be informed of this. We must break it to them cautiously, but they must be informed directly. We owe it as a duty to them and to ourselves, from this moment, not to let them—hum—not to let them do anything.’
‘We need to find a hat maker, my love, and quickly change your very plain dress. We have to do something about Maggy too, who is currently—uh—barely respectable, just barely respectable. And your sister, Amy, and your brother. And my brother, your uncle—poor thing, I hope this will motivate him—messengers need to be sent to get them. They have to be told about this. We must break the news to them gently, but they need to be informed right away. It’s our duty, both to them and ourselves, from this moment on, not to let them—uh—not to let them do anything.’
This was the first intimation he had ever given, that he was privy to the fact that they did something for a livelihood.
This was the first hint he ever gave that he knew they did something to earn a living.
He was still jogging about the room, with the purse clutched in his hand, when a great cheering arose in the yard. ‘The news has spread already,’ said Clennam, looking down from the window. ‘Will you show yourself to them, Mr Dorrit? They are very earnest, and they evidently wish it.’
He was still pacing around the room, clutching the purse in his hand, when loud cheering erupted in the yard. “The news has already spread,” Clennam said, looking down from the window. “Will you show yourself to them, Mr. Dorrit? They are really eager, and it’s clear they want it.”
‘I—hum—ha—I confess I could have desired, Amy my dear,’ he said, jogging about in a more feverish flutter than before, ‘to have made some change in my dress first, and to have bought a—hum—a watch and chain. But if it must be done as it is, it—ha—it must be done. Fasten the collar of my shirt, my dear. Mr Clennam, would you oblige me—hum—with a blue neckcloth you will find in that drawer at your elbow. Button my coat across at the chest, my love. It looks—ha—it looks broader, buttoned.’
“I—I, um, well, I admit I would have liked, Amy, my dear,” he said, moving around more anxiously than before, “to have changed my outfit first and bought a—uh—a watch and chain. But if it has to be done like this, then—uh—it must be done. Can you fasten my shirt collar, dear? Mr. Clennam, could you please—um—hand me a blue neckcloth from that drawer next to you? Button my coat across the chest, my love. It looks—uh—it looks broader when it’s buttoned.”
With his trembling hand he pushed his grey hair up, and then, taking Clennam and his daughter for supporters, appeared at the window leaning on an arm of each. The Collegians cheered him very heartily, and he kissed his hand to them with great urbanity and protection. When he withdrew into the room again, he said ‘Poor creatures!’ in a tone of much pity for their miserable condition.
With his shaking hand, he brushed his gray hair back, and then, leaning on Clennam and his daughter for support, he appeared at the window. The Collegians cheered for him enthusiastically, and he waved his hand to them graciously, as if to show his care. When he went back into the room, he said, “Poor things!” with a tone full of sympathy for their sad state.
Little Dorrit was deeply anxious that he should lie down to compose himself. On Arthur’s speaking to her of his going to inform Pancks that he might now appear as soon as he would, and pursue the joyful business to its close, she entreated him in a whisper to stay with her until her father should be quite calm and at rest. He needed no second entreaty; and she prepared her father’s bed, and begged him to lie down. For another half-hour or more he would be persuaded to do nothing but go about the room, discussing with himself the probabilities for and against the Marshal’s allowing the whole of the prisoners to go to the windows of the official residence which commanded the street, to see himself and family depart for ever in a carriage—which, he said, he thought would be a Sight for them. But gradually he began to droop and tire, and at last stretched himself upon the bed.
Little Dorrit was really worried that he should lie down to calm himself. When Arthur mentioned that he was going to tell Pancks that he could come by anytime now and wrap up the happy task, she quietly urged him to stay with her until her father was completely calm and relaxed. He needed no second request; she made up her father's bed and asked him to lie down. For another half hour or so, he insisted on pacing the room, debating with himself about the chances of the Marshal letting all the prisoners go to the windows of the official building that overlooked the street, to see him and his family leave for good in a carriage—which he thought would be quite a sight for them. But gradually, he started to tire and eventually laid down on the bed.
She took her faithful place beside him, fanning him and cooling his forehead; and he seemed to be falling asleep (always with the money in his hand), when he unexpectedly sat up and said:
She took her usual spot next to him, fanning him and cooling his forehead; he looked like he was drifting off to sleep (always with the money in his hand), when he suddenly sat up and said:
‘Mr Clennam, I beg your pardon. Am I to understand, my dear sir, that I could—ha—could pass through the Lodge at this moment, and—hum—take a walk?’
‘Mr. Clennam, I apologize. Can I understand, dear sir, that I could—uh—go through the Lodge right now and—hm—take a walk?’
‘I think not, Mr Dorrit,’ was the unwilling reply. ‘There are certain forms to be completed; and although your detention here is now in itself a form, I fear it is one that for a little longer has to be observed too.’
‘I don’t think so, Mr. Dorrit,’ was the reluctant reply. ‘There are certain forms that need to be filled out; and even though your stay here is now a form in itself, I’m afraid it’s one that has to be followed for a little while longer.’
At this he shed tears again.
At this, he cried once more.
‘It is but a few hours, sir,’ Clennam cheerfully urged upon him.
"It’s only a few hours, sir," Clennam insisted cheerfully.
‘A few hours, sir,’ he returned in a sudden passion. ‘You talk very easily of hours, sir! How long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is to a man who is choking for want of air?’
‘A few hours, sir,’ he replied in a sudden burst of emotion. ‘You speak so casually about hours, sir! How long do you think an hour feels to someone who is gasping for breath?’
It was his last demonstration for that time; as, after shedding some more tears and querulously complaining that he couldn’t breathe, he slowly fell into a slumber. Clennam had abundant occupation for his thoughts, as he sat in the quiet room watching the father on his bed, and the daughter fanning his face.
It was his last demonstration for that moment; after shedding a few more tears and complaining that he couldn’t breathe, he gradually fell into a sleep. Clennam had plenty to think about as he sat in the quiet room watching the father on the bed and the daughter fanning his face.
Little Dorrit had been thinking too. After softly putting his grey hair aside, and touching his forehead with her lips, she looked towards Arthur, who came nearer to her, and pursued in a low whisper the subject of her thoughts.
Little Dorrit had been thinking as well. After gently pushing his grey hair aside and kissing his forehead, she glanced at Arthur, who moved closer to her and quietly continued the topic on her mind.
‘Mr Clennam, will he pay all his debts before he leaves here?’
‘Mr. Clennam, will he pay all his debts before he leaves?’
‘No doubt. All.’
"Definitely. All."
‘All the debts for which he had been imprisoned here, all my life and longer?’
‘All the debts for which he had been locked up here, all my life and even before?’
‘No doubt.’
"Definitely."
There was something of uncertainty and remonstrance in her look; something that was not all satisfaction. He wondered to detect it, and said:
There was a hint of uncertainty and disagreement in her expression; something that didn’t convey complete satisfaction. He was surprised to notice it and said:
‘You are glad that he should do so?’
'Are you happy that he is doing that?'
‘Are you?’ asked Little Dorrit, wistfully.
“Are you?” Little Dorrit asked, with a hint of longing.
‘Am I? Most heartily glad!’
“Am I? Absolutely glad!”
‘Then I know I ought to be.’
'Then I know I should be.'
‘And are you not?’
"And aren't you?"
‘It seems to me hard,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that he should have lost so many years and suffered so much, and at last pay all the debts as well. It seems to me hard that he should pay in life and money both.’
“It seems really unfair,” said Little Dorrit, “that he should have lost so many years and gone through so much suffering, only to end up paying off all the debts too. It feels harsh that he has to pay with both his life and his money.”
‘My dear child—’ Clennam was beginning.
‘My dear child—’ Clennam started to say.
‘Yes, I know I am wrong,’ she pleaded timidly, ‘don’t think any worse of me; it has grown up with me here.’
‘Yes, I know I’m wrong,’ she said quietly, ‘please don’t think any less of me; it’s been a part of my life here.’
The prison, which could spoil so many things, had tainted Little Dorrit’s mind no more than this. Engendered as the confusion was, in compassion for the poor prisoner, her father, it was the first speck Clennam had ever seen, it was the last speck Clennam ever saw, of the prison atmosphere upon her.
The prison, which could ruin so many things, had affected Little Dorrit’s mind no more than this. Although the confusion was born out of compassion for her poor father, the prisoner, it was the first glimpse Clennam had ever seen, and it was the last glimpse Clennam ever saw, of the prison environment on her.
He thought this, and forbore to say another word. With the thought, her purity and goodness came before him in their brightest light. The little spot made them the more beautiful.
He thought this and chose not to say anything more. With that thought, her purity and goodness appeared before him in their brightest form. The little flaw made them even more beautiful.
Worn out with her own emotions, and yielding to the silence of the room, her hand slowly slackened and failed in its fanning movement, and her head dropped down on the pillow at her father’s side. Clennam rose softly, opened and closed the door without a sound, and passed from the prison, carrying the quiet with him into the turbulent streets.
Worn out from her own feelings, and giving in to the room's silence, her hand slowly relaxed and stopped fanning, and her head dropped onto the pillow next to her father. Clennam quietly got up, opened and closed the door without making a sound, and left the prison, taking the calm with him into the chaotic streets.
CHAPTER 36. The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan
And now the day arrived when Mr Dorrit and his family were to leave the prison for ever, and the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no more.
And now the day came when Mr. Dorrit and his family were set to leave the prison for good, and the well-worn stones of its pavement would no longer remember them.
The interval had been short, but he had greatly complained of its length, and had been imperious with Mr Rugg touching the delay. He had been high with Mr Rugg, and had threatened to employ some one else. He had requested Mr Rugg not to presume upon the place in which he found him, but to do his duty, sir, and to do it with promptitude. He had told Mr Rugg that he knew what lawyers and agents were, and that he would not submit to imposition. On that gentleman’s humbly representing that he exerted himself to the utmost, Miss Fanny was very short with him; desiring to know what less he could do, when he had been told a dozen times that money was no object, and expressing her suspicion that he forgot whom he talked to.
The wait had been brief, but he had complained about it at length and had been bossy with Mr. Rugg about the delay. He had been rude to Mr. Rugg and had threatened to hire someone else. He asked Mr. Rugg not to take advantage of his current situation but to do his job, and to do it quickly. He told Mr. Rugg that he knew what lawyers and agents were like, and that he wouldn't put up with being taken advantage of. When Mr. Rugg humbly pointed out that he was doing his best, Miss Fanny was quite dismissive, asking what less he could do since she had told him a dozen times that money was no object, and she expressed her suspicion that he forgot who he was dealing with.
Towards the Marshal, who was a Marshal of many years’ standing, and with whom he had never had any previous difference, Mr Dorrit comported himself with severity. That officer, on personally tendering his congratulations, offered the free use of two rooms in his house for Mr Dorrit’s occupation until his departure. Mr Dorrit thanked him at the moment, and replied that he would think of it; but the Marshal was no sooner gone than he sat down and wrote him a cutting note, in which he remarked that he had never on any former occasion had the honour of receiving his congratulations (which was true, though indeed there had not been anything particular to congratulate him upon), and that he begged, on behalf of himself and family, to repudiate the Marshal’s offer, with all those thanks which its disinterested character and its perfect independence of all worldly considerations demanded.
Towards the Marshal, who had held his position for many years and with whom he had never had any prior disagreement, Mr. Dorrit behaved with seriousness. When the officer personally extended his congratulations, he offered the free use of two rooms in his home for Mr. Dorrit’s stay until his departure. Mr. Dorrit thanked him in the moment and said he would consider it; however, as soon as the Marshal left, he sat down and wrote him a harsh note, stating that he had never before had the honor of receiving his congratulations (which was true, although there had never been anything specific to congratulate him on) and that he wished, on behalf of himself and his family, to decline the Marshal’s offer, with all the gratitude that its selfless nature and complete independence from any worldly considerations warranted.
Although his brother showed so dim a glimmering of interest in their altered fortunes that it was very doubtful whether he understood them, Mr Dorrit caused him to be measured for new raiment by the hosiers, tailors, hatters, and bootmakers whom he called in for himself; and ordered that his old clothes should be taken from him and burned. Miss Fanny and Mr Tip required no direction in making an appearance of great fashion and elegance; and the three passed this interval together at the best hotel in the neighbourhood—though truly, as Miss Fanny said, the best was very indifferent. In connection with that establishment, Mr Tip hired a cabriolet, horse, and groom, a very neat turn out, which was usually to be observed for two or three hours at a time gracing the Borough High Street, outside the Marshalsea court-yard. A modest little hired chariot and pair was also frequently to be seen there; in alighting from and entering which vehicle, Miss Fanny fluttered the Marshal’s daughters by the display of inaccessible bonnets.
Although his brother showed such a faint glimmer of interest in their changed circumstances that it was unclear if he even understood them, Mr. Dorrit arranged for him to be fitted for new clothes by the hosiers, tailors, hat makers, and boot makers he had called for himself; and he ordered that his old clothes be taken from him and burned. Miss Fanny and Mr. Tip needed no guidance in presenting themselves with great style and sophistication; and the three spent this time together at the best hotel in the area—though, as Miss Fanny pointed out, the best was still quite mediocre. Associated with that hotel, Mr. Tip rented a cabriolet, horse, and groom—a very smart turnout, which could usually be seen for two or three hours at a time gracing the Borough High Street, outside the Marshalsea courtyard. A modest little hired carriage and pair was also frequently parked there; as Miss Fanny got in and out of this vehicle, she dazzled the Marshal’s daughters with her display of unattainable bonnets.
A great deal of business was transacted in this short period. Among other items, Messrs Peddle and Pool, solicitors, of Monument Yard, were instructed by their client Edward Dorrit, Esquire, to address a letter to Mr Arthur Clennam, enclosing the sum of twenty-four pounds nine shillings and eightpence, being the amount of principal and interest computed at the rate of five per cent. per annum, in which their client believed himself to be indebted to Mr Clennam. In making this communication and remittance, Messrs Peddle and Pool were further instructed by their client to remind Mr Clennam that the favour of the advance now repaid (including gate-fees) had not been asked of him, and to inform him that it would not have been accepted if it had been openly proffered in his name. With which they requested a stamped receipt, and remained his obedient servants. A great deal of business had likewise to be done, within the so-soon-to-be-orphaned Marshalsea, by Mr Dorrit so long its Father, chiefly arising out of applications made to him by Collegians for small sums of money. To these he responded with the greatest liberality, and with no lack of formality; always first writing to appoint a time at which the applicant might wait upon him in his room, and then receiving him in the midst of a vast accumulation of documents, and accompanying his donation (for he said in every such case, ‘it is a donation, not a loan’) with a great deal of good counsel: to the effect that he, the expiring Father of the Marshalsea, hoped to be long remembered, as an example that a man might preserve his own and the general respect even there.
A lot of business was handled in this short time. Among other things, Messrs Peddle and Pool, lawyers from Monument Yard, were instructed by their client Edward Dorrit, Esquire, to write a letter to Mr. Arthur Clennam, including the amount of twenty-four pounds nine shillings and eightpence, which was the total of principal and interest calculated at five percent per year, that their client believed he owed Mr. Clennam. In this communication and payment, Messrs Peddle and Pool were also instructed to remind Mr. Clennam that the favor of the advance being repaid now (including gate fees) had not been solicited from him, and to inform him that it would not have been accepted even if it had been offered in his name. They requested a stamped receipt and remained at his service. Mr. Dorrit, known as the Father of the Marshalsea, also had a lot of business to take care of within the soon-to-be-orphaned prison, mainly due to requests from Collegians for small amounts of money. He responded to these with great generosity and a touch of formality; always beginning by writing to set a time for the applicant to meet him in his room, and then receiving them amidst a large pile of documents, and accompanying his gift (for he always insisted, “it’s a gift, not a loan”) with plenty of good advice: expressing that he, the soon-to-be-departed Father of the Marshalsea, hoped to be remembered as an example of how a person could maintain their own respect and the respect of others even in such a place.
The Collegians were not envious. Besides that they had a personal and traditional regard for a Collegian of so many years’ standing, the event was creditable to the College, and made it famous in the newspapers. Perhaps more of them thought, too, than were quite aware of it, that the thing might in the lottery of chances have happened to themselves, or that something of the sort might yet happen to themselves some day or other. They took it very well. A few were low at the thought of being left behind, and being left poor; but even these did not grudge the family their brilliant reverse. There might have been much more envy in politer places. It seems probable that mediocrity of fortune would have been disposed to be less magnanimous than the Collegians, who lived from hand to mouth—from the pawnbroker’s hand to the day’s dinner.
The Collegians weren't jealous. Besides having a personal and traditional respect for a Collegian with so many years of service, the event reflected well on the College and got it attention in the newspapers. Maybe more of them considered it than they realized, thinking that something similar could happen to them in the random lottery of life, or that something like that might happen to them someday. They handled it well. A few felt down about the idea of being left behind and being poor, but even they didn't begrudge the family their amazing fortune. There might have been more jealousy in more refined circles. It's likely that those with less money would have been less gracious than the Collegians, who lived paycheck to paycheck—from the pawnbroker’s hand to their next meal.
They got up an address to him, which they presented in a neat frame and glass (though it was not afterwards displayed in the family mansion or preserved among the family papers); and to which he returned a gracious answer. In that document he assured them, in a Royal manner, that he received the profession of their attachment with a full conviction of its sincerity; and again generally exhorted them to follow his example—which, at least in so far as coming into a great property was concerned, there is no doubt they would have gladly imitated. He took the same occasion of inviting them to a comprehensive entertainment, to be given to the whole College in the yard, and at which he signified he would have the honour of taking a parting glass to the health and happiness of all those whom he was about to leave behind.
They put together a nice address for him, which they presented in a stylish frame and glass (even though it wasn’t later displayed in the family home or kept with the family papers); to which he responded graciously. In that response, he assured them, in a royal way, that he accepted their expression of loyalty with complete trust in its sincerity; and he generally encouraged them to follow his example—which, at least in terms of gaining a large fortune, there’s no doubt they would have happily copied. He also took this opportunity to invite them to a big gathering, to be held for the entire College in the yard, and he mentioned that he would have the honor of raising a final toast to the health and happiness of everyone he was about to leave behind.
He did not in person dine at this public repast (it took place at two in the afternoon, and his dinners now came in from the hotel at six), but his son was so good as to take the head of the principal table, and to be very free and engaging. He himself went about among the company, and took notice of individuals, and saw that the viands were of the quality he had ordered, and that all were served. On the whole, he was like a baron of the olden time in a rare good humour. At the conclusion of the repast, he pledged his guests in a bumper of old Madeira; and told them that he hoped they had enjoyed themselves, and what was more, that they would enjoy themselves for the rest of the evening; that he wished them well; and that he bade them welcome. His health being drunk with acclamations, he was not so baronial after all but that in trying to return thanks he broke down, in the manner of a mere serf with a heart in his breast, and wept before them all. After this great success, which he supposed to be a failure, he gave them ‘Mr Chivery and his brother officers;’ whom he had beforehand presented with ten pounds each, and who were all in attendance. Mr Chivery spoke to the toast, saying, What you undertake to lock up, lock up; but remember that you are, in the words of the fettered African, a man and a brother ever. The list of toasts disposed of, Mr Dorrit urbanely went through the motions of playing a game of skittles with the Collegian who was the next oldest inhabitant to himself; and left the tenantry to their diversions.
He didn't actually eat at this public meal (it was at two in the afternoon, and his dinners were now brought in from the hotel at six), but his son was kind enough to take the head of the main table and was very friendly and engaging. He walked around among the guests, checked in with individuals, ensured that the food was what he had requested, and made sure everyone was served. Overall, he was like a cheerful baron from the past. At the end of the meal, he raised a glass of old Madeira to toast his guests and expressed his hopes that they had a good time and that they would continue to enjoy the evening; he wished them well and welcomed them. As they cheered his health, he was not so baron-like after all; in trying to thank them, he broke down, showing the vulnerability of an ordinary person and wept in front of everyone. After this unexpected emotional moment, which he thought was a misstep, he introduced "Mr. Chivery and his fellow officers," whom he had previously given ten pounds each and who were all present. Mr. Chivery spoke to the toast, saying, "What you undertake to lock up, lock up; but remember that you are, in the words of the chained African, a man and a brother always." Once the toasts were done, Mr. Dorrit politely went through the motions of playing a game of skittles with the Collegian, who was the next oldest resident besides himself, and left the tenants to their festivities.
But all these occurrences preceded the final day. And now the day arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever, and when the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no more.
But all these events happened before the final day. And now the day had come when he and his family were to leave the prison for good, and when the stones of its heavily worn pavement would no longer remember them.
Noon was the hour appointed for the departure. As it approached, there was not a Collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent. The latter class of gentlemen appeared in their Sunday clothes, and the greater part of the Collegians were brightened up as much as circumstances allowed. Two or three flags were even displayed, and the children put on odds and ends of ribbon. Mr Dorrit himself, at this trying time, preserved a serious but graceful dignity. Much of his great attention was given to his brother, as to whose bearing on the great occasion he felt anxious.
Noon was the scheduled time for departure. As it got closer, there wasn't a student inside, nor was a guard missing. The guards were dressed in their Sunday best, and most of the students were dressed up as much as they could. Two or three flags were even flown, and the kids wore bits and pieces of ribbon. Mr. Dorrit, during this tense moment, maintained a serious yet graceful dignity. He focused a lot of his attention on his brother, as he was concerned about how he would handle the big occasion.
‘My dear Frederick,’ said he, ‘if you will give me your arm we will pass among our friends together. I think it is right that we should go out arm in arm, my dear Frederick.’
‘My dear Frederick,’ he said, ‘if you’ll give me your arm, we can walk among our friends together. I think it’s right that we should go out arm in arm, my dear Frederick.’
‘Hah!’ said Frederick. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’
‘Ha!’ said Frederick. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.’
‘And if, my dear Frederick—if you could, without putting any great constraint upon yourself, throw a little (pray excuse me, Frederick), a little polish into your usual demeanour—’
‘And if, my dear Frederick—if you could, without putting too much pressure on yourself, add a little (please forgive me, Frederick), a little polish to your usual behavior—’
‘William, William,’ said the other, shaking his head, ‘it’s for you to do all that. I don’t know how. All forgotten, forgotten!’
‘William, William,’ said the other, shaking his head, ‘that's all on you. I have no idea how. It’s all forgotten, forgotten!’
‘But, my dear fellow,’ returned William, ‘for that very reason, if for no other, you must positively try to rouse yourself. What you have forgotten you must now begin to recall, my dear Frederick. Your position—’
‘But, my friend,’ replied William, ‘for that very reason, if for no other, you really need to make an effort to wake up. What you’ve forgotten, you need to start remembering, my dear Frederick. Your situation—’
‘Eh?’ said Frederick.
"Wait, what?" said Frederick.
‘Your position, my dear Frederick.’
“Your stance, my dear Frederick.”
‘Mine?’ He looked first at his own figure, and then at his brother’s, and then, drawing a long breath, cried, ‘Hah, to be sure! Yes, yes, yes.’
‘Mine?’ He first looked at himself, then at his brother, and after taking a deep breath, exclaimed, ‘Oh, of course! Yes, yes, yes.’
‘Your position, my dear Frederick, is now a fine one. Your position, as my brother, is a very fine one. And I know that it belongs to your conscientious nature to try to become worthy of it, my dear Frederick, and to try to adorn it. To be no discredit to it, but to adorn it.’
‘Your position, my dear Frederick, is quite impressive now. Your role as my brother is really significant. I understand that it’s in your conscientious nature to strive to be worthy of it, my dear Frederick, and to enhance it. To bring credit to it, not to detract from it, but to enhance it.’
‘William,’ said the other weakly, and with a sigh, ‘I will do anything you wish, my brother, provided it lies in my power. Pray be so kind as to recollect what a limited power mine is. What would you wish me to do to-day, brother? Say what it is, only say what it is.’
‘William,’ the other said weakly, with a sigh, ‘I’ll do anything you want, my brother, as long as it’s something I can actually do. Please remember how limited my abilities are. What do you want me to do today, brother? Just tell me what it is.’
‘My dearest Frederick, nothing. It is not worth troubling so good a heart as yours with.’
‘My dearest Frederick, it’s nothing. It’s not worth worrying your kind heart with.’
‘Pray trouble it,’ returned the other. ‘It finds it no trouble, William, to do anything it can for you.’
“Don't worry about it,” the other replied. “It has no trouble at all, William, doing whatever it can for you.”
William passed his hand across his eyes, and murmured with august satisfaction, ‘Blessings on your attachment, my poor dear fellow!’ Then he said aloud, ‘Well, my dear Frederick, if you will only try, as we walk out, to show that you are alive to the occasion—that you think about it—’
William rubbed his eyes and said with great satisfaction, “Blessings on your attachment, my poor dear friend!” Then he spoke more loudly, “Well, my dear Frederick, if you just try, as we walk out, to show that you’re aware of the moment—that you’re thinking about it—”
‘What would you advise me to think about it?’ returned his submissive brother.
'What would you suggest I think about it?' replied his submissive brother.
‘Oh! my dear Frederick, how can I answer you? I can only say what, in leaving these good people, I think myself.’
‘Oh! my dear Frederick, how can I respond to you? I can only express what I think as I say goodbye to these wonderful people.’
‘That’s it!’ cried his brother. ‘That will help me.’
"That's it!" his brother exclaimed. "That'll help me."
‘I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions in which a softened compassion predominates, What will they do without me!’
‘I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions, mostly filled with a softened compassion, What will they do without me!’
‘True,’ returned his brother. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes. I’ll think that as we go, What will they do without my brother! Poor things! What will they do without him!’
‘True,’ replied his brother. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes. I’ll keep that in mind as we move forward. What will they do without my brother! Poor things! What will they do without him!’
Twelve o’clock having just struck, and the carriage being reported ready in the outer court-yard, the brothers proceeded down-stairs arm-in-arm. Edward Dorrit, Esquire (once Tip), and his sister Fanny followed, also arm-in-arm; Mr Plornish and Maggy, to whom had been entrusted the removal of such of the family effects as were considered worth removing, followed, bearing bundles and burdens to be packed in a cart.
At twelve o'clock on the dot, and with the carriage reported ready in the courtyard, the brothers walked down the stairs arm in arm. Edward Dorrit, Esquire (formerly known as Tip), and his sister Fanny followed, also arm in arm. Mr. Plornish and Maggy, who were in charge of taking the family belongings that were deemed worth keeping, followed behind, carrying bundles and items to be packed in a cart.
Original
In the yard, were the Collegians and turnkeys. In the yard, were Mr Pancks and Mr Rugg, come to see the last touch given to their work. In the yard, was Young John making a new epitaph for himself, on the occasion of his dying of a broken heart. In the yard, was the Patriarchal Casby, looking so tremendously benevolent that many enthusiastic Collegians grasped him fervently by the hand, and the wives and female relatives of many more Collegians kissed his hand, nothing doubting that he had done it all. In the yard, was the man with the shadowy grievance respecting the Fund which the Marshal embezzled, who had got up at five in the morning to complete the copying of a perfectly unintelligible history of that transaction, which he had committed to Mr Dorrit’s care, as a document of the last importance, calculated to stun the Government and effect the Marshal’s downfall. In the yard, was the insolvent whose utmost energies were always set on getting into debt, who broke into prison with as much pains as other men have broken out of it, and who was always being cleared and complimented; while the insolvent at his elbow—a mere little, snivelling, striving tradesman, half dead of anxious efforts to keep out of debt—found it a hard matter, indeed, to get a Commissioner to release him with much reproof and reproach. In the yard, was the man of many children and many burdens, whose failure astonished everybody; in the yard, was the man of no children and large resources, whose failure astonished nobody. There, were the people who were always going out to-morrow, and always putting it off; there, were the people who had come in yesterday, and who were much more jealous and resentful of this freak of fortune than the seasoned birds. There, were some who, in pure meanness of spirit, cringed and bowed before the enriched Collegian and his family; there, were others who did so really because their eyes, accustomed to the gloom of their imprisonment and poverty, could not support the light of such bright sunshine. There, were many whose shillings had gone into his pocket to buy him meat and drink; but none who were now obtrusively Hail fellow well met! with him, on the strength of that assistance. It was rather to be remarked of the caged birds, that they were a little shy of the bird about to be so grandly free, and that they had a tendency to withdraw themselves towards the bars, and seem a little fluttered as he passed.
In the yard were the Collegians and turnkeys. In the yard were Mr. Pancks and Mr. Rugg, there to see the final touches put on their work. In the yard was Young John, creating a new gravestone for himself because he was "dying" of a broken heart. In the yard was the Patriarchal Casby, looking so incredibly generous that many eager Collegians shook his hand enthusiastically, and the wives and female relatives of many more Collegians kissed his hand, completely convinced that he was responsible for everything. In the yard was the man with the vague complaint about the Fund the Marshal embezzled, who had gotten up at five in the morning to finish copying a completely confusing history of that incident, which he had given to Mr. Dorrit as a crucial document meant to shock the Government and lead to the Marshal’s downfall. In the yard was the person in debt, always focused on accumulating more debt, who broke into prison as easily as others break out of it, and who was always being released and praised; meanwhile, the insolvent next to him—a small, sniveling tradesman, nearly exhausted from trying to avoid debt—found it incredibly difficult to get a Commissioner to set him free without harsh criticism. In the yard was the man with many children and many burdens, whose failure surprised everyone; and in the yard was the man with no children and plenty of resources, whose failure shocked no one. There were those who always planned to leave the next day, but continually postponed it; there were the ones who had just arrived the day before, and who were much more envious and resentful of this twist of fate than the seasoned inmates. There were some who, out of sheer pettiness, bowed and fawned before the wealthy Collegian and his family; and there were others who genuinely did so because their eyes, used to the darkness of their captivity and poverty, couldn’t handle the brightness of such clear sunshine. Many of them had contributed their coins to buy him food and drink; but none were now overly friendly with him based on that support. It was notable that the caged birds were a bit hesitant around the one about to gain such grand freedom, and tended to retreat towards the bars, appearing a little flustered as he walked by.
Through these spectators the little procession, headed by the two brothers, moved slowly to the gate. Mr Dorrit, yielding to the vast speculation how the poor creatures were to get on without him, was great, and sad, but not absorbed. He patted children on the head like Sir Roger de Coverley going to church, he spoke to people in the background by their Christian names, he condescended to all present, and seemed for their consolation to walk encircled by the legend in golden characters, ‘Be comforted, my people! Bear it!’
Through the crowd, the small procession led by the two brothers made its way slowly to the gate. Mr. Dorrit, caught up in thoughts about how the poor souls would manage without him, looked impressive and sorrowful but not overwhelmed. He patted children on the head like Sir Roger de Coverley on his way to church, addressed people in the background by their first names, showed kindness to everyone around, and seemed to carry an aura of reassurance, as if surrounded by a glowing message that read, ‘Be comforted, my people! Endure!’
At last three honest cheers announced that he had passed the gate, and that the Marshalsea was an orphan. Before they had ceased to ring in the echoes of the prison walls, the family had got into their carriage, and the attendant had the steps in his hand.
At last, three jubilant cheers signaled that he had left the gate, and that the Marshalsea was now free. Before the echoes of those cheers faded off the prison walls, the family had climbed into their carriage, and the attendant was holding the steps.
Then, and not before, ‘Good Gracious!’ cried Miss Fanny all at once, ‘Where’s Amy!’
Then, and not before, “Oh my gosh!” exclaimed Miss Fanny all of a sudden, “Where’s Amy!”
Her father had thought she was with her sister. Her sister had thought she was ‘somewhere or other.’ They had all trusted to finding her, as they had always done, quietly in the right place at the right moment. This going away was perhaps the very first action of their joint lives that they had got through without her.
Her dad thought she was with her sister. Her sister thought she was ‘somewhere or other.’ They all expected to find her, as they always did, quietly in the right place at the right time. This leaving was maybe the very first thing they had done together that she wasn’t a part of.
A minute might have been consumed in the ascertaining of these points, when Miss Fanny, who, from her seat in the carriage, commanded the long narrow passage leading to the Lodge, flushed indignantly.
A minute may have passed while figuring these things out, when Miss Fanny, who from her spot in the carriage could see the long narrow path leading to the Lodge, flared up in anger.
‘Now I do say, Pa,’ cried she, ‘that this is disgraceful!’
‘Now I really have to say, Dad,’ she exclaimed, ‘that this is shameful!’
‘What is disgraceful, Fanny?’
"What’s disgraceful, Fanny?"
‘I do say,’ she repeated, ‘this is perfectly infamous! Really almost enough, even at such a time as this, to make one wish one was dead! Here is that child Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress, which she was so obstinate about, Pa, which I over and over again begged and prayed her to change, and which she over and over again objected to, and promised to change to-day, saying she wished to wear it as long as ever she remained in there with you—which was absolutely romantic nonsense of the lowest kind—here is that child Amy disgracing us to the last moment and at the last moment, by being carried out in that dress after all. And by that Mr Clennam too!’
"I have to say," she repeated, "this is absolutely outrageous! It’s almost enough, even now, to make someone wish they were dead! Look at that child Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress, which she was so stubborn about, Dad. I begged and pleaded with her to change it, and she repeatedly insisted on keeping it, promising to change today, saying she wanted to wear it for as long as she was here with you—which was just ridiculous romantic nonsense. And now, at the very last minute, here’s that child Amy embarrassing us by being carried out in that dress after all. And by Mr. Clennam too!"
The offence was proved, as she delivered the indictment. Clennam appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensible figure in his arms.
The crime was established as she presented the indictment. Clennam stood at the carriage door, carrying the small unconscious figure in his arms.
‘She has been forgotten,’ he said, in a tone of pity not free from reproach. ‘I ran up to her room (which Mr Chivery showed me) and found the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor, dear child. She appeared to have gone to change her dress, and to have sunk down overpowered. It may have been the cheering, or it may have happened sooner. Take care of this poor cold hand, Miss Dorrit. Don’t let it fall.’
‘She has been forgotten,’ he said, in a tone of pity mixed with reproach. ‘I rushed up to her room (which Mr. Chivery showed me) and found the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor, poor thing. It looked like she tried to change her dress and just collapsed from exhaustion. Maybe it was the cheering, or it could have happened earlier. Please take care of this poor cold hand, Miss Dorrit. Don’t let it fall.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ returned Miss Dorrit, bursting into tears. ‘I believe I know what to do, if you will give me leave. Dear Amy, open your eyes, that’s a love! Oh, Amy, Amy, I really am so vexed and ashamed! Do rouse yourself, darling! Oh, why are they not driving on! Pray, Pa, do drive on!’
“Thank you, sir,” Miss Dorrit said, breaking down in tears. “I think I know what to do, if you’ll allow me. Dear Amy, open your eyes, please! Oh, Amy, Amy, I’m really so upset and embarrassed! Please wake up, sweetie! Oh, why aren’t they moving along? Please, Dad, let’s go!”
The attendant, getting between Clennam and the carriage-door, with a sharp ‘By your leave, sir!’ bundled up the steps, and they drove away.
The attendant stepped in front of Clennam and the carriage door, saying sharply, “Excuse me, sir!” and hurried up the steps, and they drove off.
BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES
CHAPTER 1. Fellow Travellers
In the autumn of the year, Darkness and Night were creeping up to the highest ridges of the Alps.
In the fall of the year, Darkness and Night were rising up to the highest peaks of the Alps.
It was vintage time in the valleys on the Swiss side of the Pass of the Great Saint Bernard, and along the banks of the Lake of Geneva. The air there was charged with the scent of gathered grapes. Baskets, troughs, and tubs of grapes stood in the dim village doorways, stopped the steep and narrow village streets, and had been carrying all day along the roads and lanes. Grapes, split and crushed under foot, lay about everywhere. The child carried in a sling by the laden peasant woman toiling home, was quieted with picked-up grapes; the idiot sunning his big goitre under the leaves of the wooden chalet by the way to the Waterfall, sat munching grapes; the breath of the cows and goats was redolent of leaves and stalks of grapes; the company in every little cabaret were eating, drinking, talking grapes. A pity that no ripe touch of this generous abundance could be given to the thin, hard, stony wine, which after all was made from the grapes!
It was harvest time in the valleys on the Swiss side of the Pass of the Great Saint Bernard and along the shores of Lake Geneva. The air was filled with the aroma of freshly picked grapes. Baskets, troughs, and tubs overflowing with grapes lined the dim doorways of the village, blocked the steep and narrow streets, and had been carried all day along the roads and lanes. Grapes, squashed and crushed underfoot, were scattered everywhere. The child being carried in a sling by the exhausted peasant woman heading home was calmed with grapes picked off the ground; the simple-minded man lounging under the leaves of a wooden chalet on the way to the Waterfall munched on grapes; the breath of the cows and goats was fragrant with grape leaves and stems; the patrons in every little café were eating, drinking, and chatting about grapes. It was a shame that none of this rich abundance could be tasted in the thin, harsh, stony wine that was, after all, made from the grapes!
The air had been warm and transparent through the whole of the bright day. Shining metal spires and church-roofs, distant and rarely seen, had sparkled in the view; and the snowy mountain-tops had been so clear that unaccustomed eyes, cancelling the intervening country, and slighting their rugged heights for something fabulous, would have measured them as within a few hours easy reach. Mountain-peaks of great celebrity in the valleys, whence no trace of their existence was visible sometimes for months together, had been since morning plain and near in the blue sky. And now, when it was dark below, though they seemed solemnly to recede, like spectres who were going to vanish, as the red dye of the sunset faded out of them and left them coldly white, they were yet distinctly defined in their loneliness above the mists and shadows.
The air had been warm and clear all day. Shiny metal spires and church roofs, far away and rarely seen, sparkled in the distance; and the snowy mountain tops were so clear that unaccustomed eyes, ignoring the land in between and dismissing their rough heights as something fantastical, might have thought they were just a few hours away. Famous mountain peaks in the valleys, which sometimes weren’t visible for months at a time, had been plain and close in the blue sky since morning. And now, as it got dark below, even though they appeared to solemnly pull away like ghosts about to disappear, as the sunset’s red hue faded from them and left them coldly white, they were still sharply outlined in their solitude above the mists and shadows.
Seen from these solitudes, and from the Pass of the Great Saint Bernard, which was one of them, the ascending Night came up the mountain like a rising water. When it at last rose to the walls of the convent of the Great Saint Bernard, it was as if that weather-beaten structure were another Ark, and floated on the shadowy waves.
Seen from these lonely places, including the Pass of the Great Saint Bernard, the Night climbed the mountain like a rising tide. When it finally reached the walls of the Great Saint Bernard convent, it felt like that weathered building was another Ark, floating on the dark waves.
Darkness, outstripping some visitors on mules, had risen thus to the rough convent walls, when those travellers were yet climbing the mountain. As the heat of the glowing day when they had stopped to drink at the streams of melted ice and snow, was changed to the searching cold of the frosty rarefied night air at a great height, so the fresh beauty of the lower journey had yielded to barrenness and desolation. A craggy track, up which the mules in single file scrambled and turned from block to block, as though they were ascending the broken staircase of a gigantic ruin, was their way now. No trees were to be seen, nor any vegetable growth save a poor brown scrubby moss, freezing in the chinks of rock. Blackened skeleton arms of wood by the wayside pointed upward to the convent as if the ghosts of former travellers overwhelmed by the snow haunted the scene of their distress. Icicle-hung caves and cellars built for refuges from sudden storms, were like so many whispers of the perils of the place; never-resting wreaths and mazes of mist wandered about, hunted by a moaning wind; and snow, the besetting danger of the mountain, against which all its defences were taken, drifted sharply down.
Darkness, outpacing some visitors on mules, had climbed up to the rough convent walls while those travelers were still making their way up the mountain. Just as the heat of the bright day when they stopped to drink from the streams of melted ice and snow turned into the biting cold of the thin night air at a high altitude, the fresh beauty of the lower path had given way to barrenness and desolation. A rocky trail, where the mules scrambled in single file and navigated from stone to stone as if climbing the broken stairs of a massive ruin, was their current route. No trees were in sight, nor any plant life except for some sparse brown moss, freezing in the cracks of the rocks. Charred, skeletal branches along the side of the path pointed toward the convent as if the ghosts of past travelers lost in the snow haunted the scene of their struggle. Caves and shelters hung with icicles, meant for refuge from sudden storms, were like soft warnings of the dangers in the area; unending wreaths and swirling mists drifted through, pursued by a moaning wind; and snow, the constant threat of the mountain, which all its defenses sought to fend off, fell sharply down.
The file of mules, jaded by their day’s work, turned and wound slowly up the deep ascent; the foremost led by a guide on foot, in his broad-brimmed hat and round jacket, carrying a mountain staff or two upon his shoulder, with whom another guide conversed. There was no speaking among the string of riders. The sharp cold, the fatigue of the journey, and a new sensation of a catching in the breath, partly as if they had just emerged from very clear crisp water, and partly as if they had been sobbing, kept them silent.
The line of mules, worn out from their day’s work, slowly made their way up the steep slope; the lead mule was guided by a man walking beside it, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a round jacket, carrying a couple of mountain staffs on his shoulder, and chatting with another guide. The group of riders didn’t talk. The biting cold, the exhaustion from the journey, and a new sensation of tightness in their breath—almost like they had just come out of very cold, clear water and also like they had been crying—kept them quiet.
At length, a light on the summit of the rocky staircase gleamed through the snow and mist. The guides called to the mules, the mules pricked up their drooping heads, the travellers’ tongues were loosened, and in a sudden burst of slipping, climbing, jingling, clinking, and talking, they arrived at the convent door.
At last, a light at the top of the rocky staircase shone through the snow and fog. The guides called to the mules, the mules perked up their drooping heads, the travelers started chatting, and in a sudden rush of slipping, climbing, jingling, clinking, and talking, they reached the convent door.
Other mules had arrived not long before, some with peasant riders and some with goods, and had trodden the snow about the door into a pool of mud. Riding-saddles and bridles, pack-saddles and strings of bells, mules and men, lanterns, torches, sacks, provender, barrels, cheeses, kegs of honey and butter, straw bundles and packages of many shapes, were crowded confusedly together in this thawed quagmire and about the steps. Up here in the clouds, everything was seen through cloud, and seemed dissolving into cloud. The breath of the men was cloud, the breath of the mules was cloud, the lights were encircled by cloud, speakers close at hand were not seen for cloud, though their voices and all other sounds were surprisingly clear. Of the cloudy line of mules hastily tied to rings in the wall, one would bite another, or kick another, and then the whole mist would be disturbed: with men diving into it, and cries of men and beasts coming out of it, and no bystander discerning what was wrong. In the midst of this, the great stable of the convent, occupying the basement story and entered by the basement door, outside which all the disorder was, poured forth its contribution of cloud, as if the whole rugged edifice were filled with nothing else, and would collapse as soon as it had emptied itself, leaving the snow to fall upon the bare mountain summit.
Other mules had shown up not long before, some with peasant riders and some with cargo, creating a muddy mess around the door from the snow they’d trodden in. Riding saddles, bridles, pack saddles, strings of bells, mules and men, lanterns, torches, sacks, feed, barrels, cheeses, kegs of honey and butter, bundles of straw, and packages of various shapes were all jumbled together in this thawed muck and around the steps. Up here in the clouds, everything was veiled in mist and seemed to dissolve into it. The breath of the men was mist, the breath of the mules was mist, the lights were surrounded by mist, and speakers nearby were obscured by it, though their voices and all other sounds were surprisingly clear. Among the cloudy line of mules hastily tied to rings in the wall, one would bite another or kick, disturbing the entire fog: men diving into it, along with cries from both men and beasts emerging from it, while no bystander could tell what was going on. In the midst of all this, the large stable of the convent, occupying the basement level and accessed through the basement door—where all the chaos was—poured out its share of mist, as if the whole rugged building were filled with nothing else and would collapse once it had emptied itself, leaving the snow to fall on the bare mountain peak.
While all this noise and hurry were rife among the living travellers, there, too, silently assembled in a grated house half-a-dozen paces removed, with the same cloud enfolding them and the same snow flakes drifting in upon them, were the dead travellers found upon the mountain. The mother, storm-belated many winters ago, still standing in the corner with her baby at her breast; the man who had frozen with his arm raised to his mouth in fear or hunger, still pressing it with his dry lips after years and years. An awful company, mysteriously come together! A wild destiny for that mother to have foreseen! ‘Surrounded by so many and such companions upon whom I never looked, and never shall look, I and my child will dwell together inseparable, on the Great Saint Bernard, outlasting generations who will come to see us, and will never know our name, or one word of our story but the end.’
While all this noise and rush were happening among the living travelers, there, too, quietly gathered in a barred house just a few steps away, surrounded by the same cloud and drifting snowflakes, were the dead travelers found on the mountain. The mother, stranded in a storm many winters ago, still standing in the corner with her baby in her arms; the man who had frozen with his arm raised to his mouth in fear or hunger, still pressing it with his dry lips after all these years. An eerie gathering, brought together in mystery! What a wild fate for that mother to have imagined! ‘Surrounded by so many companions, whom I have never seen and never will see, my child and I will stay together, inseparable, on the Great Saint Bernard, outliving generations who will come to visit us, and will never know our names or a single word of our story except the end.’
The living travellers thought little or nothing of the dead just then. They thought much more of alighting at the convent door, and warming themselves at the convent fire. Disengaged from the turmoil, which was already calming down as the crowd of mules began to be bestowed in the stable, they hurried shivering up the steps and into the building. There was a smell within, coming up from the floor, of tethered beasts, like the smell of a menagerie of wild animals. There were strong arched galleries within, huge stone piers, great staircases, and thick walls pierced with small sunken windows—fortifications against the mountain storms, as if they had been human enemies. There were gloomy vaulted sleeping-rooms within, intensely cold, but clean and hospitably prepared for guests. Finally, there was a parlour for guests to sit in and sup in, where a table was already laid, and where a blazing fire shone red and high.
The travelers alive paid little attention to the dead at that moment. They were more focused on reaching the convent door and warming up by the convent fire. Free from the chaos, which was already starting to settle as the crowd of mules was taken to the stable, they hurried, shivering, up the steps and into the building. Inside, there was a smell rising from the floor, like tethered animals, reminiscent of a wild animal zoo. There were impressive arched galleries, massive stone columns, grand staircases, and thick walls with small sunken windows—defenses against the mountain storms, as if they were human foes. The sleeping rooms were dark and cold but clean and welcoming for guests. Finally, there was a guest parlor where they could sit and eat, with a table already set and a bright fire blazing warmly.
Original
In this room, after having had their quarters for the night allotted to them by two young Fathers, the travellers presently drew round the hearth. They were in three parties; of whom the first, as the most numerous and important, was the slowest, and had been overtaken by one of the others on the way up. It consisted of an elderly lady, two grey-haired gentlemen, two young ladies, and their brother. These were attended (not to mention four guides), by a courier, two footmen, and two waiting-maids: which strong body of inconvenience was accommodated elsewhere under the same roof. The party that had overtaken them, and followed in their train, consisted of only three members: one lady and two gentlemen. The third party, which had ascended from the valley on the Italian side of the Pass, and had arrived first, were four in number: a plethoric, hungry, and silent German tutor in spectacles, on a tour with three young men, his pupils, all plethoric, hungry, and silent, and all in spectacles.
In this room, after two young Fathers had assigned them their sleeping quarters for the night, the travelers gathered around the fireplace. They were divided into three groups; the first, being the largest and most significant, was the slowest and had been caught up by one of the other groups along the way. It included an elderly lady, two gray-haired gentlemen, two young ladies, and their brother. They were accompanied (not to mention four guides) by a courier, two footmen, and two maidservants: this large group of inconvenience was placed elsewhere in the same building. The group that had caught up to them consisted of only three people: one lady and two gentlemen. The third group, which had come up from the valley on the Italian side of the Pass and arrived first, was made up of four individuals: a stuffy, hungry, and quiet German tutor in glasses, touring with three young men, his students, all of whom were also stuffy, hungry, and quiet, and all wearing glasses.
These three groups sat round the fire eyeing each other drily, and waiting for supper. Only one among them, one of the gentlemen belonging to the party of three, made advances towards conversation. Throwing out his lines for the Chief of the important tribe, while addressing himself to his own companions, he remarked, in a tone of voice which included all the company if they chose to be included, that it had been a long day, and that he felt for the ladies. That he feared one of the young ladies was not a strong or accustomed traveller, and had been over-fatigued two or three hours ago. That he had observed, from his station in the rear, that she sat her mule as if she were exhausted. That he had, twice or thrice afterwards, done himself the honour of inquiring of one of the guides, when he fell behind, how the lady did. That he had been enchanted to learn that she had recovered her spirits, and that it had been but a passing discomfort. That he trusted (by this time he had secured the eyes of the Chief, and addressed him) he might be permitted to express his hope that she was now none the worse, and that she would not regret having made the journey.
These three groups sat around the fire, glancing at each other without much enthusiasm, and waiting for dinner. Only one among them, a member of the group of three, initiated conversation. He tossed out a line directed at the Chief of the important tribe while talking to his own companions, mentioning in a tone that included everyone present if they wanted to join in, that it had been a long day and he felt for the ladies. He worried that one of the young women wasn’t a strong or experienced traveler and had become overly tired a few hours ago. From his spot in the back, he noticed that she looked exhausted on her mule. He had, two or three times later, taken the honor of asking one of the guides, when he lagged behind, how the lady was doing. He was pleased to hear that she had regained her spirits and that it had just been a temporary discomfort. He hoped (by this point, he had caught the Chief's attention and spoke directly to him) that he could express his hope that she was now feeling better and that she wouldn’t regret making the trip.
‘My daughter, I am obliged to you, sir,’ returned the Chief, ‘is quite restored, and has been greatly interested.’
‘My daughter, I appreciate it, sir,’ replied the Chief, ‘is fully recovered and has shown a lot of interest.’
‘New to mountains, perhaps?’ said the insinuating traveller.
“Are you new to the mountains, maybe?” said the suggestive traveler.
‘New to—ha—to mountains,’ said the Chief.
‘New to—ha—to mountains,’ said the Chief.
‘But you are familiar with them, sir?’ the insinuating traveller assumed.
‘But you know them, right, sir?’ the suggestive traveler assumed.
‘I am—hum—tolerably familiar. Not of late years. Not of late years,’ replied the Chief, with a flourish of his hand.
‘I am—uh—pretty familiar. Not in recent years. Not in recent years,’ replied the Chief, waving his hand.
The insinuating traveller, acknowledging the flourish with an inclination of his head, passed from the Chief to the second young lady, who had not yet been referred to otherwise than as one of the ladies in whose behalf he felt so sensitive an interest.
The suggestive traveler, nodding in acknowledgment, moved from the Chief to the second young lady, who had only been mentioned as one of the ladies he felt such a strong interest in.
He hoped she was not incommoded by the fatigues of the day.
He hoped she wasn't bothered by the day's exhaustion.
‘Incommoded, certainly,’ returned the young lady, ‘but not tired.’
‘Annoyed, definitely,’ replied the young lady, ‘but not tired.’
The insinuating traveller complimented her on the justice of the distinction. It was what he had meant to say. Every lady must doubtless be incommoded by having to do with that proverbially unaccommodating animal, the mule.
The sly traveler praised her for her insightful distinction. That was exactly what he intended to say. Every woman must surely find it challenging to deal with that notoriously stubborn creature, the mule.
‘We have had, of course,’ said the young lady, who was rather reserved and haughty, ‘to leave the carriages and fourgon at Martigny. And the impossibility of bringing anything that one wants to this inaccessible place, and the necessity of leaving every comfort behind, is not convenient.’
‘We’ve had to leave the carriages and luggage at Martigny,’ said the young lady, who was somewhat reserved and aloof. ‘The fact that we can’t bring anything we want to this remote place, and having to leave all our comforts behind, is really inconvenient.’
‘A savage place indeed,’ said the insinuating traveller.
'A truly wild place,' said the sly traveler.
The elderly lady, who was a model of accurate dressing, and whose manner was perfect, considered as a piece of machinery, here interposed a remark in a low soft voice.
The elderly lady, who always dressed impeccably and had perfect manners, interjected a comment in a gentle, soft voice.
‘But, like other inconvenient places,’ she observed, ‘it must be seen. As a place much spoken of, it is necessary to see it.’
‘But, like other inconvenient places,’ she noted, ‘it has to be seen. Since it's a place that gets talked about a lot, it's essential to check it out.’
‘O! I have not the least objection to seeing it, I assure you, Mrs General,’ returned the other, carelessly.
‘Oh! I have no problem seeing it, I promise you, Mrs. General,’ the other replied casually.
‘You, madam,’ said the insinuating traveller, ‘have visited this spot before?’
‘You, ma'am,’ said the suggestive traveler, ‘have been here before?’
‘Yes,’ returned Mrs General. ‘I have been here before. Let me commend you, my dear,’ to the former young lady, ‘to shade your face from the hot wood, after exposure to the mountain air and snow. You, too, my dear,’ to the other and younger lady, who immediately did so; while the former merely said, ‘Thank you, Mrs General, I am Perfectly comfortable, and prefer remaining as I am.’
‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. General. ‘I've been here before. Let me suggest, my dear,’ to the former young lady, ‘that you cover your face from the intense sun after being out in the mountain air and snow. You, too, my dear,’ to the other, younger lady, who immediately complied; while the former simply said, ‘Thank you, Mrs. General, I'm perfectly comfortable and would rather stay as I am.’
The brother, who had left his chair to open a piano that stood in the room, and who had whistled into it and shut it up again, now came strolling back to the fire with his glass in his eye. He was dressed in the very fullest and completest travelling trim. The world seemed hardly large enough to yield him an amount of travel proportionate to his equipment.
The brother, who had gotten up from his chair to open a piano in the room, whistled into it and then closed it again, now strolled back to the fire with a drink in hand. He was dressed in the most complete travel outfit. The world hardly seemed big enough to provide him with enough adventures to match his gear.
‘These fellows are an immense time with supper,’ he drawled. ‘I wonder what they’ll give us! Has anybody any idea?’
"These guys sure take a long time with dinner," he said lazily. "I wonder what they'll serve us! Does anyone have a clue?"
‘Not roast man, I believe,’ replied the voice of the second gentleman of the party of three.
‘Not roasted, I think,’ replied the voice of the second gentleman in the group of three.
‘I suppose not. What d’ye mean?’ he inquired.
‘I guess not. What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘That, as you are not to be served for the general supper, perhaps you will do us the favour of not cooking yourself at the general fire,’ returned the other.
‘Since you're not going to be served for the general dinner, maybe you could do us a favor and avoid cooking for yourself at the communal fire,’ the other replied.
The young gentleman who was standing in an easy attitude on the hearth, cocking his glass at the company, with his back to the blaze and his coat tucked under his arms, something as if he were Of the Poultry species and were trussed for roasting, lost countenance at this reply; he seemed about to demand further explanation, when it was discovered—through all eyes turning on the speaker—that the lady with him, who was young and beautiful, had not heard what had passed through having fainted with her head upon his shoulder.
The young man who was casually leaning on the hearth, raising his glass at the group, with his back to the fire and his coat tucked under his arms, almost like a chicken being prepared for roasting, appeared taken aback by this response; he seemed ready to ask for clarification when everyone noticed—since all eyes turned to the speaker—that the young and beautiful lady beside him hadn’t heard what had been said because she had fainted with her head resting on his shoulder.
‘I think,’ said the gentleman in a subdued tone, ‘I had best carry her straight to her room. Will you call to some one to bring a light?’ addressing his companion, ‘and to show the way? In this strange rambling place I don’t know that I could find it.’
‘I think,’ said the man quietly, ‘I should just take her straight to her room. Can you ask someone to bring a light?’ he said to his companion, ‘and to show the way? In this confusing, winding place, I’m not sure I could find it.’
‘Pray, let me call my maid,’ cried the taller of the young ladies.
“Please, let me call my maid,” said the taller of the young ladies.
‘Pray, let me put this water to her lips,’ said the shorter, who had not spoken yet.
“Please, let me put this water to her lips,” said the shorter one, who hadn’t spoken yet.
Each doing what she suggested, there was no want of assistance. Indeed, when the two maids came in (escorted by the courier, lest any one should strike them dumb by addressing a foreign language to them on the road), there was a prospect of too much assistance. Seeing this, and saying as much in a few words to the slighter and younger of the two ladies, the gentleman put his wife’s arm over his shoulder, lifted her up, and carried her away.
Each doing what she suggested, there was no lack of help. In fact, when the two maids came in (accompanied by the courier, to prevent anyone from confusing them with a foreign language on the way), there was a chance of having too much help. Noticing this, and mentioning it briefly to the younger and more delicate of the two ladies, the gentleman placed his wife's arm over his shoulder, lifted her up, and carried her away.
His friend, being left alone with the other visitors, walked slowly up and down the room without coming to the fire again, pulling his black moustache in a contemplative manner, as if he felt himself committed to the late retort. While the subject of it was breathing injury in a corner, the Chief loftily addressed this gentleman.
His friend, left alone with the other guests, strolled slowly back and forth in the room without returning to the fire, pulling at his black mustache in a thoughtful way, as if he felt a sense of obligation for the recent comment. Meanwhile, the person the comment was about was sulking in a corner, and the Chief spoke to this gentleman with an air of superiority.
‘Your friend, sir,’ said he, ‘is—ha—is a little impatient; and, in his impatience, is not perhaps fully sensible of what he owes to—hum—to—but we will waive that, we will waive that. Your friend is a little impatient, sir.’
'Your friend, sir,' he said, 'is—uh—is a bit impatient; and, in his impatience, he may not fully realize what he owes to—um—to—but let's set that aside, let's set that aside. Your friend is a bit impatient, sir.'
‘It may be so, sir,’ returned the other. ‘But having had the honour of making that gentleman’s acquaintance at the hotel at Geneva, where we and much good company met some time ago, and having had the honour of exchanging company and conversation with that gentleman on several subsequent excursions, I can hear nothing—no, not even from one of your appearance and station, sir—detrimental to that gentleman.’
"It might be true, sir," replied the other. "But since I had the privilege of meeting that gentleman at the hotel in Geneva, where we and some other great company gathered a while back, and since I've also had the honor of sharing time and conversation with him on several trips afterward, I can't hear anything—no, not even from someone of your appearance and position, sir—against that gentleman."
‘You are in no danger, sir, of hearing any such thing from me. In remarking that your friend has shown impatience, I say no such thing. I make that remark, because it is not to be doubted that my son, being by birth and by—ha—by education a—hum—a gentleman, would have readily adapted himself to any obligingly expressed wish on the subject of the fire being equally accessible to the whole of the present circle. Which, in principle, I—ha—for all are—hum—equal on these occasions—I consider right.’
‘You have nothing to worry about, sir, in hearing anything like that from me. When I mention that your friend has shown impatience, I’m not implying anything negative. I make that comment because it's clear that my son, being a gentleman by birth and—uh—by education, would have easily adjusted to any polite request about making the fire accessible to everyone here. Which, in principle, I—uh—for we are all—um—equal on these occasions—I believe is the right thing to do.’
‘Good,’ was the reply. ‘And there it ends! I am your son’s obedient servant. I beg your son to receive the assurance of my profound consideration. And now, sir, I may admit, freely admit, that my friend is sometimes of a sarcastic temper.’
‘Good,’ was the reply. ‘And that's that! I am your son’s obedient servant. I ask your son to accept my sincere respect. And now, sir, I can admit, quite honestly, that my friend can occasionally be a bit sarcastic.’
‘The lady is your friend’s wife, sir?’
‘Is the lady your friend’s wife, sir?’
‘The lady is my friend’s wife, sir.’
'The woman is my friend's wife, sir.'
‘She is very handsome.’
‘She is very attractive.’
‘Sir, she is peerless. They are still in the first year of their marriage. They are still partly on a marriage, and partly on an artistic, tour.’
‘Sir, she is unmatched. They are still in the first year of their marriage. They are partially on a honeymoon, and partially on an artistic tour.’
‘Your friend is an artist, sir?’
‘Is your friend an artist, sir?’
The gentleman replied by kissing the fingers of his right hand, and wafting the kiss the length of his arm towards Heaven. As who should say, I devote him to the celestial Powers as an immortal artist!
The gentleman responded by kissing the fingers of his right hand and sending the kiss up his arm toward the sky. As if to say, I dedicate him to the heavenly forces as an eternal artist!
‘But he is a man of family,’ he added. ‘His connections are of the best. He is more than an artist: he is highly connected. He may, in effect, have repudiated his connections, proudly, impatiently, sarcastically (I make the concession of both words); but he has them. Sparks that have been struck out during our intercourse have shown me this.’
‘But he is a family man,’ he added. ‘His connections are top-notch. He’s more than just an artist: he’s very well-connected. He might have rejected his connections, doing so proudly, impatiently, and sometimes sarcastically (I’ll concede both words); but they’re still there. The sparks that have flown during our conversations have shown me this.’
‘Well! I hope,’ said the lofty gentleman, with the air of finally disposing of the subject, ‘that the lady’s indisposition may be only temporary.’
‘Well! I hope,’ said the distinguished gentleman, finally putting the subject to rest, ‘that the lady’s illness is just a temporary thing.’
‘Sir, I hope so.’
"Sir, I hope so."
‘Mere fatigue, I dare say.’
"Just tired, I would say."
‘Not altogether mere fatigue, sir, for her mule stumbled to-day, and she fell from the saddle. She fell lightly, and was up again without assistance, and rode from us laughing; but she complained towards evening of a slight bruise in the side. She spoke of it more than once, as we followed your party up the mountain.’
‘It wasn't just simple fatigue, sir, because her mule stumbled today, and she fell off the saddle. She fell lightly and got back up without help, riding away laughing; but she mentioned later in the evening that she had a small bruise on her side. She brought it up more than once while we followed your group up the mountain.’
The head of the large retinue, who was gracious but not familiar, appeared by this time to think that he had condescended more than enough. He said no more, and there was silence for some quarter of an hour until supper appeared.
The leader of the large group, who was polite but not familiar, seemed to feel that he had been accommodating enough by this time. He said nothing more, and there was silence for about fifteen minutes until dinner arrived.
With the supper came one of the young Fathers (there seemed to be no old Fathers) to take the head of the table. It was like the supper of an ordinary Swiss hotel, and good red wine grown by the convent in more genial air was not wanting. The artist traveller calmly came and took his place at table when the rest sat down, with no apparent sense upon him of his late skirmish with the completely dressed traveller.
With dinner came one of the younger Fathers (there didn't seem to be any older Fathers) to sit at the head of the table. It resembled the dinner of a typical Swiss hotel, and there was definitely good red wine grown by the convent in a warmer climate. The artist traveler casually joined the table when everyone else sat down, showing no sign of his recent encounter with the fully dressed traveler.
‘Pray,’ he inquired of the host, over his soup, ‘has your convent many of its famous dogs now?’
“Hey,” he asked the host, over his soup, “does your convent still have a lot of its famous dogs?”
‘Monsieur, it has three.’
"Sir, it has three."
‘I saw three in the gallery below. Doubtless the three in question.’
"I saw three in the gallery below. They’re definitely the three we're talking about."
The host, a slender, bright-eyed, dark young man of polite manners, whose garment was a black gown with strips of white crossed over it like braces, and who no more resembled the conventional breed of Saint Bernard monks than he resembled the conventional breed of Saint Bernard dogs, replied, doubtless those were the three in question.
The host, a slim, bright-eyed, dark-skinned young man with good manners, wearing a black gown with white stripes crossing over it like suspenders, looked nothing like the usual type of Saint Bernard monks, just as he didn’t resemble the typical Saint Bernard dogs, replied, of course, those were the three in question.
‘And I think,’ said the artist traveller, ‘I have seen one of them before.’
‘And I think,’ said the traveling artist, ‘I’ve seen one of them before.’
It was possible. He was a dog sufficiently well known. Monsieur might have easily seen him in the valley or somewhere on the lake, when he (the dog) had gone down with one of the order to solicit aid for the convent.
It was possible. He was a dog well known enough. The gentleman might have easily seen him in the valley or somewhere on the lake when he (the dog) had gone down with one of the orders to ask for help for the convent.
‘Which is done in its regular season of the year, I think?’
‘Is this done during its usual season of the year, I think?’
Monsieur was right.
The man was right.
‘And never without a dog. The dog is very important.’
‘And never without a dog. The dog is really important.’
Again Monsieur was right. The dog was very important. People were justly interested in the dog. As one of the dogs celebrated everywhere, Ma’amselle would observe.
Again, Monsieur was right. The dog was very important. People were rightly interested in the dog. As one of the dogs celebrated everywhere, Ma’amselle would notice.
Ma’amselle was a little slow to observe it, as though she were not yet well accustomed to the French tongue. Mrs General, however, observed it for her.
Ma’amselle was a bit slow to notice it, as if she wasn’t quite used to the French language yet. Mrs. General, however, pointed it out for her.
‘Ask him if he has saved many lives?’ said, in his native English, the young man who had been put out of countenance.
‘Ask him if he has saved many lives?’ said the young man, looking flustered, in his native English.
The host needed no translation of the question. He promptly replied in French, ‘No. Not this one.’
The host didn’t need any translation for the question. He quickly responded in French, ‘No. Not this one.’
‘Why not?’ the same gentleman asked.
‘Why not?’ the same guy asked.
‘Pardon,’ returned the host composedly, ‘give him the opportunity and he will do it without doubt. For example, I am well convinced,’ smiling sedately, as he cut up the dish of veal to be handed round, on the young man who had been put out of countenance, ‘that if you, Monsieur, would give him the opportunity, he would hasten with great ardour to fulfil his duty.’
“Excuse me,” replied the host calmly, “if you give him the chance, he will definitely do it. For instance, I’m quite sure,” he said with a composed smile as he sliced the veal to serve around, addressing the young man who seemed flustered, “that if you, Monsieur, would give him the opportunity, he would eagerly rush to fulfill his duty.”
The artist traveller laughed. The insinuating traveller (who evinced a provident anxiety to get his full share of the supper), wiping some drops of wine from his moustache with a piece of bread, joined the conversation.
The artist traveler laughed. The sly traveler (who seemed pretty eager to make sure he got his fair share of the meal), wiping some wine droplets from his mustache with a piece of bread, joined the conversation.
‘It is becoming late in the year, my Father,’ said he, ‘for tourist-travellers, is it not?’
‘It’s getting late in the year, Dad,’ he said, ‘for tourists, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is late. Yet two or three weeks, at most, and we shall be left to the winter snows.’
‘Yeah, it’s late. But in two or three weeks, at the most, we’ll be dealing with the winter snows.’
‘And then,’ said the insinuating traveller, ‘for the scratching dogs and the buried children, according to the pictures!’
‘And then,’ said the sly traveler, ‘about the scratching dogs and the buried children, just like in the pictures!’
‘Pardon,’ said the host, not quite understanding the allusion. ‘How, then the scratching dogs and the buried children according to the pictures?’
‘Excuse me,’ said the host, not fully getting the reference. ‘So, what about the scratching dogs and the buried children in the pictures?’
The artist traveller struck in again before an answer could be given.
The traveling artist jumped in again before anyone could respond.
‘Don’t you know,’ he coldly inquired across the table of his companion, ‘that none but smugglers come this way in the winter or can have any possible business this way?’
“Don’t you know,” he asked coldly across the table to his companion, “that only smugglers come this way in the winter or have any real business here?”
‘Holy blue! No; never heard of it.’
‘Holy cow! No; I've never heard of it.’
‘So it is, I believe. And as they know the signs of the weather tolerably well, they don’t give much employment to the dogs—who have consequently died out rather—though this house of entertainment is conveniently situated for themselves. Their young families, I am told, they usually leave at home. But it’s a grand idea!’ cried the artist traveller, unexpectedly rising into a tone of enthusiasm. ‘It’s a sublime idea. It’s the finest idea in the world, and brings tears into a man’s eyes, by Jupiter!’ He then went on eating his veal with great composure.
‘That’s how it is, I think. And since they have a decent understanding of the weather, they don’t rely on the dogs much—so the dogs have mostly died out—though this place is conveniently located for them. I’ve heard they usually leave their young families at home. But it’s a brilliant idea!’ exclaimed the artist traveler, unexpectedly getting excited. ‘It’s a magnificent idea. It’s the best idea in the world, and it really brings tears to a man's eyes, I swear!’ He then continued eating his veal with great calm.
There was enough of mocking inconsistency at the bottom of this speech to make it rather discordant, though the manner was refined and the person well-favoured, and though the depreciatory part of it was so skilfully thrown off as to be very difficult for one not perfectly acquainted with the English language to understand, or, even understanding, to take offence at: so simple and dispassionate was its tone. After finishing his veal in the midst of silence, the speaker again addressed his friend.
There was enough mocking inconsistency at the core of this speech to make it quite jarring, even though the delivery was polished and the speaker was attractive. The negative comments were so cleverly phrased that it would be very hard for anyone not fully fluent in English to grasp, or even if they did understand, to be offended by them: the tone was so straightforward and calm. After finishing his veal in the silence, the speaker turned to his friend again.
‘Look,’ said he, in his former tone, ‘at this gentleman our host, not yet in the prime of life, who in so graceful a way and with such courtly urbanity and modesty presides over us! Manners fit for a crown! Dine with the Lord Mayor of London (if you can get an invitation) and observe the contrast. This dear fellow, with the finest cut face I ever saw, a face in perfect drawing, leaves some laborious life and comes up here I don’t know how many feet above the level of the sea, for no other purpose on earth (except enjoying himself, I hope, in a capital refectory) than to keep an hotel for idle poor devils like you and me, and leave the bill to our consciences! Why, isn’t it a beautiful sacrifice? What do we want more to touch us? Because rescued people of interesting appearance are not, for eight or nine months out of every twelve, holding on here round the necks of the most sagacious of dogs carrying wooden bottles, shall we disparage the place? No! Bless the place. It’s a great place, a glorious place!’
“Look,” he said, in his usual tone, “at this gentleman, our host, who’s not yet at the peak of life but presides over us with such grace, refined manners, and humility! He has the poise fit for royalty! Dine with the Lord Mayor of London (if you can get an invite) and see the difference. This dear fellow, with the most strikingly handsome face I’ve ever seen, a face perfectly crafted, leaves some exhausting life behind and comes up here, I don’t know how many feet above sea level, for no other reason on earth (except to enjoy himself, I hope, in a great restaurant) than to run a hotel for lazy folks like you and me and leave the bill to our consciences! Isn’t that a beautiful sacrifice? What more do we need to be moved? Just because interesting-looking people who have been rescued aren’t, for eight or nine months out of every twelve, hanging around the necks of the wisest of dogs with wooden bottles, should we look down on the place? No! Let’s celebrate the place. It’s a wonderful place, a glorious place!”
The chest of the grey-haired gentleman who was the Chief of the important party, had swelled as if with a protest against his being numbered among poor devils. No sooner had the artist traveller ceased speaking than he himself spoke with great dignity, as having it incumbent on him to take the lead in most places, and having deserted that duty for a little while.
The chest of the grey-haired gentleman, who was the leader of the important party, puffed up as if to protest being counted among the poor souls. As soon as the artist traveler finished speaking, he spoke up with great dignity, as if it was his responsibility to take the lead in most situations, and he had temporarily abandoned that duty.
He weightily communicated his opinion to their host, that his life must be a very dreary life here in the winter.
He seriously told their host that his life must be very boring during the winter here.
The host allowed to Monsieur that it was a little monotonous. The air was difficult to breathe for a length of time consecutively. The cold was very severe. One needed youth and strength to bear it. However, having them and the blessing of Heaven—
The host admitted to Monsieur that it was a bit monotonous. The air was difficult to breathe for an extended period. The cold was really intense. You needed youth and strength to handle it. However, if you had those and the blessing of Heaven—
Yes, that was very good. ‘But the confinement,’ said the grey-haired gentleman.
Yes, that was really good. ‘But the confinement,’ said the older man.
There were many days, even in bad weather, when it was possible to walk about outside. It was the custom to beat a little track, and take exercise there.
There were many days, even in bad weather, when it was possible to walk outside. It was common to create a little path and get some exercise there.
‘But the space,’ urged the grey-haired gentleman. ‘So small. So—ha—very limited.’
‘But the space,’ insisted the grey-haired gentleman. ‘So small. So—ha—very limited.’
Monsieur would recall to himself that there were the refuges to visit, and that tracks had to be made to them also.
Monsieur reminded himself that there were refuges to visit, and that paths needed to be created to them as well.
Monsieur still urged, on the other hand, that the space was so—ha—hum—so very contracted. More than that, it was always the same, always the same.
Monsieur still insisted, on the other hand, that the space was just—uh—well—so very cramped. Moreover, it was always the same, always the same.
With a deprecating smile, the host gently raised and gently lowered his shoulders. That was true, he remarked, but permit him to say that almost all objects had their various points of view. Monsieur and he did not see this poor life of his from the same point of view. Monsieur was not used to confinement.
With a slightly dismissive smile, the host casually shrugged. That was true, he noted, but he'd like to point out that almost everything has different perspectives. He and Monsieur didn’t see this struggling life of his from the same perspective. Monsieur wasn’t accustomed to being confined.
‘I—ha—yes, very true,’ said the grey-haired gentleman. He seemed to receive quite a shock from the force of the argument.
"I—uh—yeah, that's really true," said the gray-haired man. He looked like he was totally taken aback by the intensity of the argument.
Monsieur, as an English traveller, surrounded by all means of travelling pleasantly; doubtless possessing fortune, carriages, and servants—
Monsieur, as an English traveler, surrounded by all the comforts of travel; undoubtedly wealthy, with carriages and servants—
‘Perfectly, perfectly. Without doubt,’ said the gentleman.
“Absolutely, absolutely. No question about it,” said the gentleman.
Monsieur could not easily place himself in the position of a person who had not the power to choose, I will go here to-morrow, or there next day; I will pass these barriers, I will enlarge those bounds. Monsieur could not realise, perhaps, how the mind accommodated itself in such things to the force of necessity.
Monsieur found it hard to understand what it was like to be someone without the ability to choose, saying, "I’ll go here tomorrow, or there the next day; I’ll get past these obstacles, I’ll expand those limits." He might not grasp how the mind adjusts to such situations under the pressure of necessity.
‘It is true,’ said Monsieur. ‘We will—ha—not pursue the subject. You are—hum—quite accurate, I have no doubt. We will say no more.’
‘It’s true,’ said Monsieur. ‘We won’t—ha—not talk about it anymore. You are—um—totally right, I’m sure. Let’s leave it at that.’
The supper having come to a close, he drew his chair away as he spoke, and moved back to his former place by the fire. As it was very cold at the greater part of the table, the other guests also resumed their former seats by the fire, designing to toast themselves well before going to bed. The host, when they rose from the table, bowed to all present, wished them good night, and withdrew. But first the insinuating traveller had asked him if they could have some wine made hot; and as he had answered Yes, and had presently afterwards sent it in, that traveller, seated in the centre of the group, and in the full heat of the fire, was soon engaged in serving it out to the rest.
After dinner was over, he pushed his chair back as he spoke and returned to his previous spot by the fire. Since it was quite cold at most of the table, the other guests also went back to their warm seats by the fire, planning to warm themselves up before bedtime. The host, when they got up from the table, bowed to everyone, wished them good night, and left. But before he left, the smooth-talking traveler had asked if they could have some hot wine; and since the host had said yes and soon sent it over, that traveler, sitting in the middle of the group and enjoying the warmth of the fire, quickly started serving it to everyone else.
At this time, the younger of the two young ladies, who had been silently attentive in her dark corner (the fire-light was the chief light in the sombre room, the lamp being smoky and dull) to what had been said of the absent lady, glided out. She was at a loss which way to turn when she had softly closed the door; but, after a little hesitation among the sounding passages and the many ways, came to a room in a corner of the main gallery, where the servants were at their supper. From these she obtained a lamp, and a direction to the lady’s room.
At that moment, the younger of the two young women, who had been quietly listening in her dark corner (the fire was the main source of light in the dim room, as the lamp was smoky and dull), slipped out. She wasn’t sure which way to go after she gently closed the door, but after a bit of uncertainty in the echoing hallways and numerous paths, she found a room in a corner of the main gallery where the servants were having their supper. From them, she got a lamp and directions to the lady’s room.
It was up the great staircase on the story above. Here and there, the bare white walls were broken by an iron grate, and she thought as she went along that the place was something like a prison. The arched door of the lady’s room, or cell, was not quite shut. After knocking at it two or three times without receiving an answer, she pushed it gently open, and looked in.
It was up the grand staircase on the next floor. Here and there, the plain white walls were interrupted by an iron grate, and as she walked along, she thought the place felt a bit like a prison. The arched door to the lady’s room, or cell, wasn’t completely closed. After knocking two or three times without hearing a response, she pushed it open gently and peered inside.
The lady lay with closed eyes on the outside of the bed, protected from the cold by the blankets and wrappers with which she had been covered when she revived from her fainting fit. A dull light placed in the deep recess of the window, made little impression on the arched room. The visitor timidly stepped to the bed, and said, in a soft whisper, ‘Are you better?’
The woman lay with her eyes closed on the edge of the bed, kept warm by the blankets and wraps she had been covered with when she came to after fainting. A dim light in the deep recess of the window barely lit up the arched room. The visitor cautiously approached the bed and quietly asked, "Are you feeling better?"
The lady had fallen into a slumber, and the whisper was too low to awake her. Her visitor, standing quite still, looked at her attentively.
The lady had fallen asleep, and the whisper was too soft to wake her. Her visitor, standing completely still, watched her closely.
‘She is very pretty,’ she said to herself. ‘I never saw so beautiful a face. O how unlike me!’
‘She is really pretty,’ she said to herself. ‘I’ve never seen such a beautiful face. Oh, how different from me!’
It was a curious thing to say, but it had some hidden meaning, for it filled her eyes with tears.
It was a strange thing to say, but it held some deeper meaning, as it brought tears to her eyes.
‘I know I must be right. I know he spoke of her that evening. I could very easily be wrong on any other subject, but not on this, not on this!’
‘I know I must be right. I know he mentioned her that evening. I could easily be wrong about anything else, but not this, not this!’
With a quiet and tender hand she put aside a straying fold of the sleeper’s hair, and then touched the hand that lay outside the covering.
With a gentle and soft hand, she brushed aside a stray lock of the sleeper's hair, and then she touched the hand that rested outside the blanket.
‘I like to look at her,’ she breathed to herself. ‘I like to see what has affected him so much.’
‘I like looking at her,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I like seeing what has affected him so much.’
She had not withdrawn her hand, when the sleeper opened her eyes and started.
She hadn't pulled her hand away when the sleeper opened her eyes and jumped.
‘Pray don’t be alarmed. I am only one of the travellers from down-stairs. I came to ask if you were better, and if I could do anything for you.’
‘Please don’t be alarmed. I’m just one of the travelers from downstairs. I came to ask if you’re feeling better and if there’s anything I can do for you.’
‘I think you have already been so kind as to send your servants to my assistance?’
‘I think you’ve already been so kind as to send your staff to help me?’
‘No, not I; that was my sister. Are you better?’
‘No, not me; that was my sister. Are you feeling better?’
‘Much better. It is only a slight bruise, and has been well looked to, and is almost easy now. It made me giddy and faint in a moment. It had hurt me before; but at last it overpowered me all at once.’
‘Much better. It’s just a minor bruise, and it’s been taken care of, so it’s almost comfortable now. It made me feel dizzy and faint for a moment. It had bothered me before, but eventually, it hit me all at once.’
‘May I stay with you until some one comes? Would you like it?’
'Can I stay with you until someone arrives? Would that be okay?'
‘I should like it, for it is lonely here; but I am afraid you will feel the cold too much.’
"I would like that, because it's lonely here; but I'm worried that you might feel too cold."
‘I don’t mind cold. I am not delicate, if I look so.’ She quickly moved one of the two rough chairs to the bedside, and sat down. The other as quickly moved a part of some travelling wrapper from herself, and drew it over her, so that her arm, in keeping it about her, rested on her shoulder.
‘I don’t mind the cold. I’m not fragile, even if I seem like it.’ She quickly moved one of the two rough chairs to the bedside and sat down. The other quickly adjusted part of her traveling blanket and draped it over herself, resting her arm on her shoulder as she did so.
‘You have so much the air of a kind nurse,’ said the lady, smiling on her, ‘that you seem as if you had come to me from home.’
‘You have such the vibe of a caring nurse,’ said the lady, smiling at her, ‘that it feels like you’ve come to me from home.’
‘I am very glad of it.’
"I'm really happy about it."
‘I was dreaming of home when I woke just now. Of my old home, I mean, before I was married.’
‘I was dreaming about home when I just woke up. I mean my old home, before I got married.’
‘And before you were so far away from it.’
‘And before you were so distant from it.’
‘I have been much farther away from it than this; but then I took the best part of it with me, and missed nothing. I felt solitary as I dropped asleep here, and, missing it a little, wandered back to it.’
"I've been much farther away from it than this, but I took the best part of it with me, so I didn't miss anything. I felt lonely as I fell asleep here, and, feeling its absence a bit, I drifted back to it."
There was a sorrowfully affectionate and regretful sound in her voice, which made her visitor refrain from looking at her for the moment.
There was a sad, loving, and regretful tone in her voice, which caused her visitor to avoid looking at her for the time being.
‘It is a curious chance which at last brings us together, under this covering in which you have wrapped me,’ said the visitor after a pause; ‘for do you know, I think I have been looking for you some time.’
“It’s an interesting coincidence that finally brings us together, under this cover you’ve wrapped me in,” said the visitor after a pause; “because you know, I think I’ve been searching for you for a while.”
‘Looking for me?’
"Looking for me?"
‘I believe I have a little note here, which I was to give to you whenever I found you. This is it. Unless I greatly mistake, it is addressed to you? Is it not?’
‘I think I have a little note here that I was supposed to give you as soon as I found you. Here it is. If I’m not mistaken, this is addressed to you, right?’
The lady took it, and said yes, and read it. Her visitor watched her as she did so. It was very short. She flushed a little as she put her lips to her visitor’s cheek, and pressed her hand.
The lady took it, said yes, and read it. Her visitor watched her as she did. It was very short. She blushed a bit as she kissed her visitor's cheek and squeezed her hand.
‘The dear young friend to whom he presents me, may be a comfort to me at some time, he says. She is truly a comfort to me the first time I see her.’
‘The dear young friend he’s introducing me to might be a comfort to me at some point, he says. She truly brings me comfort the first time I see her.’
‘Perhaps you don’t,’ said the visitor, hesitating—‘perhaps you don’t know my story? Perhaps he never told you my story?’
‘Maybe you don’t,’ said the visitor, pausing—‘maybe you don’t know my story? Maybe he never shared my story with you?’
‘No.’
'Nope.'
‘Oh no, why should he! I have scarcely the right to tell it myself at present, because I have been entreated not to do so. There is not much in it, but it might account to you for my asking you not to say anything about the letter here. You saw my family with me, perhaps? Some of them—I only say this to you—are a little proud, a little prejudiced.’
‘Oh no, why should he! I barely have the right to share this myself right now, because I've been asked not to. There’s not much to it, but it might explain why I asked you not to mention the letter here. You saw my family with me, right? Some of them—I’m only telling you this—are a bit proud and a bit prejudiced.’
‘You shall take it back again,’ said the other; ‘and then my husband is sure not to see it. He might see it and speak of it, otherwise, by some accident. Will you put it in your bosom again, to be certain?’
‘You should take it back again,’ said the other; ‘and then my husband definitely won’t see it. He might notice it and mention it by some chance. Will you put it in your dress again, just to be sure?’
She did so with great care. Her small, slight hand was still upon the letter, when they heard some one in the gallery outside.
She did it very carefully. Her small, delicate hand was still on the letter when they heard someone in the gallery outside.
‘I promised,’ said the visitor, rising, ‘that I would write to him after seeing you (I could hardly fail to see you sooner or later), and tell him if you were well and happy. I had better say you were well and happy.’
"I promised," said the visitor, standing up, "that I would write to him after meeting you (I couldn’t really avoid seeing you sooner or later) and let him know if you were doing well and happy. I should probably just say you are well and happy."
‘Yes, yes, yes! Say I was very well and very happy. And that I thanked him affectionately, and would never forget him.’
‘Yes, yes, yes! Tell him I was doing great and feeling really happy. And that I thanked him warmly and would never forget him.’
‘I shall see you in the morning. After that we are sure to meet again before very long. Good night!’
‘I’ll see you in the morning. After that, we’ll definitely meet again soon. Good night!’
‘Good night. Thank you, thank you. Good night, my dear!’
‘Good night. Thanks, thanks. Good night, my dear!’
Both of them were hurried and fluttered as they exchanged this parting, and as the visitor came out of the door. She had expected to meet the lady’s husband approaching it; but the person in the gallery was not he: it was the traveller who had wiped the wine-drops from his moustache with the piece of bread. When he heard the step behind him, he turned round—for he was walking away in the dark.
Both of them were rushed and flustered as they said their goodbyes, and as the visitor stepped out of the door. She had anticipated running into the lady’s husband, but the person in the hallway wasn’t him: it was the traveler who had wiped the wine drops from his mustache with a piece of bread. When he heard footsteps behind him, he turned around—since he was walking away in the dark.
His politeness, which was extreme, would not allow of the young lady’s lighting herself down-stairs, or going down alone. He took her lamp, held it so as to throw the best light on the stone steps, and followed her all the way to the supper-room. She went down, not easily hiding how much she was inclined to shrink and tremble; for the appearance of this traveller was particularly disagreeable to her. She had sat in her quiet corner before supper imagining what he would have been in the scenes and places within her experience, until he inspired her with an aversion that made him little less than terrific.
His extreme politeness wouldn't allow the young lady to go downstairs alone or light her way by herself. He took her lamp, held it to cast the best light on the stone steps, and followed her all the way to the dining room. As she went down, it was hard for her to hide how much she wanted to shrink away and tremble, because this traveler made her feel particularly uneasy. She had sat in her quiet corner before supper, imagining what he would have been like in the scenes and places she knew, until he sparked an aversion in her that made him seem almost terrifying.
He followed her down with his smiling politeness, followed her in, and resumed his seat in the best place in the hearth. There with the wood-fire, which was beginning to burn low, rising and falling upon him in the dark room, he sat with his legs thrust out to warm, drinking the hot wine down to the lees, with a monstrous shadow imitating him on the wall and ceiling.
He followed her down with a friendly smile, entered behind her, and took his place by the fireplace. There, with the wood fire starting to dwindle, casting flickering light in the dim room, he sat with his legs stretched out to warm them, drinking the hot wine until it was nearly gone, while a huge shadow mimicked him on the wall and ceiling.
The tired company had broken up, and all the rest were gone to bed except the young lady’s father, who dozed in his chair by the fire. The traveller had been at the pains of going a long way up-stairs to his sleeping-room to fetch his pocket-flask of brandy. He told them so, as he poured its contents into what was left of the wine, and drank with a new relish.
The tired group had dispersed, and everyone else had gone to bed except for the young lady’s father, who nodded off in his chair by the fire. The traveler had made the effort to go all the way upstairs to his room to grab his pocket flask of brandy. He mentioned this as he poured its contents into the remaining wine and enjoyed the drink with renewed pleasure.
‘May I ask, sir, if you are on your way to Italy?’
‘Can I ask you, sir, if you're heading to Italy?’
The grey-haired gentleman had roused himself, and was preparing to withdraw. He answered in the affirmative.
The gray-haired man had woken up and was getting ready to leave. He replied yes.
‘I also!’ said the traveller. ‘I shall hope to have the honour of offering my compliments in fairer scenes, and under softer circumstances, than on this dismal mountain.’
‘I do too!’ said the traveler. ‘I look forward to having the honor of offering my compliments in nicer places and under better circumstances than on this gloomy mountain.’
The gentleman bowed, distantly enough, and said he was obliged to him.
The gentleman bowed politely and said he was grateful to him.
‘We poor gentlemen, sir,’ said the traveller, pulling his moustache dry with his hand, for he had dipped it in the wine and brandy; ‘we poor gentlemen do not travel like princes, but the courtesies and graces of life are precious to us. To your health, sir!’
‘We poor gentlemen, sir,’ said the traveler, drying his mustache with his hand after dipping it in the wine and brandy; ‘we poor gentlemen don’t travel like princes, but the kindnesses and niceties of life are important to us. Here’s to your health, sir!’
‘Sir, I thank you.’
“Thank you, sir.”
‘To the health of your distinguished family—of the fair ladies, your daughters!’
'Here's to the health of your wonderful family—especially the lovely ladies, your daughters!'
‘Sir, I thank you again, I wish you good night. My dear, are our—ha—our people in attendance?’
‘Sir, thank you once more, and I wish you a good night. My dear, are our—uh—our guests here?’
‘They are close by, father.’
"They're nearby, dad."
‘Permit me!’ said the traveller, rising and holding the door open, as the gentleman crossed the room towards it with his arm drawn through his daughter’s. ‘Good repose! To the pleasure of seeing you once more! To to-morrow!’
‘Allow me!’ said the traveler, standing up and holding the door open as the gentleman walked across the room toward it with his arm linked through his daughter’s. ‘Have a good rest! Looking forward to seeing you again! See you tomorrow!’
As he kissed his hand, with his best manner and his daintiest smile, the young lady drew a little nearer to her father, and passed him with a dread of touching him.
As he kissed her hand, with his best manners and his sweetest smile, the young lady moved a bit closer to her father but avoided physical contact with him.
‘Humph!’ said the insinuating traveller, whose manner shrunk, and whose voice dropped when he was left alone. ‘If they all go to bed, why I must go. They are in a devil of a hurry. One would think the night would be long enough, in this freezing silence and solitude, if one went to bed two hours hence.’
‘Humph!’ said the sly traveler, whose demeanor changed and whose voice lowered when he was left alone. ‘If they all go to bed, I guess I have to go too. They’re in such a rush. You’d think the night would feel long enough, in this freezing silence and solitude, if one went to bed two hours from now.’
Throwing back his head in emptying his glass, he cast his eyes upon the travellers’ book, which lay on the piano, open, with pens and ink beside it, as if the night’s names had been registered when he was absent. Taking it in his hand, he read these entries.
Throwing his head back to finish his drink, he looked at the guest book lying open on the piano, with pens and ink next to it, as if the names from the night had been written down while he was away. He picked it up and read the entries.
William Dorrit, Esquire
William Dorrit, Esq.
Frederick Dorrit, Esquire
Frederick Dorrit, Esq.
Edward Dorrit, Esquire
Edward Dorrit, Esq.
Miss Dorrit
Miss Dorrit
Miss Amy Dorrit
Ms. Amy Dorrit
Mrs General
Mrs. General
and Suite.
and Suite.
From France to Italy.
From France to Italy.
Mr and Mrs Henry Gowan.
Mr. and Mrs. Henry Gowan.
From France to Italy.
From France to Italy.
To which he added, in a small complicated hand, ending with a long lean flourish, not unlike a lasso thrown at all the rest of the names:
To which he added, in a small, intricate handwriting, finishing with a long, slender flourish, similar to a lasso tossed at all the other names:
Blandois. Paris.
Blandois, Paris.
From France to Italy.
From France to Italy.
And then, with his nose coming down over his moustache and his moustache going up and under his nose, repaired to his allotted cell.
And then, with his nose leaning down over his mustache and his mustache curling up under his nose, he went back to his assigned cell.
CHAPTER 2. Mrs General
It is indispensable to present the accomplished lady who was of sufficient importance in the suite of the Dorrit Family to have a line to herself in the Travellers’ Book.
It is essential to introduce the accomplished woman who was important enough in the company of the Dorrit Family to have her own entry in the Travellers’ Book.
Mrs General was the daughter of a clerical dignitary in a cathedral town, where she had led the fashion until she was as near forty-five as a single lady can be. A stiff commissariat officer of sixty, famous as a martinet, had then become enamoured of the gravity with which she drove the proprieties four-in-hand through the cathedral town society, and had solicited to be taken beside her on the box of the cool coach of ceremony to which that team was harnessed. His proposal of marriage being accepted by the lady, the commissary took his seat behind the proprieties with great decorum, and Mrs General drove until the commissary died. In the course of their united journey, they ran over several people who came in the way of the proprieties; but always in a high style and with composure.
Mrs. General was the daughter of a church official in a cathedral town, where she had set the fashion until she was almost forty-five and still single. A stern commissariat officer in his sixties, known for being strict, had then fallen for the serious way she navigated the social expectations in their town. He asked to sit beside her on the box of the grand carriage that was drawn by that team. Once she accepted his marriage proposal, the commissary took his place behind her with great decorum, and Mrs. General drove until the commissary passed away. During their time together, they ran over several people who crossed the path of propriety; but they always did so in a stylish and composed manner.
The commissary having been buried with all the decorations suitable to the service (the whole team of proprieties were harnessed to his hearse, and they all had feathers and black velvet housings with his coat of arms in the corner), Mrs General began to inquire what quantity of dust and ashes was deposited at the bankers’. It then transpired that the commissary had so far stolen a march on Mrs General as to have bought himself an annuity some years before his marriage, and to have reserved that circumstance in mentioning, at the period of his proposal, that his income was derived from the interest of his money. Mrs General consequently found her means so much diminished, that, but for the perfect regulation of her mind, she might have felt disposed to question the accuracy of that portion of the late service which had declared that the commissary could take nothing away with him.
The commissary was buried with all the appropriate decorations for his service (the whole team of formalities was attached to his hearse, and they all wore feathers and black velvet trimmings with his coat of arms in the corner). Mrs. General then started to ask how much dust and ashes were deposited at the bankers’. It turned out that the commissary had cleverly gotten the jump on Mrs. General by buying himself an annuity a few years before their marriage and had left that fact out when he mentioned that his income came from the interest on his money during his proposal. As a result, Mrs. General found her financial situation significantly diminished, and if it weren't for her perfectly regulated mind, she might have been tempted to question the accuracy of what the recent service had stated about the commissary taking nothing with him.
In this state of affairs it occurred to Mrs General, that she might ‘form the mind,’ and eke the manners of some young lady of distinction. Or, that she might harness the proprieties to the carriage of some rich young heiress or widow, and become at once the driver and guard of such vehicle through the social mazes. Mrs General’s communication of this idea to her clerical and commissariat connection was so warmly applauded that, but for the lady’s undoubted merit, it might have appeared as though they wanted to get rid of her. Testimonials representing Mrs General as a prodigy of piety, learning, virtue, and gentility, were lavishly contributed from influential quarters; and one venerable archdeacon even shed tears in recording his testimony to her perfections (described to him by persons on whom he could rely), though he had never had the honour and moral gratification of setting eyes on Mrs General in all his life.
In this situation, Mrs. General realized that she could "shape the mind" and refine the manners of some distinguished young lady. Alternatively, she could guide the proprieties for a wealthy young heiress or widow, essentially becoming both the driver and protector of such a person through the social complexities. Mrs. General shared this idea with her clerical and commissariat connections, and it was received with such enthusiasm that it might have seemed they were eager to be rid of her, if not for the lady's undeniable merits. Recommendations portraying Mrs. General as an exceptional example of piety, knowledge, virtue, and grace poured in from influential sources; one elderly archdeacon even teared up while expressing his admiration for her qualities (as described to him by reliable individuals), even though he had never had the honor and moral pleasure of meeting Mrs. General in his entire life.
Thus delegated on her mission, as it were by Church and State, Mrs General, who had always occupied high ground, felt in a condition to keep it, and began by putting herself up at a very high figure. An interval of some duration elapsed, in which there was no bid for Mrs General. At length a county-widower, with a daughter of fourteen, opened negotiations with the lady; and as it was a part either of the native dignity or of the artificial policy of Mrs General (but certainly one or the other) to comport herself as if she were much more sought than seeking, the widower pursued Mrs General until he prevailed upon her to form his daughter’s mind and manners.
With her mission assigned by both Church and State, Mrs. General, who had always held a prominent position, felt confident in maintaining it and started by placing herself at a very high value. There was a considerable pause during which no one made a bid for Mrs. General. Finally, a widowed man from the county, who had a fourteen-year-old daughter, initiated discussions with her; and because it was either part of Mrs. General's inherent dignity or her cultivated strategy (but definitely one or the other) to act as if she were more in demand than looking for someone, the widower pursued her until she agreed to help shape his daughter's character and manners.
The execution of this trust occupied Mrs General about seven years, in the course of which time she made the tour of Europe, and saw most of that extensive miscellany of objects which it is essential that all persons of polite cultivation should see with other people’s eyes, and never with their own. When her charge was at length formed, the marriage, not only of the young lady, but likewise of her father, the widower, was resolved on. The widower then finding Mrs General both inconvenient and expensive, became of a sudden almost as much affected by her merits as the archdeacon had been, and circulated such praises of her surpassing worth, in all quarters where he thought an opportunity might arise of transferring the blessing to somebody else, that Mrs General was a name more honourable than ever.
The management of this trust kept Mrs. General busy for about seven years, during which she traveled around Europe and saw the wide array of things that everyone with good taste is expected to view through other people’s perspectives, never their own. Once her responsibility was finally complete, it was decided that not only the young lady's marriage, but also the widower's, would take place. The widower then, realizing that Mrs. General was both a hassle and costly, suddenly became as enamored with her qualities as the archdeacon had been, enthusiastically promoting her exceptional worth wherever he thought there might be a chance to pass the praise on to someone else. As a result, Mrs. General became an even more respected name than before.
The phoenix was to let, on this elevated perch, when Mr Dorrit, who had lately succeeded to his property, mentioned to his bankers that he wished to discover a lady, well-bred, accomplished, well connected, well accustomed to good society, who was qualified at once to complete the education of his daughters, and to be their matron or chaperon. Mr Dorrit’s bankers, as bankers of the county-widower, instantly said, ‘Mrs General.’
The phoenix was to be available, on this high perch, when Mr. Dorrit, who had recently inherited his fortune, told his bankers that he wanted to find a lady who was well-bred, accomplished, well-connected, and comfortable in high society. She would be suitable to both complete his daughters' education and act as their matron or chaperone. Mr. Dorrit’s bankers, being the bankers for the county’s widower, immediately suggested, “Mrs. General.”
Pursuing the light so fortunately hit upon, and finding the concurrent testimony of the whole of Mrs General’s acquaintance to be of the pathetic nature already recorded, Mr Dorrit took the trouble of going down to the county of the county-widower to see Mrs General, in whom he found a lady of a quality superior to his highest expectations.
Chasing the fortunate light he had discovered, and finding that all of Mrs. General's acquaintances shared the same sad story he had heard before, Mr. Dorrit made the effort to travel to the county of the widowed gentleman to see Mrs. General. There, he met a woman who exceeded his highest expectations.
‘Might I be excused,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘if I inquired—ha—what remune—’
‘Could I be excused,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘if I asked—uh—what pay—’
‘Why, indeed,’ returned Mrs General, stopping the word, ‘it is a subject on which I prefer to avoid entering. I have never entered on it with my friends here; and I cannot overcome the delicacy, Mr Dorrit, with which I have always regarded it. I am not, as I hope you are aware, a governess—’
‘Why, actually,’ replied Mrs. General, pausing mid-sentence, ‘it’s a topic I’d rather not discuss. I've never talked about it with my friends here, and I can’t shake the sensitivity, Mr. Dorrit, with which I've always viewed it. I am not, as I hope you know, a governess—’
‘O dear no!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Pray, madam, do not imagine for a moment that I think so.’ He really blushed to be suspected of it.
‘Oh no!’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘Please, madam, don’t think for a second that I believe that.’ He genuinely blushed at the thought of being suspected of it.
Mrs General gravely inclined her head. ‘I cannot, therefore, put a price upon services which it is a pleasure to me to render if I can render them spontaneously, but which I could not render in mere return for any consideration. Neither do I know how, or where, to find a case parallel to my own. It is peculiar.’
Mrs. General solemnly nodded her head. "I can’t, therefore, put a price on services that I enjoy providing if I can offer them freely, but I couldn’t do so just for the sake of a reward. I also don’t know how, or where, to find a situation similar to mine. It’s unique."
No doubt. But how then (Mr Dorrit not unnaturally hinted) could the subject be approached?
No doubt. But then, how could the subject be approached? (Mr. Dorrit naturally suggested.)
‘I cannot object,’ said Mrs General—‘though even that is disagreeable to me—to Mr Dorrit’s inquiring, in confidence of my friends here, what amount they have been accustomed, at quarterly intervals, to pay to my credit at my bankers’.’
‘I can’t complain,’ said Mrs. General, ‘even though it’s a bit unpleasant for me that Mr. Dorrit is asking, in private, about how much my friends here have been used to paying into my account at the bank every quarter.’
Mr Dorrit bowed his acknowledgements.
Mr. Dorrit bowed in acknowledgment.
‘Permit me to add,’ said Mrs General, ‘that beyond this, I can never resume the topic. Also that I can accept no second or inferior position. If the honour were proposed to me of becoming known to Mr Dorrit’s family—I think two daughters were mentioned?—’
“Let me add,” said Mrs. General, “that beyond this, I can never revisit the topic. Also, I cannot accept any secondary or lesser position. If the opportunity were offered to me to become acquainted with Mr. Dorrit’s family—I believe two daughters were mentioned?”
‘Two daughters.’
"Two daughters."
‘I could only accept it on terms of perfect equality, as a companion, protector, Mentor, and friend.’
‘I could only accept it on the basis of complete equality, as a partner, protector, mentor, and friend.’
Mr Dorrit, in spite of his sense of his importance, felt as if it would be quite a kindness in her to accept it on any conditions. He almost said as much.
Mr. Dorrit, despite feeling important, thought it would be really nice of her to accept it under any circumstances. He almost said as much.
‘I think,’ repeated Mrs General, ‘two daughters were mentioned?’
‘I think,’ repeated Mrs. General, ‘two daughters were mentioned?’
‘Two daughters,’ said Mr Dorrit again.
‘Two daughters,’ Mr. Dorrit said again.
‘It would therefore,’ said Mrs General, ‘be necessary to add a third more to the payment (whatever its amount may prove to be), which my friends here have been accustomed to make to my bankers’.’
“It would therefore,” said Mrs. General, “be necessary to add a third more to the payment (whatever the amount turns out to be), which my friends here have usually made to my bankers.”
Mr Dorrit lost no time in referring the delicate question to the county-widower, and finding that he had been accustomed to pay three hundred pounds a-year to the credit of Mrs General, arrived, without any severe strain on his arithmetic, at the conclusion that he himself must pay four. Mrs General being an article of that lustrous surface which suggests that it is worth any money, he made a formal proposal to be allowed to have the honour and pleasure of regarding her as a member of his family. Mrs General conceded that high privilege, and here she was.
Mr. Dorrit wasted no time bringing up the delicate issue with the county-widower, and after discovering that he had been paying three hundred pounds a year to Mrs. General, he quickly figured out, with minimal effort, that he himself would need to pay four. Since Mrs. General was someone of such a shiny appeal that it seemed she was worth any amount, he formally proposed to have the honor and pleasure of considering her a part of his family. Mrs. General agreed to that esteemed privilege, and here she was.
In person, Mrs General, including her skirts which had much to do with it, was of a dignified and imposing appearance; ample, rustling, gravely voluminous; always upright behind the proprieties. She might have been taken—had been taken—to the top of the Alps and the bottom of Herculaneum, without disarranging a fold in her dress, or displacing a pin. If her countenance and hair had rather a floury appearance, as though from living in some transcendently genteel Mill, it was rather because she was a chalky creation altogether, than because she mended her complexion with violet powder, or had turned grey. If her eyes had no expression, it was probably because they had nothing to express. If she had few wrinkles, it was because her mind had never traced its name or any other inscription on her face. A cool, waxy, blown-out woman, who had never lighted well.
In person, Mrs. General, including her skirts which contributed a lot to it, had a dignified and impressive presence; full-figured, rustling, and gravely substantial; always standing tall behind societal expectations. She could have been taken—had been taken—to the top of the Alps and the bottom of Herculaneum without disturbing a fold in her dress or moving a pin. If her face and hair looked a bit powdery, as if she had been living in some exceptionally classy mill, it was more because she was an entirely chalky creation than because she used violet powder on her skin or had turned grey. If her eyes lacked expression, it was likely because there was nothing to express. If she had few wrinkles, it was because her mind had never left its mark or any other inscription on her face. A cool, waxy, deflated woman, who had never shone brightly.
Mrs General had no opinions. Her way of forming a mind was to prevent it from forming opinions. She had a little circular set of mental grooves or rails on which she started little trains of other people’s opinions, which never overtook one another, and never got anywhere. Even her propriety could not dispute that there was impropriety in the world; but Mrs General’s way of getting rid of it was to put it out of sight, and make believe that there was no such thing. This was another of her ways of forming a mind—to cram all articles of difficulty into cupboards, lock them up, and say they had no existence. It was the easiest way, and, beyond all comparison, the properest.
Mrs. General had no opinions. Her method of thinking was to avoid forming any at all. She had a little circular set of mental tracks where she ran trains of other people’s opinions, which never collided and never got anywhere. Even her sense of propriety couldn’t deny that there was bad behavior in the world; but Mrs. General’s solution was to hide it away and pretend it didn’t exist. This was another of her strategies for thinking—stuffing all the difficult issues into cupboards, locking them up, and claiming they didn’t exist. It was the easiest approach and, by far, the most proper.
Mrs General was not to be told of anything shocking. Accidents, miseries, and offences, were never to be mentioned before her. Passion was to go to sleep in the presence of Mrs General, and blood was to change to milk and water. The little that was left in the world, when all these deductions were made, it was Mrs General’s province to varnish. In that formation process of hers, she dipped the smallest of brushes into the largest of pots, and varnished the surface of every object that came under consideration. The more cracked it was, the more Mrs General varnished it.
Mrs. General shouldn't be told about anything shocking. Accidents, troubles, and wrongdoings were never to be mentioned in her presence. Emotions were meant to fade away around Mrs. General, and blood was to be diluted to milk and water. Whatever was left in the world after all these eliminations was Mrs. General's job to gloss over. In her process, she dipped the smallest brush into the largest can and coated the surface of everything that came her way. The more damaged something was, the more Mrs. General covered it.
There was varnish in Mrs General’s voice, varnish in Mrs General’s touch, an atmosphere of varnish round Mrs General’s figure. Mrs General’s dreams ought to have been varnished—if she had any—lying asleep in the arms of the good Saint Bernard, with the feathery snow falling on his house-top.
There was a polished quality to Mrs. General’s voice, a smoothness in her touch, an air of refinement surrounding her figure. Mrs. General’s dreams should have been elegant—if she had any—resting peacefully in the embrace of the good Saint Bernard, with soft snow fluttering down on his rooftop.
CHAPTER 3. On the Road
The bright morning sun dazzled the eyes, the snow had ceased, the mists had vanished, the mountain air was so clear and light that the new sensation of breathing it was like the having entered on a new existence. To help the delusion, the solid ground itself seemed gone, and the mountain, a shining waste of immense white heaps and masses, to be a region of cloud floating between the blue sky above and the earth far below.
The bright morning sun was blinding, the snow had stopped, the mists had cleared, and the mountain air was so fresh and light that breathing it felt like starting a new life. To enhance this feeling, the solid ground seemed to disappear, and the mountain, a shimmering expanse of huge white piles and masses, appeared to be a cloud-filled realm floating between the blue sky above and the earth far below.
Some dark specks in the snow, like knots upon a little thread, beginning at the convent door and winding away down the descent in broken lengths which were not yet pieced together, showed where the Brethren were at work in several places clearing the track. Already the snow had begun to be foot-thawed again about the door. Mules were busily brought out, tied to the rings in the wall, and laden; strings of bells were buckled on, burdens were adjusted, the voices of drivers and riders sounded musically. Some of the earliest had even already resumed their journey; and, both on the level summit by the dark water near the convent, and on the downward way of yesterday’s ascent, little moving figures of men and mules, reduced to miniatures by the immensity around, went with a clear tinkling of bells and a pleasant harmony of tongues.
Some dark spots in the snow, like knots on a small thread, started at the convent door and snaked down the slope in broken sections that weren't fully connected yet, showing where the Brethren were clearing the path in different spots. The snow around the door had already begun to thaw from foot traffic. Mules were being brought out, tied to the rings in the wall, and loaded up; strings of bells were fastened on, loads were adjusted, and the voices of the drivers and riders sounded melodic. Some of the early ones had even started their journey again; and, both at the level summit by the dark water near the convent and on the downward path from yesterday’s climb, little moving figures of men and mules, made small by the vastness around them, moved with a clear tinkling of bells and a pleasant mix of voices.
In the supper-room of last night, a new fire, piled upon the feathery ashes of the old one, shone upon a homely breakfast of loaves, butter, and milk. It also shone on the courier of the Dorrit family, making tea for his party from a supply he had brought up with him, together with several other small stores which were chiefly laid in for the use of the strong body of inconvenience. Mr Gowan and Blandois of Paris had already breakfasted, and were walking up and down by the lake, smoking their cigars.
In the dining room from last night, a new fire, stacked on the soft ashes of the old one, brightened a simple breakfast of bread, butter, and milk. It also illuminated the Dorrit family’s courier as he made tea for his group from a stash he had brought with him, along with several other small supplies mainly intended for dealing with various inconveniences. Mr. Gowan and Blandois from Paris had already eaten breakfast and were strolling by the lake, smoking their cigars.
‘Gowan, eh?’ muttered Tip, otherwise Edward Dorrit, Esquire, turning over the leaves of the book, when the courier had left them to breakfast. ‘Then Gowan is the name of a puppy, that’s all I have got to say! If it was worth my while, I’d pull his nose. But it isn’t worth my while—fortunately for him. How’s his wife, Amy? I suppose you know. You generally know things of that sort.’
‘Gowan, huh?’ muttered Tip, also known as Edward Dorrit, Esquire, flipping through the pages of the book after the courier left them to have breakfast. ‘So Gowan is just the name of a kid, that’s all I have to say! If it was worth my time, I’d give him a hard time. But it isn’t worth my time—thankfully for him. How’s his wife, Amy? I assume you’re in the loop. You usually are with that kind of stuff.’
‘She is better, Edward. But they are not going to-day.’
‘She’s better, Edward. But they’re not going today.’
‘Oh! They are not going to-day! Fortunately for that fellow too,’ said Tip, ‘or he and I might have come into collision.’
‘Oh! They’re not going today! Lucky for that guy too,’ said Tip, ‘or he and I could have run into each other.’
‘It is thought better here that she should lie quiet to-day, and not be fatigued and shaken by the ride down until to-morrow.’
‘It’s better for her to rest today and not be exhausted and jostled by the ride down until tomorrow.’
‘With all my heart. But you talk as if you had been nursing her. You haven’t been relapsing into (Mrs General is not here) into old habits, have you, Amy?’
‘With all my heart. But you sound like you’ve been taking care of her. You haven’t been falling back into old habits again (Mrs. General is not here), have you, Amy?’
He asked her the question with a sly glance of observation at Miss Fanny, and at his father too.
He asked her the question while giving a sly look at Miss Fanny and his dad too.
‘I have only been in to ask her if I could do anything for her, Tip,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘I just came in to see if I could do anything for her, Tip,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘You needn’t call me Tip, Amy child,’ returned that young gentleman with a frown; ‘because that’s an old habit, and one you may as well lay aside.’
‘You don’t have to call me Tip, Amy,’ that young man replied with a frown; ‘it’s an old habit, and you might as well drop it.’
‘I didn’t mean to say so, Edward dear. I forgot. It was so natural once, that it seemed at the moment the right word.’
‘I didn’t mean to say that, Edward dear. I forgot. It used to be so natural that it just felt like the right word in the moment.’
‘Oh yes!’ Miss Fanny struck in. ‘Natural, and right word, and once, and all the rest of it! Nonsense, you little thing! I know perfectly well why you have been taking such an interest in this Mrs Gowan. You can’t blind me.’
‘Oh yes!’ Miss Fanny interrupted. ‘It’s all natural and the right thing, and everything else! Nonsense, you little thing! I know exactly why you’ve been so interested in this Mrs. Gowan. You can’t fool me.’
‘I will not try to, Fanny. Don’t be angry.’
‘I won't try to, Fanny. Please don't be mad.’
‘Oh! angry!’ returned that young lady with a flounce. ‘I have no patience’ (which indeed was the truth).
‘Oh! I'm so angry!’ replied that young lady with a huff. ‘I have no patience’ (which was definitely true).
‘Pray, Fanny,’ said Mr Dorrit, raising his eyebrows, ‘what do you mean? Explain yourself.’
“Please, Fanny,” said Mr. Dorrit, raising his eyebrows, “what do you mean? Explain yourself.”
‘Oh! Never mind, Pa,’ replied Miss Fanny, ‘it’s no great matter. Amy will understand me. She knew, or knew of, this Mrs Gowan before yesterday, and she may as well admit that she did.’
‘Oh! Never mind, Dad,’ replied Miss Fanny, ‘it’s not a big deal. Amy will get it. She knew, or at least knew of, this Mrs. Gowan before yesterday, and she might as well admit that she did.’
‘My child,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning to his younger daughter, ‘has your sister—any—ha—authority for this curious statement?’
‘My child,’ said Mr. Dorrit, turning to his younger daughter, ‘does your sister—um—have any authority for this unusual statement?’
‘However meek we are,’ Miss Fanny struck in before she could answer, ‘we don’t go creeping into people’s rooms on the tops of cold mountains, and sitting perishing in the frost with people, unless we know something about them beforehand. It’s not very hard to divine whose friend Mrs Gowan is.’
‘No matter how humble we are,’ Miss Fanny interrupted before she could respond, ‘we don’t sneak into people’s rooms on top of chilly mountains and sit shivering in the cold with them unless we know something about them first. It's not too difficult to figure out whose friend Mrs. Gowan is.’
‘Whose friend?’ inquired her father.
“Whose friend?” her father asked.
‘Pa, I am sorry to say,’ returned Miss Fanny, who had by this time succeeded in goading herself into a state of much ill-usage and grievance, which she was often at great pains to do: ‘that I believe her to be a friend of that very objectionable and unpleasant person, who, with a total absence of all delicacy, which our experience might have led us to expect from him, insulted us and outraged our feelings in so public and wilful a manner on an occasion to which it is understood among us that we will not more pointedly allude.’
“Dad, I'm sorry to say,” replied Miss Fanny, who had managed to work herself into a state of grievance and frustration, which she often went to great lengths to achieve: “but I believe she’s friends with that very objectionable and unpleasant person who, without any hint of decency, which we would have expected based on our experiences, insulted us and disregarded our feelings in such a public and deliberate way on an occasion we all agree not to mention.”
‘Amy, my child,’ said Mr Dorrit, tempering a bland severity with a dignified affection, ‘is this the case?’
‘Amy, my child,’ said Mr. Dorrit, mixing a mild seriousness with a respectable warmth, ‘is this true?’
Little Dorrit mildly answered, yes it was.
Little Dorrit softly replied, yes, it was.
‘Yes it is!’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘Of course! I said so! And now, Pa, I do declare once for all’—this young lady was in the habit of declaring the same thing once for all every day of her life, and even several times in a day—‘that this is shameful! I do declare once for all that it ought to be put a stop to. Is it not enough that we have gone through what is only known to ourselves, but are we to have it thrown in our faces, perseveringly and systematically, by the very person who should spare our feelings most? Are we to be exposed to this unnatural conduct every moment of our lives? Are we never to be permitted to forget? I say again, it is absolutely infamous!’
“Yes, it is!” shouted Miss Fanny. “Of course! I said that! And now, Dad, I want to say once and for all”—this young lady had a habit of saying the same thing once and for all every day of her life, and even several times a day—“that this is outrageous! I declare once and for all that it needs to stop. Isn’t it enough that we’ve gone through what only we understand, but do we have to have it constantly thrown in our faces, persistently and systematically, by the very person who should be the most considerate of our feelings? Are we supposed to endure this unnatural behavior every moment of our lives? Are we never allowed to forget? I’ll say it again, it is absolutely disgraceful!”
‘Well, Amy,’ observed her brother, shaking his head, ‘you know I stand by you whenever I can, and on most occasions. But I must say, that, upon my soul, I do consider it rather an unaccountable mode of showing your sisterly affection, that you should back up a man who treated me in the most ungentlemanly way in which one man can treat another. And who,’ he added convincingly, ‘must be a low-minded thief, you know, or he never could have conducted himself as he did.’
"Well, Amy," her brother said, shaking his head, "you know I support you whenever I can, and most of the time. But I have to say, honestly, I find it pretty strange that you would defend a guy who treated me in the most disrespectful way possible. And who," he added for emphasis, "must be a low-minded thief, because no decent person would act the way he did."
‘And see,’ said Miss Fanny, ‘see what is involved in this! Can we ever hope to be respected by our servants? Never. Here are our two women, and Pa’s valet, and a footman, and a courier, and all sorts of dependents, and yet in the midst of these, we are to have one of ourselves rushing about with tumblers of cold water, like a menial! Why, a policeman,’ said Miss Fanny, ‘if a beggar had a fit in the street, could but go plunging about with tumblers, as this very Amy did in this very room before our very eyes last night!’
“And look,” said Miss Fanny, “look at what this means! Can we ever expect to be respected by our servants? No way. Here we have our two women, Pa’s valet, a footman, a courier, and all kinds of dependents, and yet in the middle of all this, one of us is supposed to be running around with glasses of cold water, like a servant! I mean, a policeman,” said Miss Fanny, “if a beggar had a seizure in the street, could just rush around with glasses, just like this very Amy did in this very room right in front of us last night!”
‘I don’t so much mind that, once in a way,’ remarked Mr Edward; ‘but your Clennam, as he thinks proper to call himself, is another thing.’
‘I don’t really mind that, once in a while,’ said Mr. Edward; ‘but your Clennam, as he insists on calling himself, is a different story.’
‘He is part of the same thing,’ returned Miss Fanny, ‘and of a piece with all the rest. He obtruded himself upon us in the first instance. We never wanted him. I always showed him, for one, that I could have dispensed with his company with the greatest pleasure. He then commits that gross outrage upon our feelings, which he never could or would have committed but for the delight he took in exposing us; and then we are to be demeaned for the service of his friends! Why, I don’t wonder at this Mr Gowan’s conduct towards you. What else was to be expected when he was enjoying our past misfortunes—gloating over them at the moment!’
“He’s part of the same thing,” replied Miss Fanny, “and just like all the rest. He forced himself on us from the beginning. We never wanted him around. I always made it clear to him that I would have happily done without his company. Then he commits that awful offense against our feelings, something he wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t enjoyed showing us up; and now we’re supposed to lower ourselves for the sake of his friends! Honestly, I’m not surprised by how this Mr. Gowan behaves towards you. What else could we expect when he was relishing our past misfortunes—taking pleasure in them right at that moment!”
‘Father—Edward—no indeed!’ pleaded Little Dorrit. ‘Neither Mr nor Mrs Gowan had ever heard our name. They were, and they are, quite ignorant of our history.’
‘Father—Edward—no way!’ pleaded Little Dorrit. ‘Neither Mr nor Mrs Gowan has ever heard our name. They were, and they are, completely clueless about our history.’
‘So much the worse,’ retorted Fanny, determined not to admit anything in extenuation, ‘for then you have no excuse. If they had known about us, you might have felt yourself called upon to conciliate them. That would have been a weak and ridiculous mistake, but I can respect a mistake, whereas I can’t respect a wilful and deliberate abasing of those who should be nearest and dearest to us. No. I can’t respect that. I can do nothing but denounce that.’
“Too bad for you,” Fanny shot back, refusing to make any excuses, “because that means you don’t have an excuse. If they had known about us, maybe you would have felt the need to make up with them. That would have been a foolish and laughable error, but I can respect a mistake. What I can’t respect is the intentional and willful degradation of those who should be closest to us. No, I can’t respect that at all. All I can do is condemn it.”
‘I never offend you wilfully, Fanny,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘though you are so hard with me.’
‘I never mean to upset you on purpose, Fanny,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘even though you’re so tough on me.’
‘Then you should be more careful, Amy,’ returned her sister. ‘If you do such things by accident, you should be more careful. If I happened to have been born in a peculiar place, and under peculiar circumstances that blunted my knowledge of propriety, I fancy I should think myself bound to consider at every step, “Am I going, ignorantly, to compromise any near and dear relations?” That is what I fancy I should do, if it was my case.’
“Then you should be more careful, Amy,” her sister said. “If you do those things by accident, you need to be more vigilant. If I had been born in a strange place and under unusual circumstances that affected my sense of what’s proper, I would think it was my responsibility to stop and consider at every turn, ‘Am I going to unintentionally embarrass any close family members?’ That’s what I think I would do if I were in your situation.”
Mr Dorrit now interposed, at once to stop these painful subjects by his authority, and to point their moral by his wisdom.
Mr. Dorrit now stepped in to put a stop to these uncomfortable topics with his authority and to emphasize their lesson with his insight.
‘My dear,’ said he to his younger daughter, ‘I beg you to—ha—to say no more. Your sister Fanny expresses herself strongly, but not without considerable reason. You have now a—hum—a great position to support. That great position is not occupied by yourself alone, but by—ha—by me, and—ha hum—by us. Us. Now, it is incumbent upon all people in an exalted position, but it is particularly so on this family, for reasons which I—ha—will not dwell upon, to make themselves respected. To be vigilant in making themselves respected. Dependants, to respect us, must be—ha—kept at a distance and—hum—kept down. Down. Therefore, your not exposing yourself to the remarks of our attendants by appearing to have at any time dispensed with their services and performed them for yourself, is—ha—highly important.’
"Dear," he said to his younger daughter, "I really need you to—uh—stop talking. Your sister Fanny is quite passionate, but there’s a good reason for it. You have a—um—a significant position to uphold. This position isn’t just yours; it belongs to—uh—to me and—um—to us. Us. It’s important for everyone in a high position to be respected, but especially for our family, for reasons I—uh—won’t go into. We need to be vigilant about maintaining that respect. In order for our dependents to respect us, we must—uh—keep them at a distance and—um—below us. Below us. So, it’s extremely important that you avoid any situation where our staff might see you bypassing their duties and doing them yourself."
‘Why, who can doubt it?’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘It’s the essence of everything.’
"Why, who can doubt that?" exclaimed Miss Fanny. "It’s the heart of everything."
‘Fanny,’ returned her father, grandiloquently, ‘give me leave, my dear. We then come to—ha—to Mr Clennam. I am free to say that I do not, Amy, share your sister’s sentiments—that is to say altogether—hum— altogether—in reference to Mr Clennam. I am content to regard that individual in the light of—ha—generally—a well-behaved person. Hum. A well-behaved person. Nor will I inquire whether Mr Clennam did, at any time, obtrude himself on—ha—my society. He knew my society to be—hum—sought, and his plea might be that he regarded me in the light of a public character. But there were circumstances attending my—ha—slight knowledge of Mr Clennam (it was very slight), which,’ here Mr Dorrit became extremely grave and impressive, ‘would render it highly indelicate in Mr Clennam to—ha—to seek to renew communication with me or with any member of my family under existing circumstances. If Mr Clennam has sufficient delicacy to perceive the impropriety of any such attempt, I am bound as a responsible gentleman to—ha—defer to that delicacy on his part. If, on the other hand, Mr Clennam has not that delicacy, I cannot for a moment—ha—hold any correspondence with so—hum—coarse a mind. In either case, it would appear that Mr Clennam is put altogether out of the question, and that we have nothing to do with him or he with us. Ha—Mrs General!’
“Fanny,” her father replied grandly, “let me speak, my dear. Now, regarding Mr. Clennam. I have to say that I don't, Amy, fully share your sister’s opinions—well, let’s say not entirely—about Mr. Clennam. I’m willing to think of him as—generally—a decent person. A decent person. And I won’t question whether Mr. Clennam ever imposed on—my company. He probably knew my company was—desired, and he might say he saw me as a public figure. But there were circumstances related to my—limited knowledge of Mr. Clennam (it was quite limited), which,” here Mr. Dorrit looked very serious and impressive, “would make it very inappropriate for Mr. Clennam to—seek to reach out to me or any member of my family under the current circumstances. If Mr. Clennam has enough sense to recognize the inappropriateness of such an attempt, I feel it's my duty as a respectable gentleman to—honor that sensitivity on his part. If, however, Mr. Clennam lacks that sensitivity, I can't possibly—engage in any correspondence with someone so—uncouth. In either case, it seems that Mr. Clennam is completely out of the picture, and we have nothing to do with him, nor he with us. Ha—Mrs. General!”
The entrance of the lady whom he announced, to take her place at the breakfast-table, terminated the discussion. Shortly afterwards, the courier announced that the valet, and the footman, and the two maids, and the four guides, and the fourteen mules, were in readiness; so the breakfast party went out to the convent door to join the cavalcade.
The arrival of the lady he had announced, ready to take her spot at the breakfast table, ended the conversation. Soon after, the courier informed them that the valet, footman, two maids, and four guides, along with fourteen mules, were all set; so the breakfast party headed out to the convent door to join the procession.
Mr Gowan stood aloof with his cigar and pencil, but Mr Blandois was on the spot to pay his respects to the ladies. When he gallantly pulled off his slouched hat to Little Dorrit, she thought he had even a more sinister look, standing swart and cloaked in the snow, than he had in the fire-light over-night. But, as both her father and her sister received his homage with some favour, she refrained from expressing any distrust of him, lest it should prove to be a new blemish derived from her prison birth.
Mr. Gowan stood off to the side with his cigar and pencil, while Mr. Blandois was right there to pay his respects to the ladies. When he gallantly took off his slouch hat for Little Dorrit, she thought he looked even more sinister standing dark and cloaked in the snow than he had in the firelight the night before. However, since both her father and sister accepted his courtesy with some approval, she held back her distrust of him, afraid it might be another flaw stemming from her upbringing in prison.
Nevertheless, as they wound down the rugged way while the convent was yet in sight, she more than once looked round, and descried Mr Blandois, backed by the convent smoke which rose straight and high from the chimneys in a golden film, always standing on one jutting point looking down after them. Long after he was a mere black stick in the snow, she felt as though she could yet see that smile of his, that high nose, and those eyes that were too near it. And even after that, when the convent was gone and some light morning clouds veiled the pass below it, the ghastly skeleton arms by the wayside seemed to be all pointing up at him.
However, as they made their way down the rough path while the convent was still in view, she looked back several times and saw Mr. Blandois, silhouetted against the convent's smoke rising straight and high from the chimneys in a golden haze, always standing on a protruding point, watching them. Long after he had become just a dark figure in the snow, she felt as if she could still see his smile, his prominent nose, and his eyes that were too close to it. Even after that, when the convent had disappeared and some light morning clouds covered the path below, the eerie skeleton arms by the roadside seemed to be pointing up at him.
More treacherous than snow, perhaps, colder at heart, and harder to melt, Blandois of Paris by degrees passed out of her mind, as they came down into the softer regions. Again the sun was warm, again the streams descending from glaciers and snowy caverns were refreshing to drink at, again they came among the pine-trees, the rocky rivulets, the verdant heights and dales, the wooden chalets and rough zigzag fences of Swiss country. Sometimes the way so widened that she and her father could ride abreast. And then to look at him, handsomely clothed in his fur and broadcloths, rich, free, numerously served and attended, his eyes roving far away among the glories of the landscape, no miserable screen before them to darken his sight and cast its shadow on him, was enough.
More treacherous than snow, perhaps, colder at heart, and harder to melt, Blandois of Paris gradually faded from her mind as they descended into softer regions. Once again, the sun was warm, the streams flowing from glaciers and snowy caves were refreshing to drink from, and they found themselves among the pine trees, rocky streams, lush hills and valleys, wooden chalets, and rough zigzag fences of the Swiss countryside. Sometimes the path opened up enough for her and her father to ride side by side. And then to look at him, elegantly dressed in his fur and broadcloth, wealthy, carefree, well-served and attended, his eyes wandering far among the beauty of the landscape, with no miserable barrier in front of them to darken his view and cast a shadow on him, was enough.
Her uncle was so far rescued from that shadow of old, that he wore the clothes they gave him, and performed some ablutions as a sacrifice to the family credit, and went where he was taken, with a certain patient animal enjoyment, which seemed to express that the air and change did him good. In all other respects, save one, he shone with no light but such as was reflected from his brother. His brother’s greatness, wealth, freedom, and grandeur, pleased him without any reference to himself. Silent and retiring, he had no use for speech when he could hear his brother speak; no desire to be waited on, so that the servants devoted themselves to his brother. The only noticeable change he originated in himself, was an alteration in his manner to his younger niece. Every day it refined more and more into a marked respect, very rarely shown by age to youth, and still more rarely susceptible, one would have said, of the fitness with which he invested it. On those occasions when Miss Fanny did declare once for all, he would take the next opportunity of baring his grey head before his younger niece, and of helping her to alight, or handing her to the carriage, or showing her any other attention, with the profoundest deference. Yet it never appeared misplaced or forced, being always heartily simple, spontaneous, and genuine. Neither would he ever consent, even at his brother’s request, to be helped to any place before her, or to take precedence of her in anything. So jealous was he of her being respected, that, on this very journey down from the Great Saint Bernard, he took sudden and violent umbrage at the footman’s being remiss to hold her stirrup, though standing near when she dismounted; and unspeakably astonished the whole retinue by charging at him on a hard-headed mule, riding him into a corner, and threatening to trample him to death.
Her uncle was so far removed from his old self that he wore the clothes they gave him, went through some rituals for the family's sake, and accepted where he was taken with a sort of patient enjoyment, as if the fresh air and change were good for him. In every other way, except one, he shone with no light of his own, only reflecting that of his brother. He took pleasure in his brother’s greatness, wealth, freedom, and status without thinking about himself. Quiet and reserved, he had no need for words when he could listen to his brother speak; he didn’t want to be waited on, so the servants focused all their attention on his brother. The only noticeable change in him was how he treated his younger niece. Every day, his manner towards her refined into a clear respect, something rarely shown by older people to younger ones, and even more rarely with such grace. Whenever Miss Fanny expressed herself decisively, he would make it a point to show deference, whether it was by removing his grey hat before her, helping her get down, assisting her into the carriage, or showing her any other courtesy deeply and sincerely. It never felt forced or out of place; it was always heartfelt, spontaneous, and genuine. He would never agree, even at his brother's urging, to be taken anywhere ahead of her or to take precedence in anything. He was so protective of her being respected that during their trip down from the Great Saint Bernard, he became suddenly and furiously angry when the footman failed to hold her stirrup while she was getting off, even though he was standing close by. In a shocking display, he charged at the footman on a stubborn mule, cornered him, and threatened to trample him.
They were a goodly company, and the Innkeepers all but worshipped them. Wherever they went, their importance preceded them in the person of the courier riding before, to see that the rooms of state were ready. He was the herald of the family procession. The great travelling-carriage came next: containing, inside, Mr Dorrit, Miss Dorrit, Miss Amy Dorrit, and Mrs General; outside, some of the retainers, and (in fine weather) Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for whom the box was reserved. Then came the chariot containing Frederick Dorrit, Esquire, and an empty place occupied by Edward Dorrit, Esquire, in wet weather. Then came the fourgon with the rest of the retainers, the heavy baggage, and as much as it could carry of the mud and dust which the other vehicles left behind.
They were a respectable group, and the innkeepers practically worshipped them. Wherever they went, their importance was felt before them, thanks to the courier who rode ahead to make sure the best rooms were ready. He was the herald of the family procession. The grand travel carriage followed next, carrying Mr. Dorrit, Miss Dorrit, Miss Amy Dorrit, and Mrs. General inside; outside were some of the staff, and (in nice weather) Edward Dorrit, Esquire, who had the box seat. Next came the carriage with Frederick Dorrit, Esquire, and an empty spot where Edward Dorrit, Esquire, would sit in bad weather. Then came the wagon with the rest of the staff, the heavy luggage, and as much mud and dust as it could collect from the other vehicles.
These equipages adorned the yard of the hotel at Martigny, on the return of the family from their mountain excursion. Other vehicles were there, much company being on the road, from the patched Italian Vettura—like the body of a swing from an English fair put upon a wooden tray on wheels, and having another wooden tray without wheels put atop of it—to the trim English carriage. But there was another adornment of the hotel which Mr Dorrit had not bargained for. Two strange travellers embellished one of his rooms.
These vehicles decorated the yard of the hotel in Martigny, marking the family's return from their mountain trip. There were other cars as well, as many people were traveling, from the patched Italian Vettura—like the body of a swing from a fair in England set on a wooden tray with wheels, and topped with another wooden tray without wheels—to the neat English carriage. But there was another surprise for Mr. Dorrit at the hotel. Two unfamiliar travelers were staying in one of his rooms.
The Innkeeper, hat in hand in the yard, swore to the courier that he was blighted, that he was desolated, that he was profoundly afflicted, that he was the most miserable and unfortunate of beasts, that he had the head of a wooden pig. He ought never to have made the concession, he said, but the very genteel lady had so passionately prayed him for the accommodation of that room to dine in, only for a little half-hour, that he had been vanquished. The little half-hour was expired, the lady and gentleman were taking their little dessert and half-cup of coffee, the note was paid, the horses were ordered, they would depart immediately; but, owing to an unhappy destiny and the curse of Heaven, they were not yet gone.
The Innkeeper, hat in hand in the yard, told the courier that he was doomed, that he was heartbroken, that he was deeply troubled, that he was the most miserable and unfortunate creature, that he felt like he had the head of a wooden pig. He said he should never have made the concession, but the very refined lady had begged him so earnestly for the room to have dinner in, just for a little half-hour, that he had given in. The little half-hour was over, the lady and gentleman were enjoying their dessert and a small cup of coffee, the bill had been paid, the horses were ready, and they would leave right away; but, due to some unfortunate fate and the curse of Heaven, they still hadn’t left.
Nothing could exceed Mr Dorrit’s indignation, as he turned at the foot of the staircase on hearing these apologies. He felt that the family dignity was struck at by an assassin’s hand. He had a sense of his dignity, which was of the most exquisite nature. He could detect a design upon it when nobody else had any perception of the fact. His life was made an agony by the number of fine scalpels that he felt to be incessantly engaged in dissecting his dignity.
Nothing could match Mr. Dorrit’s anger as he paused at the bottom of the staircase upon hearing these apologies. He felt as if the family's dignity had been attacked by an assassin. His sense of dignity was particularly refined. He could sense an attack on it even when no one else noticed. His life felt like a torment because he constantly felt the sharp instruments dissecting his dignity.
‘Is it possible, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, reddening excessively, ‘that you have—ha—had the audacity to place one of my rooms at the disposition of any other person?’
‘Is it possible, sir,’ Mr. Dorrit said, blushing deeply, ‘that you have—um—had the nerve to offer one of my rooms to someone else?’
Original
Thousands of pardons! It was the host’s profound misfortune to have been overcome by that too genteel lady. He besought Monseigneur not to enrage himself. He threw himself on Monseigneur for clemency. If Monseigneur would have the distinguished goodness to occupy the other salon especially reserved for him, for but five minutes, all would go well.
Thousands of pardons! It was the host’s terrible luck to have been overwhelmed by that overly refined lady. He begged Monseigneur not to upset himself. He pleaded with Monseigneur for mercy. If Monseigneur would kindly use the other salon set aside for him, just for five minutes, everything would be fine.
‘No, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I will not occupy any salon. I will leave your house without eating or drinking, or setting foot in it. How do you dare to act like this? Who am I that you—ha—separate me from other gentlemen?’
‘No, sir,’ Mr. Dorrit said. ‘I won't use any of your salon. I will leave your house without eating or drinking or stepping foot inside. How dare you act like this? Who am I that you—ha—set me apart from other gentlemen?’
Alas! The host called all the universe to witness that Monseigneur was the most amiable of the whole body of nobility, the most important, the most estimable, the most honoured. If he separated Monseigneur from others, it was only because he was more distinguished, more cherished, more generous, more renowned.
Alas! The host invited everyone to see that Monseigneur was the kindest of all the nobility, the most significant, the most respected, the most esteemed. If he set Monseigneur apart from the rest, it was just because he was more notable, more beloved, more giving, more famous.
‘Don’t tell me so, sir,’ returned Mr Dorrit, in a mighty heat. ‘You have affronted me. You have heaped insults upon me. How dare you? Explain yourself.’
"Don’t say that to me, sir," Mr. Dorrit shot back, clearly angry. "You’ve insulted me. You’ve thrown insults at me. How dare you? Explain yourself."
Ah, just Heaven, then, how could the host explain himself when he had nothing more to explain; when he had only to apologise, and confide himself to the so well-known magnanimity of Monseigneur!
Ah, just Heaven, then, how could the host explain himself when he had nothing left to say; when he only needed to apologize and trust in the well-known generosity of Monseigneur!
‘I tell you, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, panting with anger, ‘that you separate me—ha—from other gentlemen; that you make distinctions between me and other gentlemen of fortune and station. I demand of you, why? I wish to know on—ha—what authority, on whose authority. Reply sir. Explain. Answer why.’
"I’m telling you, sir," Mr. Dorrit said, breathing heavily with anger, "that you set me apart—ha—from other gentlemen; that you treat me differently from other wealthy and well-placed gentlemen. I want to know why. I need to understand—ha—on what authority, whose authority. Respond, sir. Explain. Answer me."
Permit the landlord humbly to submit to Monsieur the Courier then, that Monseigneur, ordinarily so gracious, enraged himself without cause. There was no why. Monsieur the Courier would represent to Monseigneur, that he deceived himself in suspecting that there was any why, but the why his devoted servant had already had the honour to present to him. The very genteel lady—
Permit the landlord to humbly suggest to Monsieur the Courier that Monseigneur, who is usually so kind, has become upset for no reason. There isn't really a reason. Monsieur the Courier would like to point out to Monseigneur that he is mistaken in thinking there is any reason, except for what his devoted servant has already had the honor of presenting to him. The very refined lady—
‘Silence!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Hold your tongue! I will hear no more of the very genteel lady; I will hear no more of you. Look at this family—my family—a family more genteel than any lady. You have treated this family with disrespect; you have been insolent to this family. I’ll ruin you. Ha—send for the horses, pack the carriages, I’ll not set foot in this man’s house again!’
"Silence!" shouted Mr. Dorrit. "Stop talking! I don't want to hear any more about that very refined lady; I don't want to hear any more from you. Look at this family—my family—a family more refined than any lady. You've disrespected this family; you've been rude to this family. I'll ruin you. Ha—call for the horses, load the carriages, I won’t step foot in this man's house again!"
No one had interfered in the dispute, which was beyond the French colloquial powers of Edward Dorrit, Esquire, and scarcely within the province of the ladies. Miss Fanny, however, now supported her father with great bitterness; declaring, in her native tongue, that it was quite clear there was something special in this man’s impertinence; and that she considered it important that he should be, by some means, forced to give up his authority for making distinctions between that family and other wealthy families. What the reasons of his presumption could be, she was at a loss to imagine; but reasons he must have, and they ought to be torn from him.
No one had intervened in the argument, which was beyond Edward Dorrit's, Esquire, understanding and hardly something the women could handle. Miss Fanny, however, firmly backed her father with a lot of hostility, stating, in her native language, that it was obvious this man’s arrogance had a hidden meaning; and that she believed it was crucial to find a way to make him give up his power to draw lines between their family and other rich families. She couldn't figure out what could be his reasons for acting so superior; but he must have some reasons, and they needed to be forced out of him.
All the guides, mule-drivers, and idlers in the yard, had made themselves parties to the angry conference, and were much impressed by the courier’s now bestirring himself to get the carriages out. With the aid of some dozen people to each wheel, this was done at a great cost of noise; and then the loading was proceeded with, pending the arrival of the horses from the post-house.
All the guides, mule drivers, and people hanging around the yard had joined in on the heated discussion and were quite taken by the courier starting to get the carriages ready. With about a dozen people on each wheel, they made a lot of noise getting it done. Then they began loading it up while waiting for the horses to arrive from the post house.
But the very genteel lady’s English chariot being already horsed and at the inn-door, the landlord had slipped up-stairs to represent his hard case. This was notified to the yard by his now coming down the staircase in attendance on the gentleman and the lady, and by his pointing out the offended majesty of Mr Dorrit to them with a significant motion of his hand.
But the very classy lady's English carriage was already hitched and waiting at the inn door, so the landlord had gone upstairs to explain his difficult situation. This was announced to the yard when he came down the staircase accompanying the gentleman and the lady, and by his pointing out the offended presence of Mr. Dorrit to them with a meaningful gesture of his hand.
‘Beg your pardon,’ said the gentleman, detaching himself from the lady, and coming forward. ‘I am a man of few words and a bad hand at an explanation—but lady here is extremely anxious that there should be no Row. Lady—a mother of mine, in point of fact—wishes me to say that she hopes no Row.’
“Excuse me,” said the man, stepping away from the woman and moving closer. “I’m not great with words and I struggle with explanations—but this lady here is really worried about there being any trouble. She—my mother, actually—wants me to say that she hopes there won’t be any trouble.”
Mr Dorrit, still panting under his injury, saluted the gentleman, and saluted the lady, in a distant, final, and invincible manner.
Mr. Dorrit, still breathing heavily from his injury, nodded at the gentleman and acknowledged the lady with a distant, final, and undeniable demeanor.
‘No, but really—here, old feller; you!’ This was the gentleman’s way of appealing to Edward Dorrit, Esquire, on whom he pounced as a great and providential relief. ‘Let you and I try to make this all right. Lady so very much wishes no Row.’
‘No, but seriously—come on, old man; you!’ This was the way the gentleman reached out to Edward Dorrit, Esquire, whom he seized upon as a significant and fortunate relief. ‘Let’s try to sort this out together. The lady really doesn’t want any trouble.’
Edward Dorrit, Esquire, led a little apart by the button, assumed a diplomatic expression of countenance in replying, ‘Why you must confess, that when you bespeak a lot of rooms beforehand, and they belong to you, it’s not pleasant to find other people in ‘em.’
Edward Dorrit, Esquire, slightly set apart by the button, put on a diplomatic expression as he replied, "Well, you have to admit, when you book a lot of rooms in advance and they belong to you, it’s not great to find other people in them."
‘No,’ said the other, ‘I know it isn’t. I admit it. Still, let you and I try to make it all right, and avoid Row. The fault is not this chap’s at all, but my mother’s. Being a remarkably fine woman with no bigodd nonsense about her—well educated, too—she was too many for this chap. Regularly pocketed him.’
‘No,’ said the other, ‘I know it isn’t. I admit it. Still, let’s you and I try to make it all right and avoid Row. The fault isn’t this guy’s at all, but my mom’s. Being a really great woman without any ridiculous nonsense—well educated too—she was just too much for this guy. She completely dominated him.’
‘If that’s the case—’ Edward Dorrit, Esquire, began.
‘If that’s the case—’ Edward Dorrit, Esquire, began.
‘Assure you ‘pon my soul ‘tis the case. Consequently,’ said the other gentleman, retiring on his main position, ‘why Row?’
‘I assure you on my soul it’s true. So,’ said the other gentleman, falling back on his main point, ‘why Row?’
‘Edmund,’ said the lady from the doorway, ‘I hope you have explained, or are explaining, to the satisfaction of this gentleman and his family that the civil landlord is not to blame?’
‘Edmund,’ said the lady from the doorway, ‘I hope you’ve explained, or are explaining, to this gentleman and his family that the civil landlord isn’t to blame?’
‘Assure you, ma’am,’ returned Edmund, ‘perfectly paralysing myself with trying it on.’ He then looked steadfastly at Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for some seconds, and suddenly added, in a burst of confidence, ‘Old feller! Is it all right?’
“Honestly, ma’am,” Edmund replied, “I’m completely freezing up trying this out.” He then stared intently at Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for a few moments and suddenly added, with a rush of confidence, “Hey, buddy! Is everything good?”
‘I don’t know, after all,’ said the lady, gracefully advancing a step or two towards Mr Dorrit, ‘but that I had better say myself, at once, that I assured this good man I took all the consequences on myself of occupying one of a stranger’s suite of rooms during his absence, for just as much (or as little) time as I could dine in. I had no idea the rightful owner would come back so soon, nor had I any idea that he had come back, or I should have hastened to make restoration of my ill-gotten chamber, and to have offered my explanation and apology. I trust in saying this—’
"I don't know, after all," the lady said, taking a step or two closer to Mr. Dorrit, "but I should probably just say right away that I assured this kind man I’d take full responsibility for using one of a stranger’s rooms while he was away, for as long as I could manage to have dinner there. I had no idea the rightful owner would return so soon, nor did I know he had come back, or I would have rushed to give back my ill-gotten room and offered my explanation and apology. I hope that by saying this—"
For a moment the lady, with a glass at her eye, stood transfixed and speechless before the two Miss Dorrits. At the same moment, Miss Fanny, in the foreground of a grand pictorial composition, formed by the family, the family equipages, and the family servants, held her sister tight under one arm to detain her on the spot, and with the other arm fanned herself with a distinguished air, and negligently surveyed the lady from head to foot.
For a moment, the woman, with a glass to her eye, stood frozen and speechless before the two Miss Dorrits. At the same time, Miss Fanny, in the foreground of a grand scene made up of the family, their carriages, and their servants, held her sister tightly under one arm to keep her in place, while with her other arm she fanned herself with an air of sophistication and casually looked the lady up and down.
The lady, recovering herself quickly—for it was Mrs Merdle and she was not easily dashed—went on to add that she trusted in saying this, she apologised for her boldness, and restored this well-behaved landlord to the favour that was so very valuable to him. Mr Dorrit, on the altar of whose dignity all this was incense, made a gracious reply; and said that his people should—ha—countermand his horses, and he would—hum—overlook what he had at first supposed to be an affront, but now regarded as an honour. Upon this the bosom bent to him; and its owner, with a wonderful command of feature, addressed a winning smile of adieu to the two sisters, as young ladies of fortune in whose favour she was much prepossessed, and whom she had never had the gratification of seeing before.
The lady quickly composed herself—after all, it was Mrs. Merdle, and she wasn’t one to be easily flustered—and continued by saying that she hoped, in sharing this, she was not being too bold and was restoring this well-mannered landlord to a favor that was incredibly important to him. Mr. Dorrit, whose dignity was being flattered by all this, responded graciously. He stated that he would—uh—cancel the horses he had ordered, and he would—um—overlook what he had initially thought was an insult but now viewed as a compliment. At this, the bosom inclined toward him; and its owner, with remarkable control over her features, gave a charming smile of farewell to the two sisters, who were young women of means that she was quite fond of and whom she had never had the pleasure of meeting before.
Not so, however, Mr Sparkler. This gentleman, becoming transfixed at the same moment as his lady-mother, could not by any means unfix himself again, but stood stiffly staring at the whole composition with Miss Fanny in the Foreground. On his mother saying, ‘Edmund, we are quite ready; will you give me your arm?’ he seemed, by the motion of his lips, to reply with some remark comprehending the form of words in which his shining talents found the most frequent utterance, but he relaxed no muscle. So fixed was his figure, that it would have been matter of some difficulty to bend him sufficiently to get him in the carriage-door, if he had not received the timely assistance of a maternal pull from within. He was no sooner within than the pad of the little window in the back of the chariot disappeared, and his eye usurped its place. There it remained as long as so small an object was discernible, and probably much longer, staring (as though something inexpressibly surprising should happen to a codfish) like an ill-executed eye in a large locket.
Not so, Mr. Sparkler. This guy, becoming transfixed at the same time as his mom, couldn’t unfix himself at all and just stood there stiffly staring at the whole scene with Miss Fanny in the foreground. When his mother said, “Edmund, we’re all ready; will you give me your arm?” he seemed to respond with some comment, using the phrases his bright talents often displayed, but he didn't move a muscle. He was so stiff that it would have been tough to bend him enough to fit him in the carriage door if his mom hadn’t given him a timely pull from inside. No sooner was he in than the little window pad at the back of the carriage disappeared, and his eye took its place. It stayed there as long as such a small thing could be seen, and probably even longer, staring (as if expecting something incredibly surprising to happen to a codfish) like a poorly done eye in a large locket.
This encounter was so highly agreeable to Miss Fanny, and gave her so much to think of with triumph afterwards, that it softened her asperities exceedingly. When the procession was again in motion next day, she occupied her place in it with a new gaiety; and showed such a flow of spirits indeed, that Mrs General looked rather surprised.
This meeting was so enjoyable for Miss Fanny and gave her so much to feel proud about later that it really mellowed her attitude. When the parade started again the next day, she took her place with a new sense of joy and was so cheerful that Mrs. General seemed a bit surprised.
Little Dorrit was glad to be found no fault with, and to see that Fanny was pleased; but her part in the procession was a musing part, and a quiet one. Sitting opposite her father in the travelling-carriage, and recalling the old Marshalsea room, her present existence was a dream. All that she saw was new and wonderful, but it was not real; it seemed to her as if those visions of mountains and picturesque countries might melt away at any moment, and the carriage, turning some abrupt corner, bring up with a jolt at the old Marshalsea gate.
Little Dorrit was happy to not be criticized and to see that Fanny was pleased; however, her role in the procession was reflective and calm. Sitting across from her father in the traveling carriage and remembering the old Marshalsea room, her current life felt like a dream. Everything she saw was new and amazing, but it didn't feel real; it seemed to her that those images of mountains and beautiful landscapes could disappear at any moment, and the carriage, taking a sudden turn, could suddenly come to a halt at the old Marshalsea gate.
To have no work to do was strange, but not half so strange as having glided into a corner where she had no one to think for, nothing to plan and contrive, no cares of others to load herself with. Strange as that was, it was far stranger yet to find a space between herself and her father, where others occupied themselves in taking care of him, and where she was never expected to be. At first, this was so much more unlike her old experience than even the mountains themselves, that she had been unable to resign herself to it, and had tried to retain her old place about him. But he had spoken to her alone, and had said that people—ha—people in an exalted position, my dear, must scrupulously exact respect from their dependents; and that for her, his daughter, Miss Amy Dorrit, of the sole remaining branch of the Dorrits of Dorsetshire, to be known to—hum—to occupy herself in fulfilling the functions of—ha hum—a valet, would be incompatible with that respect. Therefore, my dear, he—ha—he laid his parental injunctions upon her, to remember that she was a lady, who had now to conduct herself with—hum—a proper pride, and to preserve the rank of a lady; and consequently he requested her to abstain from doing what would occasion—ha—unpleasant and derogatory remarks. She had obeyed without a murmur. Thus it had been brought about that she now sat in her corner of the luxurious carriage with her little patient hands folded before her, quite displaced even from the last point of the old standing ground in life on which her feet had lingered.
Having no work to do felt strange, but it was nowhere near as strange as finding herself in a corner where she didn't have anyone to think for, nothing to plan or figure out, and no worries about others to burden herself with. As unusual as that was, it was even stranger to discover a gap between herself and her father, where others took care of him, and where she was never expected to be. At first, this was so different from her previous experiences, even more than the mountains themselves, that she struggled to accept it and tried to hold onto her old role around him. But he had spoken to her privately and said that people—ah—people in a high position, my dear, must demand respect from their dependents; and that for her, his daughter, Miss Amy Dorrit, of the last remaining branch of the Dorrits of Dorsetshire, to be known to—um—to engage in the duties of—uh—servant, would undermine that respect. So, my dear, he—ah—he urged her to remember that she was a lady, who now needed to act with—um—appropriate pride, and maintain the status of a lady; and consequently, he asked her to refrain from doing anything that might lead to—ah—unpleasant and disparaging comments. She had complied without a word of protest. This is how it came to be that she now sat in her corner of the luxurious carriage with her small, patient hands folded in front of her, completely displaced even from the last point of her old life where her feet had lingered.
It was from this position that all she saw appeared unreal; the more surprising the scenes, the more they resembled the unreality of her own inner life as she went through its vacant places all day long. The gorges of the Simplon, its enormous depths and thundering waterfalls, the wonderful road, the points of danger where a loose wheel or a faltering horse would have been destruction, the descent into Italy, the opening of that beautiful land as the rugged mountain-chasm widened and let them out from a gloomy and dark imprisonment—all a dream—only the old mean Marshalsea a reality. Nay, even the old mean Marshalsea was shaken to its foundations when she pictured it without her father. She could scarcely believe that the prisoners were still lingering in the close yard, that the mean rooms were still every one tenanted, and that the turnkey still stood in the Lodge letting people in and out, all just as she well knew it to be.
From this viewpoint, everything she saw felt unreal; the more astonishing the sights, the more they mirrored the emptiness of her own inner life, which she wandered through all day. The gorges of the Simplon, with their massive depths and roaring waterfalls, the beautiful road, the risky spots where a loose wheel or a struggling horse could lead to disaster, the descent into Italy, the unfolding of that stunning land as the steep mountain chasm broadened and released them from a gloomy, dark confinement—everything felt like a dream—only the old, shabby Marshalsea felt real. In fact, even the old, shabby Marshalsea seemed to tremble at the thought of it without her father. She could hardly believe that the prisoners were still hanging around in the small yard, that every shabby room was still occupied, and that the turnkey was still in the Lodge letting people in and out, just as she knew it to be.
With a remembrance of her father’s old life in prison hanging about her like the burden of a sorrowful tune, Little Dorrit would wake from a dream of her birth-place into a whole day’s dream. The painted room in which she awoke, often a humbled state-chamber in a dilapidated palace, would begin it; with its wild red autumnal vine-leaves overhanging the glass, its orange-trees on the cracked white terrace outside the window, a group of monks and peasants in the little street below, misery and magnificence wrestling with each other upon every rood of ground in the prospect, no matter how widely diversified, and misery throwing magnificence with the strength of fate. To this would succeed a labyrinth of bare passages and pillared galleries, with the family procession already preparing in the quadrangle below, through the carriages and luggage being brought together by the servants for the day’s journey. Then breakfast in another painted chamber, damp-stained and of desolate proportions; and then the departure, which, to her timidity and sense of not being grand enough for her place in the ceremonies, was always an uneasy thing. For then the courier (who himself would have been a foreign gentleman of high mark in the Marshalsea) would present himself to report that all was ready; and then her father’s valet would pompously induct him into his travelling-cloak; and then Fanny’s maid, and her own maid (who was a weight on Little Dorrit’s mind—absolutely made her cry at first, she knew so little what to do with her), would be in attendance; and then her brother’s man would complete his master’s equipment; and then her father would give his arm to Mrs General, and her uncle would give his to her, and, escorted by the landlord and Inn servants, they would swoop down-stairs. There, a crowd would be collected to see them enter their carriages, which, amidst much bowing, and begging, and prancing, and lashing, and clattering, they would do; and so they would be driven madly through narrow unsavoury streets, and jerked out at the town gate.
With memories of her father's old life in prison hanging over her like the weight of a sad song, Little Dorrit would wake from a dream of her hometown into an entire day of dreaming. The decorated room where she woke, often a faded state chamber in a crumbling palace, would kick things off; with its wild red autumn leaves draping over the window, its orange trees on the cracked white terrace outside, a mix of monks and peasants in the small street below, misery and grandeur fighting for dominance on every patch of land in view, no matter how varied, with misery overpowering grandeur like it was fate. This would lead into a maze of empty hallways and columned galleries, with the family procession already getting ready in the courtyard below, as the servants gathered the carriages and luggage for the day’s trip. Then breakfast in another painted room, damp and sadly proportioned; and then the departure, which was always uncomfortable for her, feeling too small for her role in the ceremonies. For then the courier (who would have been a distinguished foreign gentleman in the Marshalsea) would show up to say everything was ready; and then her father’s valet would pompously help him into his traveling cloak; and then Fanny’s maid, along with her own maid (who weighed on Little Dorrit’s mind—she made her cry at first, since Little Dorrit had no idea how to handle her), would be there; and then her brother’s servant would finish getting his master ready; and then her father would offer his arm to Mrs. General, and her uncle would offer his to her, and, escorted by the landlord and inn staff, they would sweep down the stairs. There, a crowd would gather to see them get into their carriages, which, amidst a lot of bowing, pleading, prancing, cracking, and clattering, they would do; and so they would be driven wildly through narrow, unpleasant streets, and jostled out at the town gate.
Among the day’s unrealities would be roads where the bright red vines were looped and garlanded together on trees for many miles; woods of olives; white villages and towns on hill-sides, lovely without, but frightful in their dirt and poverty within; crosses by the way; deep blue lakes with fairy islands, and clustering boats with awnings of bright colours and sails of beautiful forms; vast piles of building mouldering to dust; hanging-gardens where the weeds had grown so strong that their stems, like wedges driven home, had split the arch and rent the wall; stone-terraced lanes, with the lizards running into and out of every chink; beggars of all sorts everywhere: pitiful, picturesque, hungry, merry; children beggars and aged beggars. Often at posting-houses and other halting places, these miserable creatures would appear to her the only realities of the day; and many a time, when the money she had brought to give them was all given away, she would sit with her folded hands, thoughtfully looking after some diminutive girl leading her grey father, as if the sight reminded her of something in the days that were gone.
Among the day's unreal moments were roads lined with bright red vines looping and garlanding trees for miles; olive groves; white villages and towns on hills, beautiful on the outside but shocking in their dirt and poverty on the inside; crosses along the way; deep blue lakes with enchanting islands and clusters of boats with colorful awnings and elegantly shaped sails; vast structures crumbling to dust; hanging gardens where weeds had grown so strong that their stems, like wedges, had split the arch and torn the wall; stone-terraced paths with lizards darting in and out of every crack; beggars of all kinds everywhere: pitiful, picturesque, hungry, cheerful; child beggars and elderly beggars. Often at inns and other stopping places, these unfortunate souls seemed to her the only real part of the day; and many times, when the money she had brought to give them was all gone, she would sit with her hands folded, thoughtfully watching a small girl guiding her gray-haired father, as if the sight reminded her of something from the past.
Again, there would be places where they stayed the week together in splendid rooms, had banquets every day, rode out among heaps of wonders, walked through miles of palaces, and rested in dark corners of great churches; where there were winking lamps of gold and silver among pillars and arches, kneeling figures dotted about at confessionals and on the pavements; where there was the mist and scent of incense; where there were pictures, fantastic images, gaudy altars, great heights and distances, all softly lighted through stained glass, and the massive curtains that hung in the doorways. From these cities they would go on again, by the roads of vines and olives, through squalid villages, where there was not a hovel without a gap in its filthy walls, not a window with a whole inch of glass or paper; where there seemed to be nothing to support life, nothing to eat, nothing to make, nothing to grow, nothing to hope, nothing to do but die.
Once again, there were places where they spent the week together in luxurious rooms, enjoyed banquets every day, explored amazing sights, walked through miles of palaces, and took breaks in the dim corners of grand churches; where golden and silver lamps flickered among the pillars and arches, where kneeling figures were scattered at confessionals and on the floors; where the air was thick with mist and the smell of incense; where there were paintings, bizarre images, colorful altars, towering heights and vast distances, all gently illuminated by stained glass and the heavy curtains hanging in the doorways. From these cities, they would move on again, along roads lined with vines and olive trees, through rundown villages, where not a single hovel was without a hole in its filthy walls, not a window had a whole bit of glass or paper; where it seemed there was nothing to sustain life, nothing to eat, nothing to create, nothing to grow, nothing to hope for, and nothing to do but wait for death.
Again they would come to whole towns of palaces, whose proper inmates were all banished, and which were all changed into barracks: troops of idle soldiers leaning out of the state windows, where their accoutrements hung drying on the marble architecture, and showing to the mind like hosts of rats who were (happily) eating away the props of the edifices that supported them, and must soon, with them, be smashed on the heads of the other swarms of soldiers and the swarms of priests, and the swarms of spies, who were all the ill-looking population left to be ruined, in the streets below.
Again, they would come to entire towns filled with palaces, whose rightful occupants were all gone, and which had all been turned into barracks. Groups of idle soldiers leaned out of the grand windows, where their gear was hanging out to dry on the marble structures, resembling swarms of rats happily gnawing away at the supports of the buildings that held them up. Soon enough, these would come crashing down on the other clusters of soldiers, the groups of priests, and the hordes of spies—the shabby population left to face destruction in the streets below.
Through such scenes, the family procession moved on to Venice. And here it dispersed for a time, as they were to live in Venice some few months in a palace (itself six times as big as the whole Marshalsea) on the Grand Canal.
Through such scenes, the family moved on to Venice. And here, they took a break for a while, as they were going to live in a palace (which was six times bigger than the entire Marshalsea) on the Grand Canal for a few months.
In this crowning unreality, where all the streets were paved with water, and where the deathlike stillness of the days and nights was broken by no sound but the softened ringing of church-bells, the rippling of the current, and the cry of the gondoliers turning the corners of the flowing streets, Little Dorrit, quite lost by her task being done, sat down to muse. The family began a gay life, went here and there, and turned night into day; but she was timid of joining in their gaieties, and only asked leave to be left alone.
In this surreal place, where all the streets were made of water, and the eerie stillness of days and nights was broken only by the gentle ringing of church bells, the sound of the current, and the calls of the gondoliers rounding the corners of the flowing streets, Little Dorrit, feeling lost now that her task was finished, sat down to think. The family started living a lively life, going out and about, and turning night into day; but she was too shy to join in their fun and simply asked to be left alone.
Sometimes she would step into one of the gondolas that were always kept in waiting, moored to painted posts at the door—when she could escape from the attendance of that oppressive maid, who was her mistress, and a very hard one—and would be taken all over the strange city. Social people in other gondolas began to ask each other who the little solitary girl was whom they passed, sitting in her boat with folded hands, looking so pensively and wonderingly about her. Never thinking that it would be worth anybody’s while to notice her or her doings, Little Dorrit, in her quiet, scared, lost manner, went about the city none the less.
Sometimes she would hop into one of the gondolas that were always on standby, tied to colorful posts at the door—when she could get away from the oppressive maid, who was her mistress and very demanding—and would be taken all around the strange city. Social people in other gondolas began to ask each other who the little girl was sitting alone in her boat, with her hands folded, looking so thoughtfully and curiously around. Without thinking that anyone would care to notice her or what she was doing, Little Dorrit, in her quiet, anxious, lost way, moved around the city just the same.
But her favourite station was the balcony of her own room, overhanging the canal, with other balconies below, and none above. It was of massive stone darkened by ages, built in a wild fancy which came from the East to that collection of wild fancies; and Little Dorrit was little indeed, leaning on the broad-cushioned ledge, and looking over. As she liked no place of an evening half so well, she soon began to be watched for, and many eyes in passing gondolas were raised, and many people said, There was the little figure of the English girl who was always alone.
But her favorite spot was the balcony of her own room, overlooking the canal, with other balconies below and none above. It was made of massive stone, darkened by time, built with a wild imagination that came from the East to that mix of wild ideas; and Little Dorrit was indeed small, leaning on the broad-cushioned ledge and gazing out. Since she enjoyed it there in the evenings more than anywhere else, she soon started to be looked for, and many eyes in passing gondolas were raised, with many people saying, "There’s the little figure of the English girl who is always alone."
Such people were not realities to the little figure of the English girl; such people were all unknown to her. She would watch the sunset, in its long low lines of purple and red, and its burning flush high up into the sky: so glowing on the buildings, and so lightening their structure, that it made them look as if their strong walls were transparent, and they shone from within. She would watch those glories expire; and then, after looking at the black gondolas underneath, taking guests to music and dancing, would raise her eyes to the shining stars. Was there no party of her own, in other times, on which the stars had shone? To think of that old gate now!
Such people didn’t feel real to the little English girl; they were all strangers to her. She would watch the sunset with its long streaks of purple and red, and the bright glow stretching high into the sky: so radiant on the buildings, and lighting them up so much that it made them look almost transparent, glowing from within. She would watch those beautiful colors fade away; and then, after glancing at the black gondolas below, taking guests to music and dancing, she would raise her gaze to the shining stars. Hadn’t there been a time when the stars had shone on a celebration of her own? To think of that old gate now!
She would think of that old gate, and of herself sitting at it in the dead of the night, pillowing Maggy’s head; and of other places and of other scenes associated with those different times. And then she would lean upon her balcony, and look over at the water, as though they all lay underneath it. When she got to that, she would musingly watch its running, as if, in the general vision, it might run dry, and show her the prison again, and herself, and the old room, and the old inmates, and the old visitors: all lasting realities that had never changed.
She would think about that old gate and about sitting there in the middle of the night, resting Maggy’s head on her lap; and about other places and scenes connected to those different times. Then she would lean on her balcony and gaze at the water, as if everything from those memories lay beneath it. When she reached that point, she would watch the water flowing, as if it might run dry and reveal the prison again, along with herself, the old room, the former inmates, and the familiar visitors: all enduring realities that had never changed.
CHAPTER 4. A Letter from Little Dorrit
Dear Mr Clennam,
Dear Mr. Clennam,
I write to you from my own room at Venice, thinking you will be glad to hear from me. But I know you cannot be so glad to hear from me as I am to write to you; for everything about you is as you have been accustomed to see it, and you miss nothing—unless it should be me, which can only be for a very little while together and very seldom—while everything in my life is so strange, and I miss so much.
I’m writing to you from my room in Venice, hoping you’ll be happy to hear from me. But I know you can’t be as happy to hear from me as I am to write to you; everything around you is just as you’re used to seeing it, and you’re not missing anything—except maybe me, which can only be for a short time and rarely—while everything in my life is so unusual, and I miss so much.
When we were in Switzerland, which appears to have been years ago, though it was only weeks, I met young Mrs Gowan, who was on a mountain excursion like ourselves. She told me she was very well and very happy. She sent you the message, by me, that she thanked you affectionately and would never forget you. She was quite confiding with me, and I loved her almost as soon as I spoke to her. But there is nothing singular in that; who could help loving so beautiful and winning a creature! I could not wonder at any one loving her. No indeed.
When we were in Switzerland, which feels like it was years ago even though it was just weeks, I met young Mrs. Gowan, who was on a mountain trip like us. She told me she was doing great and very happy. She asked me to pass on a message to you, saying she thanked you warmly and would never forget you. She opened up to me, and I found myself loving her almost as soon as we started talking. But that's not surprising; who could resist loving such a beautiful and charming person? I couldn't blame anyone for loving her. Not at all.
It will not make you uneasy on Mrs Gowan’s account, I hope—for I remember that you said you had the interest of a true friend in her—if I tell you that I wish she could have married some one better suited to her. Mr Gowan seems fond of her, and of course she is very fond of him, but I thought he was not earnest enough—I don’t mean in that respect—I mean in anything. I could not keep it out of my mind that if I was Mrs Gowan (what a change that would be, and how I must alter to become like her!) I should feel that I was rather lonely and lost, for the want of some one who was steadfast and firm in purpose. I even thought she felt this want a little, almost without knowing it. But mind you are not made uneasy by this, for she was ‘very well and very happy.’ And she looked most beautiful.
I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable on Mrs. Gowan’s behalf, since I remember you mentioned you care for her like a true friend. I wish she could have married someone more suited for her. Mr. Gowan seems to care for her, and of course, she cares for him very much, but I thought he wasn’t serious enough—I don’t mean in that way—I mean in any aspect. I couldn’t help but think that if I were Mrs. Gowan (what a change that would be, and how much I would need to change to be like her!), I would feel somewhat lonely and adrift, lacking someone who is steady and determined. I even thought she felt this lack a little, almost without realizing it. But don’t let this worry you, because she was ‘very well and very happy.’ And she looked absolutely beautiful.
I expect to meet her again before long, and indeed have been expecting for some days past to see her here. I will ever be as good a friend to her as I can for your sake. Dear Mr Clennam, I dare say you think little of having been a friend to me when I had no other (not that I have any other now, for I have made no new friends), but I think much of it, and I never can forget it.
I expect to see her again soon, and I've actually been waiting for the past few days to see her here. I’ll always be as good a friend to her as I can for your sake. Dear Mr. Clennam, I'm sure you don’t think much of being my friend when I had no one else (not that I have anyone else now; I haven't made any new friends), but I really appreciate it, and I can never forget it.
I wish I knew—but it is best for no one to write to me—how Mr and Mrs Plornish prosper in the business which my dear father bought for them, and that old Mr Nandy lives happily with them and his two grandchildren, and sings all his songs over and over again. I cannot quite keep back the tears from my eyes when I think of my poor Maggy, and of the blank she must have felt at first, however kind they all are to her, without her Little Mother. Will you go and tell her, as a strict secret, with my love, that she never can have regretted our separation more than I have regretted it? And will you tell them all that I have thought of them every day, and that my heart is faithful to them everywhere? O, if you could know how faithful, you would almost pity me for being so far away and being so grand!
I wish I knew—but it’s probably better if no one writes to me—how Mr. and Mrs. Plornish are doing in the business my dear father bought for them, and that old Mr. Nandy is happy living with them and his two grandchildren, singing all his songs over and over again. I can’t help but tear up when I think of my poor Maggy and how lost she must have felt at first, no matter how kind they are to her, without her Little Mother. Will you go and tell her, as a close secret, with my love, that she could never have regretted our separation more than I have? And will you let them all know that I think about them every day and that my heart stays true to them wherever I am? Oh, if you could see how true, you’d almost feel sorry for me being so far away and so important!
You will be glad, I am sure, to know that my dear father is very well in health, and that all these changes are highly beneficial to him, and that he is very different indeed from what he used to be when you used to see him. There is an improvement in my uncle too, I think, though he never complained of old, and never exults now. Fanny is very graceful, quick, and clever. It is natural to her to be a lady; she has adapted herself to our new fortunes with wonderful ease.
You’ll be pleased to hear that my dear father is in great health, and all these changes are really good for him. He’s very different from how he used to be when you saw him. I think there’s also been some improvement in my uncle, although he never complained before and doesn’t boast about it now. Fanny is very graceful, quick, and smart. It comes naturally to her to be a lady; she has adjusted to our new circumstances with remarkable ease.
This reminds me that I have not been able to do so, and that I sometimes almost despair of ever being able to do so. I find that I cannot learn. Mrs General is always with us, and we speak French and speak Italian, and she takes pains to form us in many ways. When I say we speak French and Italian, I mean they do. As for me, I am so slow that I scarcely get on at all. As soon as I begin to plan, and think, and try, all my planning, thinking, and trying go in old directions, and I begin to feel careful again about the expenses of the day, and about my dear father, and about my work, and then I remember with a start that there are no such cares left, and that in itself is so new and improbable that it sets me wandering again. I should not have the courage to mention this to any one but you.
This makes me realize that I haven’t been able to do it, and I sometimes almost lose hope of ever being able to. I find that I can’t learn. Mrs. General is always with us, and we speak French and Italian, and she works hard to help us in many ways. When I say we speak French and Italian, I mean they do. As for me, I’m so slow that I hardly make any progress at all. As soon as I start to plan, think, and try, all my planning, thinking, and trying go back to old habits, and I begin to worry again about the expenses of the day, about my dear father, and about my work. Then I suddenly remember that those worries aren’t there anymore, and that realization is so strange and unlikely that it sends me wandering again. I wouldn’t have the courage to mention this to anyone but you.
It is the same with all these new countries and wonderful sights. They are very beautiful, and they astonish me, but I am not collected enough—not familiar enough with myself, if you can quite understand what I mean—to have all the pleasure in them that I might have. What I knew before them, blends with them, too, so curiously. For instance, when we were among the mountains, I often felt (I hesitate to tell such an idle thing, dear Mr Clennam, even to you) as if the Marshalsea must be behind that great rock; or as if Mrs Clennam’s room where I have worked so many days, and where I first saw you, must be just beyond that snow. Do you remember one night when I came with Maggy to your lodging in Covent Garden? That room I have often and often fancied I have seen before me, travelling along for miles by the side of our carriage, when I have looked out of the carriage-window after dark. We were shut out that night, and sat at the iron gate, and walked about till morning. I often look up at the stars, even from the balcony of this room, and believe that I am in the street again, shut out with Maggy. It is the same with people that I left in England.
It’s the same with all these new countries and amazing sights. They’re really beautiful, and they amaze me, but I don’t feel centered enough—not self-aware enough, if you get what I mean—to enjoy them as much as I could. What I knew before mixes with these experiences in such a strange way. For example, when we were in the mountains, I often felt (I hesitate to share something so trivial, dear Mr. Clennam, even with you) as if the Marshalsea must be right behind that big rock; or as if Mrs. Clennam’s room, where I’ve spent so many days working and where I first saw you, must be just beyond that snow. Do you remember one night when I came with Maggy to your place in Covent Garden? That room often comes to mind as I imagine traveling along for miles beside our carriage, looking out the window after dark. We were locked out that night, sitting at the iron gate and walking around until morning. I still look up at the stars, even from the balcony of this room, and think I'm back in the street again, locked out with Maggy. It’s the same with the people I left in England.
When I go about here in a gondola, I surprise myself looking into other gondolas as if I hoped to see them. It would overcome me with joy to see them, but I don’t think it would surprise me much, at first. In my fanciful times, I fancy that they might be anywhere; and I almost expect to see their dear faces on the bridges or the quays.
When I ride around in a gondola, I catch myself peeking into other gondolas as if I actually expect to see them. It would fill me with joy to spot them, but I don’t think it would shock me much, at least not at first. During my daydreams, I imagine they could be anywhere; I almost expect to see their familiar faces on the bridges or by the docks.
Another difficulty that I have will seem very strange to you. It must seem very strange to any one but me, and does even to me: I often feel the old sad pity for—I need not write the word—for him. Changed as he is, and inexpressibly blest and thankful as I always am to know it, the old sorrowful feeling of compassion comes upon me sometimes with such strength that I want to put my arms round his neck, tell him how I love him, and cry a little on his breast. I should be glad after that, and proud and happy. But I know that I must not do this; that he would not like it, that Fanny would be angry, that Mrs General would be amazed; and so I quiet myself. Yet in doing so, I struggle with the feeling that I have come to be at a distance from him; and that even in the midst of all the servants and attendants, he is deserted, and in want of me.
Another difficulty I have might sound really strange to you. It must seem very odd to anyone but me, and even to me: I often feel that old sad pity for—I don’t need to write the word—for him. Even though he’s changed and I’m indescribably grateful and thankful to know it, that old sorrowful feeling of compassion sometimes hits me so hard that I want to wrap my arms around his neck, tell him how much I love him, and cry a little on his chest. I’d feel glad after that, proud, and happy. But I know I shouldn't do that; that he wouldn’t appreciate it, that Fanny would be upset, and that Mrs. General would be shocked; so I calm myself down. Still, in doing so, I wrestle with the feeling that I’ve become distant from him; and that even surrounded by all the servants and attendants, he feels abandoned and needs me.
Dear Mr Clennam, I have written a great deal about myself, but I must write a little more still, or what I wanted most of all to say in this weak letter would be left out of it. In all these foolish thoughts of mine, which I have been so hardy as to confess to you because I know you will understand me if anybody can, and will make more allowance for me than anybody else would if you cannot—in all these thoughts, there is one thought scarcely ever—never—out of my memory, and that is that I hope you sometimes, in a quiet moment, have a thought for me. I must tell you that as to this, I have felt, ever since I have been away, an anxiety which I am very anxious to relieve. I have been afraid that you may think of me in a new light, or a new character. Don’t do that, I could not bear that—it would make me more unhappy than you can suppose. It would break my heart to believe that you thought of me in any way that would make me stranger to you than I was when you were so good to me. What I have to pray and entreat of you is, that you will never think of me as the daughter of a rich person; that you will never think of me as dressing any better, or living any better, than when you first knew me. That you will remember me only as the little shabby girl you protected with so much tenderness, from whose threadbare dress you have kept away the rain, and whose wet feet you have dried at your fire. That you will think of me (when you think of me at all), and of my true affection and devoted gratitude, always without change, as of
Dear Mr. Clennam, I've shared a lot about myself, but I need to write a bit more, or I won’t share what I truly want to say in this weak letter. Among all my silly thoughts, which I've bravely confessed to you because I know you will understand if anyone can and will be more forgiving than anyone else would—there's one thought that hardly ever leaves my mind, and that is my hope that you sometimes think of me in quiet moments. I must tell you that since I’ve been away, I’ve felt an anxiety I really want to ease. I’ve been worried that you might see me in a new light, or with a new perspective. Please don’t do that; I couldn’t handle it—it would make me more unhappy than you can imagine. It would break my heart to believe that you thought of me in any way that would make me feel like a stranger to you, especially after the kindness you’ve shown me. What I need to ask of you is that you will never think of me as the daughter of a wealthy person; that you will never imagine me dressing or living any better than when you first met me. Please remember me only as the little shabby girl you cared for so kindly, who you protected from the rain with your warmth and dried her wet feet by your fire. When you think of me (if you think of me at all), I hope you remember my true affection and devoted gratitude, always unchanged, as of
Your poor child,
Your struggling child,
LITTLE
DORRIT.=
P.S.—Particularly remember that you are not to be uneasy about Mrs Gowan. Her words were, ‘Very well and very happy.’ And she looked most beautiful.
P.S.—Especially remember not to worry about Mrs. Gowan. She said, ‘Very well and very happy.’ And she looked absolutely stunning.
CHAPTER 5. Something Wrong Somewhere
The family had been a month or two at Venice, when Mr Dorrit, who was much among Counts and Marquises, and had but scant leisure, set an hour of one day apart, beforehand, for the purpose of holding some conference with Mrs General.
The family had been in Venice for about a month or two when Mr. Dorrit, who spent a lot of time with Counts and Marquises and had little free time, scheduled an hour one day in advance to have a meeting with Mrs. General.
The time he had reserved in his mind arriving, he sent Mr Tinkler, his valet, to Mrs General’s apartment (which would have absorbed about a third of the area of the Marshalsea), to present his compliments to that lady, and represent him as desiring the favour of an interview. It being that period of the forenoon when the various members of the family had coffee in their own chambers, some couple of hours before assembling at breakfast in a faded hall which had once been sumptuous, but was now the prey of watery vapours and a settled melancholy, Mrs General was accessible to the valet. That envoy found her on a little square of carpet, so extremely diminutive in reference to the size of her stone and marble floor that she looked as if she might have had it spread for the trying on of a ready-made pair of shoes; or as if she had come into possession of the enchanted piece of carpet, bought for forty purses by one of the three princes in the Arabian Nights, and had that moment been transported on it, at a wish, into a palatial saloon with which it had no connection.
At the time he had set in his mind for the meeting, he sent Mr. Tinkler, his valet, to Mrs. General’s apartment (which would have taken up about a third of the space of the Marshalsea), to convey his regards to her and express his wish for a meeting. Since it was that time of the morning when the family members enjoyed coffee in their own rooms, a couple of hours before gathering for breakfast in a faded hall that had once been luxurious but was now filled with misty air and a lingering sadness, Mrs. General was available to the valet. He found her on a small square of carpet, so tiny compared to the size of her stone and marble floor that it seemed like she had laid it down just to try on a pair of ready-made shoes; or as if she had come into possession of a magical carpet, purchased for a fortune by one of the three princes from the Arabian Nights, and had just been whisked away on it with a wish into a grand room that had no connection to it.
Mrs General, replying to the envoy, as she set down her empty coffee-cup, that she was willing at once to proceed to Mr Dorrit’s apartment, and spare him the trouble of coming to her (which, in his gallantry, he had proposed), the envoy threw open the door, and escorted Mrs General to the presence. It was quite a walk, by mysterious staircases and corridors, from Mrs General’s apartment,—hoodwinked by a narrow side street with a low gloomy bridge in it, and dungeon-like opposite tenements, their walls besmeared with a thousand downward stains and streaks, as if every crazy aperture in them had been weeping tears of rust into the Adriatic for centuries—to Mr Dorrit’s apartment: with a whole English house-front of window, a prospect of beautiful church-domes rising into the blue sky sheer out of the water which reflected them, and a hushed murmur of the Grand Canal laving the doorways below, where his gondolas and gondoliers attended his pleasure, drowsily swinging in a little forest of piles.
Mrs. General, as she set down her empty coffee cup, replied to the envoy that she was ready to go to Mr. Dorrit’s apartment right away and save him the trouble of coming to see her, which he had gallantly suggested. The envoy opened the door and escorted Mrs. General to the meeting. It was quite a walk through mysterious staircases and corridors from Mrs. General’s place—misled by a narrow side street with a low, gloomy bridge and dungeons-like buildings opposite, their walls stained with a thousand marks as if every crack in them had been crying rust into the Adriatic for centuries—to Mr. Dorrit’s apartment, which featured a full English house front of windows, a view of beautiful church domes rising into the blue sky out of the water that reflected them, and the soft murmur of the Grand Canal washing against the doorways below, where his gondolas and gondoliers waited for his pleasure, lazily swaying in a little forest of piles.
Mr Dorrit, in a resplendent dressing-gown and cap—the dormant grub that had so long bided its time among the Collegians had burst into a rare butterfly—rose to receive Mrs General. A chair to Mrs General. An easier chair, sir; what are you doing, what are you about, what do you mean? Now, leave us!
Mr. Dorrit, wearing a luxurious dressing gown and cap—the dormant grub that had waited so long among the Collegians had transformed into a rare butterfly—stood up to greet Mrs. General. "A chair for Mrs. General. A more comfortable chair, sir; what are you doing, what’s going on, what do you mean? Now, please leave us!"
‘Mrs General,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I took the liberty—’
‘Mrs. General,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘I took the liberty—’
‘By no means,’ Mrs General interposed. ‘I was quite at your disposition. I had had my coffee.’
‘Not at all,’ Mrs. General interjected. ‘I was completely at your disposal. I had my coffee already.’
‘—I took the liberty,’ said Mr Dorrit again, with the magnificent placidity of one who was above correction, ‘to solicit the favour of a little private conversation with you, because I feel rather worried respecting my—ha—my younger daughter. You will have observed a great difference of temperament, madam, between my two daughters?’
‘—I took the liberty,’ Mr. Dorrit said again, with the calm confidence of someone who isn't open to critique, ‘to ask if we could have a little private conversation because I'm feeling quite concerned about my—um—my younger daughter. You’ve probably noticed a significant difference in personality between my two daughters, madam?’
Said Mrs General in response, crossing her gloved hands (she was never without gloves, and they never creased and always fitted), ‘There is a great difference.’
Said Mrs. General in response, crossing her gloved hands (she was never without gloves, and they never wrinkled and always fit perfectly), “There’s a big difference.”
‘May I ask to be favoured with your view of it?’ said Mr Dorrit, with a deference not incompatible with majestic serenity.
“Could I get your opinion on it?” said Mr. Dorrit, with a respect that didn’t clash with his dignified calm.
‘Fanny,’ returned Mrs General, ‘has force of character and self-reliance. Amy, none.’
‘Fanny,’ replied Mrs. General, ‘has strength of character and independence. Amy has none.’
None? O Mrs General, ask the Marshalsea stones and bars. O Mrs General, ask the milliner who taught her to work, and the dancing-master who taught her sister to dance. O Mrs General, Mrs General, ask me, her father, what I owe her; and hear my testimony touching the life of this slighted little creature from her childhood up!
None? Oh Mrs. General, ask the stones and bars of the Marshalsea. Oh Mrs. General, ask the milliner who taught her to sew, and the dancing teacher who instructed her sister in dance. Oh Mrs. General, Mrs. General, ask me, her father, what I owe her; and listen to my account of the life of this overlooked little being from her childhood onwards!
No such adjuration entered Mr. Dorrit’s head. He looked at Mrs General, seated in her usual erect attitude on her coach-box behind the proprieties, and he said in a thoughtful manner, ‘True, madam.’
No such plea crossed Mr. Dorrit’s mind. He glanced at Mrs. General, sitting upright as usual on her coach-box behind the expectations, and said thoughtfully, “That’s true, ma’am.”
‘I would not,’ said Mrs General, ‘be understood to say, observe, that there is nothing to improve in Fanny. But there is material there—perhaps, indeed, a little too much.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Mrs. General, ‘want to imply that Fanny doesn’t have room for improvement. But there’s definitely something there—perhaps, in fact, a bit too much.’
‘Will you be kind enough, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘to be—ha—more explicit? I do not quite understand my elder daughter’s having—hum—too much material. What material?’
“Would you be so kind, ma’am,” Mr. Dorrit said, “as to be—uh—more clear? I don’t quite understand why my eldest daughter has—um—too much material. What material?”
‘Fanny,’ returned Mrs General, ‘at present forms too many opinions. Perfect breeding forms none, and is never demonstrative.’
‘Fanny,’ replied Mrs. General, ‘right now she has too many opinions. True elegance doesn’t have any opinions and is never showy.’
Lest he himself should be found deficient in perfect breeding, Mr Dorrit hastened to reply, ‘Unquestionably, madam, you are right.’ Mrs General returned, in her emotionless and expressionless manner, ‘I believe so.’
Lest he be seen as lacking in proper manners, Mr. Dorrit quickly responded, “Absolutely, ma’am, you’re correct.” Mrs. General replied in her flat and unexpressive tone, “I think so.”
‘But you are aware, my dear madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘that my daughters had the misfortune to lose their lamented mother when they were very young; and that, in consequence of my not having been until lately the recognised heir to my property, they have lived with me as a comparatively poor, though always proud, gentleman, in—ha hum—retirement!’
‘But you know, my dear madam,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘that my daughters lost their beloved mother when they were very young; and that, because I hadn’t been the recognized heir to my estate until recently, they’ve lived with me as a relatively poor, though always proud, gentleman, in—uh—retirement!’
‘I do not,’ said Mrs General, ‘lose sight of the circumstance.’
‘I don’t,’ said Mrs. General, ‘forget about that situation.’
‘Madam,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, ‘of my daughter Fanny, under her present guidance and with such an example constantly before her—’
‘Madam,’ Mr. Dorrit continued, ‘my daughter Fanny, with her current guidance and having such an example always in front of her—’
(Mrs General shut her eyes.)
(Mrs. General closed her eyes.)
—‘I have no misgivings. There is adaptability of character in Fanny. But my younger daughter, Mrs General, rather worries and vexes my thoughts. I must inform you that she has always been my favourite.’
—‘I have no doubts. Fanny is very adaptable. But my younger daughter, Mrs. General, tends to trouble and frustrate my mind. I should let you know that she's always been my favorite.’
‘There is no accounting,’ said Mrs General, ‘for these partialities.’
"There’s no explaining," Mrs. General said, "these preferences."
‘Ha—no,’ assented Mr Dorrit. ‘No. Now, madam, I am troubled by noticing that Amy is not, so to speak, one of ourselves. She does not care to go about with us; she is lost in the society we have here; our tastes are evidently not her tastes. Which,’ said Mr Dorrit, summing up with judicial gravity, ‘is to say, in other words, that there is something wrong in—ha—Amy.’
“Ha—no,” agreed Mr. Dorrit. “No. Now, ma'am, I'm concerned that Amy doesn’t quite fit in with us. She doesn’t seem interested in hanging out with us; she feels out of place in this society we have here; our interests are clearly not hers. Which,” said Mr. Dorrit, concluding with a serious tone, “means, in other words, that there’s something off about—ha—Amy.”
‘May we incline to the supposition,’ said Mrs General, with a little touch of varnish, ‘that something is referable to the novelty of the position?’
“Can we assume,” Mrs. General said, with a slight embellishment, “that there’s something related to the novelty of the situation?”
‘Excuse me, madam,’ observed Mr Dorrit, rather quickly. ‘The daughter of a gentleman, though—ha—himself at one time comparatively far from affluent—comparatively—and herself reared in—hum—retirement, need not of necessity find this position so very novel.’
‘Excuse me, ma'am,’ Mr. Dorrit said quickly. ‘The daughter of a gentleman, even though he was once not very well-off—relatively speaking—and she was raised in—uh—seclusion, doesn’t necessarily have to find this situation so very new.’
‘True,’ said Mrs General, ‘true.’
“True,” said Mrs. General, “true.”
‘Therefore, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I took the liberty’ (he laid an emphasis on the phrase and repeated it, as though he stipulated, with urbane firmness, that he must not be contradicted again), ‘I took the liberty of requesting this interview, in order that I might mention the topic to you, and inquire how you would advise me?’
‘So, ma'am,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘I took the liberty’ (he emphasized the phrase and repeated it, as if asserting, with polite firmness, that he shouldn’t be contradicted again), ‘I took the liberty of requesting this meeting to discuss the matter with you and ask how you would advise me?’
‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, ‘I have conversed with Amy several times since we have been residing here, on the general subject of the formation of a demeanour. She has expressed herself to me as wondering exceedingly at Venice. I have mentioned to her that it is better not to wonder. I have pointed out to her that the celebrated Mr Eustace, the classical tourist, did not think much of it; and that he compared the Rialto, greatly to its disadvantage, with Westminster and Blackfriars Bridges. I need not add, after what you have said, that I have not yet found my arguments successful. You do me the honour to ask me what to advise. It always appears to me (if this should prove to be a baseless assumption, I shall be pardoned), that Mr Dorrit has been accustomed to exercise influence over the minds of others.’
“Mr. Dorrit,” Mrs. General replied, “I’ve spoken with Amy several times since we’ve been staying here about how to behave properly. She’s expressed to me just how amazed she is by Venice. I’ve told her that it’s probably better not to be so surprised. I pointed out that the famous Mr. Eustace, the travel writer, didn’t think much of it; he compared the Rialto, unfairly, to Westminster and Blackfriars Bridges. I don’t need to say, after what you’ve mentioned, that I haven’t found my arguments convincing. You honor me by asking for my advice. It always seems to me (if this turns out to be an unfounded assumption, I hope you’ll forgive me) that Mr. Dorrit is used to having an influence on the thoughts of others.”
‘Hum—madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I have been at the head of—ha of a considerable community. You are right in supposing that I am not unaccustomed to—an influential position.’
‘Um—ma'am,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘I have been in charge of—uh—a considerable community. You’re right to think that I’m no stranger to—an influential position.’
‘I am happy,’ returned Mrs General, ‘to be so corroborated. I would therefore the more confidently recommend that Mr Dorrit should speak to Amy himself, and make his observations and wishes known to her. Being his favourite, besides, and no doubt attached to him, she is all the more likely to yield to his influence.’
"I’m glad," replied Mrs. General, "to have such support. I would therefore confidently suggest that Mr. Dorrit should talk to Amy directly and share his thoughts and wishes with her. Since she is his favorite and undoubtedly cares for him, she is much more likely to be influenced by him."
‘I had anticipated your suggestion, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘but—ha—was not sure that I might—hum—not encroach on—’
‘I had expected your suggestion, ma’am,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘but—uh—wasn’t sure that I could—erm—not overstep—’
‘On my province, Mr Dorrit?’ said Mrs General, graciously. ‘Do not mention it.’
‘In my area, Mr. Dorrit?’ said Mrs. General, graciously. ‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Then, with your leave, madam,’ resumed Mr Dorrit, ringing his little bell to summon his valet, ‘I will send for her at once.’
‘Then, if you don’t mind, ma’am,’ Mr. Dorrit said, ringing his little bell to call for his valet, ‘I’ll have her brought here right away.’
‘Does Mr Dorrit wish me to remain?’
‘Does Mr. Dorrit want me to stay?’
‘Perhaps, if you have no other engagement, you would not object for a minute or two—’
‘Maybe, if you don't have anything else to do, you wouldn't mind for a minute or two—’
‘Not at all.’
'Not at all.'
So, Tinkler the valet was instructed to find Miss Amy’s maid, and to request that subordinate to inform Miss Amy that Mr Dorrit wished to see her in his own room. In delivering this charge to Tinkler, Mr Dorrit looked severely at him, and also kept a jealous eye upon him until he went out at the door, mistrusting that he might have something in his mind prejudicial to the family dignity; that he might have even got wind of some Collegiate joke before he came into the service, and might be derisively reviving its remembrance at the present moment. If Tinkler had happened to smile, however faintly and innocently, nothing would have persuaded Mr Dorrit, to the hour of his death, but that this was the case. As Tinkler happened, however, very fortunately for himself, to be of a serious and composed countenance, he escaped the secret danger that threatened him. And as on his return—when Mr Dorrit eyed him again—he announced Miss Amy as if she had come to a funeral, he left a vague impression on Mr Dorrit’s mind that he was a well-conducted young fellow, who had been brought up in the study of his Catechism by a widowed mother.
Tinkler, the valet, was told to find Miss Amy’s maid and ask her to inform Miss Amy that Mr. Dorrit wanted to see her in his room. When giving this instruction to Tinkler, Mr. Dorrit glared at him and kept a watchful eye on him until he left through the door, suspicious that Tinkler might have some thoughts that could harm the family’s reputation; he worried that Tinkler might have heard some inside joke before joining the service and could be bringing it up now. If Tinkler had smiled, even slightly and innocently, nothing would have convinced Mr. Dorrit, until the day he died, that this wasn’t true. Fortunately for Tinkler, who maintained a serious and composed expression, he avoided the hidden trouble that had been looming over him. And when he returned—just as Mr. Dorrit was watching him again—he announced Miss Amy with the somberness of a funeral, leaving Mr. Dorrit with the vague impression that Tinkler was a well-mannered young man raised in a household where his widowed mother had taught him the Catechism.
‘Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘you have just now been the subject of some conversation between myself and Mrs General. We agree that you scarcely seem at home here. Ha—how is this?’
‘Amy,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘we were just talking about you, Mrs. General and I. We both feel that you don’t really seem to belong here. Why is that?’
A pause.
A break.
‘I think, father, I require a little time.’
‘I think, Dad, I need a little time.’
‘Papa is a preferable mode of address,’ observed Mrs General. ‘Father is rather vulgar, my dear. The word Papa, besides, gives a pretty form to the lips. Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism are all very good words for the lips: especially prunes and prism. You will find it serviceable, in the formation of a demeanour, if you sometimes say to yourself in company—on entering a room, for instance—Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism, prunes and prism.’
“‘Papa is a better way to address someone,’ Mrs. General pointed out. ‘Father sounds a bit crass, my dear. The word Papa, besides, shapes the lips nicely. Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism are all great words to say out loud—especially prunes and prism. You’ll find it helpful for your demeanor if you occasionally remind yourself in social situations—like when you walk into a room—to say: Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism, prunes and prism.’”
‘Pray, my child,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘attend to the—hum—precepts of Mrs General.’
‘Please, my child,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘pay attention to the—uh—guidance of Mrs. General.’
Poor Little Dorrit, with a rather forlorn glance at that eminent varnisher, promised to try.
Poor Little Dorrit, with a somewhat sad look at that famous varnisher, promised to give it a shot.
‘You say, Amy,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, ‘that you think you require time. Time for what?’
‘You say, Amy,’ Mr. Dorrit continued, ‘that you think you need time. Time for what?’
Another pause.
Another break.
‘To become accustomed to the novelty of my life, was all I meant,’ said Little Dorrit, with her loving eyes upon her father; whom she had very nearly addressed as poultry, if not prunes and prism too, in her desire to submit herself to Mrs General and please him.
‘All I meant was to get used to the newness of my life,’ said Little Dorrit, her loving eyes on her father; she almost called him poultry, if not prunes and prism too, in her wish to please him and submit to Mrs. General.
Mr Dorrit frowned, and looked anything but pleased. ‘Amy,’ he returned, ‘it appears to me, I must say, that you have had abundance of time for that. Ha—you surprise me. You disappoint me. Fanny has conquered any such little difficulties, and—hum—why not you?’
Mr. Dorrit frowned and looked anything but happy. “Amy,” he replied, “it seems to me, I have to say, that you’ve had plenty of time for that. Ha—you surprise me. You let me down. Fanny has overcome any of those small challenges, and—hmm—why can’t you?”
‘I hope I shall do better soon,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘I hope I’ll do better soon,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘I hope so,’ returned her father. ‘I—ha—I most devoutly hope so, Amy. I sent for you, in order that I might say—hum—impressively say, in the presence of Mrs General, to whom we are all so much indebted for obligingly being present among us, on—ha—on this or any other occasion,’ Mrs General shut her eyes, ‘that I—ha hum—am not pleased with you. You make Mrs General’s a thankless task. You—ha—embarrass me very much. You have always (as I have informed Mrs General) been my favourite child; I have always made you a—hum—a friend and companion; in return, I beg—I—ha—I do beg, that you accommodate yourself better to—hum—circumstances, and dutifully do what becomes your—your station.’
"I hope so," her father replied. "I—uh—I really hope so, Amy. I called you here to—um—make an impression, especially in front of Mrs. General, who we all owe a lot for agreeing to be here with us, on—um—this or any other occasion." Mrs. General shut her eyes. "I—uh—am not pleased with you. You make Mrs. General's job thankless. You—uh—embarrass me quite a bit. You’ve always been my favorite child (as I’ve told Mrs. General). I’ve always considered you a—um—a friend and companion; in return, I ask—I—uh—I really ask that you adapt better to—um—the situation, and dutifully do what’s expected of your—your position."
Mr Dorrit was even a little more fragmentary than usual, being excited on the subject and anxious to make himself particularly emphatic.
Mr. Dorrit was even a bit more scattered than usual, feeling excited about the topic and eager to make his point especially clear.
‘I do beg,’ he repeated, ‘that this may be attended to, and that you will seriously take pains and try to conduct yourself in a manner both becoming your position as—ha—Miss Amy Dorrit, and satisfactory to myself and Mrs General.’
"I really beg you," he repeated, "to pay attention to this, and that you will seriously make an effort to carry yourself in a way that's appropriate for your position as—uh—Miss Amy Dorrit, and that meets the expectations of both myself and Mrs. General."
That lady shut her eyes again, on being again referred to; then, slowly opening them and rising, added these words:
That lady closed her eyes again when she was mentioned again; then, slowly opening them and standing up, she added these words:
‘If Miss Amy Dorrit will direct her own attention to, and will accept of my poor assistance in, the formation of a surface, Mr. Dorrit will have no further cause of anxiety. May I take this opportunity of remarking, as an instance in point, that it is scarcely delicate to look at vagrants with the attention which I have seen bestowed upon them by a very dear young friend of mine? They should not be looked at. Nothing disagreeable should ever be looked at. Apart from such a habit standing in the way of that graceful equanimity of surface which is so expressive of good breeding, it hardly seems compatible with refinement of mind. A truly refined mind will seem to be ignorant of the existence of anything that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant.’ Having delivered this exalted sentiment, Mrs General made a sweeping obeisance, and retired with an expression of mouth indicative of Prunes and Prism.
“If Miss Amy Dorrit will focus on her own affairs and accept my humble help in creating a facade, Mr. Dorrit won’t have to worry anymore. Can I take this chance to point out, as an example, that it’s not very sensitive to stare at homeless people in the way I’ve seen my very dear young friend do? They shouldn’t be looked at. Nothing unpleasant should ever be looked at. Besides the fact that such a habit interferes with that graceful calmness of appearance that reflects good breeding, it hardly seems aligned with a refined mind. A truly refined mind will act as if it’s unaware of anything that isn’t perfectly proper, calm, and pleasant.” Having shared this lofty sentiment, Mrs. General performed a grand curtsy and left with an expression that suggested Prunes and Prism.
Little Dorrit, whether speaking or silent, had preserved her quiet earnestness and her loving look. It had not been clouded, except for a passing moment, until now. But now that she was left alone with him the fingers of her lightly folded hands were agitated, and there was repressed emotion in her face.
Little Dorrit, whether she was talking or quiet, maintained her calm seriousness and her affectionate gaze. It hadn't been disturbed, except for a brief moment, until now. But now that she was alone with him, the fingers of her gently clasped hands were restless, and there was a bottled-up emotion in her expression.
Not for herself. She might feel a little wounded, but her care was not for herself. Her thoughts still turned, as they always had turned, to him. A faint misgiving, which had hung about her since their accession to fortune, that even now she could never see him as he used to be before the prison days, had gradually begun to assume form in her mind. She felt that, in what he had just now said to her and in his whole bearing towards her, there was the well-known shadow of the Marshalsea wall. It took a new shape, but it was the old sad shadow. She began with sorrowful unwillingness to acknowledge to herself that she was not strong enough to keep off the fear that no space in the life of man could overcome that quarter of a century behind the prison bars. She had no blame to bestow upon him, therefore: nothing to reproach him with, no emotions in her faithful heart but great compassion and unbounded tenderness.
Not for herself. She might feel a bit hurt, but her thoughts weren’t centered on her own feelings. They were still focused, as they always had been, on him. A faint worry that had lingered since they came into money—that she might never see him as he was before his time in prison—began to take shape in her mind. She realized that in what he had just told her and in how he acted toward her, there was the familiar shadow of the Marshalsea wall. It had taken on a new form, but it was still that same old, sad shadow. With a heavy heart, she started to admit to herself that she didn’t have the strength to push away the fear that no amount of time could erase the twenty-five years he had spent behind bars. So, she didn't blame him; she had nothing to hold against him, only deep compassion and endless tenderness in her loyal heart.
This is why it was, that, even as he sat before her on his sofa, in the brilliant light of a bright Italian day, the wonderful city without and the splendours of an old palace within, she saw him at the moment in the long-familiar gloom of his Marshalsea lodging, and wished to take her seat beside him, and comfort him, and be again full of confidence with him, and of usefulness to him. If he divined what was in her thoughts, his own were not in tune with it. After some uneasy moving in his seat, he got up and walked about, looking very much dissatisfied.
This is why, even as he sat in front of her on his sofa, in the bright light of a sunny Italian day, with the stunning city outside and the grandeur of an old palace inside, she saw him at that moment in the long-familiar darkness of his Marshalsea lodging. She wished to sit beside him, comfort him, and feel confident and useful to him again. If he sensed what she was thinking, his own thoughts were in a different place. After fidgeting in his seat for a while, he got up and walked around, looking quite unhappy.
‘Is there anything else you wish to say to me, dear father?’
‘Is there anything else you want to say to me, dear father?’
‘No, no. Nothing else.’
'No, no. Nothing more.'
‘I am sorry you have not been pleased with me, dear. I hope you will not think of me with displeasure now. I am going to try, more than ever, to adapt myself as you wish to what surrounds me—for indeed I have tried all along, though I have failed, I know.’
‘I’m sorry you haven’t been happy with me, dear. I hope you won’t think of me negatively now. I’m going to try harder than ever to adjust to what you want around me—because I really have been trying all along, even though I know I’ve failed.’
‘Amy,’ he returned, turning short upon her. ‘You—ha—habitually hurt me.’
‘Amy,’ he replied, suddenly facing her. ‘You—uh—always hurt me.’
‘Hurt you, father! I!’
‘I’ll hurt you, dad!’
‘There is a—hum—a topic,’ said Mr Dorrit, looking all about the ceiling of the room, and never at the attentive, uncomplainingly shocked face, ‘a painful topic, a series of events which I wish—ha—altogether to obliterate. This is understood by your sister, who has already remonstrated with you in my presence; it is understood by your brother; it is understood by—ha hum—by every one of delicacy and sensitiveness except yourself—ha—I am sorry to say, except yourself. You, Amy—hum—you alone and only you—constantly revive the topic, though not in words.’
“There’s a—um—a subject,” Mr. Dorrit said, glancing around the ceiling of the room and never at the attentive, shocked face, “a painful subject, a series of events that I wish—uh—completely to erase. Your sister understands this; she has already spoken to you about it in my presence; your brother understands it; everyone with sensitivity and tact understands it—except you—uh—I regret to say, except you. You, Amy—um—you alone, and only you—constantly bring this subject up, though not in words.”
She laid her hand on his arm. She did nothing more. She gently touched him. The trembling hand may have said, with some expression, ‘Think of me, think how I have worked, think of my many cares!’ But she said not a syllable herself.
She placed her hand on his arm. She didn’t do anything else. She softly touched him. Her trembling hand might have communicated, with a certain emotion, ‘Remember me, remember how hard I’ve worked, remember my many worries!’ But she didn’t say a word herself.
There was a reproach in the touch so addressed to him that she had not foreseen, or she would have withheld her hand. He began to justify himself in a heated, stumbling, angry manner, which made nothing of it.
There was a hint of blame in the way she touched him that she hadn't anticipated; otherwise, she would have pulled her hand back. He started to defend himself in a heated, clumsy, and angry way, which only made things worse.
‘I was there all those years. I was—ha—universally acknowledged as the head of the place. I—hum—I caused you to be respected there, Amy. I—ha hum—I gave my family a position there. I deserve a return. I claim a return. I say, sweep it off the face of the earth and begin afresh. Is that much? I ask, is that much?’
‘I was there all those years. I was—ha—universally recognized as the head of the place. I—um—I made sure you were respected there, Amy. I—ha um—I established my family's reputation there. I deserve something in return. I demand a return. I say, wipe it all out and start over. Is that too much to ask? I’m asking, is that too much?’
He did not once look at her, as he rambled on in this way; but gesticulated at, and appealed to, the empty air.
He never looked at her as he went on talking like that; instead, he gestured and pleaded with the empty space around him.
‘I have suffered. Probably I know how much I have suffered better than any one—ha—I say than any one! If I can put that aside, if I can eradicate the marks of what I have endured, and can emerge before the world—a—ha—gentleman unspoiled, unspotted—is it a great deal to expect—I say again, is it a great deal to expect—that my children should—hum—do the same and sweep that accursed experience off the face of the earth?’
‘I’ve suffered. I probably understand my suffering better than anyone else—ha—I mean anyone! If I can put that aside, if I can erase the marks of what I’ve been through and step out into the world as a—ha—a gentleman who isn't damaged or tainted—am I asking too much, I ask again, am I asking too much for my children to—um—do the same and completely wipe that cursed experience off the map?’
In spite of his flustered state, he made all these exclamations in a carefully suppressed voice, lest the valet should overhear anything.
In spite of feeling flustered, he made all these exclamations in a carefully controlled voice, so the valet wouldn’t overhear anything.
‘Accordingly, they do it. Your sister does it. Your brother does it. You alone, my favourite child, whom I made the friend and companion of my life when you were a mere—hum—Baby, do not do it. You alone say you can’t do it. I provide you with valuable assistance to do it. I attach an accomplished and highly bred lady—ha—Mrs General, to you, for the purpose of doing it. Is it surprising that I should be displeased? Is it necessary that I should defend myself for expressing my displeasure? No!’
‘So, they do it. Your sister does it. Your brother does it. You, my favorite child, the one I chose to be my friend and companion when you were just a—um—baby, don’t do it. You’re the only one who says you can’t. I’m providing you with valuable help to do it. I’ve paired you with an accomplished and well-bred lady—ha—Mrs. General, to help you do it. Is it surprising that I’m upset? Do I need to justify my feelings of displeasure? No!’
Notwithstanding which, he continued to defend himself, without any abatement of his flushed mood.
Despite that, he kept defending himself, without any lessening of his angry mood.
‘I am careful to appeal to that lady for confirmation, before I express any displeasure at all. I—hum—I necessarily make that appeal within limited bounds, or I—ha—should render legible, by that lady, what I desire to be blotted out. Am I selfish? Do I complain for my own sake? No. No. Principally for—ha hum—your sake, Amy.’
‘I make sure to ask that lady for confirmation before I show any displeasure at all. I—um—I have to keep that request within certain limits, or I—ha—would reveal to that lady what I wish to keep hidden. Am I being selfish? Am I complaining just for my own reasons? No. No. Mostly for—ha um—your sake, Amy.’
This last consideration plainly appeared, from his manner of pursuing it, to have just that instant come into his head.
This last thought clearly seemed to have just popped into his mind, judging by the way he was chasing it.
‘I said I was hurt. So I am. So I—ha—am determined to be, whatever is advanced to the contrary. I am hurt that my daughter, seated in the—hum—lap of fortune, should mope and retire and proclaim herself unequal to her destiny. I am hurt that she should—ha—systematically reproduce what the rest of us blot out; and seem—hum—I had almost said positively anxious—to announce to wealthy and distinguished society that she was born and bred in—ha hum—a place that I myself decline to name. But there is no inconsistency—ha—not the least, in my feeling hurt, and yet complaining principally for your sake, Amy. I do; I say again, I do. It is for your sake that I wish you, under the auspices of Mrs General, to form a—hum—a surface. It is for your sake that I wish you to have a—ha—truly refined mind, and (in the striking words of Mrs General) to be ignorant of everything that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant.’
"I said I was hurt. So I am. So I—ha—am determined to be, no matter what anyone says. I'm hurt that my daughter, sitting in the—um—lap of luxury, should sulk and hide away, claiming she's not up to her destiny. I'm hurt that she continues to—ha—replay what the rest of us try to forget; and it seems—um—I almost said she’s actively anxious—to tell wealthy and distinguished society that she was born and raised in—ha um—a place I refuse to name. But there’s no contradiction—ha—not at all—in my feeling hurt while mostly complaining for your sake, Amy. I do; I say it again, I do. It’s for your sake that I want you, under Mrs. General’s guidance, to create a—um—public persona. It's for your sake that I want you to have a—ha—truly refined mind, and (in Mrs. General's memorable words) to be ignorant of anything that isn't perfectly proper, calm, and pleasant."
He had been running down by jerks, during his last speech, like a sort of ill-adjusted alarum. The touch was still upon his arm. He fell silent; and after looking about the ceiling again for a little while, looked down at her. Her head drooped, and he could not see her face; but her touch was tender and quiet, and in the expression of her dejected figure there was no blame—nothing but love. He began to whimper, just as he had done that night in the prison when she afterwards sat at his bedside till morning; exclaimed that he was a poor ruin and a poor wretch in the midst of his wealth; and clasped her in his arms. ‘Hush, hush, my own dear! Kiss me!’ was all she said to him. His tears were soon dried, much sooner than on the former occasion; and he was presently afterwards very high with his valet, as a way of righting himself for having shed any.
He had been stumbling through his last speech, like a broken alarm. Her touch was still on his arm. He fell quiet, looking at the ceiling for a moment before glancing down at her. Her head was lowered, so he couldn't see her face; but her touch felt gentle and calm, and her sad posture showed nothing but love—no blame whatsoever. He started to cry, just like he had that night in the prison when she had sat by his bedside until morning; he said he was just a poor wreck and a miserable person surrounded by wealth; and he pulled her into his arms. "Hush, hush, my dear! Kiss me!" was all she said to him. His tears dried quickly, much faster than before; and soon after, he was acting high and mighty with his valet, trying to make up for having shed any tears.
With one remarkable exception, to be recorded in its place, this was the only time, in his life of freedom and fortune, when he spoke to his daughter Amy of the old days.
With one notable exception, which will be mentioned later, this was the only time, in his life of freedom and success, when he talked to his daughter Amy about the past.
But, now, the breakfast hour arrived; and with it Miss Fanny from her apartment, and Mr Edward from his apartment. Both these young persons of distinction were something the worse for late hours. As to Miss Fanny, she had become the victim of an insatiate mania for what she called ‘going into society;’ and would have gone into it head-foremost fifty times between sunset and sunrise, if so many opportunities had been at her disposal. As to Mr Edward, he, too, had a large acquaintance, and was generally engaged (for the most part, in diceing circles, or others of a kindred nature), during the greater part of every night. For this gentleman, when his fortunes changed, had stood at the great advantage of being already prepared for the highest associates, and having little to learn: so much was he indebted to the happy accidents which had made him acquainted with horse-dealing and billiard-marking.
But now, breakfast time arrived, and with it, Miss Fanny from her apartment and Mr. Edward from his. Both of these distinguished young people looked a bit worse for wear from staying out late. As for Miss Fanny, she had fallen victim to an endless obsession with what she called ‘going into society,’ and she would have jumped at the chance to do it headfirst fifty times between sunset and sunrise if she had had that many opportunities. Mr. Edward also had a wide circle of friends and was usually busy (mostly in gambling circles or similar) for most of every night. When his fortunes changed, he was at a great advantage, already ready for the highest social circles and having little to learn; he owed this largely to the fortunate circumstances that had introduced him to horse trading and marking billiards.
At breakfast, Mr Frederick Dorrit likewise appeared. As the old gentleman inhabited the highest story of the palace, where he might have practised pistol-shooting without much chance of discovery by the other inmates, his younger niece had taken courage to propose the restoration to him of his clarionet, which Mr Dorrit had ordered to be confiscated, but which she had ventured to preserve. Notwithstanding some objections from Miss Fanny, that it was a low instrument, and that she detested the sound of it, the concession had been made. But it was then discovered that he had had enough of it, and never played it, now that it was no longer his means of getting bread. He had insensibly acquired a new habit of shuffling into the picture-galleries, always with his twisted paper of snuff in his hand (much to the indignation of Miss Fanny, who had proposed the purchase of a gold box for him that the family might not be discredited, which he had absolutely refused to carry when it was bought); and of passing hours and hours before the portraits of renowned Venetians. It was never made out what his dazed eyes saw in them; whether he had an interest in them merely as pictures, or whether he confusedly identified them with a glory that was departed, like the strength of his own mind. But he paid his court to them with great exactness, and clearly derived pleasure from the pursuit. After the first few days, Little Dorrit happened one morning to assist at these attentions. It so evidently heightened his gratification that she often accompanied him afterwards, and the greatest delight of which the old man had shown himself susceptible since his ruin, arose out of these excursions, when he would carry a chair about for her from picture to picture, and stand behind it, in spite of all her remonstrances, silently presenting her to the noble Venetians.
At breakfast, Mr. Frederick Dorrit also showed up. Since the old gentleman lived on the top floor of the palace, where he could practice shooting without too much risk of being seen by the other residents, his younger niece found the courage to suggest returning his clarinet, which Mr. Dorrit had ordered to be taken away but which she had managed to keep. Despite some objections from Miss Fanny that it was a crude instrument and that she hated the sound of it, the concession was made. But then it turned out that he had lost interest in it and never played it anymore since it was no longer how he made a living. He had naturally developed a new habit of wandering into the picture galleries, always with his crumpled packet of snuff in his hand (much to Miss Fanny's annoyance, as she had suggested buying him a gold box to avoid family embarrassment, which he had outright refused to use when it was purchased); and spending hours in front of the portraits of famous Venetians. It was never clear what his dazed eyes saw in them; whether he was interested in them just as artworks or if he confusedly associated them with a lost glory, much like the decline of his own mind. But he paid them considerable attention and clearly found joy in the experience. After a few days, Little Dorrit happened to join him on one of these visits. It was so apparent that it boosted his happiness that she often accompanied him afterward, and the greatest joy he had shown since his downfall came from these outings, where he would carry a chair for her from painting to painting and stand behind it, despite all her protests, silently introducing her to the noble Venetians.
It fell out that, at this family breakfast, he referred to their having seen in a gallery, on the previous day, the lady and gentleman whom they had encountered on the Great Saint Bernard, ‘I forget the name,’ said he. ‘I dare say you remember them, William? I dare say you do, Edward?’
It turned out that, during this family breakfast, he mentioned that they had seen in a gallery, the day before, the lady and gentleman they had met on the Great Saint Bernard. "I forget the name," he said. "I’m sure you remember them, William? I’m sure you do, Edward?"
‘I remember ‘em well enough,’ said the latter.
‘I remember them well enough,’ said the latter.
‘I should think so,’ observed Miss Fanny, with a toss of her head and a glance at her sister. ‘But they would not have been recalled to our remembrance, I suspect, if Uncle hadn’t tumbled over the subject.’
"I would think so," said Miss Fanny, tossing her head and looking at her sister. "But I doubt we would have remembered them if Uncle hadn't brought it up."
‘My dear, what a curious phrase,’ said Mrs General. ‘Would not inadvertently lighted upon, or accidentally referred to, be better?’
‘My dear, what a strange phrase,’ said Mrs. General. ‘Wouldn’t inadvertently stumbled upon, or accidentally mentioned, be better?’
‘Thank you very much, Mrs General,’ returned the young lady, ‘no, I think not. On the whole I prefer my own expression.’
‘Thank you so much, Mrs. General,’ the young lady replied, ‘but I think I’ll pass. Overall, I prefer my own expression.’
This was always Miss Fanny’s way of receiving a suggestion from Mrs General. But she always stored it up in her mind, and adopted it at another time.
This was always Miss Fanny’s way of getting a suggestion from Mrs. General. But she always kept it in mind and used it later.
‘I should have mentioned our having met Mr and Mrs Gowan, Fanny,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘even if Uncle had not. I have scarcely seen you since, you know. I meant to have spoken of it at breakfast; because I should like to pay a visit to Mrs Gowan, and to become better acquainted with her, if Papa and Mrs General do not object.’
‘I should have mentioned that we met Mr and Mrs Gowan, Fanny,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘even if Uncle hadn’t. I’ve barely seen you since, you know. I intended to bring it up at breakfast because I’d like to visit Mrs Gowan and get to know her better, if Papa and Mrs General don’t mind.’
‘Well, Amy,’ said Fanny, ‘I am sure I am glad to find you at last expressing a wish to become better acquainted with anybody in Venice. Though whether Mr and Mrs Gowan are desirable acquaintances, remains to be determined.’
‘Well, Amy,’ said Fanny, ‘I’m really glad to see you finally wanting to get to know someone in Venice. Although, whether Mr. and Mrs. Gowan are good people to know is still up for debate.’
‘Mrs Gowan I spoke of, dear.’
“Mrs. Gowan I mentioned, love.”
‘No doubt,’ said Fanny. ‘But you can’t separate her from her husband, I believe, without an Act of Parliament.’
‘No doubt,’ Fanny said. ‘But I don’t think you can separate her from her husband without an Act of Parliament.’
‘Do you think, Papa,’ inquired Little Dorrit, with diffidence and hesitation, ‘there is any objection to my making this visit?’
"Do you think, Dad," Little Dorrit asked, feeling a bit unsure and hesitant, "is there any reason I shouldn't make this visit?"
‘Really,’ he replied, ‘I—ha—what is Mrs General’s view?’
‘Really,’ he replied, ‘I—uh—what does Mrs. General think?’
Mrs General’s view was, that not having the honour of any acquaintance with the lady and gentleman referred to, she was not in a position to varnish the present article. She could only remark, as a general principle observed in the varnishing trade, that much depended on the quarter from which the lady under consideration was accredited to a family so conspicuously niched in the social temple as the family of Dorrit.
Mrs. General believed that since she didn't know the lady and gentleman in question, she couldn't really embellish the current article. She could only point out, as a general rule in the varnishing business, that a lot depended on where the lady was associated within a family as prominent in society as the Dorrit family.
At this remark the face of Mr Dorrit gloomed considerably. He was about (connecting the accrediting with an obtrusive person of the name of Clennam, whom he imperfectly remembered in some former state of existence) to black-ball the name of Gowan finally, when Edward Dorrit, Esquire, came into the conversation, with his glass in his eye, and the preliminary remark of ‘I say—you there! Go out, will you!’—which was addressed to a couple of men who were handing the dishes round, as a courteous intimation that their services could be temporarily dispensed with.
At this comment, Mr. Dorrit's expression darkened significantly. He was about to reject the name Gowan once and for all, while also thinking about an annoying person named Clennam, whom he vaguely remembered from some earlier time. Just then, Edward Dorrit, Esquire, joined the conversation with his drink in hand and said, "Hey—you there! Go outside, will you?" This was directed at a couple of guys passing around the dishes, politely signaling that their services were no longer needed for the moment.
Those menials having obeyed the mandate, Edward Dorrit, Esquire, proceeded.
Those servants having followed the order, Edward Dorrit, Esquire, continued on.
‘Perhaps it’s a matter of policy to let you all know that these Gowans—in whose favour, or at least the gentleman’s, I can’t be supposed to be much prepossessed myself—are known to people of importance, if that makes any difference.’
‘Maybe it's just a policy to let you all know that these Gowans—who I can't say I'm particularly fond of, especially the gentleman—are recognized by influential people, if that matters at all.’
‘That, I would say,’ observed the fair varnisher, ‘Makes the greatest difference. The connection in question, being really people of importance and consideration—’
‘That, I would say,’ remarked the attractive varnisher, ‘makes the biggest difference. The connection in question involves genuinely important and respected people—’
‘As to that,’ said Edward Dorrit, Esquire, ‘I’ll give you the means of judging for yourself. You are acquainted, perhaps, with the famous name of Merdle?’
‘Regarding that,’ said Edward Dorrit, Esquire, ‘I’ll give you the chance to judge for yourself. You might be familiar with the well-known name of Merdle?’
‘The great Merdle!’ exclaimed Mrs General.
‘The great Merdle!’ exclaimed Mrs. General.
‘The Merdle,’ said Edward Dorrit, Esquire. ‘They are known to him. Mrs Gowan—I mean the dowager, my polite friend’s mother—is intimate with Mrs Merdle, and I know these two to be on their visiting list.’
‘The Merdle,’ said Edward Dorrit, Esquire. ‘He knows them. Mrs. Gowan—I mean the dowager, my polite friend’s mother—is close with Mrs. Merdle, and I know these two are on each other’s guest list.’
‘If so, a more undeniable guarantee could not be given,’ said Mrs General to Mr Dorrit, raising her gloves and bowing her head, as if she were doing homage to some visible graven image.
‘If that's the case, a more undeniable guarantee couldn’t be given,’ said Mrs. General to Mr. Dorrit, raising her gloves and bowing her head, as if she were paying respect to some visible statue.
‘I beg to ask my son, from motives of—ah—curiosity,’ Mr Dorrit observed, with a decided change in his manner, ‘how he becomes possessed of this—hum—timely information?’
“I’d like to ask my son, out of—uh—curiosity,” Mr. Dorrit remarked, with a noticeable shift in his tone, “how he got this—um—timely information?”
‘It’s not a long story, sir,’ returned Edward Dorrit, Esquire, ‘and you shall have it out of hand. To begin with, Mrs Merdle is the lady you had the parley with at what’s-his-name place.’
‘It’s not a long story, sir,’ replied Edward Dorrit, Esquire, ‘and I’ll give it to you right away. To start, Mrs. Merdle is the woman you talked to at what’s-his-name’s place.’
‘Martigny,’ interposed Miss Fanny with an air of infinite languor.
‘Martigny,’ chimed in Miss Fanny with an air of complete weariness.
‘Martigny,’ assented her brother, with a slight nod and a slight wink; in acknowledgment of which, Miss Fanny looked surprised, and laughed and reddened.
‘Martigny,’ her brother agreed, giving a slight nod and a wink; in response, Miss Fanny looked surprised, laughed, and blushed.
‘How can that be, Edward?’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘You informed me that the name of the gentleman with whom you conferred was—ha—Sparkler. Indeed, you showed me his card. Hum. Sparkler.’
‘How can that be, Edward?’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘You told me that the name of the gentleman you spoke with was—uh—Sparkler. In fact, you showed me his card. Hmm. Sparkler.’
‘No doubt of it, father; but it doesn’t follow that his mother’s name must be the same. Mrs Merdle was married before, and he is her son. She is in Rome now; where probably we shall know more of her, as you decide to winter there. Sparkler is just come here. I passed last evening in company with Sparkler. Sparkler is a very good fellow on the whole, though rather a bore on one subject, in consequence of being tremendously smitten with a certain young lady.’ Here Edward Dorrit, Esquire, eyed Miss Fanny through his glass across the table. ‘We happened last night to compare notes about our travels, and I had the information I have given you from Sparkler himself.’ Here he ceased; continuing to eye Miss Fanny through his glass, with a face much twisted, and not ornamentally so, in part by the action of keeping his glass in his eye, and in part by the great subtlety of his smile.
‘No doubt about it, Father; but that doesn’t mean his mother’s name has to be the same. Mrs. Merdle was married before, and he is her son. She’s in Rome now, where we’ll probably learn more about her since you’ve decided to spend the winter there. Sparkler just arrived here. I spent last evening with Sparkler. He’s a really good guy overall, although he can be a bit boring on one topic because he’s totally infatuated with a certain young lady.’ Here, Edward Dorrit, Esquire, looked at Miss Fanny through his glass across the table. ‘Last night, we happened to share stories about our travels, and I got the information I just shared from Sparkler himself.’ He stopped there, continuing to gaze at Miss Fanny through his glass, with a face looking quite twisted—not in a decorative way—partly from holding his glass to his eye and partly from the subtlety of his smile.
‘Under these circumstances,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I believe I express the sentiments of—ha—Mrs General, no less than my own, when I say that there is no objection, but—ha hum—quite the contrary—to your gratifying your desire, Amy. I trust I may—ha—hail—this desire,’ said Mr Dorrit, in an encouraging and forgiving manner, ‘as an auspicious omen. It is quite right to know these people. It is a very proper thing. Mr Merdle’s is a name of—ha—world-wide repute. Mr Merdle’s undertakings are immense. They bring him in such vast sums of money that they are regarded as—hum—national benefits. Mr Merdle is the man of this time. The name of Merdle is the name of the age. Pray do everything on my behalf that is civil to Mr and Mrs Gowan, for we will—ha—we will certainly notice them.’
"Given the situation," Mr. Dorrit said, "I think I speak for—um—Mrs. General as well as myself when I say that there’s no objection—quite the opposite, really—to you pursuing your wish, Amy. I hope I can—um—consider this desire," Mr. Dorrit added in a supportive and forgiving tone, "as a good sign. It’s absolutely right to meet these people. It's very appropriate. Mr. Merdle is a name known around the world. His ventures are enormous. They bring in such huge amounts of money that they’re seen as—uh—benefits to the nation. Mr. Merdle is the man of our time. The name Merdle is truly of this age. Please do everything on my behalf that’s polite to Mr. and Mrs. Gowan, because we will—um—we will definitely acknowledge them."
This magnificent accordance of Mr Dorrit’s recognition settled the matter. It was not observed that Uncle had pushed away his plate, and forgotten his breakfast; but he was not much observed at any time, except by Little Dorrit. The servants were recalled, and the meal proceeded to its conclusion. Mrs General rose and left the table. Little Dorrit rose and left the table. When Edward and Fanny remained whispering together across it, and when Mr Dorrit remained eating figs and reading a French newspaper, Uncle suddenly fixed the attention of all three by rising out of his chair, striking his hand upon the table, and saying, ‘Brother! I protest against it!’
This incredible agreement of Mr. Dorrit’s recognition settled things. It went unnoticed that Uncle had pushed aside his plate and forgotten his breakfast; he wasn’t really noticed much anyway, except by Little Dorrit. The servants were called back, and the meal continued until the end. Mrs. General stood up and left the table. Little Dorrit stood up and left the table. When Edward and Fanny stayed behind, whispering to each other across it, and Mr. Dorrit continued eating figs and reading a French newspaper, Uncle suddenly captured the attention of all three by getting up from his chair, slamming his hand on the table, and saying, “Brother! I protest against it!”
If he had made a proclamation in an unknown tongue, and given up the ghost immediately afterwards, he could not have astounded his audience more. The paper fell from Mr Dorrit’s hand, and he sat petrified, with a fig half way to his mouth.
If he had spoken in a language no one understood and then dropped dead right after, he couldn't have shocked his audience more. The paper slipped from Mr. Dorrit’s hand, and he sat frozen, with a fig halfway to his mouth.
‘Brother!’ said the old man, conveying a surprising energy into his trembling voice, ‘I protest against it! I love you; you know I love you dearly. In these many years I have never been untrue to you in a single thought. Weak as I am, I would at any time have struck any man who spoke ill of you. But, brother, brother, brother, I protest against it!’
‘Brother!’ said the old man, infusing unexpected energy into his trembling voice, ‘I stand against it! I love you; you know I love you deeply. In all these years, I have never been untrue to you in a single thought. As weak as I am, I would have struck any man who spoke ill of you. But, brother, brother, brother, I stand against it!’
It was extraordinary to see of what a burst of earnestness such a decrepit man was capable. His eyes became bright, his grey hair rose on his head, markings of purpose on his brow and face which had faded from them for five-and-twenty years, started out again, and there was an energy in his hand that made its action nervous once more.
It was amazing to see how much genuine enthusiasm such an old man could show. His eyes lit up, his gray hair stood on end, signs of determination that had faded from his brow and face for twenty-five years came back, and there was a vigor in his hand that made it move with purpose once again.
‘My dear Frederick!’ exclaimed Mr Dorrit faintly. ‘What is wrong? What is the matter?’
‘My dear Frederick!’ Mr. Dorrit said weakly. ‘What's wrong? What’s the matter?’
‘How dare you,’ said the old man, turning round on Fanny, ‘how dare you do it? Have you no memory? Have you no heart?’
‘How dare you,’ said the old man, turning to Fanny, ‘how dare you do that? Don’t you remember anything? Don’t you have any feelings?’
‘Uncle?’ cried Fanny, affrighted and bursting into tears, ‘why do you attack me in this cruel manner? What have I done?’
‘Uncle?’ Fanny exclaimed, frightened and in tears. ‘Why are you treating me like this? What did I do?’
‘Done?’ returned the old man, pointing to her sister’s place, ‘where’s your affectionate invaluable friend? Where’s your devoted guardian? Where’s your more than mother? How dare you set up superiorities against all these characters combined in your sister? For shame, you false girl, for shame!’
‘Done?’ replied the old man, pointing to her sister’s spot, ‘where's your caring, invaluable friend? Where's your devoted protector? Where's your more than mother? How dare you think you’re better than all these roles combined in your sister? Shame on you, you false girl, shame on you!’
‘I love Amy,’ cried Miss Fanny, sobbing and weeping, ‘as well as I love my life—better than I love my life. I don’t deserve to be so treated. I am as grateful to Amy, and as fond of Amy, as it’s possible for any human being to be. I wish I was dead. I never was so wickedly wronged. And only because I am anxious for the family credit.’
‘I love Amy,’ cried Miss Fanny, sobbing and weeping, ‘just as much as I love my life—more than my life. I don’t deserve to be treated this way. I am as grateful to Amy and as fond of her as any person could possibly be. I wish I were dead. I’ve never been so unfairly wronged. And that’s just because I care about the family’s reputation.’
‘To the winds with the family credit!’ cried the old man, with great scorn and indignation. ‘Brother, I protest against pride. I protest against ingratitude. I protest against any one of us here who have known what we have known, and have seen what we have seen, setting up any pretension that puts Amy at a moment’s disadvantage, or to the cost of a moment’s pain. We may know that it’s a base pretension by its having that effect. It ought to bring a judgment on us. Brother, I protest against it in the sight of God!’
"Forget the family reputation!" the old man shouted, full of scorn and anger. "Brother, I stand against pride. I stand against ingratitude. I stand against anyone among us who knows what we know and has seen what we have seen, trying to put Amy at a disadvantage for even a moment or causing her any pain. We should recognize that this false pride is wrong because of the harm it causes. It should weigh on our conscience. Brother, I denounce it before God!"
As his hand went up above his head and came down on the table, it might have been a blacksmith’s. After a few moments’ silence, it had relaxed into its usual weak condition. He went round to his brother with his ordinary shuffling step, put the hand on his shoulder, and said, in a softened voice, ‘William, my dear, I felt obliged to say it; forgive me, for I felt obliged to say it!’ and then went, in his bowed way, out of the palace hall, just as he might have gone out of the Marshalsea room.
As his hand lifted above his head and dropped onto the table, it looked like a blacksmith’s hand. After a brief silence, it relaxed back into its usual weak state. He shuffled over to his brother, placed a hand on his shoulder, and said softly, “William, my dear, I had to say it; please forgive me, I felt I had to say it!” Then he left the palace hall, hunched over, just as he would have exited the Marshalsea room.
All this time Fanny had been sobbing and crying, and still continued to do so. Edward, beyond opening his mouth in amazement, had not opened his lips, and had done nothing but stare. Mr Dorrit also had been utterly discomfited, and quite unable to assert himself in any way. Fanny was now the first to speak.
All this time, Fanny had been sobbing and crying, and she was still at it. Edward, beyond being shocked into silence, hadn’t said a word and could only stare. Mr. Dorrit was completely thrown off and couldn’t assert himself at all. Fanny was the first to break the silence.
‘I never, never, never was so used!’ she sobbed. ‘There never was anything so harsh and unjustifiable, so disgracefully violent and cruel! Dear, kind, quiet little Amy, too, what would she feel if she could know that she had been innocently the means of exposing me to such treatment! But I’ll never tell her! No, good darling, I’ll never tell her!’
‘I have never, ever felt so mistreated!’ she cried. ‘There has never been anything so harsh and unjust, so shockingly violent and cruel! Sweet, kind, gentle little Amy, too, how would she feel if she knew she had unknowingly caused me to go through such treatment? But I’ll never tell her! No, my dear, I’ll never tell her!’
This helped Mr Dorrit to break his silence.
This helped Mr. Dorrit to speak up.
‘My dear,’ said he, ‘I—ha—approve of your resolution. It will be—ha hum—much better not to speak of this to Amy. It might—hum—it might distress her. Ha. No doubt it would distress her greatly. It is considerate and right to avoid doing so. We will—ha—keep this to ourselves.’
"My dear," he said, "I—um—support your decision. It will—um—be much better not to mention this to Amy. It might—uh—upset her. Ha. There's no doubt it would upset her a lot. It's thoughtful and right to keep it to ourselves. We should—um—keep this between us."
‘But the cruelty of Uncle!’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘O, I never can forgive the wanton cruelty of Uncle!’
‘But Uncle is so cruel!’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘Oh, I can never forgive Uncle's senseless cruelty!’
‘My dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, recovering his tone, though he remained unusually pale, ‘I must request you not to say so. You must remember that your uncle is—ha—not what he formerly was. You must remember that your uncle’s state requires—hum—great forbearance from us, great forbearance.’
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Dorrit, regaining his composure, though he still looked unusually pale, ‘I need to ask you not to say that. You have to remember that your uncle is—uh—not what he used to be. You need to remember that your uncle’s condition requires—uh—a lot of patience from us, a lot of patience.’
‘I am sure,’ cried Fanny, piteously, ‘it is only charitable to suppose that there must be something wrong in him somewhere, or he never could have so attacked Me, of all the people in the world.’
‘I’m sure,’ Fanny exclaimed sadly, ‘it’s only fair to assume that something must be wrong with him, or he could never have attacked me like this, of all people in the world.’
‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit in a deeply fraternal tone, ‘you know, with his innumerable good points, what a—hum—wreck your uncle is; and, I entreat you by the fondness that I have for him, and by the fidelity that you know I have always shown him, to—ha—to draw your own conclusions, and to spare my brotherly feelings.’
‘Fanny,’ Mr. Dorrit replied in a deeply brotherly tone, ‘you know, with all his great qualities, what a—um—disaster your uncle is; and, I beg you, considering how much I care for him and the loyalty I’ve always shown him, to—uh—to come to your own conclusions and to spare my brotherly feelings.’
This ended the scene; Edward Dorrit, Esquire, saying nothing throughout, but looking, to the last, perplexed and doubtful. Miss Fanny awakened much affectionate uneasiness in her sister’s mind that day by passing the greater part of it in violent fits of embracing her, and in alternately giving her brooches, and wishing herself dead.
This wrapped up the scene; Edward Dorrit, Esquire, said nothing the entire time, but he looked puzzled and uncertain until the end. That day, Miss Fanny stirred up a lot of affectionate concern in her sister by spending most of it in wild bouts of hugging her, switching between giving her brooches and wishing she were dead.
CHAPTER 6. Something Right Somewhere
To be in the halting state of Mr Henry Gowan; to have left one of two powers in disgust; to want the necessary qualifications for finding promotion with another, and to be loitering moodily about on neutral ground, cursing both; is to be in a situation unwholesome for the mind, which time is not likely to improve. The worst class of sum worked in the every-day world is cyphered by the diseased arithmeticians who are always in the rule of Subtraction as to the merits and successes of others, and never in Addition as to their own.
To be in the stuck position of Mr. Henry Gowan; to have walked away from one of two opportunities out of frustration; to desire the necessary skills to advance with the other, while aimlessly hanging around in a neutral zone, complaining about both; is to be in a state that's unhealthy for the mind, and time isn’t likely to make it better. The worst kind of math done in daily life is calculated by those bitter individuals who always subtract from the achievements and successes of others, but never add to their own.
The habit, too, of seeking some sort of recompense in the discontented boast of being disappointed, is a habit fraught with degeneracy. A certain idle carelessness and recklessness of consistency soon comes of it. To bring deserving things down by setting undeserving things up is one of its perverted delights; and there is no playing fast and loose with the truth, in any game, without growing the worse for it.
The tendency to look for some kind of reward in the dissatisfied claim of being let down is a behavior that leads to decline. It quickly brings about a certain lazy indifference and a disregard for consistency. Taking worthy things down by elevating unworthy things is one of its twisted pleasures; and there's no way to fool around with the truth in any situation without suffering the consequences.
In his expressed opinions of all performances in the Art of painting that were completely destitute of merit, Gowan was the most liberal fellow on earth. He would declare such a man to have more power in his little finger (provided he had none), than such another had (provided he had much) in his whole mind and body. If the objection were taken that the thing commended was trash, he would reply, on behalf of his art, ‘My good fellow, what do we all turn out but trash? I turn out nothing else, and I make you a present of the confession.’
In his opinions about all the performances in the Art of painting that had no merit at all, Gowan was the most generous guy on the planet. He would claim that someone with no talent had more ability in their little finger (if they had one) than someone else with a lot of skill had in their entire mind and body. If someone argued that the praised work was garbage, he would respond, defending his art, "My good friend, what do we all produce but garbage? I produce nothing else, and I'm giving you my honest admission."
To make a vaunt of being poor was another of the incidents of his splenetic state, though this may have had the design in it of showing that he ought to be rich; just as he would publicly laud and decry the Barnacles, lest it should be forgotten that he belonged to the family. Howbeit, these two subjects were very often on his lips; and he managed them so well that he might have praised himself by the month together, and not have made himself out half so important a man as he did by his light disparagement of his claims on anybody’s consideration.
Boasting about being poor was another sign of his sour mood, though it might have been his way of indicating that he should be wealthy; just like how he would publicly praise and criticize the Barnacles, to remind everyone that he was part of that family. Still, these two topics often came up in conversation, and he handled them so well that he could have complimented himself for a whole month without appearing as significant as he did by lightly downplaying his expectations of anyone's respect.
Out of this same airy talk of his, it always soon came to be understood, wherever he and his wife went, that he had married against the wishes of his exalted relations, and had had much ado to prevail on them to countenance her. He never made the representation, on the contrary seemed to laugh the idea to scorn; but it did happen that, with all his pains to depreciate himself, he was always in the superior position. From the days of their honeymoon, Minnie Gowan felt sensible of being usually regarded as the wife of a man who had made a descent in marrying her, but whose chivalrous love for her had cancelled that inequality.
Through their light-hearted conversations, it quickly became clear wherever he and his wife went that he had married against the wishes of his prominent family, and he had struggled to get them to accept her. He never mentioned this explicitly; in fact, he seemed to mock the idea. However, despite his efforts to downplay himself, he was always seen as the one in a more favorable position. Since their honeymoon, Minnie Gowan sensed that she was often viewed as the wife of a man who had lowered his status by marrying her, but his noble love for her had erased that disparity.
To Venice they had been accompanied by Monsieur Blandois of Paris, and at Venice Monsieur Blandois of Paris was very much in the society of Gowan. When they had first met this gallant gentleman at Geneva, Gowan had been undecided whether to kick him or encourage him; and had remained for about four-and-twenty hours, so troubled to settle the point to his satisfaction, that he had thought of tossing up a five-franc piece on the terms, ‘Tails, kick; heads, encourage,’ and abiding by the voice of the oracle. It chanced, however, that his wife expressed a dislike to the engaging Blandois, and that the balance of feeling in the hotel was against him. Upon it, Gowan resolved to encourage him.
They had been joined in Venice by Monsieur Blandois from Paris, and in Venice, Monsieur Blandois spent a lot of time with Gowan. When they first met this charming man in Geneva, Gowan was torn between kicking him or encouraging him; he spent about a day trying to figure out what to do, so much so that he considered flipping a five-franc coin with the terms, ‘Tails, kick; heads, encourage,’ and going with what the coin said. However, his wife expressed her dislike for the charming Blandois, and most people at the hotel felt the same way. So, Gowan decided to encourage him.
Why this perversity, if it were not in a generous fit?—which it was not. Why should Gowan, very much the superior of Blandois of Paris, and very well able to pull that prepossessing gentleman to pieces and find out the stuff he was made of, take up with such a man? In the first place, he opposed the first separate wish he observed in his wife, because her father had paid his debts and it was desirable to take an early opportunity of asserting his independence. In the second place, he opposed the prevalent feeling, because with many capacities of being otherwise, he was an ill-conditioned man. He found a pleasure in declaring that a courtier with the refined manners of Blandois ought to rise to the greatest distinction in any polished country. He found a pleasure in setting up Blandois as the type of elegance, and making him a satire upon others who piqued themselves on personal graces. He seriously protested that the bow of Blandois was perfect, that the address of Blandois was irresistible, and that the picturesque ease of Blandois would be cheaply purchased (if it were not a gift, and unpurchasable) for a hundred thousand francs. That exaggeration in the manner of the man which has been noticed as appertaining to him and to every such man, whatever his original breeding, as certainly as the sun belongs to this system, was acceptable to Gowan as a caricature, which he found it a humorous resource to have at hand for the ridiculing of numbers of people who necessarily did more or less of what Blandois overdid. Thus he had taken up with him; and thus, negligently strengthening these inclinations with habit, and idly deriving some amusement from his talk, he had glided into a way of having him for a companion. This, though he supposed him to live by his wits at play-tables and the like; though he suspected him to be a coward, while he himself was daring and courageous; though he thoroughly knew him to be disliked by Minnie; and though he cared so little for him, after all, that if he had given her any tangible personal cause to regard him with aversion, he would have had no compunction whatever in flinging him out of the highest window in Venice into the deepest water of the city.
Why this odd behavior, if it wasn't out of a generous impulse?—which it wasn't. Why would Gowan, who was clearly superior to Blandois from Paris and fully capable of exposing the true nature of that charming guy, associate with such a man? First, he went against the first wish he noticed in his wife because her father had cleared his debts and it was important to seize the chance to assert his independence. Second, he opposed the general sentiment, as he was an unpleasant man despite having many other capacities. He took pleasure in stating that a courtier with the refined manners of Blandois should achieve the highest honors in any cultured country. He enjoyed promoting Blandois as the epitome of elegance and using him to mock others who prided themselves on their personal charms. He insisted that Blandois’s bow was perfect, that his manner was irresistible, and that the effortless charm of Blandois would be a bargain (if it weren't a gift and unpurchasable) for a hundred thousand francs. That over-the-top mannerism, which is often observed in him and in every such man, just as surely as the sun belongs to this solar system, amused Gowan as a caricature. He found it entertaining to have this at hand for mocking numerous people who inevitably did at least some of what Blandois exaggerated. So, he ended up associating with him; and, mindlessly reinforcing these tendencies with habit, and taking some idle amusement from his conversation, he smoothly slipped into the routine of having him as a companion. This was despite the fact that he believed Blandois made his living by using his wits at gambling tables and similar places; though he suspected him to be a coward, while he himself was bold and brave; although he knew that Minnie thoroughly disliked him; and though he cared so little for him that if Blandois had given her any real personal reason to hate him, he wouldn’t have hesitated to throw him out of the highest window in Venice into the city’s deepest waters.
Little Dorrit would have been glad to make her visit to Mrs Gowan, alone; but as Fanny, who had not yet recovered from her Uncle’s protest, though it was four-and-twenty hours of age, pressingly offered her company, the two sisters stepped together into one of the gondolas under Mr Dorrit’s window, and, with the courier in attendance, were taken in high state to Mrs Gowan’s lodging. In truth, their state was rather too high for the lodging, which was, as Fanny complained, ‘fearfully out of the way,’ and which took them through a complexity of narrow streets of water, which the same lady disparaged as ‘mere ditches.’
Little Dorrit would have been happy to visit Mrs. Gowan by herself; but since Fanny, who hadn’t fully gotten over her Uncle’s outburst—even though it had been twenty-four hours—insisted on coming along, the two sisters boarded one of the gondolas under Mr. Dorrit’s window, and, with the courier accompanying them, were taken in a grand manner to Mrs. Gowan’s place. Honestly, their style was a bit too extravagant for the lodging, which Fanny complained was “really out of the way,” requiring them to navigate a maze of narrow canals that she dismissed as "just ditches."
The house, on a little desert island, looked as if it had broken away from somewhere else, and had floated by chance into its present anchorage in company with a vine almost as much in want of training as the poor wretches who were lying under its leaves. The features of the surrounding picture were, a church with hoarding and scaffolding about it, which had been under suppositious repair so long that the means of repair looked a hundred years old, and had themselves fallen into decay; a quantity of washed linen, spread to dry in the sun; a number of houses at odds with one another and grotesquely out of the perpendicular, like rotten pre-Adamite cheeses cut into fantastic shapes and full of mites; and a feverish bewilderment of windows, with their lattice-blinds all hanging askew, and something draggled and dirty dangling out of most of them.
The house, on a small desert island, seemed like it had broken off from somewhere else and randomly floated into its current spot, alongside a vine that needed just as much support as the unfortunate people lying beneath its leaves. The scene around it included a church surrounded by construction barriers and scaffolding, which had been undergoing supposed repairs for so long that the materials looked a hundred years old and were starting to decay themselves; a collection of washed laundry spread out to dry in the sun; several houses that were mismatched and humorously tilted, resembling rotten pre-Adamite cheeses cut into strange shapes and filled with bugs; and a chaotic mess of windows, with their shutters all askew and something draped and dirty hanging out of most of them.
On the first-floor of the house was a Bank—a surprising experience for any gentleman of commercial pursuits bringing laws for all mankind from a British city—where two spare clerks, like dried dragoons, in green velvet caps adorned with golden tassels, stood, bearded, behind a small counter in a small room, containing no other visible objects than an empty iron-safe with the door open, a jug of water, and a papering of garland of roses; but who, on lawful requisition, by merely dipping their hands out of sight, could produce exhaustless mounds of five-franc pieces. Below the Bank was a suite of three or four rooms with barred windows, which had the appearance of a jail for criminal rats. Above the Bank was Mrs Gowan’s residence.
On the first floor of the house was a bank—a surprising sight for any businessman bringing laws for everyone from a British city—where two thin clerks, dressed like dried soldiers in green velvet caps with golden tassels, stood, bearded, behind a small counter in a tiny room. The only other visible items were an empty iron safe with the door open, a jug of water, and a paper garland of roses; yet, on proper request, they could produce endless piles of five-franc coins simply by dipping their hands out of sight. Below the bank was a suite of three or four rooms with barred windows, resembling a jail for criminal rats. Above the bank was Mrs. Gowan’s residence.
Notwithstanding that its walls were blotched, as if missionary maps were bursting out of them to impart geographical knowledge; notwithstanding that its weird furniture was forlornly faded and musty, and that the prevailing Venetian odour of bilge water and an ebb tide on a weedy shore was very strong; the place was better within, than it promised. The door was opened by a smiling man like a reformed assassin—a temporary servant—who ushered them into the room where Mrs Gowan sat, with the announcement that two beautiful English ladies were come to see the mistress.
Even though its walls were stained, as if maps were bursting out of them to share geographical knowledge; even though its strange furniture was faded and musty, and the strong smell of bilge water and a low tide on a weedy shore filled the air; the place was actually better inside than it seemed. The door was opened by a smiling man who resembled a reformed assassin—a temporary servant—who welcomed them into the room where Mrs. Gowan was sitting, announcing that two beautiful English ladies had come to see the mistress.
Mrs Gowan, who was engaged in needlework, put her work aside in a covered basket, and rose, a little hurriedly. Miss Fanny was excessively courteous to her, and said the usual nothings with the skill of a veteran.
Mrs. Gowan, who was busy with her sewing, set her work aside in a covered basket and got up a bit quickly. Miss Fanny was extremely polite to her and exchanged the usual small talk with the expertise of a pro.
‘Papa was extremely sorry,’ proceeded Fanny, ‘to be engaged to-day (he is so much engaged here, our acquaintance being so wretchedly large!); and particularly requested me to bring his card for Mr Gowan. That I may be sure to acquit myself of a commission which he impressed upon me at least a dozen times, allow me to relieve my conscience by placing it on the table at once.’
‘Dad is really sorry,’ Fanny continued, ‘to be busy today (he’s so swamped here, our social circle is just overwhelming!); and he specifically asked me to bring his card for Mr. Gowan. To make sure I fulfill this request which he reminded me of at least a dozen times, let me clear my conscience by putting it on the table right now.’
Which she did with veteran ease.
Which she did with practiced ease.
‘We have been,’ said Fanny, ‘charmed to understand that you know the Merdles. We hope it may be another means of bringing us together.’
"We've been," said Fanny, "delighted to find out that you know the Merdles. We hope it might be another way to bring us together."
‘They are friends,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘of Mr Gowan’s family. I have not yet had the pleasure of a personal introduction to Mrs Merdle, but I suppose I shall be presented to her at Rome.’
‘They are friends,’ said Mrs. Gowan, ‘of Mr. Gowan’s family. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Merdle in person yet, but I suppose I’ll be introduced to her in Rome.’
‘Indeed?’ returned Fanny, with an appearance of amiably quenching her own superiority. ‘I think you’ll like her.’
‘Really?’ replied Fanny, pretending to downplay her own superiority. ‘I think you’ll like her.’
‘You know her very well?’
'Do you know her well?'
‘Why, you see,’ said Fanny, with a frank action of her pretty shoulders, ‘in London one knows every one. We met her on our way here, and, to say the truth, papa was at first rather cross with her for taking one of the rooms that our people had ordered for us. However, of course, that soon blew over, and we were all good friends again.’
“Why, you see,” Fanny said, with a straightforward shrug of her pretty shoulders, “in London, you know everyone. We ran into her on our way here, and honestly, Dad was a bit annoyed at first because she took one of the rooms our people had reserved for us. But of course, that quickly passed, and we were all friends again.”
Although the visit had as yet given Little Dorrit no opportunity of conversing with Mrs Gowan, there was a silent understanding between them, which did as well. She looked at Mrs Gowan with keen and unabated interest; the sound of her voice was thrilling to her; nothing that was near her, or about her, or at all concerned her, escaped Little Dorrit. She was quicker to perceive the slightest matter here, than in any other case—but one.
Although the visit hadn’t given Little Dorrit a chance to talk to Mrs. Gowan yet, there was a quiet understanding between them that worked just as well. Little Dorrit watched Mrs. Gowan with intense and unwavering interest; the sound of her voice excited her; nothing nearby, about her, or related to her went unnoticed by Little Dorrit. She was quicker to pick up on the smallest detail here than in any other situation—but one.
‘You have been quite well,’ she now said, ‘since that night?’
‘You’ve been doing pretty well,’ she said now, ‘since that night?’
‘Quite, my dear. And you?’
"Exactly, my dear. You?"
‘Oh! I am always well,’ said Little Dorrit, timidly. ‘I—yes, thank you.’
‘Oh! I'm always good,’ said Little Dorrit, shyly. ‘I—yes, thank you.’
There was no reason for her faltering and breaking off, other than that Mrs Gowan had touched her hand in speaking to her, and their looks had met. Something thoughtfully apprehensive in the large, soft eyes, had checked Little Dorrit in an instant.
There was no reason for her hesitation and stopping, other than that Mrs. Gowan had touched her hand while speaking to her, and they had locked eyes. Something thoughtfully concerned in the large, soft eyes had stopped Little Dorrit in an instant.
‘You don’t know that you are a favourite of my husband’s, and that I am almost bound to be jealous of you?’ said Mrs Gowan.
‘You don’t realize that you’re one of my husband’s favorites, and that I can’t help but feel a bit jealous of you?’ said Mrs. Gowan.
Little Dorrit, blushing, shook her head.
Little Dorrit, blushing, shook her head.
‘He will tell you, if he tells you what he tells me, that you are quieter and quicker of resource than any one he ever saw.’
"He will tell you, if he tells you what he tells me, that you are more reserved and quicker on your feet than anyone he has ever seen."
‘He speaks far too well of me,’ said Little Dorrit.
"He talks about me way too positively," said Little Dorrit.
‘I doubt that; but I don’t at all doubt that I must tell him you are here. I should never be forgiven, if I were to let you—and Miss Dorrit—go, without doing so. May I? You can excuse the disorder and discomfort of a painter’s studio?’
‘I doubt that; but I definitely have to tell him you’re here. I’d never be forgiven if I let you—and Miss Dorrit—leave without doing so. Can I? You don’t mind the mess and chaos of a painter’s studio, do you?’
The inquiries were addressed to Miss Fanny, who graciously replied that she would be beyond anything interested and enchanted. Mrs Gowan went to a door, looked in beyond it, and came back. ‘Do Henry the favour to come in,’ said she, ‘I knew he would be pleased!’
The questions were directed at Miss Fanny, who kindly responded that she would be more than interested and delighted. Mrs. Gowan went to a door, peeked inside, and returned. “Do Henry the favor of coming in,” she said, “I knew he would be happy!”
The first object that confronted Little Dorrit, entering first, was Blandois of Paris in a great cloak and a furtive slouched hat, standing on a throne platform in a corner, as he had stood on the Great Saint Bernard, when the warning arms seemed to be all pointing up at him. She recoiled from this figure, as it smiled at her.
The first person Little Dorrit saw when she entered was Blandois from Paris, wearing a large cloak and a shady, slouched hat. He was standing on a raised platform in a corner, just like he had stood on the Great Saint Bernard, when the warning arms all seemed to be pointing at him. She flinched at the sight of him as he smiled at her.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Gowan, coming from his easel behind the door. ‘It’s only Blandois. He is doing duty as a model to-day. I am making a study of him. It saves me money to turn him to some use. We poor painters have none to spare.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gowan, stepping away from his easel behind the door. ‘It’s just Blandois. He’s serving as a model today. I’m working on a study of him. It saves me money to put him to some use. Us poor painters don’t have any to waste.’
Blandois of Paris pulled off his slouched hat, and saluted the ladies without coming out of his corner.
Blandois of Paris took off his slouched hat and greeted the ladies without stepping out of his corner.
‘A thousand pardons!’ said he. ‘But the Professore here is so inexorable with me, that I am afraid to stir.’
"A thousand apologies!" he said. "But the Professor here is so relentless with me that I'm afraid to move."
‘Don’t stir, then,’ said Gowan coolly, as the sisters approached the easel. ‘Let the ladies at least see the original of the daub, that they may know what it’s meant for. There he stands, you see. A bravo waiting for his prey, a distinguished noble waiting to save his country, the common enemy waiting to do somebody a bad turn, an angelic messenger waiting to do somebody a good turn—whatever you think he looks most like!’
“Don't move, then,” Gowan said calmly as the sisters walked over to the easel. “Let the ladies at least see the original of the painting so they can understand what it’s supposed to represent. There he is, you see. A tough guy waiting for his target, a nobleman ready to save his country, a common enemy about to cause trouble for someone, an angelic messenger prepared to help someone—whatever you think he looks most like!”
‘Say, Professore Mio, a poor gentleman waiting to do homage to elegance and beauty,’ remarked Blandois.
‘Say, my Professor, a poor guy waiting to pay his respects to elegance and beauty,’ Blandois remarked.
‘Or say, Cattivo Soggetto Mio,’ returned Gowan, touching the painted face with his brush in the part where the real face had moved, ‘a murderer after the fact. Show that white hand of yours, Blandois. Put it outside the cloak. Keep it still.’
‘Or say, Bad Subject of Mine,’ Gowan replied, brushing the painted face where the real face had shifted, ‘a murderer after the fact. Show that white hand of yours, Blandois. Put it out from under the cloak. Keep it still.’
Blandois’ hand was unsteady; but he laughed, and that would naturally shake it.
Blandois' hand trembled a bit; but he laughed, and that would naturally cause it to shake.
‘He was formerly in some scuffle with another murderer, or with a victim, you observe,’ said Gowan, putting in the markings of the hand with a quick, impatient, unskilful touch, ‘and these are the tokens of it. Outside the cloak, man!—Corpo di San Marco, what are you thinking of?’
‘He was previously involved in a fight with another killer, or maybe a victim, you see,’ said Gowan, quickly and clumsily marking the hand, ‘and these are the signs of it. Outside the cloak, man!—What are you thinking?’
Blandois of Paris shook with a laugh again, so that his hand shook more; now he raised it to twist his moustache, which had a damp appearance; and now he stood in the required position, with a little new swagger.
Blandois of Paris laughed again, making his hand tremble even more; now he raised it to twirl his mustache, which looked a bit wet; and now he stood there, striking the right pose with a newfound swagger.
His face was so directed in reference to the spot where Little Dorrit stood by the easel, that throughout he looked at her. Once attracted by his peculiar eyes, she could not remove her own, and they had looked at each other all the time. She trembled now; Gowan, feeling it, and supposing her to be alarmed by the large dog beside him, whose head she caressed in her hand, and who had just uttered a low growl, glanced at her to say, ‘He won’t hurt you, Miss Dorrit.’
His face was directed towards the spot where Little Dorrit stood by the easel, so he ended up looking at her the whole time. Once her attention was captured by his unusual eyes, she couldn’t look away, and they kept staring at each other. She felt a tremble now; Gowan noticed it and assumed she was scared of the big dog next to him, whose head she was petting and who had just let out a low growl. He glanced at her to reassure, “He won’t hurt you, Miss Dorrit.”
‘I am not afraid of him,’ she returned in the same breath; ‘but will you look at him?’
‘I’m not scared of him,’ she replied immediately; ‘but will you just look at him?’
In a moment Gowan had thrown down his brush, and seized the dog with both hands by the collar.
In an instant, Gowan dropped his brush and grabbed the dog by the collar with both hands.
Original
‘Blandois! How can you be such a fool as to provoke him! By Heaven, and the other place too, he’ll tear you to bits! Lie down! Lion! Do you hear my voice, you rebel!’
‘Blandois! How can you be such an idiot to provoke him! By God, and that other place too, he’ll rip you apart! Get down! Lion! Do you hear my voice, you troublemaker!’
The great dog, regardless of being half-choked by his collar, was obdurately pulling with his dead weight against his master, resolved to get across the room. He had been crouching for a spring at the moment when his master caught him.
The big dog, despite being half-choked by his collar, was stubbornly pulling with all his weight against his owner, determined to get across the room. He had been crouched and ready to jump just as his owner caught him.
‘Lion! Lion!’ He was up on his hind legs, and it was a wrestle between master and dog. ‘Get back! Down, Lion! Get out of his sight, Blandois! What devil have you conjured into the dog?’
‘Lion! Lion!’ He stood up on his hind legs, and it turned into a struggle between the owner and the dog. ‘Get back! Down, Lion! Get out of his sight, Blandois! What kind of devil have you summoned into the dog?’
‘I have done nothing to him.’
‘I haven't done anything to him.’
‘Get out of his sight or I can’t hold the wild beast! Get out of the room! By my soul, he’ll kill you!’
‘Leave his sight or I can’t control the wild beast! Get out of the room! I swear, he’ll kill you!’
The dog, with a ferocious bark, made one other struggle as Blandois vanished; then, in the moment of the dog’s submission, the master, little less angry than the dog, felled him with a blow on the head, and standing over him, struck him many times severely with the heel of his boot, so that his mouth was presently bloody.
The dog let out a fierce bark and made one last attempt as Blandois disappeared; then, as the dog finally submitted, the master, just as angry as the dog, knocked him down with a blow to the head. Standing over him, he stomped on him multiple times with the heel of his boot, leaving his mouth bloodied.
‘Now get you into that corner and lie down,’ said Gowan, ‘or I’ll take you out and shoot you.’
‘Now get into that corner and lie down,’ said Gowan, ‘or I’ll take you outside and shoot you.’
Lion did as he was ordered, and lay down licking his mouth and chest. Lion’s master stopped for a moment to take breath, and then, recovering his usual coolness of manner, turned to speak to his frightened wife and her visitors. Probably the whole occurrence had not occupied two minutes.
Lion did what he was told and lay down, licking his mouth and chest. Lion's master paused for a moment to catch his breath, and then, regaining his typical calm demeanor, turned to speak to his terrified wife and her guests. The whole incident probably didn't take more than two minutes.
‘Come, come, Minnie! You know he is always good-humoured and tractable. Blandois must have irritated him,—made faces at him. The dog has his likings and dislikings, and Blandois is no great favourite of his; but I am sure you will give him a character, Minnie, for never having been like this before.’
‘Come on, Minnie! You know he’s always friendly and easy to handle. Blandois must have annoyed him—made faces at him. The dog has his favorites and not-so-favorites, and Blandois isn’t exactly one of his favorites; but I know you’ll give him a break, Minnie, since he’s never acted like this before.’
Minnie was too much disturbed to say anything connected in reply; Little Dorrit was already occupied in soothing her; Fanny, who had cried out twice or thrice, held Gowan’s arm for protection; Lion, deeply ashamed of having caused them this alarm, came trailing himself along the ground to the feet of his mistress.
Minnie was so upset that she couldn’t respond coherently; Little Dorrit was already busy trying to comfort her; Fanny, who had shouted out a couple of times, clung to Gowan’s arm for support; Lion, feeling really ashamed for causing them this worry, dragged himself over to his mistress's feet.
‘You furious brute,’ said Gowan, striking him with his foot again. ‘You shall do penance for this.’ And he struck him again, and yet again.
"You angry jerk," Gowan said, kicking him again. "You’re going to pay for this." And he kicked him once more, and then again.
‘O, pray don’t punish him any more,’ cried Little Dorrit. ‘Don’t hurt him. See how gentle he is!’ At her entreaty, Gowan spared him; and he deserved her intercession, for truly he was as submissive, and as sorry, and as wretched as a dog could be.
‘Oh, please don’t punish him anymore,’ cried Little Dorrit. ‘Don’t hurt him. Look how gentle he is!’ At her request, Gowan let him go; and he deserved her pleading, because he really was as submissive, and as sorry, and as miserable as a dog could be.
It was not easy to recover this shock and make the visit unrestrained, even though Fanny had not been, under the best of circumstances, the least trifle in the way. In such further communication as passed among them before the sisters took their departure, Little Dorrit fancied it was revealed to her that Mr Gowan treated his wife, even in his very fondness, too much like a beautiful child. He seemed so unsuspicious of the depths of feeling which she knew must lie below that surface, that she doubted if there could be any such depths in himself. She wondered whether his want of earnestness might be the natural result of his want of such qualities, and whether it was with people as with ships, that, in too shallow and rocky waters, their anchors had no hold, and they drifted anywhere.
It wasn't easy to shake off the shock and enjoy the visit freely, even though Fanny hadn’t been a problem at all under the best circumstances. In the few conversations they had before the sisters left, Little Dorrit got the sense that Mr. Gowan treated his wife, even in his affection, too much like a beautiful child. He seemed completely unaware of the deep feelings she knew must exist beneath that surface, making her question if there were any such depths within him. She wondered if his lack of seriousness could stem from not having those qualities himself, and if it was true that, like ships in shallow, rocky waters, people couldn’t find their footing and just drifted anywhere.
He attended them down the staircase, jocosely apologising for the poor quarters to which such poor fellows as himself were limited, and remarking that when the high and mighty Barnacles, his relatives, who would be dreadfully ashamed of them, presented him with better, he would live in better to oblige them. At the water’s edge they were saluted by Blandois, who looked white enough after his late adventure, but who made very light of it notwithstanding,—laughing at the mention of Lion.
He walked them down the stairs, jokingly apologizing for the modest accommodations that someone like him had to settle for, and mentioned that when his wealthy relatives, the Barnacles, who would be terribly embarrassed by them, gave him something nicer, he’d gladly move to a better place for their sake. At the water’s edge, they were greeted by Blandois, who looked pale after his recent experience, but he brushed it off easily—laughing at the mention of Lion.
Leaving the two together under the scrap of vine upon the causeway, Gowan idly scattering the leaves from it into the water, and Blandois lighting a cigarette, the sisters were paddled away in state as they had come. They had not glided on for many minutes, when Little Dorrit became aware that Fanny was more showy in manner than the occasion appeared to require, and, looking about for the cause through the window and through the open door, saw another gondola evidently in waiting on them.
Leaving the two together under the scrap of vine on the pathway, Gowan idly scattered the leaves into the water, while Blandois lit a cigarette. The sisters were paddled away in style just like they had arrived. They hadn’t been gliding along for long when Little Dorrit noticed that Fanny was acting more flamboyantly than the situation seemed to call for. Looking around for the reason through the window and the open door, she spotted another gondola clearly waiting for them.
As this gondola attended their progress in various artful ways; sometimes shooting on a-head, and stopping to let them pass; sometimes, when the way was broad enough, skimming along side by side with them; and sometimes following close astern; and as Fanny gradually made no disguise that she was playing off graces upon somebody within it, of whom she at the same time feigned to be unconscious; Little Dorrit at length asked who it was?
As this gondola followed them in different artistic ways—sometimes shooting ahead and stopping to let them pass, other times skimming alongside when the path was wide enough, and at times trailing closely behind—Fanny eventually stopped hiding that she was showing off her charms to someone inside it, pretending to be unaware of them. Little Dorrit finally asked who it was.
To which Fanny made the short answer, ‘That gaby.’
To which Fanny replied, “That fool.”
‘Who?’ said Little Dorrit.
"Who?" asked Little Dorrit.
‘My dear child,’ returned Fanny (in a tone suggesting that before her Uncle’s protest she might have said, You little fool, instead), ‘how slow you are! Young Sparkler.’
‘My dear child,’ Fanny replied (in a tone that suggested she might have said, You little fool, if her Uncle hadn’t protested), ‘how slow you are! Young Sparkler.’
She lowered the window on her side, and, leaning back and resting her elbow on it negligently, fanned herself with a rich Spanish fan of black and gold. The attendant gondola, having skimmed forward again, with some swift trace of an eye in the window, Fanny laughed coquettishly and said, ‘Did you ever see such a fool, my love?’
She rolled down her window, leaned back, and casually rested her elbow on it while fanning herself with an elegant black and gold Spanish fan. The nearby gondola moved ahead, and with a playful glance out the window, Fanny laughed flirtatiously and said, “Have you ever seen such a fool, my love?”
‘Do you think he means to follow you all the way?’ asked Little Dorrit.
“Do you think he plans to follow you the whole way?” asked Little Dorrit.
‘My precious child,’ returned Fanny, ‘I can’t possibly answer for what an idiot in a state of desperation may do, but I should think it highly probable. It’s not such an enormous distance. All Venice would scarcely be that, I imagine, if he’s dying for a glimpse of me.’
‘My dear child,’ Fanny replied, ‘I can’t really predict what a desperate person might do, but it seems likely. It’s not that far. I doubt all of Venice would be that distance if he’s dying to see me.’
‘And is he?’ asked Little Dorrit in perfect simplicity.
"And is he?" asked Little Dorrit, completely genuinely.
‘Well, my love, that really is an awkward question for me to answer,’ said her sister. ‘I believe he is. You had better ask Edward. He tells Edward he is, I believe. I understand he makes a perfect spectacle of himself at the Casino, and that sort of places, by going on about me. But you had better ask Edward if you want to know.’
‘Well, my love, that’s a really awkward question for me to answer,’ said her sister. ‘I think he is. You should ask Edward. He tells Edward he is, I think. I’ve heard he makes a complete fool of himself at the Casino and places like that by talking about me. But you should ask Edward if you want to know.’
‘I wonder he doesn’t call,’ said Little Dorrit after thinking a moment.
"I wonder why he hasn't called," said Little Dorrit after thinking for a moment.
‘My dear Amy, your wonder will soon cease, if I am rightly informed. I should not be at all surprised if he called to-day. The creature has only been waiting to get his courage up, I suspect.’
‘My dear Amy, your curiosity will soon end, if I’m correctly informed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up today. I think he’s just been waiting to gather his courage.’
‘Will you see him?’
"Are you going to see him?"
‘Indeed, my darling,’ said Fanny, ‘that’s just as it may happen. Here he is again. Look at him. O, you simpleton!’
‘Absolutely, my dear,’ said Fanny, ‘that’s just how things go. Here he is again. Look at him. Oh, you fool!’
Mr Sparkler had, undeniably, a weak appearance; with his eye in the window like a knot in the glass, and no reason on earth for stopping his bark suddenly, except the real reason.
Mr. Sparkler definitely had a weak look; his eye was in the window like a knot in the glass, and there was no reason at all for him to stop his bark suddenly, except for the real reason.
‘When you asked me if I will see him, my dear,’ said Fanny, almost as well composed in the graceful indifference of her attitude as Mrs Merdle herself, ‘what do you mean?’
‘When you asked me if I will see him, my dear,’ said Fanny, nearly as composed in the graceful indifference of her posture as Mrs. Merdle herself, ‘what do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ said Little Dorrit—‘I think I rather mean what do you mean, dear Fanny?’
‘I mean,’ said Little Dorrit—‘I think I kind of mean what you mean, dear Fanny?’
Fanny laughed again, in a manner at once condescending, arch, and affable; and said, putting her arm round her sister in a playfully affectionate way:
Fanny laughed again, in a way that was both condescending, playful, and friendly; and said, putting her arm around her sister in a teasingly affectionate manner:
‘Now tell me, my little pet. When we saw that woman at Martigny, how did you think she carried it off? Did you see what she decided on in a moment?’
‘Now tell me, my little pet. When we saw that woman in Martigny, how do you think she handled it? Did you notice what she chose in an instant?’
‘No, Fanny.’
'No, Fanny.'
‘Then I’ll tell you, Amy. She settled with herself, now I’ll never refer to that meeting under such different circumstances, and I’ll never pretend to have any idea that these are the same girls. That’s her way out of a difficulty. What did I tell you when we came away from Harley Street that time? She is as insolent and false as any woman in the world. But in the first capacity, my love, she may find people who can match her.’
‘Then I’ll tell you, Amy. She made up her mind, I’ll never think of that meeting in such different terms, and I’ll never act like these are the same girls. That’s her way of dodging a problem. What did I say when we left Harley Street that time? She is as arrogant and deceitful as any woman out there. But in terms of being arrogant, my love, she might find people who can keep up with her.’
A significant turn of the Spanish fan towards Fanny’s bosom, indicated with great expression where one of these people was to be found.
A noticeable shift of the Spanish fan toward Fanny's chest, clearly indicating where one of these people could be found.
‘Not only that,’ pursued Fanny, ‘but she gives the same charge to Young Sparkler; and doesn’t let him come after me until she has got it thoroughly into his most ridiculous of all ridiculous noddles (for one really can’t call it a head), that he is to pretend to have been first struck with me in that Inn Yard.’
‘Not only that,’ Fanny continued, ‘but she also tells Young Sparkler the same thing; and she doesn’t let him come after me until she’s drilled it thoroughly into his most absurdly ridiculous brain (because honestly, it can’t be called a head) that he should act like he was first taken with me in that Inn Yard.’
‘Why?’ asked Little Dorrit.
“Why?” asked Little Dorrit.
‘Why? Good gracious, my love!’ (again very much in the tone of You stupid little creature) ‘how can you ask? Don’t you see that I may have become a rather desirable match for a noddle? And don’t you see that she puts the deception upon us, and makes a pretence, while she shifts it from her own shoulders (very good shoulders they are too, I must say),’ observed Miss Fanny, glancing complacently at herself, ‘of considering our feelings?’
‘Why? Oh my goodness, my love!’ (again very much in the tone of You silly little thing) ‘how can you ask? Don’t you see that I might have become quite an appealing option for a fool? And don’t you see that she tricks us and pretends, while she takes it off her own back (which are very nice shoulders, I have to admit),’ said Miss Fanny, glancing proudly at herself, ‘of caring about our feelings?’
‘But we can always go back to the plain truth.’
‘But we can always return to the simple truth.’
‘Yes, but if you please we won’t,’ retorted Fanny. ‘No; I am not going to have that done, Amy. The pretext is none of mine; it’s hers, and she shall have enough of it.’
‘Yes, but if you don’t mind, we won’t,’ Fanny shot back. ‘No; I’m not going to let that happen, Amy. The excuse isn’t mine; it belongs to her, and she’ll have plenty of it.’
In the triumphant exaltation of her feelings, Miss Fanny, using her Spanish fan with one hand, squeezed her sister’s waist with the other, as if she were crushing Mrs Merdle.
In the joyful rush of her emotions, Miss Fanny, using her Spanish fan with one hand, hugged her sister's waist with the other, like she was trying to crush Mrs. Merdle.
‘No,’ repeated Fanny. ‘She shall find me go her way. She took it, and I’ll follow it. And, with the blessing of fate and fortune, I’ll go on improving that woman’s acquaintance until I have given her maid, before her eyes, things from my dressmaker’s ten times as handsome and expensive as she once gave me from hers!’
‘No,’ Fanny said again. ‘She’ll see that I’m following her path. She took it, and I’ll follow. And, with a bit of luck, I’ll keep getting to know that woman until I can show her maid, right in front of her, things from my dressmaker that are ten times as nice and expensive as what she once gave me from hers!’
Little Dorrit was silent; sensible that she was not to be heard on any question affecting the family dignity, and unwilling to lose to no purpose her sister’s newly and unexpectedly restored favour. She could not concur, but she was silent. Fanny well knew what she was thinking of; so well, that she soon asked her.
Little Dorrit stayed quiet, aware that she shouldn't say anything about matters affecting the family's pride, and didn't want to jeopardize her sister’s recently and unexpectedly regained favor. She couldn't agree, but she chose to remain silent. Fanny knew exactly what she was thinking; so well, in fact, that she soon asked her.
Her reply was, ‘Do you mean to encourage Mr Sparkler, Fanny?’
Her reply was, "Are you trying to encourage Mr. Sparkler, Fanny?"
‘Encourage him, my dear?’ said her sister, smiling contemptuously, ‘that depends upon what you call encourage. No, I don’t mean to encourage him. But I’ll make a slave of him.’
“Encourage him, my dear?” her sister said with a contemptuous smile. “That depends on what you mean by encourage. No, I don’t plan to encourage him. But I will make a slave of him.”
Little Dorrit glanced seriously and doubtfully in her face, but Fanny was not to be so brought to a check. She furled her fan of black and gold, and used it to tap her sister’s nose; with the air of a proud beauty and a great spirit, who toyed with and playfully instructed a homely companion.
Little Dorrit looked at her sister with a serious and uncertain expression, but Fanny wasn’t going to let that stop her. She closed her black and gold fan and playfully tapped her sister’s nose with it, acting like a confident beauty who was teasing and playfully guiding a plain friend.
‘I shall make him fetch and carry, my dear, and I shall make him subject to me. And if I don’t make his mother subject to me, too, it shall not be my fault.’
‘I’ll have him run errands for me, my dear, and I’ll have him under my control. And if I don’t make his mother follow my lead as well, that won’t be on me.’
‘Do you think—dear Fanny, don’t be offended, we are so comfortable together now—that you can quite see the end of that course?’
‘Do you think—dear Fanny, don’t take this the wrong way, we’re so comfortable together now—that you can really see the end of that course?’
‘I can’t say I have so much as looked for it yet, my dear,’ answered Fanny, with supreme indifference; ‘all in good time. Such are my intentions. And really they have taken me so long to develop, that here we are at home. And Young Sparkler at the door, inquiring who is within. By the merest accident, of course!’
'I can't say I've really looked for it yet, my dear,' Fanny replied, completely unconcerned; 'all in good time. That's my plan. And honestly, it's taken me so long to figure it out, that here we are at home. And Young Sparkler is at the door, asking who's inside. Just a complete coincidence, of course!'
In effect, the swain was standing up in his gondola, card-case in hand, affecting to put the question to a servant. This conjunction of circumstances led to his immediately afterwards presenting himself before the young ladies in a posture, which in ancient times would not have been considered one of favourable augury for his suit; since the gondoliers of the young ladies, having been put to some inconvenience by the chase, so neatly brought their own boat in the gentlest collision with the bark of Mr Sparkler, as to tip that gentleman over like a larger species of ninepin, and cause him to exhibit the soles of his shoes to the object of his dearest wishes: while the nobler portions of his anatomy struggled at the bottom of his boat in the arms of one of his men.
Effectively, the young man was standing up in his gondola, holding a card case, pretending to ask a servant a question. This situation led to him quickly showing up in front of the young ladies in a position that in ancient times wouldn’t have been seen as good luck for his romantic efforts. The gondoliers, having been put in a tricky situation because of the chase, expertly nudged their own boat into a gentle collision with Mr. Sparkler’s boat, knocking him over like a big ninepin and making him expose the soles of his shoes to the woman of his dreams, while the more important parts of him floundered at the bottom of his boat, held up by one of his crew.
Original
However, as Miss Fanny called out with much concern, Was the gentleman hurt, Mr Sparkler rose more restored than might have been expected, and stammered for himself with blushes, ‘Not at all so.’ Miss Fanny had no recollection of having ever seen him before, and was passing on, with a distant inclination of her head, when he announced himself by name. Even then she was in a difficulty from being unable to call it to mind, until he explained that he had had the honour of seeing her at Martigny. Then she remembered him, and hoped his lady-mother was well.
However, when Miss Fanny called out with concern, "Was the gentleman hurt?", Mr. Sparkler got up looking better than expected and stammered, blushing, “Not at all.” Miss Fanny didn’t recall ever seeing him before and was about to move on with a distant nod when he introduced himself. Even then, she struggled to remember him until he mentioned that he had the pleasure of seeing her in Martigny. Then she remembered him and hoped his mother was doing well.
‘Thank you,’ stammered Mr Sparkler, ‘she’s uncommonly well—at least, poorly.’
‘Thank you,’ Mr. Sparkler stammered, ‘she’s surprisingly well—at least, not well.’
‘In Venice?’ said Miss Fanny.
"In Venice?" said Miss Fanny.
‘In Rome,’ Mr Sparkler answered. ‘I am here by myself, myself. I came to call upon Mr Edward Dorrit myself. Indeed, upon Mr Dorrit likewise. In fact, upon the family.’
‘In Rome,’ Mr. Sparkler replied. ‘I’m here all by myself. I came to visit Mr. Edward Dorrit personally. In fact, I’m here for Mr. Dorrit and his entire family.’
Turning graciously to the attendants, Miss Fanny inquired whether her papa or brother was within? The reply being that they were both within, Mr Sparkler humbly offered his arm. Miss Fanny accepting it, was squired up the great staircase by Mr Sparkler, who, if he still believed (which there is not any reason to doubt) that she had no nonsense about her, rather deceived himself.
Turning graciously to the attendants, Miss Fanny asked if her dad or brother was around. When told they were both inside, Mr. Sparkler politely offered his arm. Miss Fanny accepted, and Mr. Sparkler escorted her up the grand staircase, who, if he still believed (which there is no reason to doubt) that she was straightforward, was somewhat mistaken.
Arrived in a mouldering reception-room, where the faded hangings, of a sad sea-green, had worn and withered until they looked as if they might have claimed kindred with the waifs of seaweed drifting under the windows, or clinging to the walls and weeping for their imprisoned relations, Miss Fanny despatched emissaries for her father and brother. Pending whose appearance, she showed to great advantage on a sofa, completing Mr Sparkler’s conquest with some remarks upon Dante—known to that gentleman as an eccentric man in the nature of an Old File, who used to put leaves round his head, and sit upon a stool for some unaccountable purpose, outside the cathedral at Florence.
Arriving in a decaying reception room, where the faded sea-green curtains had worn out and faded to the point that they looked like they could belong to the seaweed drifting outside the windows or clinging to the walls and mourning their trapped relatives, Miss Fanny sent someone to fetch her father and brother. While waiting for them, she made a great impression on a sofa, winning Mr. Sparkler over with some comments about Dante—who that gentleman knew as a quirky guy, kind of like an Old File, who would put leaves around his head and sit on a stool for some mysterious reason outside the cathedral in Florence.
Mr Dorrit welcomed the visitor with the highest urbanity, and most courtly manners. He inquired particularly after Mrs Merdle. He inquired particularly after Mr Merdle. Mr Sparkler said, or rather twitched out of himself in small pieces by the shirt-collar, that Mrs Merdle having completely used up her place in the country, and also her house at Brighton, and being, of course, unable, don’t you see, to remain in London when there wasn’t a soul there, and not feeling herself this year quite up to visiting about at people’s places, had resolved to have a touch at Rome, where a woman like herself, with a proverbially fine appearance, and with no nonsense about her, couldn’t fail to be a great acquisition. As to Mr Merdle, he was so much wanted by the men in the City and the rest of those places, and was such a doosed extraordinary phenomenon in Buying and Banking and that, that Mr Sparkler doubted if the monetary system of the country would be able to spare him; though that his work was occasionally one too many for him, and that he would be all the better for a temporary shy at an entirely new scene and climate, Mr Sparkler did not conceal. As to himself, Mr Sparkler conveyed to the Dorrit family that he was going, on rather particular business, wherever they were going.
Mr. Dorrit greeted the visitor with the utmost politeness and refined manners. He specifically asked about Mrs. Merdle. He specifically asked about Mr. Merdle. Mr. Sparkler replied, or rather stammered out in bits, that Mrs. Merdle had completely exhausted her time in the countryside, as well as her house in Brighton, and, of course, couldn’t stay in London when there wasn’t anyone around, and didn’t feel quite up to visiting people this year, so she had decided to take a trip to Rome, where a woman like her, known for her good looks and straightforwardness, would definitely be a great asset. As for Mr. Merdle, he was in high demand by the guys in the City and all those places, and was such an extraordinary figure in Buying and Banking that Mr. Sparkler doubted the country’s financial system could manage without him; though he admitted that sometimes the workload was a bit much for him, and he would benefit from a temporary change of scenery and climate. As for himself, Mr. Sparkler let the Dorrit family know that he was going on some specific business, wherever they were headed.
This immense conversational achievement required time, but was effected. Being effected, Mr Dorrit expressed his hope that Mr Sparkler would shortly dine with them. Mr Sparkler received the idea so kindly that Mr Dorrit asked what he was going to do that day, for instance? As he was going to do nothing that day (his usual occupation, and one for which he was particularly qualified), he was secured without postponement; being further bound over to accompany the ladies to the Opera in the evening.
This huge conversational milestone took some time, but it happened. Once it was done, Mr. Dorrit expressed his hope that Mr. Sparkler would soon join them for dinner. Mr. Sparkler took the suggestion so well that Mr. Dorrit inquired about his plans for the day. Since he had no plans (his typical routine, and one he was especially suited for), he was immediately locked in; he was also obligated to take the ladies to the Opera that evening.
At dinner-time Mr Sparkler rose out of the sea, like Venus’s son taking after his mother, and made a splendid appearance ascending the great staircase. If Fanny had been charming in the morning, she was now thrice charming, very becomingly dressed in her most suitable colours, and with an air of negligence upon her that doubled Mr Sparkler’s fetters, and riveted them.
At dinner time, Mr. Sparkler emerged from the sea, like the son of Venus following in his mother's footsteps, and made a grand entrance as he climbed the big staircase. If Fanny was charming in the morning, she was now three times more charming, dressed beautifully in colors that suited her perfectly, and carrying a casual air that only made Mr. Sparkler's infatuation stronger and more binding.
‘I hear you are acquainted, Mr Sparkler,’ said his host at dinner, ‘with—ha—Mr Gowan. Mr Henry Gowan?’
"I hear you're familiar with Mr. Sparkler," said his host at dinner, "with—uh—Mr. Gowan. Mr. Henry Gowan?"
‘Perfectly, sir,’ returned Mr Sparkler. ‘His mother and my mother are cronies in fact.’
‘Absolutely, sir,’ replied Mr. Sparkler. ‘His mom and my mom are actually close friends.’
‘If I had thought of it, Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a patronage as magnificent as that of Lord Decimus himself, ‘you should have despatched a note to them, asking them to dine to-day. Some of our people could have—ha—fetched them, and taken them home. We could have spared a—hum—gondola for that purpose. I am sorry to have forgotten this. Pray remind me of them to-morrow.’
‘If I had thought of it, Amy,’ said Mr. Dorrit, with an air of superiority as grand as Lord Decimus himself, ‘you should have sent them a note, inviting them to dinner today. Some of our people could have—uh—picked them up and brought them back. We could have spared a—um—gondola for that. I'm sorry I forgot this. Please remind me about them tomorrow.’
Little Dorrit was not without doubts how Mr Henry Gowan might take their patronage; but she promised not to fail in the reminder.
Little Dorrit was unsure about how Mr. Henry Gowan would react to their support, but she promised not to forget to remind him.
‘Pray, does Mr Henry Gowan paint—ha—Portraits?’ inquired Mr Dorrit.
“Excuse me, does Mr. Henry Gowan paint—uh—portraits?” asked Mr. Dorrit.
Mr Sparkler opined that he painted anything, if he could get the job.
Mr. Sparkler believed that he would paint anything if he could land the job.
‘He has no particular walk?’ said Mr Dorrit.
‘He doesn’t have a specific way of walking?’ said Mr. Dorrit.
Mr Sparkler, stimulated by Love to brilliancy, replied that for a particular walk a man ought to have a particular pair of shoes; as, for example, shooting, shooting-shoes; cricket, cricket-shoes. Whereas, he believed that Henry Gowan had no particular pair of shoes.
Mr. Sparkler, inspired by love, responded that for a specific outing, a guy should have the right pair of shoes; for instance, if you’re going shooting, you need shooting shoes; for cricket, cricket shoes. However, he thought that Henry Gowan didn’t have a specific pair of shoes.
‘No speciality?’ said Mr Dorrit.
"No specialty?" said Mr. Dorrit.
This being a very long word for Mr Sparkler, and his mind being exhausted by his late effort, he replied, ‘No, thank you. I seldom take it.’
This was a really long word for Mr. Sparkler, and since his mind was worn out from his recent effort, he replied, “No, thanks. I rarely take it.”
‘Well!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘It would be very agreeable to me to present a gentleman so connected, with some—ha—Testimonial of my desire to further his interests, and develop the—hum—germs of his genius. I think I must engage Mr Gowan to paint my picture. If the result should be—ha—mutually satisfactory, I might afterwards engage him to try his hand upon my family.’
‘Well!’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘It would be really nice for me to give a gentleman with such connections some—uh—recognition of my desire to support his interests and nurture the—uh—seeds of his talent. I think I should hire Mr. Gowan to paint my portrait. If the outcome is—uh—satisfactory for both of us, I might then ask him to try his skills on my family.’
The exquisitely bold and original thought presented itself to Mr Sparkler, that there was an opening here for saying there were some of the family (emphasising ‘some’ in a marked manner) to whom no painter could render justice. But, for want of a form of words in which to express the idea, it returned to the skies.
The brilliantly bold and original idea struck Mr. Sparkler that there was a chance to say that there were some family members (emphasizing ‘some’ quite noticeably) whom no painter could truly do justice to. However, lacking the right words to express this thought, it faded away.
This was the more to be regretted as Miss Fanny greatly applauded the notion of the portrait, and urged her papa to act upon it. She surmised, she said, that Mr Gowan had lost better and higher opportunities by marrying his pretty wife; and Love in a cottage, painting pictures for dinner, was so delightfully interesting, that she begged her papa to give him the commission whether he could paint a likeness or not: though indeed both she and Amy knew he could, from having seen a speaking likeness on his easel that day, and having had the opportunity of comparing it with the original. These remarks made Mr Sparkler (as perhaps they were intended to do) nearly distracted; for while on the one hand they expressed Miss Fanny’s susceptibility of the tender passion, she herself showed such an innocent unconsciousness of his admiration that his eyes goggled in his head with jealousy of an unknown rival.
This was all the more regrettable since Miss Fanny was really into the idea of the portrait and encouraged her dad to go for it. She guessed, she said, that Mr. Gowan had sacrificed better and more significant opportunities by marrying his pretty wife; and the idea of love in a cottage, painting pictures for dinner, was so charmingly intriguing that she pleaded with her dad to hire him, whether he could paint a good likeness or not. Although both she and Amy knew he could, having seen a striking likeness on his easel that day and having had the chance to compare it with the real thing. These comments drove Mr. Sparkler (as they were probably meant to) nearly crazy, because on one hand they revealed Miss Fanny’s sensitivity to romance, while on the other, she was completely oblivious to his feelings for her, making his eyes bulge with jealousy over an unknown rival.
Descending into the sea again after dinner, and ascending out of it at the Opera staircase, preceded by one of their gondoliers, like an attendant Merman, with a great linen lantern, they entered their box, and Mr Sparkler entered on an evening of agony. The theatre being dark, and the box light, several visitors lounged in during the representation; in whom Fanny was so interested, and in conversation with whom she fell into such charming attitudes, as she had little confidences with them, and little disputes concerning the identity of people in distant boxes, that the wretched Sparkler hated all mankind. But he had two consolations at the close of the performance. She gave him her fan to hold while she adjusted her cloak, and it was his blessed privilege to give her his arm down-stairs again. These crumbs of encouragement, Mr Sparkler thought, would just keep him going; and it is not impossible that Miss Dorrit thought so too.
Descending into the sea again after dinner, and coming up at the Opera staircase, preceded by one of their gondoliers, like an attendant Merman with a big linen lantern, they entered their box, and Mr. Sparkler stepped into an evening of agony. The theater was dark, but the box was lit, and several visitors lounged in during the performance; Fanny was so interested in them and fell into such charming poses while sharing little secrets and having minor disputes about the identities of people in distant boxes that the miserable Sparkler hated everyone. However, he had two small comforts at the end of the show. She handed him her fan to hold while adjusting her cloak, and he had the joyful privilege of offering her his arm down the stairs again. These little bits of encouragement, Mr. Sparkler thought, would just keep him going; and it’s possible that Miss Dorrit thought so too.
The Merman with his light was ready at the box-door, and other Mermen with other lights were ready at many of the doors. The Dorrit Merman held his lantern low, to show the steps, and Mr Sparkler put on another heavy set of fetters over his former set, as he watched her radiant feet twinkling down the stairs beside him. Among the loiterers here, was Blandois of Paris. He spoke, and moved forward beside Fanny.
The Merman with his light was waiting at the box door, and other Mermen with different lights were ready at many of the doors. The Dorrit Merman held his lantern low to illuminate the steps, and Mr. Sparkler placed another heavy set of shackles over the first one as he watched her glowing feet sparkle down the stairs next to him. Among the bystanders here was Blandois from Paris. He spoke and moved up beside Fanny.
Little Dorrit was in front with her brother and Mrs General (Mr Dorrit had remained at home), but on the brink of the quay they all came together. She started again to find Blandois close to her, handing Fanny into the boat.
Little Dorrit was at the front with her brother and Mrs. General (Mr. Dorrit had stayed home), but when they reached the edge of the quay, they all gathered together. She turned to find Blandois right next to her, helping Fanny into the boat.
‘Gowan has had a loss,’ he said, ‘since he was made happy to-day by a visit from fair ladies.’
‘Gowan has experienced a loss,’ he said, ‘even though he was made happy today by a visit from beautiful ladies.’
‘A loss?’ repeated Fanny, relinquished by the bereaved Sparkler, and taking her seat.
‘A loss?’ repeated Fanny, set free by the grieving Sparkler, and taking her seat.
‘A loss,’ said Blandois. ‘His dog Lion.’
‘A loss,’ said Blandois. ‘His dog Lion.’
Little Dorrit’s hand was in his, as he spoke.
Little Dorrit’s hand was in his as he spoke.
‘He is dead,’ said Blandois.
“He's dead,” said Blandois.
‘Dead?’ echoed Little Dorrit. ‘That noble dog?’
‘Dead?’ echoed Little Dorrit. ‘That noble dog?’
‘Faith, dear ladies!’ said Blandois, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, ‘somebody has poisoned that noble dog. He is as dead as the Doges!’
“Faith, dear ladies!” said Blandois, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, “someone has poisoned that noble dog. He is as dead as a doornail!”
CHAPTER 7. Mostly, Prunes and Prism
Mrs General, always on her coach-box keeping the proprieties well together, took pains to form a surface on her very dear young friend, and Mrs General’s very dear young friend tried hard to receive it. Hard as she had tried in her laborious life to attain many ends, she had never tried harder than she did now, to be varnished by Mrs General. It made her anxious and ill at ease to be operated upon by that smoothing hand, it is true; but she submitted herself to the family want in its greatness as she had submitted herself to the family want in its littleness, and yielded to her own inclinations in this thing no more than she had yielded to her hunger itself, in the days when she had saved her dinner that her father might have his supper.
Mrs. General, always seated atop her coach ensuring everything was proper, made an effort to polish the surface of her very dear young friend. Mrs. General’s dear young friend tried hard to accept this. Throughout her exhausting life, she had never put in more effort than she did now to be refined by Mrs. General. It truly made her anxious and uncomfortable to be subjected to that smoothing touch, but she surrendered to the family's bigger needs just as she had with their smaller ones, yielding to her own desires in this matter as little as she had yielded to her hunger back when she saved her dinner for her father to have his supper.
One comfort that she had under the Ordeal by General was more sustaining to her, and made her more grateful than to a less devoted and affectionate spirit, not habituated to her struggles and sacrifices, might appear quite reasonable; and, indeed, it may often be observed in life, that spirits like Little Dorrit do not appear to reason half as carefully as the folks who get the better of them. The continued kindness of her sister was this comfort to Little Dorrit. It was nothing to her that the kindness took the form of tolerant patronage; she was used to that. It was nothing to her that it kept her in a tributary position, and showed her in attendance on the flaming car in which Miss Fanny sat on an elevated seat, exacting homage; she sought no better place. Always admiring Fanny’s beauty, and grace, and readiness, and not now asking herself how much of her disposition to be strongly attached to Fanny was due to her own heart, and how much to Fanny’s, she gave her all the sisterly fondness her great heart contained.
One comfort that she had during the Ordeal by General was more reassuring for her and made her more grateful than it might seem to someone less devoted and affectionate, who wasn’t familiar with her struggles and sacrifices. In fact, it’s often seen in life that people like Little Dorrit don’t seem to think things through as carefully as those who take advantage of them. The constant kindness of her sister was this comfort to Little Dorrit. It didn’t bother her that the kindness came in the form of condescending support; she was used to that. It didn’t matter to her that it kept her in a subordinate position, displaying her while Miss Fanny sat in an elevated seat on a grand carriage, demanding respect; she sought no better role. Always admiring Fanny’s beauty, grace, and eagerness, and not questioning how much of her strong attachment to Fanny came from her own heart and how much from Fanny’s, she poured all the sisterly love her big heart had to offer.
The wholesale amount of Prunes and Prism which Mrs General infused into the family life, combined with the perpetual plunges made by Fanny into society, left but a very small residue of any natural deposit at the bottom of the mixture. This rendered confidences with Fanny doubly precious to Little Dorrit, and heightened the relief they afforded her.
The large amount of Prunes and Prism that Mrs. General introduced into family life, along with Fanny's constant dives into society, left very little of any genuine connection at the core of their mix. This made Fanny's confidences even more valuable to Little Dorrit and increased the comfort they provided her.
‘Amy,’ said Fanny to her one night when they were alone, after a day so tiring that Little Dorrit was quite worn out, though Fanny would have taken another dip into society with the greatest pleasure in life, ‘I am going to put something into your little head. You won’t guess what it is, I suspect.’
‘Amy,’ Fanny said to her one night when they were alone, after a day so exhausting that Little Dorrit was completely worn out, even though Fanny would have happily gone out into society again, ‘I’m going to put something in your little head. I doubt you’ll guess what it is.’
‘I don’t think that’s likely, dear,’ said Little Dorrit.
'I don't think that's very likely, sweetheart,' said Little Dorrit.
‘Come, I’ll give you a clue, child,’ said Fanny. ‘Mrs General.’
‘Come on, I’ll give you a hint, kid,’ said Fanny. ‘Mrs. General.’
Prunes and Prism, in a thousand combinations, having been wearily in the ascendant all day—everything having been surface and varnish and show without substance—Little Dorrit looked as if she had hoped that Mrs General was safely tucked up in bed for some hours.
Prunes and Prism, in a thousand combinations, having been tiredly dominant all day—everything having been just surface and show without any real substance—Little Dorrit looked like she wished that Mrs. General was already settled in bed for the night.
‘Now, can you guess, Amy?’ said Fanny.
Now, can you guess, Amy?" said Fanny.
‘No, dear. Unless I have done anything,’ said Little Dorrit, rather alarmed, and meaning anything calculated to crack varnish and ruffle surface.
‘No, dear. Unless I’ve done something,’ said Little Dorrit, a bit worried, and meaning anything that might damage the surface or disturb the appearance.
Fanny was so very much amused by the misgiving, that she took up her favourite fan (being then seated at her dressing-table with her armoury of cruel instruments about her, most of them reeking from the heart of Sparkler), and tapped her sister frequently on the nose with it, laughing all the time.
Fanny was so amused by the doubt that she picked up her favorite fan (sitting at her dressing table surrounded by her collection of sharp tools, most of them smelling like Sparkler), and kept tapping her sister on the nose with it, laughing the entire time.
‘Oh, our Amy, our Amy!’ said Fanny. ‘What a timid little goose our Amy is! But this is nothing to laugh at. On the contrary, I am very cross, my dear.’
‘Oh, our Amy, our Amy!’ said Fanny. ‘What a timid little goose our Amy is! But this is nothing to laugh at. On the contrary, I’m really upset, my dear.’
‘As it is not with me, Fanny, I don’t mind,’ returned her sister, smiling.
"As it's not with me, Fanny, I don't mind," her sister replied with a smile.
‘Ah! But I do mind,’ said Fanny, ‘and so will you, Pet, when I enlighten you. Amy, has it never struck you that somebody is monstrously polite to Mrs General?’
‘Ah! But I do mind,’ Fanny said. ‘And so will you, Pet, when I fill you in. Amy, has it ever occurred to you that someone is really overly polite to Mrs. General?’
‘Everybody is polite to Mrs General,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘Because—’
‘Everyone is nice to Mrs. General,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘Because—’
‘Because she freezes them into it?’ interrupted Fanny. ‘I don’t mean that; quite different from that. Come! Has it never struck you, Amy, that Pa is monstrously polite to Mrs General.’
‘Because she freezes them into it?’ interrupted Fanny. ‘I don’t mean that; quite different from that. Come! Has it never occurred to you, Amy, that Dad is ridiculously polite to Mrs. General?’
Amy, murmuring ‘No,’ looked quite confounded.
Amy, mumbling 'No,' looked really confused.
‘No; I dare say not. But he is,’ said Fanny. ‘He is, Amy. And remember my words. Mrs General has designs on Pa!’
‘No; I doubt it. But he is,’ said Fanny. ‘He is, Amy. And remember what I said. Mrs. General has plans for Dad!’
‘Dear Fanny, do you think it possible that Mrs General has designs on any one?’
‘Dear Fanny, do you think it's possible that Mrs. General has her sights set on someone?’
‘Do I think it possible?’ retorted Fanny. ‘My love, I know it. I tell you she has designs on Pa. And more than that, I tell you Pa considers her such a wonder, such a paragon of accomplishment, and such an acquisition to our family, that he is ready to get himself into a state of perfect infatuation with her at any moment. And that opens a pretty picture of things, I hope? Think of me with Mrs General for a Mama!’
‘Do I think it’s possible?’ Fanny shot back. ‘My dear, I know it. I’m telling you she has her sights set on Dad. And more than that, I’m telling you Dad thinks she’s such a marvel, such a model of achievement, and such a great addition to our family, that he could fall head over heels for her at any moment. And what a lovely picture that paints, right? Imagine me with Mrs. General as my mom!’
Little Dorrit did not reply, ‘Think of me with Mrs General for a Mama;’ but she looked anxious, and seriously inquired what had led Fanny to these conclusions.
Little Dorrit did not respond, 'Imagine me with Mrs. General as a mom;' but she looked worried and seriously asked what had made Fanny come to these conclusions.
‘Lord, my darling,’ said Fanny, tartly. ‘You might as well ask me how I know when a man is struck with myself! But, of course I do know. It happens pretty often: but I always know it. I know this in much the same way, I suppose. At all events, I know it.’
‘Lord, my darling,’ Fanny said sharply. ‘You might as well ask me how I know when a guy is into me! But, of course, I do know. It happens pretty often, and I always know it. I guess it’s similar to how I know other things. In any case, I know it.’
‘You never heard Papa say anything?’
‘You never heard Dad say anything?’
‘Say anything?’ repeated Fanny. ‘My dearest, darling child, what necessity has he had, yet awhile, to say anything?’
‘Say anything?’ repeated Fanny. ‘My dearest, darling child, what reason has he had, even now, to say anything?’
‘And you have never heard Mrs General say anything?’
'So, you've never heard Mrs. General say anything?'
‘My goodness me, Amy,’ returned Fanny, ‘is she the sort of woman to say anything? Isn’t it perfectly plain and clear that she has nothing to do at present but to hold herself upright, keep her aggravating gloves on, and go sweeping about? Say anything! If she had the ace of trumps in her hand at whist, she wouldn’t say anything, child. It would come out when she played it.’
‘Oh my goodness, Amy,’ Fanny replied, ‘is she really the type to say anything? Isn’t it obvious that she has nothing to do right now except stand up straight, keep those annoying gloves on, and wander around? Say anything! Even if she had the ace of trumps in her hand at cards, she still wouldn’t say anything, dear. It would just come out when she played it.’
‘At least, you may be mistaken, Fanny. Now, may you not?’
‘At the very least, you could be wrong, Fanny. Can't you?’
‘O yes, I may be,’ said Fanny, ‘but I am not. However, I am glad you can contemplate such an escape, my dear, and I am glad that you can take this for the present with sufficient coolness to think of such a chance. It makes me hope that you may be able to bear the connection. I should not be able to bear it, and I should not try. I’d marry young Sparkler first.’
‘Oh yes, I might be,’ said Fanny, ‘but I’m not. However, I’m glad you can consider such an escape, my dear, and I’m happy that you can approach this situation with enough calm to think about such a possibility. It gives me hope that you might be able to handle the connection. I wouldn’t be able to handle it, and I wouldn’t even try. I’d marry young Sparkler first.’
‘O, you would never marry him, Fanny, under any circumstances.’
‘Oh, you would never marry him, Fanny, no matter what.’
‘Upon my word, my dear,’ rejoined that young lady with exceeding indifference, ‘I wouldn’t positively answer even for that. There’s no knowing what might happen. Especially as I should have many opportunities, afterwards, of treating that woman, his mother, in her own style. Which I most decidedly should not be slow to avail myself of, Amy.’
“Honestly, my dear,” that young lady replied with great indifference, “I wouldn’t be able to say for sure. You never know what could happen. Especially since I would have plenty of chances later to deal with that woman, his mother, on her own terms. And I certainly wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of that, Amy.”
No more passed between the sisters then; but what had passed gave the two subjects of Mrs General and Mr Sparkler great prominence in Little Dorrit’s mind, and thenceforth she thought very much of both.
No more was said between the sisters then; but what had been said made Mrs. General and Mr. Sparkler very significant in Little Dorrit’s mind, and from then on, she thought a lot about both of them.
Mrs General, having long ago formed her own surface to such perfection that it hid whatever was below it (if anything), no observation was to be made in that quarter. Mr Dorrit was undeniably very polite to her and had a high opinion of her; but Fanny, impetuous at most times, might easily be wrong for all that. Whereas, the Sparkler question was on the different footing that any one could see what was going on there, and Little Dorrit saw it and pondered on it with many doubts and wonderings.
Mrs. General had perfected her exterior so well that it concealed whatever lay beneath (if there was anything at all), so no comments were made in that regard. Mr. Dorrit was certainly very polite to her and thought highly of her; however, Fanny, who was usually impulsive, could easily be mistaken despite that. On the other hand, the issue with Sparkler was different because anyone could see what was happening there, and Little Dorrit observed it and contemplated it with many doubts and questions.
The devotion of Mr Sparkler was only to be equalled by the caprice and cruelty of his enslaver. Sometimes she would prefer him to such distinction of notice, that he would chuckle aloud with joy; next day, or next hour, she would overlook him so completely, and drop him into such an abyss of obscurity, that he would groan under a weak pretence of coughing. The constancy of his attendance never touched Fanny: though he was so inseparable from Edward, that, when that gentleman wished for a change of society, he was under the irksome necessity of gliding out like a conspirator in disguised boats and by secret doors and back ways; though he was so solicitous to know how Mr Dorrit was, that he called every other day to inquire, as if Mr Dorrit were the prey of an intermittent fever; though he was so constantly being paddled up and down before the principal windows, that he might have been supposed to have made a wager for a large stake to be paddled a thousand miles in a thousand hours; though whenever the gondola of his mistress left the gate, the gondola of Mr Sparkler shot out from some watery ambush and gave chase, as if she were a fair smuggler and he a custom-house officer. It was probably owing to this fortification of the natural strength of his constitution with so much exposure to the air, and the salt sea, that Mr Sparkler did not pine outwardly; but, whatever the cause, he was so far from having any prospect of moving his mistress by a languishing state of health, that he grew bluffer every day, and that peculiarity in his appearance of seeming rather a swelled boy than a young man, became developed to an extraordinary degree of ruddy puffiness.
Mr. Sparkler's devotion was matched only by the whims and cruelty of his mistress. Sometimes she would give him such special attention that he'd laugh out loud with happiness; then the next day or even the next hour, she would completely ignore him, dropping him into such a deep pit of obscurity that he would groan, pretending to cough weakly. Fanny was unaffected by his constant presence: he was so inseparable from Edward that whenever Edward wanted a change of company, he had to slip away like a conspirator through disguised boats and secret doors. Mr. Sparkler was so eager to check on Mr. Dorrit that he called every other day, as if Mr. Dorrit had some recurring illness. He was constantly being paddled back and forth in front of the main windows, as if he had bet a huge amount to paddle a thousand miles in a thousand hours. Whenever his mistress's gondola left the gate, Mr. Sparkler's gondola would spring from some watery hiding place to give chase, as if she were a smuggler and he a customs officer. This constant exposure to the fresh air and saltwater likely helped Mr. Sparkler maintain his health, but whatever the reason, he was nowhere near shifting his mistress's affections with a weary appearance. Instead, he grew more confident every day, and the unusual puffiness that made him look more like an overgrown boy than a young man intensified greatly.
Blandois calling to pay his respects, Mr Dorrit received him with affability as the friend of Mr Gowan, and mentioned to him his idea of commissioning Mr Gowan to transmit him to posterity. Blandois highly extolling it, it occurred to Mr Dorrit that it might be agreeable to Blandois to communicate to his friend the great opportunity reserved for him. Blandois accepted the commission with his own free elegance of manner, and swore he would discharge it before he was an hour older. On his imparting the news to Gowan, that Master gave Mr Dorrit to the Devil with great liberality some round dozen of times (for he resented patronage almost as much as he resented the want of it), and was inclined to quarrel with his friend for bringing him the message.
Blandois came to pay his respects, and Mr. Dorrit greeted him warmly as Mr. Gowan's friend. He mentioned his idea of hiring Mr. Gowan to ensure he was remembered. Blandois praised the idea highly, which led Mr. Dorrit to think it might please Blandois to share this great opportunity with his friend. Blandois accepted the task with his usual charm and promised he would take care of it within the hour. When he shared the news with Gowan, Gowan cursed Mr. Dorrit generously a good dozen times (since he disliked being patronized almost as much as he disliked being overlooked) and was ready to argue with his friend for bringing him the message.
‘It may be a defect in my mental vision, Blandois,’ said he, ‘but may I die if I see what you have to do with this.’
‘It might be a flaw in my thinking, Blandois,’ he said, ‘but I swear I don’t understand what your involvement is in this.’
‘Death of my life,’ replied Blandois, ‘nor I neither, except that I thought I was serving my friend.’
‘The death of my life,’ replied Blandois, ‘nor I either, except that I thought I was helping my friend.’
‘By putting an upstart’s hire in his pocket?’ said Gowan, frowning. ‘Do you mean that? Tell your other friend to get his head painted for the sign of some public-house, and to get it done by a sign-painter. Who am I, and who is he?’
‘By putting an upstart’s hire in his pocket?’ Gowan asked with a frown. ‘Is that what you mean? Tell your other friend to have his head painted for the sign of some bar and to let a sign-painter do it. Who am I, and who is he?’
‘Professore,’ returned the ambassador, ‘and who is Blandois?’
‘Professor,’ replied the ambassador, ‘and who is Blandois?’
Without appearing at all interested in the latter question, Gowan angrily whistled Mr Dorrit away. But, next day, he resumed the subject by saying in his off-hand manner and with a slighting laugh, ‘Well, Blandois, when shall we go to this Maecenas of yours? We journeymen must take jobs when we can get them. When shall we go and look after this job?’
Without showing any interest in the last question, Gowan angrily whistled Mr. Dorrit away. But the next day, he brought it up again in his casual way with a mocking laugh, saying, “Well, Blandois, when are we heading to this Maecenas of yours? We tradespeople need to take gigs when we can. When are we going to check out this job?”
‘When you will,’ said the injured Blandois, ‘as you please. What have I to do with it? What is it to me?’
‘Whenever you want,’ said the injured Blandois, ‘it's up to you. What do I care? What does it matter to me?’
‘I can tell you what it is to me,’ said Gowan. ‘Bread and cheese. One must eat! So come along, my Blandois.’
‘I can tell you what it means to me,’ said Gowan. ‘Bread and cheese. You have to eat! So come on, my Blandois.’
Mr Dorrit received them in the presence of his daughters and of Mr Sparkler, who happened, by some surprising accident, to be calling there. ‘How are you, Sparkler?’ said Gowan carelessly. ‘When you have to live by your mother wit, old boy, I hope you may get on better than I do.’
Mr. Dorrit welcomed them while his daughters and Mr. Sparkler, who just happened to be visiting, were present. “How's it going, Sparkler?” Gowan said casually. “When you have to rely on your street smarts, old buddy, I hope you do better than I do.”
Mr Dorrit then mentioned his proposal. ‘Sir,’ said Gowan, laughing, after receiving it gracefully enough, ‘I am new to the trade, and not expert at its mysteries. I believe I ought to look at you in various lights, tell you you are a capital subject, and consider when I shall be sufficiently disengaged to devote myself with the necessary enthusiasm to the fine picture I mean to make of you. I assure you,’ and he laughed again, ‘I feel quite a traitor in the camp of those dear, gifted, good, noble fellows, my brother artists, by not doing the hocus-pocus better. But I have not been brought up to it, and it’s too late to learn it. Now, the fact is, I am a very bad painter, but not much worse than the generality. If you are going to throw away a hundred guineas or so, I am as poor as a poor relation of great people usually is, and I shall be very much obliged to you, if you’ll throw them away upon me. I’ll do the best I can for the money; and if the best should be bad, why even then, you may probably have a bad picture with a small name to it, instead of a bad picture with a large name to it.’
Mr. Dorrit then shared his proposal. “Sir,” said Gowan, laughing after receiving it with enough grace, “I’m new to this business and not skilled in its secrets. I think I should view you in different lights, tell you that you’re an excellent subject, and figure out when I’ll be free enough to put the necessary enthusiasm into the great portrait I intend to create of you. I assure you,” he laughed again, “I feel like a traitor among my talented, kind, noble fellow artists because I’m not doing the tricks better. But I wasn’t trained for this, and it’s too late to learn. The truth is, I’m a pretty bad painter, but not much worse than most others. If you’re going to waste a hundred guineas or so, I’m as broke as a poor relative of wealthy people usually is, and I’d be really grateful if you’d waste it on me. I’ll do my best for the money; and if the best turns out to be bad, well, at least you’d have a bad painting with a small name on it instead of a bad painting with a big name on it.”
This tone, though not what he had expected, on the whole suited Mr Dorrit remarkably well. It showed that the gentleman, highly connected, and not a mere workman, would be under an obligation to him. He expressed his satisfaction in placing himself in Mr Gowan’s hands, and trusted that he would have the pleasure, in their characters of private gentlemen, of improving his acquaintance.
This tone, although not what he had anticipated, suited Mr. Dorrit quite well overall. It indicated that the gentleman, who was well-connected and not just an ordinary worker, would owe him a favor. He expressed his satisfaction in putting himself in Mr. Gowan's hands and hoped that they would have the pleasure, in their roles as private gentlemen, of getting to know each other better.
‘You are very good,’ said Gowan. ‘I have not forsworn society since I joined the brotherhood of the brush (the most delightful fellows on the face of the earth), and am glad enough to smell the old fine gunpowder now and then, though it did blow me into mid-air and my present calling. You’ll not think, Mr Dorrit,’ and here he laughed again in the easiest way, ‘that I am lapsing into the freemasonry of the craft—for it’s not so; upon my life I can’t help betraying it wherever I go, though, by Jupiter, I love and honour the craft with all my might—if I propose a stipulation as to time and place?’
“You're really great,” said Gowan. “I haven’t given up socializing since I joined the brotherhood of the brush (the most amazing guys in the world), and I’m quite happy to catch a whiff of good old gunpowder now and then, even though it did send me flying into the air and led to my current job. You won’t think, Mr. Dorrit,” and here he laughed easily again, “that I’m falling into the insider talk of the craft—because that's not the case; honestly, I can’t help but reveal it wherever I go, though, no kidding, I love and respect the craft with all my heart—if I suggest a condition about time and place?”
Ha! Mr Dorrit could erect no—hum—suspicion of that kind on Mr Gowan’s frankness.
Ha! Mr. Dorrit couldn't have any—uh—doubt of that sort regarding Mr. Gowan's openness.
‘Again you are very good,’ said Gowan. ‘Mr Dorrit, I hear you are going to Rome. I am going to Rome, having friends there. Let me begin to do you the injustice I have conspired to do you, there—not here. We shall all be hurried during the rest of our stay here; and though there’s not a poorer man with whole elbows in Venice, than myself, I have not quite got all the Amateur out of me yet—comprising the trade again, you see!—and can’t fall on to order, in a hurry, for the mere sake of the sixpences.’
"You're really kind," Gowan said. "Mr. Dorrit, I hear you're heading to Rome. I'm going to Rome too, as I have friends there. Let me start doing you the injustice I've been planning to do, there—not here. We'll all be rushed for the rest of our time here; and even though there's not a poorer man in Venice than I am, I haven't completely shaken off my amateur side yet—getting back into the business, you see!—and I can't just fall into a routine quickly just for the sake of a few pennies."
These remarks were not less favourably received by Mr Dorrit than their predecessors. They were the prelude to the first reception of Mr and Mrs Gowan at dinner, and they skilfully placed Gowan on his usual ground in the new family.
These comments were received just as positively by Mr. Dorrit as the previous ones. They were the lead-up to the first dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Gowan, and they cleverly positioned Gowan in his familiar role within the new family.
His wife, too, they placed on her usual ground. Miss Fanny understood, with particular distinctness, that Mrs Gowan’s good looks had cost her husband very dear; that there had been a great disturbance about her in the Barnacle family; and that the Dowager Mrs Gowan, nearly heart-broken, had resolutely set her face against the marriage until overpowered by her maternal feelings. Mrs General likewise clearly understood that the attachment had occasioned much family grief and dissension. Of honest Mr Meagles no mention was made; except that it was natural enough that a person of that sort should wish to raise his daughter out of his own obscurity, and that no one could blame him for trying his best to do so.
His wife was also put in her usual place. Miss Fanny clearly understood that Mrs. Gowan's good looks had cost her husband a lot; that there had been a significant uproar about her in the Barnacle family; and that the Dowager Mrs. Gowan, almost heartbroken, had firmly opposed the marriage until her maternal feelings took over. Mrs. General also understood that the relationship had caused a lot of family heartache and conflict. There was no mention of honest Mr. Meagles, except that it was only natural for a person like him to want to elevate his daughter from their own obscurity, and no one could fault him for trying his best to do so.
Little Dorrit’s interest in the fair subject of this easily accepted belief was too earnest and watchful to fail in accurate observation. She could see that it had its part in throwing upon Mrs Gowan the touch of a shadow under which she lived, and she even had an instinctive knowledge that there was not the least truth in it. But it had an influence in placing obstacles in the way of her association with Mrs Gowan by making the Prunes and Prism school excessively polite to her, but not very intimate with her; and Little Dorrit, as an enforced sizar of that college, was obliged to submit herself humbly to its ordinances.
Little Dorrit was genuinely interested in the commonly accepted belief and observed it carefully. She could tell that it contributed to the shadowy atmosphere surrounding Mrs. Gowan, and she intuitively understood that there was no truth to it at all. However, it caused obstacles in her relationship with Mrs. Gowan by making the Prunes and Prism school overly polite but not very friendly. As a forced member of that school, Little Dorrit had to humbly accept its rules.
Nevertheless, there was a sympathetic understanding already established between the two, which would have carried them over greater difficulties, and made a friendship out of a more restricted intercourse. As though accidents were determined to be favourable to it, they had a new assurance of congeniality in the aversion which each perceived that the other felt towards Blandois of Paris; an aversion amounting to the repugnance and horror of a natural antipathy towards an odious creature of the reptile kind.
Nevertheless, there was a mutual understanding already formed between the two, which would have helped them overcome greater challenges and turned their limited interactions into a friendship. It was as if fate was determined to support this bond, as they found a new sense of connection in the shared dislike they both felt for Blandois of Paris; a dislike that was close to the disgust and dread that comes from a deep-seated aversion to a loathsome creature of the reptile kind.
And there was a passive congeniality between them, besides this active one. To both of them, Blandois behaved in exactly the same manner; and to both of them his manner had uniformly something in it, which they both knew to be different from his bearing towards others. The difference was too minute in its expression to be perceived by others, but they knew it to be there. A mere trick of his evil eyes, a mere turn of his smooth white hand, a mere hair’s-breadth of addition to the fall of his nose and the rise of the moustache in the most frequent movement of his face, conveyed to both of them, equally, a swagger personal to themselves. It was as if he had said, ‘I have a secret power in this quarter. I know what I know.’
And there was a subtle camaraderie between them, along with this obvious one. Blandois treated both of them the same way; his behavior had a consistent quality that they both recognized as different from how he acted with others. The difference was too slight for anyone else to notice, but they were aware it existed. A slight flicker in his sinister eyes, a gentle movement of his smooth white hand, a tiny shift in the curve of his nose and the rise of his mustache during his frequent expressions, communicated to both of them a confidence that felt personal to them alone. It was as if he had said, 'I have some secret influence here. I know what I know.'
This had never been felt by them both in so great a degree, and never by each so perfectly to the knowledge of the other, as on a day when he came to Mr Dorrit’s to take his leave before quitting Venice. Mrs Gowan was herself there for the same purpose, and he came upon the two together; the rest of the family being out. The two had not been together five minutes, and the peculiar manner seemed to convey to them, ‘You were going to talk about me. Ha! Behold me here to prevent it!’
This had never been felt by both of them so intensely, and never by each with such complete awareness of the other, as on the day he visited Mr. Dorrit to say goodbye before leaving Venice. Mrs. Gowan was there for the same reason, and he found the two of them together; the rest of the family was out. They had only been together for five minutes, but the unusual vibe seemed to say to them, ‘You were about to talk about me. Well, here I am to stop that!’
‘Gowan is coming here?’ said Blandois, with a smile.
‘Gowan is coming here?’ said Blandois, smiling.
Mrs Gowan replied he was not coming.
Mrs. Gowan replied that he wasn't coming.
‘Not coming!’ said Blandois. ‘Permit your devoted servant, when you leave here, to escort you home.’
‘Not coming!’ said Blandois. ‘Let your loyal servant escort you home when you leave here.’
‘Thank you: I am not going home.’
‘Thank you: I'm not going home.’
‘Not going home!’ said Blandois. ‘Then I am forlorn.’
‘Not going home!’ said Blandois. ‘Then I'm out of luck.’
That he might be; but he was not so forlorn as to roam away and leave them together. He sat entertaining them with his finest compliments, and his choicest conversation; but he conveyed to them, all the time, ‘No, no, no, dear ladies. Behold me here expressly to prevent it!’
That might be possible; however, he wasn't so lost that he would wander off and leave them alone together. He stayed, entertaining them with his best compliments and most engaging conversation; but he made it clear to them all the while, ‘No, no, no, dear ladies. Look at me here specifically to stop that!’
He conveyed it to them with so much meaning, and he had such a diabolical persistency in him, that at length, Mrs Gowan rose to depart. On his offering his hand to Mrs Gowan to lead her down the staircase, she retained Little Dorrit’s hand in hers, with a cautious pressure, and said, ‘No, thank you. But, if you will please to see if my boatman is there, I shall be obliged to you.’
He communicated it to them with so much depth, and he had such a wicked determination in him, that eventually, Mrs. Gowan stood up to leave. When he offered his hand to Mrs. Gowan to guide her down the stairs, she held onto Little Dorrit’s hand with a gentle grip and said, “No, thank you. But if you could check if my boatman is there, I would appreciate it.”
It left him no choice but to go down before them. As he did so, hat in hand, Mrs Gowan whispered:
It left him no option but to go down in front of them. As he did, holding his hat in his hands, Mrs. Gowan whispered:
‘He killed the dog.’
‘He killed the dog.’
‘Does Mr Gowan know it?’ Little Dorrit whispered.
“Does Mr. Gowan know about it?” Little Dorrit whispered.
‘No one knows it. Don’t look towards me; look towards him. He will turn his face in a moment. No one knows it, but I am sure he did. You are?’
‘No one knows it. Don't look at me; look at him. He'll turn his face in a moment. No one knows it, but I'm sure he did. Are you?’
‘I—I think so,’ Little Dorrit answered.
‘I—I think so,’ Little Dorrit replied.
‘Henry likes him, and he will not think ill of him; he is so generous and open himself. But you and I feel sure that we think of him as he deserves. He argued with Henry that the dog had been already poisoned when he changed so, and sprang at him. Henry believes it, but we do not. I see he is listening, but can’t hear. Good-bye, my love! Good-bye!’
‘Henry likes him, and he won't think badly of him; he’s so generous and open himself. But you and I know we see him as he really is. He argued with Henry that the dog had already been poisoned when it changed like that and lunged at him. Henry believes it, but we don’t. I see he’s listening, but can’t hear. Goodbye, my love! Goodbye!’
The last words were spoken aloud, as the vigilant Blandois stopped, turned his head, and looked at them from the bottom of the staircase. Assuredly he did look then, though he looked his politest, as if any real philanthropist could have desired no better employment than to lash a great stone to his neck, and drop him into the water flowing beyond the dark arched gateway in which he stood. No such benefactor to mankind being on the spot, he handed Mrs Gowan to her boat, and stood there until it had shot out of the narrow view; when he handed himself into his own boat and followed.
The last words were spoken out loud as the watchful Blandois stopped, turned his head, and looked at them from the bottom of the staircase. He definitely looked then, though he did so with the utmost politeness, as if any true philanthropist would have wanted nothing more than to tie a heavy stone around his neck and drop him into the water flowing beyond the dark arched gateway where he stood. Since no such benefactor to humanity was present, he helped Mrs. Gowan into her boat and stood there until it had disappeared from view. Then, he got into his own boat and followed.
Little Dorrit had sometimes thought, and now thought again as she retraced her steps up the staircase, that he had made his way too easily into her father’s house. But so many and such varieties of people did the same, through Mr Dorrit’s participation in his elder daughter’s society mania, that it was hardly an exceptional case. A perfect fury for making acquaintances on whom to impress their riches and importance, had seized the House of Dorrit.
Little Dorrit had sometimes thought, and now thought again as she walked back up the staircase, that he had gotten into her father’s house too easily. But so many different kinds of people did the same, thanks to Mr. Dorrit’s involvement in his older daughter’s obsession with social status, that it hardly stood out. The House of Dorrit had been struck by a complete craze for making acquaintances to show off their wealth and importance.
It appeared on the whole, to Little Dorrit herself, that this same society in which they lived, greatly resembled a superior sort of Marshalsea. Numbers of people seemed to come abroad, pretty much as people had come into the prison; through debt, through idleness, relationship, curiosity, and general unfitness for getting on at home. They were brought into these foreign towns in the custody of couriers and local followers, just as the debtors had been brought into the prison. They prowled about the churches and picture-galleries, much in the old, dreary, prison-yard manner. They were usually going away again to-morrow or next week, and rarely knew their own minds, and seldom did what they said they would do, or went where they said they would go: in all this again, very like the prison debtors. They paid high for poor accommodation, and disparaged a place while they pretended to like it: which was exactly the Marshalsea custom. They were envied when they went away by people left behind, feigning not to want to go: and that again was the Marshalsea habit invariably. A certain set of words and phrases, as much belonging to tourists as the College and the Snuggery belonged to the jail, was always in their mouths. They had precisely the same incapacity for settling down to anything, as the prisoners used to have; they rather deteriorated one another, as the prisoners used to do; and they wore untidy dresses, and fell into a slouching way of life: still, always like the people in the Marshalsea.
To Little Dorrit, it seemed that the society they lived in was a lot like a more refined version of Marshalsea. Many people appeared to come out, much like how individuals had entered the prison—due to debt, laziness, connections, curiosity, and generally not being fit to get by at home. They were brought to these foreign towns by couriers and local followers, just as debtors had been taken into the prison. They wandered around churches and art galleries in the same dreary way as in the prison yard. Usually, they were planning to leave the next day or the following week, rarely knowing what they really wanted, seldom following through on their promises, or going where they said they would go—again, very much like the debtors in prison. They paid a lot for subpar accommodations and criticized places while pretending to enjoy them, which was exactly how things worked in Marshalsea. People left behind envied those who departed, pretending not to want to leave, which was another habit typical of Marshalsea. A specific set of words and phrases that tourists used—just like the College and the Snuggery were part of prison life—was always in their conversations. They exhibited the same inability to settle down to anything as the prisoners had, tended to bring each other down, wore shabby clothes, and adopted a slouching lifestyle—still, always like the people in Marshalsea.
The period of the family’s stay at Venice came, in its course, to an end, and they moved, with their retinue, to Rome. Through a repetition of the former Italian scenes, growing more dirty and more haggard as they went on, and bringing them at length to where the very air was diseased, they passed to their destination. A fine residence had been taken for them on the Corso, and there they took up their abode, in a city where everything seemed to be trying to stand still for ever on the ruins of something else—except the water, which, following eternal laws, tumbled and rolled from its glorious multitude of fountains.
The family's stay in Venice eventually came to an end, and they moved, along with their entourage, to Rome. As they journeyed on, they encountered the same Italian scenes, but they became increasingly dirty and weary, leading them to a place where even the air felt contaminated. They arrived at their destination, where a lovely residence had been arranged for them on the Corso, and settled into a city that seemed intent on remaining forever on the ruins of something else—except for the water, which, following its eternal course, tumbled and flowed from its magnificent fountains.
Here it seemed to Little Dorrit that a change came over the Marshalsea spirit of their society, and that Prunes and Prism got the upper hand. Everybody was walking about St Peter’s and the Vatican on somebody else’s cork legs, and straining every visible object through somebody else’s sieve. Nobody said what anything was, but everybody said what the Mrs Generals, Mr Eustace, or somebody else said it was. The whole body of travellers seemed to be a collection of voluntary human sacrifices, bound hand and foot, and delivered over to Mr Eustace and his attendants, to have the entrails of their intellects arranged according to the taste of that sacred priesthood. Through the rugged remains of temples and tombs and palaces and senate halls and theatres and amphitheatres of ancient days, hosts of tongue-tied and blindfolded moderns were carefully feeling their way, incessantly repeating Prunes and Prism in the endeavour to set their lips according to the received form. Mrs General was in her pure element. Nobody had an opinion. There was a formation of surface going on around her on an amazing scale, and it had not a flaw of courage or honest free speech in it.
Here it seemed to Little Dorrit that something shifted in the spirit of their society at the Marshalsea, and Prunes and Prism took control. Everyone was wandering around St. Peter’s and the Vatican on someone else's support, and filtering every visible thing through someone else's perspective. Nobody stated what anything was, but everyone relayed what Mrs. Generals, Mr. Eustace, or someone else claimed it was. The entire group of travelers resembled a collection of voluntary human sacrifices, bound hand and foot, handed over to Mr. Eustace and his attendants, who arranged the contents of their minds to suit the preferences of that exalted priesthood. Amidst the weathered remnants of temples, tombs, palaces, senate halls, theaters, and amphitheaters from ancient times, groups of silent and blindfolded moderns were carefully making their way, endlessly repeating Prunes and Prism in an effort to align their speech with the accepted form. Mrs. General was completely in her element. Nobody held an opinion. There was an extraordinary buildup of superficiality around her, and it lacked any hint of courage or genuine free speech.
Another modification of Prunes and Prism insinuated itself on Little Dorrit’s notice very shortly after their arrival. They received an early visit from Mrs Merdle, who led that extensive department of life in the Eternal City that winter; and the skilful manner in which she and Fanny fenced with one another on the occasion, almost made her quiet sister wink, like the glittering of small-swords.
Another change in Prunes and Prism caught Little Dorrit's attention shortly after they arrived. They had an early visit from Mrs. Merdle, who was a prominent figure of society in the Eternal City that winter; and the way she and Fanny skillfully navigated their conversation during the visit was almost enough to make her quiet sister blink, like the flashy movement of swords.
‘So delighted,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘to resume an acquaintance so inauspiciously begun at Martigny.’
"So happy," said Mrs. Merdle, "to pick up an acquaintance that started so poorly in Martigny."
‘At Martigny, of course,’ said Fanny. ‘Charmed, I am sure!’
‘At Martigny, of course,’ said Fanny. ‘I’m sure you’re thrilled!’
‘I understand,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘from my son Edmund Sparkler, that he has already improved that chance occasion. He has returned quite transported with Venice.’
"I understand," said Mrs. Merdle, "from my son Edmund Sparkler, that he has already taken advantage of that opportunity. He has come back absolutely enchanted by Venice."
‘Indeed?’ returned the careless Fanny. ‘Was he there long?’
“Really?” replied the carefree Fanny. “Was he there for a while?”
‘I might refer that question to Mr Dorrit,’ said Mrs Merdle, turning the bosom towards that gentleman; ‘Edmund having been so much indebted to him for rendering his stay agreeable.’
“I could pass that question to Mr. Dorrit,” said Mrs. Merdle, directing her attention to that gentleman; “since Edmund has been so grateful for his help in making his stay enjoyable.”
‘Oh, pray don’t speak of it,’ returned Fanny. ‘I believe Papa had the pleasure of inviting Mr Sparkler twice or thrice,—but it was nothing. We had so many people about us, and kept such open house, that if he had that pleasure, it was less than nothing.’
‘Oh, please don’t talk about it,’ Fanny replied. ‘I think Dad invited Mr. Sparkler a couple of times, but it didn’t really mean anything. We had so many people around us and hosted so often that if he did get that invite, it was practically meaningless.’
‘Except, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘except—ha—as it afforded me unusual gratification to—hum—show by any means, however slight and worthless, the—ha, hum—high estimation in which, in—ha—common with the rest of the world, I hold so distinguished and princely a character as Mr Merdle’s.’
‘Except, my dear,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘except—ha—as it gave me great pleasure to—um—demonstrate by any means, however small and insignificant, the—ha, um—high regard in which, like the rest of the world, I hold such a distinguished and noble character as Mr. Merdle’s.’
The bosom received this tribute in its most engaging manner. ‘Mr Merdle,’ observed Fanny, as a means of dismissing Mr Sparkler into the background, ‘is quite a theme of Papa’s, you must know, Mrs Merdle.’
The bosom received this tribute in its most engaging manner. ‘Mr. Merdle,’ observed Fanny, as a way to push Mr. Sparkler into the background, ‘is quite a topic of conversation for Papa, you should know, Mrs. Merdle.’
‘I have been—ha—disappointed, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘to understand from Mr Sparkler that there is no great—hum—probability of Mr Merdle’s coming abroad.’
‘I’ve been—ha—disappointed, ma’am,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘to hear from Mr. Sparkler that there’s not much—hum—chance of Mr. Merdle coming out.’
‘Why, indeed,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘he is so much engaged and in such request, that I fear not. He has not been able to get abroad for years. You, Miss Dorrit, I believe have been almost continually abroad for a long time.’
“Why, indeed,” said Mrs. Merdle, “he is so busy and in such high demand that I’m not worried. He hasn’t been able to travel for years. You, Miss Dorrit, I believe have been almost constantly traveling for a long time.”
‘Oh dear yes,’ drawled Fanny, with the greatest hardihood. ‘An immense number of years.’
‘Oh dear yes,’ Fanny said, with a lot of confidence. ‘A huge number of years.’
‘So I should have inferred,’ said Mrs Merdle.
"So I should have figured out," Mrs. Merdle said.
‘Exactly,’ said Fanny.
"That's right," said Fanny.
‘I trust, however,’ resumed Mr Dorrit, ‘that if I have not the—hum—great advantage of becoming known to Mr Merdle on this side of the Alps or Mediterranean, I shall have that honour on returning to England. It is an honour I particularly desire and shall particularly esteem.’
“I trust, though,” Mr. Dorrit continued, “that even if I don’t have the—um—great privilege of getting to know Mr. Merdle here on this side of the Alps or the Mediterranean, I’ll have that honor when I go back to England. It’s an honor I really want and will value a lot.”
‘Mr Merdle,’ said Mrs Merdle, who had been looking admiringly at Fanny through her eye-glass, ‘will esteem it, I am sure, no less.’
‘Mr. Merdle,’ said Mrs. Merdle, who had been looking admiringly at Fanny through her eyeglass, ‘will surely appreciate it just as much.’
Little Dorrit, still habitually thoughtful and solitary though no longer alone, at first supposed this to be mere Prunes and Prism. But as her father when they had been to a brilliant reception at Mrs Merdle’s, harped at their own family breakfast-table on his wish to know Mr Merdle, with the contingent view of benefiting by the advice of that wonderful man in the disposal of his fortune, she began to think it had a real meaning, and to entertain a curiosity on her own part to see the shining light of the time.
Little Dorrit, still often lost in thought and lonely even though she was no longer by herself, initially thought this was just nonsense. But after her father kept bringing up his desire to meet Mr. Merdle at their family breakfast following a dazzling event at Mrs. Merdle's, hoping to get advice from that remarkable man about managing his money, she started to believe it actually meant something. She also began to feel curious about seeing this celebrated figure of the era.
CHAPTER 8. The Dowager Mrs Gowan is reminded that ‘It Never Does’
While the waters of Venice and the ruins of Rome were sunning themselves for the pleasure of the Dorrit family, and were daily being sketched out of all earthly proportion, lineament, and likeness, by travelling pencils innumerable, the firm of Doyce and Clennam hammered away in Bleeding Heart Yard, and the vigorous clink of iron upon iron was heard there through the working hours.
While the waters of Venice and the ruins of Rome basked in the sun for the enjoyment of the Dorrit family, and were constantly being drawn in every exaggerated way by countless traveling artists, the firm of Doyce and Clennam worked tirelessly in Bleeding Heart Yard, where the strong sound of iron striking iron echoed during working hours.
The younger partner had, by this time, brought the business into sound trim; and the elder, left free to follow his own ingenious devices, had done much to enhance the character of the factory. As an ingenious man, he had necessarily to encounter every discouragement that the ruling powers for a length of time had been able by any means to put in the way of this class of culprits; but that was only reasonable self-defence in the powers, since How to do it must obviously be regarded as the natural and mortal enemy of How not to do it. In this was to be found the basis of the wise system, by tooth and nail upheld by the Circumlocution Office, of warning every ingenious British subject to be ingenious at his peril: of harassing him, obstructing him, inviting robbers (by making his remedy uncertain, and expensive) to plunder him, and at the best of confiscating his property after a short term of enjoyment, as though invention were on a par with felony. The system had uniformly found great favour with the Barnacles, and that was only reasonable, too; for one who worthily invents must be in earnest, and the Barnacles abhorred and dreaded nothing half so much. That again was very reasonable; since in a country suffering under the affliction of a great amount of earnestness, there might, in an exceeding short space of time, be not a single Barnacle left sticking to a post.
The younger partner had, by this time, made the business stable; and the older partner, free to pursue his own creative ideas, had significantly improved the factory's reputation. Being a clever man, he inevitably faced numerous obstacles that the authorities had been able to impose on this group of troublemakers for quite some time; however, that was just reasonable self-defense on their part, since "How to do it" must clearly be seen as the natural and deadly enemy of "How not to do it." This formed the foundation of the wise system, fiercely upheld by the Circumlocution Office, which warned every innovative British citizen to be inventive at their own risk: by troubling him, obstructing him, and inviting thieves (by making his solutions uncertain and costly) to take advantage of him, and at best, confiscating his property after a brief enjoyment, as if invention were the same as crime. The system had always been very popular with the Barnacles, which made sense too; because anyone who genuinely invents must be serious, and the Barnacles feared and loathed nothing so much. That, again, was very logical; since in a country burdened by a large amount of seriousness, there might, in a very short time, not be a single Barnacle left stuck to a post.
Daniel Doyce faced his condition with its pains and penalties attached to it, and soberly worked on for the work’s sake. Clennam cheering him with a hearty co-operation, was a moral support to him, besides doing good service in his business relation. The concern prospered, and the partners were fast friends.
Daniel Doyce dealt with his situation, including all its challenges and consequences, and diligently continued working for the sake of the job. Clennam encouraged him with strong support, which provided moral backing and helped in their business partnership. The business thrived, and the partners became close friends.
But Daniel could not forget the old design of so many years. It was not in reason to be expected that he should; if he could have lightly forgotten it, he could never have conceived it, or had the patience and perseverance to work it out. So Clennam thought, when he sometimes observed him of an evening looking over the models and drawings, and consoling himself by muttering with a sigh as he put them away again, that the thing was as true as it ever was.
But Daniel couldn’t forget the old design from so many years ago. It wouldn’t make sense for him to forget it easily; if he could have, he would never have imagined it or had the patience and determination to develop it. So Clennam thought, when he occasionally saw Daniel in the evening going through the models and drawings, quietly comforting himself with a sigh as he put them away again, that the reality of it was as true as ever.
To show no sympathy with so much endeavour, and so much disappointment, would have been to fail in what Clennam regarded as among the implied obligations of his partnership. A revival of the passing interest in the subject which had been by chance awakened at the door of the Circumlocution Office, originated in this feeling. He asked his partner to explain the invention to him; ‘having a lenient consideration,’ he stipulated, ‘for my being no workman, Doyce.’
To show no sympathy for all that hard work and disappointment would have meant failing in what Clennam saw as part of his responsibilities as a partner. A renewed interest in the topic, sparked by a chance encounter at the door of the Circumlocution Office, came from this feeling. He asked his partner to explain the invention to him, stating, “Please be understanding about the fact that I’m not a worker, Doyce.”
‘No workman?’ said Doyce. ‘You would have been a thorough workman if you had given yourself to it. You have as good a head for understanding such things as I have met with.’
‘No worker?’ said Doyce. ‘You would have been a great worker if you had committed to it. You have just as good a head for understanding these things as I’ve come across.’
‘A totally uneducated one, I am sorry to add,’ said Clennam.
"Unfortunately, I’m completely uneducated," Clennam said.
‘I don’t know that,’ returned Doyce, ‘and I wouldn’t have you say that. No man of sense who has been generally improved, and has improved himself, can be called quite uneducated as to anything. I don’t particularly favour mysteries. I would as soon, on a fair and clear explanation, be judged by one class of man as another, provided he had the qualification I have named.’
“I don’t know about that,” Doyce replied, “and I wouldn’t want you to say that. No sensible person who has been generally educated and has worked on their own self-improvement can be considered completely uneducated about anything. I’m not really into mysteries. I’d just as soon be judged by any type of person, as long as they meet the qualifications I mentioned.”
‘At all events,’ said Clennam—‘this sounds as if we were exchanging compliments, but we know we are not—I shall have the advantage of as plain an explanation as can be given.’
“At any rate,” Clennam said, “this sounds like we’re just being polite, but we know we’re not—I’m going to get a straightforward explanation.”
‘Well!’ said Daniel, in his steady even way, ‘I’ll try to make it so.’
‘Well!’ said Daniel, in his calm and consistent manner, ‘I’ll do my best to make it happen.’
He had the power, often to be found in union with such a character, of explaining what he himself perceived, and meant, with the direct force and distinctness with which it struck his own mind. His manner of demonstration was so orderly and neat and simple, that it was not easy to mistake him. There was something almost ludicrous in the complete irreconcilability of a vague conventional notion that he must be a visionary man, with the precise, sagacious travelling of his eye and thumb over the plans, their patient stoppages at particular points, their careful returns to other points whence little channels of explanation had to be traced up, and his steady manner of making everything good and everything sound at each important stage, before taking his hearer on a line’s-breadth further. His dismissal of himself from his description, was hardly less remarkable. He never said, I discovered this adaptation or invented that combination; but showed the whole thing as if the Divine artificer had made it, and he had happened to find it; so modest he was about it, such a pleasant touch of respect was mingled with his quiet admiration of it, and so calmly convinced he was that it was established on irrefragable laws.
He had the ability, often found in someone like him, to explain what he saw and meant with the same clarity and impact that it had on his own mind. His way of demonstrating was so organized, neat, and straightforward that it was hard to misunderstand him. There was something almost funny about how utterly at odds the vague conventional idea was that he must be a dreamer, compared to the precise and insightful way his eye and thumb moved over the plans, stopping patiently at specific points, carefully returning to others where little channels of explanation needed to be traced, and his steady approach to making everything clear and sound at each crucial step before guiding his listener a little further. His self-effacement in his descriptions was equally striking. He never said, “I discovered this adaptation” or “I invented that combination,” but presented the whole thing as if the Divine creator had made it, and he had simply come across it; he was so modest about it, with a nice touch of respect in his quiet admiration for it, and he was so calmly convinced it was based on unshakeable principles.
Not only that evening, but for several succeeding evenings, Clennam was quite charmed by this investigation. The more he pursued it, and the oftener he glanced at the grey head bending over it, and the shrewd eye kindling with pleasure in it and love of it—instrument for probing his heart though it had been made for twelve long years—the less he could reconcile it to his younger energy to let it go without one effort more. At length he said:
Not just that night, but for several nights after, Clennam was completely captivated by this investigation. The more he delved into it, and the more he noticed the grey head leaning over it, with the keen eye lighting up with pleasure and love for it—an instrument for exploring his feelings, even though it had been there for twelve long years—the harder it became for him to accept letting it go without making one last effort. Finally, he said:
‘Doyce, it came to this at last—that the business was to be sunk with Heaven knows how many more wrecks, or begun all over again?’
‘Doyce, it has come to this at last—that the business is either going to fail like so many others, or we’re going to have to start fresh all over again?’
‘Yes,’ returned Doyce, ‘that’s what the noblemen and gentlemen made of it after a dozen years.’
‘Yes,’ responded Doyce, ‘that’s how the aristocrats and gentry saw it after twelve years.’
‘And pretty fellows too!’ said Clennam, bitterly.
“And good-looking guys too!” Clennam said bitterly.
‘The usual thing!’ observed Doyce. ‘I must not make a martyr of myself, when I am one of so large a company.’
“The usual thing!” Doyce remarked. “I shouldn’t make a martyr out of myself when I’m part of such a large group.”
‘Relinquish it, or begin it all over again?’ mused Clennam.
“Let it go, or start all over again?” Clennam wondered.
‘That was exactly the long and the short of it,’ said Doyce.
"That's exactly what it was," Doyce said.
‘Then, my friend,’ cried Clennam, starting up and taking his work-roughened hand, ‘it shall be begun all over again!’
‘Then, my friend,’ exclaimed Clennam, jumping up and taking his work-worn hand, ‘we'll start all over again!’
Doyce looked alarmed, and replied in a hurry—for him, ‘No, no. Better put it by. Far better put it by. It will be heard of, one day. I can put it by. You forget, my good Clennam; I have put it by. It’s all at an end.’
Doyce looked shocked and quickly replied, “No, no. It's better to set it aside. Much better to set it aside. It will come up again one day. I can set it aside. You forget, my good Clennam; I have set it aside. It’s all over.”
‘Yes, Doyce,’ returned Clennam, ‘at an end as far as your efforts and rebuffs are concerned, I admit, but not as far as mine are. I am younger than you: I have only once set foot in that precious office, and I am fresh game for them. Come! I’ll try them. You shall do exactly as you have been doing since we have been together. I will add (as I easily can) to what I have been doing, the attempt to get public justice done to you; and, unless I have some success to report, you shall hear no more of it.’
“Yeah, Doyce,” Clennam replied, “it may be over for your efforts and setbacks, but it’s not for mine. I’m younger than you; I’ve only stepped into that important office once, and I’m fresh prey for them. Come on! I’ll give it a shot. You just keep doing what you’ve been doing since we’ve been together. I’ll add (as I easily can) my attempt to get public justice for you; and unless I have some good news to share, you won’t hear anything more about it.”
Daniel Doyce was still reluctant to consent, and again and again urged that they had better put it by. But it was natural that he should gradually allow himself to be over-persuaded by Clennam, and should yield. Yield he did. So Arthur resumed the long and hopeless labour of striving to make way with the Circumlocution Office.
Daniel Doyce was still hesitant to agree, and he kept insisting that it would be better to set it aside. But it was only natural for him to gradually be swayed by Clennam and give in. And give in he did. So Arthur took up the long and frustrating task of trying to navigate the Circumlocution Office again.
The waiting-rooms of that Department soon began to be familiar with his presence, and he was generally ushered into them by its janitors much as a pickpocket might be shown into a police-office; the principal difference being that the object of the latter class of public business is to keep the pickpocket, while the Circumlocution object was to get rid of Clennam. However, he was resolved to stick to the Great Department; and so the work of form-filling, corresponding, minuting, memorandum-making, signing, counter-signing, counter-counter-signing, referring backwards and forwards, and referring sideways, crosswise, and zig-zag, recommenced.
The waiting rooms of that department soon became familiar with his presence, and he was usually shown in by the janitors much like a pickpocket might be led into a police station; the main difference being that the goal of the latter was to catch the pickpocket, while the goal of the Circumlocution was to get rid of Clennam. Nevertheless, he was determined to stick with the Great Department; and so the work of filling out forms, corresponding, taking minutes, making memos, signing, counter-signing, counter-counter-signing, and referring things back and forth, sideways, crosswise, and zig-zag, began again.
Here arises a feature of the Circumlocution Office, not previously mentioned in the present record. When that admirable Department got into trouble, and was, by some infuriated members of Parliament whom the smaller Barnacles almost suspected of labouring under diabolic possession, attacked on the merits of no individual case, but as an Institution wholly abominable and Bedlamite; then the noble or right honourable Barnacle who represented it in the House, would smite that member and cleave him asunder, with a statement of the quantity of business (for the prevention of business) done by the Circumlocution Office. Then would that noble or right honourable Barnacle hold in his hand a paper containing a few figures, to which, with the permission of the House, he would entreat its attention. Then would the inferior Barnacles exclaim, obeying orders, ‘Hear, Hear, Hear!’ and ‘Read!’ Then would the noble or right honourable Barnacle perceive, sir, from this little document, which he thought might carry conviction even to the perversest mind (Derisive laughter and cheering from the Barnacle fry), that within the short compass of the last financial half-year, this much-maligned Department (Cheers) had written and received fifteen thousand letters (Loud cheers), had written twenty-four thousand minutes (Louder cheers), and thirty-two thousand five hundred and seventeen memoranda (Vehement cheering). Nay, an ingenious gentleman connected with the Department, and himself a valuable public servant, had done him the favour to make a curious calculation of the amount of stationery consumed in it during the same period. It formed a part of this same short document; and he derived from it the remarkable fact that the sheets of foolscap paper it had devoted to the public service would pave the footways on both sides of Oxford Street from end to end, and leave nearly a quarter of a mile to spare for the park (Immense cheering and laughter); while of tape—red tape—it had used enough to stretch, in graceful festoons, from Hyde Park Corner to the General Post Office. Then, amidst a burst of official exultation, would the noble or right honourable Barnacle sit down, leaving the mutilated fragments of the Member on the field. No one, after that exemplary demolition of him, would have the hardihood to hint that the more the Circumlocution Office did, the less was done, and that the greatest blessing it could confer on an unhappy public would be to do nothing.
Here comes a feature of the Circumlocution Office that hasn’t been mentioned before in this record. When that outstanding Department found itself in trouble, attacked by some furious members of Parliament, whom the smaller Barnacles almost suspected of being possessed by evil spirits, it wasn’t about the merits of any individual case but rather as an Institution completely detestable and insane. At that point, the noble or right honorable Barnacle representing it in the House would strike back, utterly dismissing that member with a statement about the vast amount of business (for the prevention of business) done by the Circumlocution Office. Then, that noble or right honorable Barnacle would hold up a document with a few figures and, with the House’s permission, ask for its attention. The lesser Barnacles would shout, following orders, “Hear, Hear, Hear!” and “Read!” The noble or right honorable Barnacle would then notice, sir, from this little document, which he believed could sway even the most stubborn mind (Derisive laughter and cheering from the Barnacle crowd), that within the short span of the last financial half-year, this much-criticized Department (Cheers) had sent and received fifteen thousand letters (Loud cheers), had written twenty-four thousand minutes (Louder cheers), and thirty-two thousand five hundred and seventeen memoranda (Vehement cheering). Moreover, an inventive gentleman linked to the Department, who was himself a valuable public servant, had kindly calculated the amount of stationery used in that time. It was part of the same brief document; from it, he drew the impressive fact that the sheets of foolscap paper it had dedicated to public service could pave the sidewalks on both sides of Oxford Street from end to end, with nearly a quarter of a mile left over for the park (Immense cheering and laughter); and the red tape used would stretch, elegantly draped, from Hyde Park Corner to the General Post Office. Then, amid a wave of official celebration, the noble or right honorable Barnacle would sit down, leaving the defeated member on the floor. No one, after that exemplary dismantling, would dare suggest that the more the Circumlocution Office accomplished, the less was actually done, and that the greatest blessing it could offer an unfortunate public would be to do nothing.
With sufficient occupation on his hands, now that he had this additional task—such a task had many and many a serviceable man died of before his day—Arthur Clennam led a life of slight variety. Regular visits to his mother’s dull sick room, and visits scarcely less regular to Mr Meagles at Twickenham, were its only changes during many months.
With plenty to keep him busy, now that he had this extra task—something that had caused many capable men to meet their end before him—Arthur Clennam lived a life with little variety. His only changes over many months were his regular visits to his mother's dreary sickroom and visits that were almost as regular to Mr. Meagles in Twickenham.
He sadly and sorely missed Little Dorrit. He had been prepared to miss her very much, but not so much. He knew to the full extent only through experience, what a large place in his life was left blank when her familiar little figure went out of it. He felt, too, that he must relinquish the hope of its return, understanding the family character sufficiently well to be assured that he and she were divided by a broad ground of separation. The old interest he had had in her, and her old trusting reliance on him, were tinged with melancholy in his mind: so soon had change stolen over them, and so soon had they glided into the past with other secret tendernesses.
He missed Little Dorrit deeply and painfully. He had expected to miss her a lot, but not this much. He realized just how much of his life felt empty without her familiar little figure in it. He also knew he had to give up hope for her return, fully aware of their family situation and that a significant divide separated them. The affection he once had for her and her trusting reliance on him now felt bittersweet; change had crept in so quickly, and they had already slipped into the past along with other cherished memories.
When he received her letter he was greatly moved, but did not the less sensibly feel that she was far divided from him by more than distance. It helped him to a clearer and keener perception of the place assigned him by the family. He saw that he was cherished in her grateful remembrance secretly, and that they resented him with the jail and the rest of its belongings.
When he got her letter, he was really touched, but he also clearly felt that she was separated from him by more than just distance. It gave him a clearer and sharper understanding of his position in the family. He realized that she secretly held him dear in her gratitude, while they were angry with him about the jail and all the related issues.
Through all these meditations which every day of his life crowded about her, he thought of her otherwise in the old way. She was his innocent friend, his delicate child, his dear Little Dorrit. This very change of circumstances fitted curiously in with the habit, begun on the night when the roses floated away, of considering himself as a much older man than his years really made him. He regarded her from a point of view which in its remoteness, tender as it was, he little thought would have been unspeakable agony to her. He speculated about her future destiny, and about the husband she might have, with an affection for her which would have drained her heart of its dearest drop of hope, and broken it.
Through all these thoughts that filled his mind every day, he still thought of her in the same old way. She was his innocent friend, his delicate child, his dear Little Dorrit. This change in circumstances oddly aligned with his habit, which began on that night when the roses floated away, of seeing himself as much older than his actual age. He viewed her from a perspective that, although tender, he had no idea would have been unbearable agony for her. He wondered about her future and the husband she might have, with a kind of affection that would have drained her heart of its deepest hope and broken it.
Everything about him tended to confirm him in the custom of looking on himself as an elderly man, from whom such aspirations as he had combated in the case of Minnie Gowan (though that was not so long ago either, reckoning by months and seasons), were finally departed. His relations with her father and mother were like those on which a widower son-in-law might have stood. If the twin sister who was dead had lived to pass away in the bloom of womanhood, and he had been her husband, the nature of his intercourse with Mr and Mrs Meagles would probably have been just what it was. This imperceptibly helped to render habitual the impression within him, that he had done with, and dismissed that part of life.
Everything about him made him see himself as an older man, someone who had let go of the dreams he once had, like those he struggled with regarding Minnie Gowan (which wasn't too long ago, if you think about it in months and seasons). His relationship with her parents resembled that of a widowed son-in-law. If his twin sister, who had passed away, had lived to mature, and he had been her husband, his interactions with Mr. and Mrs. Meagles would probably have been the same. This gradually reinforced the feeling inside him that he had moved on and closed the door on that part of his life.
He invariably heard of Minnie from them, as telling them in her letters how happy she was, and how she loved her husband; but inseparable from that subject, he invariably saw the old cloud on Mr Meagles’s face. Mr Meagles had never been quite so radiant since the marriage as before. He had never quite recovered the separation from Pet. He was the same good-humoured, open creature; but as if his face, from being much turned towards the pictures of his two children which could show him only one look, unconsciously adopted a characteristic from them, it always had now, through all its changes of expression, a look of loss in it.
He always heard about Minnie from them, as she shared in her letters how happy she was and how much she loved her husband; but along with that topic, he always noticed the old sadness on Mr. Meagles’s face. Mr. Meagles had never been as cheerful since the marriage as he was before. He had never fully gotten over the separation from Pet. He was still the same good-natured, open person; but it was like his face, having been focused so much on the images of his two children that could only show him one expression, had unconsciously picked up a hint of that, so it always had, through all its changes in expression, a look of loss.
One wintry Saturday when Clennam was at the cottage, the Dowager Mrs Gowan drove up, in the Hampton Court equipage which pretended to be the exclusive equipage of so many individual proprietors. She descended, in her shady ambuscade of green fan, to favour Mr and Mrs Meagles with a call.
One cold Saturday when Clennam was at the cottage, the Dowager Mrs. Gowan pulled up in the Hampton Court carriage that claimed to be the personal ride of many individual owners. She got out, hiding behind her green fan, to pay Mr. and Mrs. Meagles a visit.
‘And how do you both do, Papa and Mama Meagles?’ said she, encouraging her humble connections. ‘And when did you last hear from or about my poor fellow?’
‘How are you both doing, Papa and Mama Meagles?’ she asked, supporting her humble relatives. ‘And when was the last time you heard from or about my poor guy?’
My poor fellow was her son; and this mode of speaking of him politely kept alive, without any offence in the world, the pretence that he had fallen a victim to the Meagles’ wiles.
My poor friend was her son, and this way of talking about him politely maintained, without causing any offense, the illusion that he had been a victim of the Meagles' tricks.
‘And the dear pretty one?’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘Have you later news of her than I have?’
‘And what about the lovely one?’ said Mrs. Gowan. ‘Do you have any news about her that I don’t?’
Which also delicately implied that her son had been captured by mere beauty, and under its fascination had forgone all sorts of worldly advantages.
Which also subtly suggested that her son had been captivated by mere beauty, and under its spell, had given up all kinds of worldly advantages.
‘I am sure,’ said Mrs Gowan, without straining her attention on the answers she received, ‘it’s an unspeakable comfort to know they continue happy. My poor fellow is of such a restless disposition, and has been so used to roving about, and to being inconstant and popular among all manner of people, that it’s the greatest comfort in life. I suppose they’re as poor as mice, Papa Meagles?’
‘I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Gowan, not really focusing on the answers she got, ‘it’s an incredible comfort to know they’re still happy. My poor husband is so restless by nature and so used to wandering around and being changeable and well-liked by all kinds of people, that it’s the biggest comfort in life. I guess they’re as broke as mice, right, Papa Meagles?’
Mr Meagles, fidgety under the question, replied, ‘I hope not, ma’am. I hope they will manage their little income.’
Mr. Meagles, feeling nervous about the question, responded, “I hope not, ma’am. I hope they can handle their small income.”
‘Oh! my dearest Meagles!’ returned the lady, tapping him on the arm with the green fan and then adroitly interposing it between a yawn and the company, ‘how can you, as a man of the world and one of the most business-like of human beings—for you know you are business-like, and a great deal too much for us who are not—’
‘Oh! my dearest Meagles!’ replied the lady, tapping him on the arm with the green fan and then skillfully placing it between a yawn and the others, ‘how can you, as a worldly man and one of the most organized people—because you know you are organized, and way too much for those of us who aren’t—’
(Which went to the former purpose, by making Mr Meagles out to be an artful schemer.)
(Which went to the former purpose, by making Mr. Meagles seem like a clever schemer.)
‘—How can you talk about their managing their little means? My poor dear fellow! The idea of his managing hundreds! And the sweet pretty creature too. The notion of her managing! Papa Meagles! Don’t!’
‘—How can you talk about them managing their small resources? My poor dear friend! The thought of him managing hundreds! And the lovely girl too. The idea of her managing! Papa Meagles! Don’t!’
‘Well, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, gravely, ‘I am sorry to admit, then, that Henry certainly does anticipate his means.’
‘Well, ma’am,’ Mr. Meagles said seriously, ‘I regret to say that Henry definitely lives beyond his means.’
‘My dear good man—I use no ceremony with you, because we are a kind of relations;—positively, Mama Meagles,’ exclaimed Mrs Gowan cheerfully, as if the absurd coincidence then flashed upon her for the first time, ‘a kind of relations! My dear good man, in this world none of us can have everything our own way.’
‘My dear good man—I won’t stand on ceremony with you because we’re kind of related;—honestly, Mama Meagles,’ Mrs. Gowan said cheerfully, as if the ridiculous coincidence just struck her for the first time, ‘a kind of relations! My dear good man, in this world none of us can have everything our own way.’
This again went to the former point, and showed Mr Meagles with all good breeding that, so far, he had been brilliantly successful in his deep designs. Mrs Gowan thought the hit so good a one, that she dwelt upon it; repeating ‘Not everything. No, no; in this world we must not expect everything, Papa Meagles.’
This brought us back to the previous topic and showed Mr. Meagles, with his excellent manners, that he had been very successful in his secret plans. Mrs. Gowan found the comment so clever that she lingered on it, repeating, "Not everything. No, no; in this world, we can't expect everything, Papa Meagles."
‘And may I ask, ma’am,’ retorted Mr Meagles, a little heightened in colour, ‘who does expect everything?’
“And can I ask, ma’am,” replied Mr. Meagles, his face a bit flushed, “who expects everything?”
‘Oh, nobody, nobody!’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘I was going to say—but you put me out. You interrupting Papa, what was I going to say?’
‘Oh, nobody, nobody!’ said Mrs. Gowan. ‘I was going to say—but you interrupted me. You interrupting Dad, what was I going to say?’
Drooping her large green fan, she looked musingly at Mr Meagles while she thought about it; a performance not tending to the cooling of that gentleman’s rather heated spirits.
Dropping her big green fan, she gazed thoughtfully at Mr. Meagles as she considered it; an action that didn't help cool his rather heated spirits.
‘Ah! Yes, to be sure!’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘You must remember that my poor fellow has always been accustomed to expectations. They may have been realised, or they may not have been realised—’
‘Ah! Yes, of course!’ said Mrs. Gowan. ‘You have to remember that my poor guy has always been used to expectations. They might have come true, or they might not have come true—’
‘Let us say, then, may not have been realised,’ observed Mr Meagles.
"Let's say, then, it might not have been realized," Mr. Meagles remarked.
The Dowager for a moment gave him an angry look; but tossed it off with her head and her fan, and pursued the tenor of her way in her former manner.
The Dowager shot him an angry glance for a moment, but shrugged it off with her head and her fan, then continued on her way as she usually did.
‘It makes no difference. My poor fellow has been accustomed to that sort of thing, and of course you knew it, and were prepared for the consequences. I myself always clearly foresaw the consequences, and am not surprised. And you must not be surprised. In fact, can’t be surprised. Must have been prepared for it.’
‘It doesn't matter. My poor friend is used to that kind of thing, and of course you knew it and were ready for the consequences. I always clearly saw the results coming and am not surprised. You shouldn't be surprised either. In fact, you can't be surprised. You must have been ready for it.’
Mr Meagles looked at his wife and at Clennam; bit his lip; and coughed.
Mr. Meagles looked at his wife and at Clennam; bit his lip; and coughed.
‘And now here’s my poor fellow,’ Mrs Gowan pursued, ‘receiving notice that he is to hold himself in expectation of a baby, and all the expenses attendant on such an addition to his family! Poor Henry! But it can’t be helped now; it’s too late to help it now. Only don’t talk of anticipating means, Papa Meagles, as a discovery; because that would be too much.’
‘And now here’s my poor guy,’ Mrs. Gowan continued, ‘getting the news that he needs to prepare for a baby, along with all the costs that come with adding to his family! Poor Henry! But it can’t be changed now; it’s too late to change it. Just don’t talk about planning for finances, Papa Meagles, as if it’s some kind of revelation; that would be too much.’
‘Too much, ma’am?’ said Mr Meagles, as seeking an explanation.
“Is this too much, ma’am?” Mr. Meagles asked, looking for an explanation.
‘There, there!’ said Mrs Gowan, putting him in his inferior place with an expressive action of her hand. ‘Too much for my poor fellow’s mother to bear at this time of day. They are fast married, and can’t be unmarried. There, there! I know that! You needn’t tell me that, Papa Meagles. I know it very well. What was it I said just now? That it was a great comfort they continued happy. It is to be hoped they will still continue happy. It is to be hoped Pretty One will do everything she can to make my poor fellow happy, and keep him contented. Papa and Mama Meagles, we had better say no more about it. We never did look at this subject from the same side, and we never shall. There, there! Now I am good.’
“There, there!” said Mrs. Gowan, dismissively waving her hand to put him in his place. “It’s too much for my poor fellow’s mother to handle at this time of day. They are married now and they can’t un-marry. There, there! I know that! You don’t need to remind me of it, Papa Meagles. I know it very well. What did I just say? That it’s a great comfort they’re still happy together. Let’s hope they continue to be happy. I hope Pretty One does everything she can to make my poor fellow happy and keep him content. Papa and Mama Meagles, we should really drop it. We’ve never seen this issue the same way, and we probably never will. There, there! Now I’m feeling good.”
Truly, having by this time said everything she could say in maintenance of her wonderfully mythical position, and in admonition to Mr Meagles that he must not expect to bear his honours of alliance too cheaply, Mrs Gowan was disposed to forgo the rest. If Mr Meagles had submitted to a glance of entreaty from Mrs Meagles, and an expressive gesture from Clennam, he would have left her in the undisturbed enjoyment of this state of mind. But Pet was the darling and pride of his heart; and if he could ever have championed her more devotedly, or loved her better, than in the days when she was the sunlight of his house, it would have been now, when, as its daily grace and delight, she was lost to it.
Honestly, after saying everything she could to support her incredibly mythical status and to remind Mr. Meagles not to expect to enjoy his honorable connection too easily, Mrs. Gowan was ready to stop. If Mr. Meagles had responded to a look of pleading from Mrs. Meagles and an expressive gesture from Clennam, he would have left her to peacefully enjoy her current state of mind. But Pet was the apple of his eye; and if he could ever have defended her more passionately or loved her more than when she was the light of his home, it would be now, when, as its daily joy and beauty, she was no longer with them.
‘Mrs Gowan, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I have been a plain man all my life. If I was to try—no matter whether on myself, on somebody else, or both—any genteel mystifications, I should probably not succeed in them.’
‘Mrs. Gowan, ma’am,’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘I’ve been a straightforward man my whole life. If I were to attempt—whether on myself, on someone else, or both—any sophisticated tricks, I probably wouldn’t be successful at it.’
‘Papa Meagles,’ returned the Dowager, with an affable smile, but with the bloom on her cheeks standing out a little more vividly than usual as the neighbouring surface became paler, ‘probably not.’
‘Papa Meagles,’ replied the Dowager, with a friendly smile, but with the color in her cheeks standing out a bit more than usual as the surrounding area became paler, ‘probably not.’
‘Therefore, my good madam,’ said Mr Meagles, at great pains to restrain himself, ‘I hope I may, without offence, ask to have no such mystification played off upon me.’
‘So, my good lady,’ Mr. Meagles said, trying hard to hold himself back, ‘I hope I can, without causing any offense, request that you don’t put me through any such confusion.’
‘Mama Meagles,’ observed Mrs Gowan, ‘your good man is incomprehensible.’
‘Mama Meagles,’ Mrs. Gowan noted, ‘your good man is hard to understand.’
Her turning to that worthy lady was an artifice to bring her into the discussion, quarrel with her, and vanquish her. Mr Meagles interposed to prevent that consummation.
Her turning to that respectable woman was a tactic to pull her into the conversation, argue with her, and defeat her. Mr. Meagles stepped in to prevent that from happening.
‘Mother,’ said he, ‘you are inexpert, my dear, and it is not a fair match. Let me beg of you to remain quiet. Come, Mrs Gowan, come! Let us try to be sensible; let us try to be good-natured; let us try to be fair. Don’t you pity Henry, and I won’t pity Pet. And don’t be one-sided, my dear madam; it’s not considerate, it’s not kind. Don’t let us say that we hope Pet will make Henry happy, or even that we hope Henry will make Pet happy,’ (Mr Meagles himself did not look happy as he spoke the words,) ‘but let us hope they will make each other happy.’
‘Mom,’ he said, ‘you’re not really good at this, and it’s not a fair situation. Please, let me ask you to stay quiet. Come on, Mrs. Gowan, let’s try to be reasonable; let’s try to be friendly; let’s try to be fair. Don’t you feel for Henry, and I won’t feel for Pet. And please don’t take sides, my dear; it’s not thoughtful, it’s not nice. Let’s not say that we hope Pet will make Henry happy, or even that we hope Henry will make Pet happy,’ (Mr. Meagles himself didn’t look happy as he said this,) ‘but let’s hope they will make each other happy.’
‘Yes, sure, and there leave it, father,’ said Mrs Meagles the kind-hearted and comfortable.
‘Yes, of course, and just leave it there, Dad,’ said Mrs. Meagles, the kind-hearted and easygoing.
‘Why, mother, no,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘not exactly there. I can’t quite leave it there; I must say just half-a-dozen words more. Mrs Gowan, I hope I am not over-sensitive. I believe I don’t look it.’
‘Why, mom, no,’ replied Mr. Meagles, ‘not exactly there. I can’t just leave it like that; I need to say just a few more words. Mrs. Gowan, I hope I'm not being too sensitive. I believe I don’t appear that way.’
‘Indeed you do not,’ said Mrs Gowan, shaking her head and the great green fan together, for emphasis.
‘You definitely don’t,’ said Mrs. Gowan, shaking her head and the big green fan together for emphasis.
‘Thank you, ma’am; that’s well. Notwithstanding which, I feel a little—I don’t want to use a strong word—now shall I say hurt?’ asked Mr Meagles at once with frankness and moderation, and with a conciliatory appeal in his tone.
‘Thank you, ma’am; that’s good. Still, I feel a little—I don’t want to say too much—how about I say hurt?’ asked Mr. Meagles immediately with honesty and restraint, and with a friendly tone in his voice.
‘Say what you like,’ answered Mrs Gowan. ‘It is perfectly indifferent to me.’
"Say what you want," Mrs. Gowan replied. "It doesn't matter to me at all."
‘No, no, don’t say that,’ urged Mr Meagles, ‘because that’s not responding amiably. I feel a little hurt when I hear references made to consequences having been foreseen, and to its being too late now, and so forth.’
‘No, no, don’t say that,’ Mr. Meagles urged, ‘because that’s not being friendly. It stings a bit when I hear people talk about how the consequences were foreseen and that it’s too late now, and so on.’
‘Do you, Papa Meagles?’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘I am not surprised.’
‘i>Do you, Papa Meagles?’ said Mrs. Gowan. ‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Well, ma’am,’ reasoned Mr Meagles, ‘I was in hopes you would have been at least surprised, because to hurt me wilfully on so tender a subject is surely not generous.’
‘Well, ma’am,’ Mr. Meagles said, ‘I was hoping you would have been at least surprised, because intentionally hurting me on such a sensitive topic isn't very generous.’
‘I am not responsible,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘for your conscience, you know.’
‘I’m not responsible,’ Mrs. Gowan said, ‘for your conscience, you know.’
Poor Mr Meagles looked aghast with astonishment.
Poor Mr. Meagles looked shocked with disbelief.
‘If I am unluckily obliged to carry a cap about with me, which is yours and fits you,’ pursued Mrs Gowan, ‘don’t blame me for its pattern, Papa Meagles, I beg!’
‘If I have to carry around a cap that belongs to you and fits you,’ continued Mrs. Gowan, ‘please don’t blame me for its design, Papa Meagles, I beg!’
‘Why, good Lord, ma’am!’ Mr Meagles broke out, ‘that’s as much as to state—’
‘Why, good Lord, ma’am!’ Mr. Meagles exclaimed, ‘that’s as much as to say—’
‘Now, Papa Meagles, Papa Meagles,’ said Mrs Gowan, who became extremely deliberate and prepossessing in manner whenever that gentleman became at all warm, ‘perhaps to prevent confusion, I had better speak for myself than trouble your kindness to speak for me. It’s as much as to state, you begin. If you please, I will finish the sentence. It is as much as to state—not that I wish to press it or even recall it, for it is of no use now, and my only wish is to make the best of existing circumstances—that from the first to the last I always objected to this match of yours, and at a very late period yielded a most unwilling consent to it.’
“Now, Papa Meagles, Papa Meagles,” said Mrs. Gowan, who became very deliberate and charming whenever he got a bit emotional. “To avoid any confusion, I’d better speak for myself instead of asking you to speak for me. It’s basically a way of saying you start. If you don’t mind, I’ll finish your sentence. It’s just a way of saying—not that I want to push it or even bring it up again, because it’s pointless now, and I just want to make the best of what we have—that from the very beginning to the very end, I was always against this match of yours, and only very reluctantly agreed to it at a much later time.”
‘Mother!’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Do you hear this! Arthur! Do you hear this!’
‘Mom!’ shouted Mr. Meagles. ‘Do you hear this! Arthur! Are you hearing this!’
‘The room being of a convenient size,’ said Mrs Gowan, looking about as she fanned herself, ‘and quite charmingly adapted in all respects to conversation, I should imagine I am audible in any part of it.’
‘The room is a comfortable size,’ said Mrs. Gowan, glancing around as she fanned herself, ‘and it’s perfectly suited for conversation, so I assume I can be heard from anywhere in here.’
Some moments passed in silence, before Mr Meagles could hold himself in his chair with sufficient security to prevent his breaking out of it at the next word he spoke. At last he said: ‘Ma’am, I am very unwilling to revive them, but I must remind you what my opinions and my course were, all along, on that unfortunate subject.’
Some moments went by in silence before Mr. Meagles could sit still in his chair without suddenly jumping up when he spoke next. Finally, he said, “Ma’am, I really don’t want to bring this up again, but I need to remind you of my views and actions regarding that unfortunate matter all along.”
‘O, my dear sir!’ said Mrs Gowan, smiling and shaking her head with accusatory intelligence, ‘they were well understood by me, I assure you.’
‘Oh, my dear sir!’ said Mrs. Gowan, smiling and shaking her head knowingly, ‘I understood them perfectly, I assure you.’
‘I never, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘knew unhappiness before that time, I never knew anxiety before that time. It was a time of such distress to me that—’ That Mr Meagles could really say no more about it, in short, but passed his handkerchief before his face.
"I never, ma'am," said Mr. Meagles, "knew unhappiness before then, I never knew anxiety before then. It was such a distressing time for me that—" Mr. Meagles couldn't say anything more about it, simply passing his handkerchief across his face.
‘I understood the whole affair,’ said Mrs Gowan, composedly looking over her fan. ‘As you have appealed to Mr Clennam, I may appeal to Mr Clennam, too. He knows whether I did or not.’
‘I get the whole situation,’ said Mrs. Gowan, calmly peering over her fan. ‘Since you’ve reached out to Mr. Clennam, I can reach out to Mr. Clennam as well. He knows if I did or didn’t.’
‘I am very unwilling,’ said Clennam, looked to by all parties, ‘to take any share in this discussion, more especially because I wish to preserve the best understanding and the clearest relations with Mr Henry Gowan. I have very strong reasons indeed, for entertaining that wish. Mrs Gowan attributed certain views of furthering the marriage to my friend here, in conversation with me before it took place; and I endeavoured to undeceive her. I represented that I knew him (as I did and do) to be strenuously opposed to it, both in opinion and action.’
“I really don’t want to,” Clennam said, looking at everyone involved, “to be part of this discussion, especially because I want to maintain a good understanding and clear relationship with Mr. Henry Gowan. I have very strong reasons for wanting that. Mrs. Gowan mentioned that my friend here had certain ideas about promoting the marriage during a conversation with me before it happened, and I tried to correct her. I explained that I knew him (which I did and still do) to be completely against it, both in his beliefs and actions.”
‘You see?’ said Mrs Gowan, turning the palms of her hands towards Mr Meagles, as if she were Justice herself, representing to him that he had better confess, for he had not a leg to stand on. ‘You see? Very good! Now Papa and Mama Meagles both!’ here she rose; ‘allow me to take the liberty of putting an end to this rather formidable controversy. I will not say another word upon its merits. I will only say that it is an additional proof of what one knows from all experience; that this kind of thing never answers—as my poor fellow himself would say, that it never pays—in one word, that it never does.’
"You see?" Mrs. Gowan said, turning her palms toward Mr. Meagles, as if she were the law herself, signaling that he should just admit it because he had no defense. "You see? Very good! Now, Papa and Mama Meagles both!" Here she stood up. "Let me take the initiative to put an end to this rather daunting debate. I won’t say another word about its merits. I’ll just point out that it’s further proof of what we all know from experience: this kind of thing never works out—as my poor husband would say, it never pays—in short, it just doesn’t."
Mr Meagles asked, What kind of thing?
Mr. Meagles asked, "What kind of thing?"
‘It is in vain,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘for people to attempt to get on together who have such extremely different antecedents; who are jumbled against each other in this accidental, matrimonial sort of way; and who cannot look at the untoward circumstance which has shaken them together in the same light. It never does.’
‘It’s pointless,’ said Mrs. Gowan, ‘for people to try to get along when they have such completely different backgrounds; when they’re suddenly thrown together in this accidental, marital way; and when they can’t see the unfortunate situation that brought them together in the same way. It never works.’
Mr Meagles was beginning, ‘Permit me to say, ma’am—’
Mr. Meagles was starting, 'Allow me to say, ma'am—'
‘No, don’t,’ returned Mrs Gowan. ‘Why should you! It is an ascertained fact. It never does. I will therefore, if you please, go my way, leaving you to yours. I shall at all times be happy to receive my poor fellow’s pretty wife, and I shall always make a point of being on the most affectionate terms with her. But as to these terms, semi-family and semi-stranger, semi-goring and semi-boring, they form a state of things quite amusing in its impracticability. I assure you it never does.’
‘No, don’t,’ Mrs. Gowan replied. ‘Why should you? It’s a well-known fact. It never works. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll go my way and you can go yours. I’ll always be happy to welcome my poor husband’s lovely wife, and I’ll make sure to stay on the friendliest terms with her. But as for this mix of being part family and part stranger, part exciting and part dull, it creates a situation that’s pretty funny in how impossible it is. Trust me, it never works.’
The Dowager here made a smiling obeisance, rather to the room than to any one in it, and therewith took a final farewell of Papa and Mama Meagles. Clennam stepped forward to hand her to the Pill-Box which was at the service of all the Pills in Hampton Court Palace; and she got into that vehicle with distinguished serenity, and was driven away.
The Dowager smiled and nodded, more to the room than to anyone specifically, and then said her final goodbyes to Papa and Mama Meagles. Clennam stepped forward to escort her to the Pill-Box, which was available for all the Pills in Hampton Court Palace; she entered the vehicle with an air of dignity and was driven off.
Thenceforth the Dowager, with a light and careless humour, often recounted to her particular acquaintance how, after a hard trial, she had found it impossible to know those people who belonged to Henry’s wife, and who had made that desperate set to catch him. Whether she had come to the conclusion beforehand, that to get rid of them would give her favourite pretence a better air, might save her some occasional inconvenience, and could risk no loss (the pretty creature being fast married, and her father devoted to her), was best known to herself. Though this history has its opinion on that point too, and decidedly in the affirmative.
From then on, the Dowager, with a light and carefree sense of humor, often told her close friends how, after a tough time, she found it impossible to know the people related to Henry’s wife who had made a desperate attempt to pursue him. Whether she had concluded beforehand that getting rid of them would improve her favorite excuse, save her from some occasional hassle, and involve no risk (since the charming girl was happily married and her father was devoted to her) was something only she really knew. Although this story has its own opinion on that matter too, and it's definitely in the affirmative.
CHAPTER 9. Appearance and Disappearance
‘Arthur, my dear boy,’ said Mr Meagles, on the evening of the following day, ‘Mother and I have been talking this over, and we don’t feel comfortable in remaining as we are. That elegant connection of ours—that dear lady who was here yesterday—’
‘Arthur, my dear boy,’ said Mr. Meagles, on the evening of the next day, ‘Mother and I have been discussing this, and we don’t feel good about staying as we are. That classy connection of ours—that lovely lady who was here yesterday—’
‘I understand,’ said Arthur.
"I get it," Arthur said.
‘Even that affable and condescending ornament of society,’ pursued Mr Meagles, ‘may misrepresent us, we are afraid. We could bear a great deal, Arthur, for her sake; but we think we would rather not bear that, if it was all the same to her.’
‘Even that friendly yet patronizing figure of society,’ continued Mr. Meagles, ‘might misrepresent us, we’re worried. We could put up with a lot, Arthur, for her sake; but we’d prefer not to deal with that, if it doesn’t matter to her.’
‘Good,’ said Arthur. ‘Go on.’
“Good,” Arthur said. “Go on.”
‘You see,’ proceeded Mr Meagles ‘it might put us wrong with our son-in-law, it might even put us wrong with our daughter, and it might lead to a great deal of domestic trouble. You see, don’t you?’
"You see," Mr. Meagles continued, "it could create issues with our son-in-law, it could even cause problems with our daughter, and it might lead to a lot of family trouble. Do you understand?"
‘Yes, indeed,’ returned Arthur, ‘there is much reason in what you say.’ He had glanced at Mrs Meagles, who was always on the good and sensible side; and a petition had shone out of her honest face that he would support Mr Meagles in his present inclinings.
"Yes, definitely," replied Arthur, "you make a lot of good points." He had looked over at Mrs. Meagles, who was always practical and reasonable; and there was a look of hope on her sincere face that he would back Mr. Meagles in his current thoughts.
‘So we are very much disposed, are Mother and I,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘to pack up bags and baggage and go among the Allongers and Marshongers once more. I mean, we are very much disposed to be off, strike right through France into Italy, and see our Pet.’
‘So my mother and I are really ready,’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘to pack our bags and head out to the Allongers and Marshongers again. What I mean is, we’re really eager to set off, travel straight through France to Italy, and see our Pet.’
‘And I don’t think,’ replied Arthur, touched by the motherly anticipation in the bright face of Mrs Meagles (she must have been very like her daughter, once), ‘that you could do better. And if you ask me for my advice, it is that you set off to-morrow.’
‘And I don’t think,’ replied Arthur, moved by the motherly excitement in Mrs. Meagles' bright face (she must have looked a lot like her daughter once), ‘that you could do better. And if you want my advice, it’s that you should set off tomorrow.’
‘Is it really, though?’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Mother, this is being backed in an idea!’
‘Is it really, though?’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘Mom, this is supporting an idea!’
Mother, with a look which thanked Clennam in a manner very agreeable to him, answered that it was indeed.
Mother, with a look that expressed her gratitude to Clennam in a way that pleased him, replied that it was indeed.
‘The fact is, besides, Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, the old cloud coming over his face, ‘that my son-in-law is already in debt again, and that I suppose I must clear him again. It may be as well, even on this account, that I should step over there, and look him up in a friendly way. Then again, here’s Mother foolishly anxious (and yet naturally too) about Pet’s state of health, and that she should not be left to feel lonesome at the present time. It’s undeniably a long way off, Arthur, and a strange place for the poor love under all the circumstances. Let her be as well cared for as any lady in that land, still it is a long way off. just as Home is Home though it’s never so Homely, why you see,’ said Mr Meagles, adding a new version to the proverb, ‘Rome is Rome, though it’s never so Romely.’
"The truth is, Arthur," Mr. Meagles said, a familiar frown crossing his face, "my son-in-law is already in debt again, and I guess I should bail him out once more. Maybe it’s best I go over there and check in on him in a friendly way. Then there's Mother, worrying (which is natural, of course) about Pet's health and that she shouldn’t feel lonely right now. It’s definitely quite a distance, Arthur, and a strange place for her, given everything. Even if she’s well taken care of like any lady there, it’s still a long way away. Just like Home is Home, even if it’s not the coziest, you see," Mr. Meagles added, putting a fresh spin on the saying, "Rome is Rome, even if it’s not the coziest."
‘All perfectly true,’ observed Arthur, ‘and all sufficient reasons for going.’
"That's all completely true," Arthur said, "and those are all the good reasons for leaving."
‘I am glad you think so; it decides me. Mother, my dear, you may get ready. We have lost our pleasant interpreter (she spoke three foreign languages beautifully, Arthur; you have heard her many a time), and you must pull me through it, Mother, as well as you can. I require a deal of pulling through, Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head, ‘a deal of pulling through. I stick at everything beyond a noun-substantive—and I stick at him, if he’s at all a tight one.’
"I'm glad you feel that way; that makes my decision easier. Mother, my dear, you can start getting ready. We’ve lost our wonderful interpreter (she spoke three foreign languages beautifully, Arthur; you’ve heard her many times), and you’ll need to help me out as best you can, Mother. I need a lot of help, Arthur," Mr. Meagles said, shaking his head, "a lot of help. I struggle with everything beyond a noun—and I’m not great with that if it’s even slightly complicated."
‘Now I think of it,’ returned Clennam, ‘there’s Cavalletto. He shall go with you, if you like. I could not afford to lose him, but you will bring him safe back.’
"Now that I think about it," Clennam replied, "there's Cavalletto. He can go with you, if you'd like. I can't afford to lose him, but you will make sure to bring him back safely."
‘Well! I am much obliged to you, my boy,’ said Mr Meagles, turning it over, ‘but I think not. No, I think I’ll be pulled through by Mother. Cavallooro (I stick at his very name to start with, and it sounds like the chorus to a comic song) is so necessary to you, that I don’t like the thought of taking him away. More than that, there’s no saying when we may come home again; and it would never do to take him away for an indefinite time. The cottage is not what it was. It only holds two little people less than it ever did, Pet, and her poor unfortunate maid Tattycoram; but it seems empty now. Once out of it, there’s no knowing when we may come back to it. No, Arthur, I’ll be pulled through by Mother.’
‘Well! I really appreciate it, my boy,’ said Mr. Meagles, turning it over, ‘but I don’t think so. No, I believe I’ll get through this with Mother’s help. Cavallooro (I have trouble even saying his name, which sounds like the chorus of a funny song) is so important to you that I don’t like the idea of taking him away. Plus, we have no idea when we might come back home again; it wouldn't be right to take him away for an unknown amount of time. The cottage isn’t what it used to be. It only holds two fewer little folks than it ever did, Pet and her poor unfortunate maid Tattycoram; but it feels empty now. Once we leave, there’s no telling when we might return. No, Arthur, I’ll get through this with Mother’s help.’
They would do best by themselves perhaps, after all, Clennam thought; therefore did not press his proposal.
They might be better off on their own, Clennam thought; so he didn't push his suggestion.
‘If you would come down and stay here for a change, when it wouldn’t trouble you,’ Mr Meagles resumed, ‘I should be glad to think—and so would Mother too, I know—that you were brightening up the old place with a bit of life it was used to when it was full, and that the Babies on the wall there had a kind eye upon them sometimes. You so belong to the spot, and to them, Arthur, and we should every one of us have been so happy if it had fallen out—but, let us see—how’s the weather for travelling now?’ Mr Meagles broke off, cleared his throat, and got up to look out of the window.
"If you could come down and stay here for a change, when it wouldn’t be a bother for you," Mr. Meagles continued, "I would be happy to think— and so would Mother, I know—that you were bringing some life back to the old place, like it used to have when it was full, and that the Babies on the wall had a kind eye on them sometimes. You really belong to this place and to them, Arthur, and we would all have been so happy if that had happened—but, let’s see—what's the weather like for traveling now?" Mr. Meagles paused, cleared his throat, and got up to look out the window.
They agreed that the weather was of high promise; and Clennam kept the talk in that safe direction until it had become easy again, when he gently diverted it to Henry Gowan and his quick sense and agreeable qualities when he was delicately dealt with; he likewise dwelt on the indisputable affection he entertained for his wife. Clennam did not fail of his effect upon good Mr Meagles, whom these commendations greatly cheered; and who took Mother to witness that the single and cordial desire of his heart in reference to their daughter’s husband, was harmoniously to exchange friendship for friendship, and confidence for confidence. Within a few hours the cottage furniture began to be wrapped up for preservation in the family absence—or, as Mr Meagles expressed it, the house began to put its hair in papers—and within a few days Father and Mother were gone, Mrs Tickit and Dr Buchan were posted, as of yore, behind the parlour blind, and Arthur’s solitary feet were rustling among the dry fallen leaves in the garden walks.
They all agreed that the weather looked promising, and Clennam kept the conversation in that safe zone until it felt easy again. He then gently shifted the topic to Henry Gowan and his quick wit and pleasant nature when treated kindly; he also emphasized the genuine affection Gowan had for his wife. Clennam's words had a positive impact on good Mr. Meagles, who felt greatly uplifted by the praise. He told Mother that his only heartfelt wish regarding their daughter's husband was to exchange friendship for friendship and trust for trust. Within a few hours, they started wrapping up the cottage furniture for safekeeping during the family's absence— or, as Mr. Meagles put it, the house began to "put its hair in papers." In just a few days, Father and Mother were gone, Mrs. Tickit and Dr. Buchan were back behind the parlor curtains as before, and Arthur's lonely footsteps crunched through the dry fallen leaves on the garden paths.
As he had a liking for the spot, he seldom let a week pass without paying a visit. Sometimes, he went down alone from Saturday to Monday; sometimes his partner accompanied him; sometimes, he merely strolled for an hour or two about the house and garden, saw that all was right, and returned to London again. At all times, and under all circumstances, Mrs Tickit, with her dark row of curls, and Dr Buchan, sat in the parlour window, looking out for the family return.
Since he really liked the place, he rarely let a week go by without visiting. Sometimes, he went alone from Saturday to Monday; other times, his partner joined him; sometimes, he just walked around the house and garden for an hour or two to make sure everything was fine before heading back to London. No matter what, Mrs. Tickit, with her dark curls, and Dr. Buchan sat in the parlor window, waiting for the family to come home.
On one of his visits Mrs Tickit received him with the words, ‘I have something to tell you, Mr Clennam, that will surprise you.’ So surprising was the something in question, that it actually brought Mrs Tickit out of the parlour window and produced her in the garden walk, when Clennam went in at the gate on its being opened for him.
On one of his visits, Mrs. Tickit greeted him saying, “I have something to tell you, Mr. Clennam, that will surprise you.” The news was so shocking that it made Mrs. Tickit come out of the parlor window and appear in the garden path as Clennam walked in through the gate when it was opened for him.
‘What is it, Mrs Tickit?’ said he.
‘What is it, Mrs. Tickit?’ he asked.
‘Sir,’ returned that faithful housekeeper, having taken him into the parlour and closed the door; ‘if ever I saw the led away and deluded child in my life, I saw her identically in the dusk of yesterday evening.’
‘Sir,’ replied the loyal housekeeper after leading him into the parlor and shutting the door, ‘if I’ve ever seen a misguided and misled child in my life, it was definitely her yesterday evening at dusk.’
‘You don’t mean Tatty—’
'You can't be talking about Tatty—'
‘Coram yes I do!’ quoth Mrs Tickit, clearing the disclosure at a leap.
‘Of course, I do!’ said Mrs. Tickit, quickly getting to the point.
‘Where?’
'Where at?'
‘Mr Clennam,’ returned Mrs Tickit, ‘I was a little heavy in my eyes, being that I was waiting longer than customary for my cup of tea which was then preparing by Mary Jane. I was not sleeping, nor what a person would term correctly, dozing. I was more what a person would strictly call watching with my eyes closed.’
‘Mr. Clennam,’ replied Mrs. Tickit, ‘I felt a bit heavy-eyed because I was waiting longer than usual for my cup of tea, which Mary Jane was making. I wasn’t asleep, nor was I really dozing, as someone might put it. I was more accurately what someone would strictly say was watching with my eyes closed.’
Without entering upon an inquiry into this curious abnormal condition, Clennam said, ‘Exactly. Well?’
Without delving into this strange abnormal condition, Clennam said, ‘Exactly. So what’s next?’
‘Well, sir,’ proceeded Mrs Tickit, ‘I was thinking of one thing and thinking of another, just as you yourself might. Just as anybody might.’
‘Well, sir,’ continued Mrs. Tickit, ‘I was thinking about one thing and then another, just like you might. Just like anyone might.’
‘Precisely so,’ said Clennam. ‘Well?’
“Exactly,” Clennam said. “So?”
‘And when I do think of one thing and do think of another,’ pursued Mrs Tickit, ‘I hardly need to tell you, Mr Clennam, that I think of the family. Because, dear me! a person’s thoughts,’ Mrs Tickit said this with an argumentative and philosophic air, ‘however they may stray, will go more or less on what is uppermost in their minds. They will do it, sir, and a person can’t prevent them.’
‘And when I think of one thing and then think of another,’ continued Mrs. Tickit, ‘I hardly need to tell you, Mr. Clennam, that I think of the family. Because, honestly! A person’s thoughts,’ Mrs. Tickit said this with an argumentative and philosophical tone, ‘no matter how much they wander, will generally focus on what’s most important to them. They will do that, sir, and no one can stop them.’
Arthur subscribed to this discovery with a nod.
Arthur agreed with this discovery by nodding.
‘You find it so yourself, sir, I’ll be bold to say,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘and we all find it so. It an’t our stations in life that changes us, Mr Clennam; thoughts is free!—As I was saying, I was thinking of one thing and thinking of another, and thinking very much of the family. Not of the family in the present times only, but in the past times too. For when a person does begin thinking of one thing and thinking of another in that manner, as it’s getting dark, what I say is, that all times seem to be present, and a person must get out of that state and consider before they can say which is which.’
"You find it to be true yourself, sir, and I’ll confidently say the same," said Mrs. Tickit, "and we all agree on that. It’s not our positions in life that change us, Mr. Clennam; thoughts are free! As I was saying, I've been thinking about one thing and another, and I’ve been thinking a lot about the family. Not just the family now, but also how it was in the past. Because when someone starts to think about one thing and another like that, especially as it’s getting dark, what I mean is that all times seem to be present, and a person has to get out of that state and reflect before they can tell which is which."
He nodded again; afraid to utter a word, lest it should present any new opening to Mrs Tickit’s conversational powers.
He nodded again, afraid to say anything that might give Mrs. Tickit a chance to keep talking.
‘In consequence of which,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘when I quivered my eyes and saw her actual form and figure looking in at the gate, I let them close again without so much as starting, for that actual form and figure came so pat to the time when it belonged to the house as much as mine or your own, that I never thought at the moment of its having gone away. But, sir, when I quivered my eyes again, and saw that it wasn’t there, then it all flooded upon me with a fright, and I jumped up.’
‘As a result,’ said Mrs. Tickit, ‘when I blinked my eyes and saw her actual shape and figure looking in at the gate, I let them close again without a flinch, because that actual shape and figure felt just as much part of the house as mine or yours. I didn’t even think at that moment that it had gone away. But, sir, when I blinked my eyes again and saw that it wasn’t there, then it all hit me with a shock, and I jumped up.’
‘You ran out directly?’ said Clennam.
‘You ran out right away?’ said Clennam.
‘I ran out,’ assented Mrs Tickit, ‘as fast as ever my feet would carry me; and if you’ll credit it, Mr Clennam, there wasn’t in the whole shining Heavens, no not so much as a finger of that young woman.’
“I ran out,” agreed Mrs. Tickit, “as fast as my feet could take me; and if you can believe it, Mr. Clennam, there wasn’t a trace of that young woman anywhere in the entire sky.”
Passing over the absence from the firmament of this novel constellation, Arthur inquired of Mrs Tickit if she herself went beyond the gate?
Passing over the lack of this new star in the sky, Arthur asked Mrs. Tickit if she ever went beyond the gate.
‘Went to and fro, and high and low,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘and saw no sign of her!’
‘Went back and forth, and searched high and low,’ said Mrs. Tickit, ‘and saw no sign of her!’
He then asked Mrs Tickit how long a space of time she supposed there might have been between the two sets of ocular quiverings she had experienced? Mrs Tickit, though minutely circumstantial in her reply, had no settled opinion between five seconds and ten minutes. She was so plainly at sea on this part of the case, and had so clearly been startled out of slumber, that Clennam was much disposed to regard the appearance as a dream. Without hurting Mrs Tickit’s feelings with that infidel solution of her mystery, he took it away from the cottage with him; and probably would have retained it ever afterwards if a circumstance had not soon happened to change his opinion.
He then asked Mrs. Tickit how much time she thought there might have been between the two episodes of her eye twitching. Mrs. Tickit, although detailed in her answer, couldn't decide if it was five seconds or ten minutes. She seemed clearly confused about this part of the situation and had obviously been jolted awake, which made Clennam lean towards the idea that it was just a dream. Without hurting Mrs. Tickit’s feelings by suggesting that her mystery was just that, he took it with him from the cottage; and he probably would have kept it forever if something hadn't happened soon after that changed his mind.
He was passing at nightfall along the Strand, and the lamp-lighter was going on before him, under whose hand the street-lamps, blurred by the foggy air, burst out one after another, like so many blazing sunflowers coming into full-blow all at once,—when a stoppage on the pavement, caused by a train of coal-waggons toiling up from the wharves at the river-side, brought him to a stand-still. He had been walking quickly, and going with some current of thought, and the sudden check given to both operations caused him to look freshly about him, as people under such circumstances usually do.
He was walking along the Strand at dusk, and the lamp-lighter was ahead of him, lighting the street lamps, which flickered in the foggy air and seemed to burst into brightness one by one, like a bunch of sunflowers blooming all at once—when a blockage on the pavement caused by a line of coal wagons slowly making their way up from the river wharves brought him to a halt. He had been walking quickly, lost in thought, and the sudden stop made him take a fresh look around, as people often do in such situations.
Immediately, he saw in advance—a few people intervening, but still so near to him that he could have touched them by stretching out his arm—Tattycoram and a strange man of a remarkable appearance: a swaggering man, with a high nose, and a black moustache as false in its colour as his eyes were false in their expression, who wore his heavy cloak with the air of a foreigner. His dress and general appearance were those of a man on travel, and he seemed to have very recently joined the girl. In bending down (being much taller than she was), listening to whatever she said to him, he looked over his shoulder with the suspicious glance of one who was not unused to be mistrustful that his footsteps might be dogged. It was then that Clennam saw his face; as his eyes lowered on the people behind him in the aggregate, without particularly resting upon Clennam’s face or any other.
Immediately, he noticed ahead of him—a few people getting involved, but still so close that he could have touched them by reaching out his arm—Tattycoram and a strange man with a striking appearance: a confident man, with a prominent nose and a black mustache that was as fake in color as his eyes were in expression, who wore his heavy cloak like a foreigner. His clothing and overall look suggested he was traveling, and he seemed to have just joined the girl. As he bent down (being much taller than she was), listening to whatever she said to him, he glanced over his shoulder with the wary look of someone who was used to being suspicious that he might be followed. It was then that Clennam caught sight of his face; as his eyes scanned the crowd behind him generally, without specifically focusing on Clennam’s face or anyone else's.
He had scarcely turned his head about again, and it was still bent down, listening to the girl, when the stoppage ceased, and the obstructed stream of people flowed on. Still bending his head and listening to the girl, he went on at her side, and Clennam followed them, resolved to play this unexpected play out, and see where they went.
He had barely turned his head again, still leaning down to listen to the girl, when the blockage ended, and the crowd of people started moving again. Still bending his head and listening to the girl, he continued walking alongside her, and Clennam followed them, determined to see how this unexpected situation played out and where they were headed.
He had hardly made the determination (though he was not long about it), when he was again as suddenly brought up as he had been by the stoppage. They turned short into the Adelphi,—the girl evidently leading,—and went straight on, as if they were going to the Terrace which overhangs the river.
He had barely made up his mind (though he didn’t take long to do it) when he was suddenly stopped again, just like before. They quickly turned into the Adelphi—the girl clearly in the lead—and kept going straight, as if they were heading to the Terrace that overlooks the river.
There is always, to this day, a sudden pause in that place to the roar of the great thoroughfare. The many sounds become so deadened that the change is like putting cotton in the ears, or having the head thickly muffled. At that time the contrast was far greater; there being no small steam-boats on the river, no landing places but slippery wooden stairs and foot-causeways, no railroad on the opposite bank, no hanging bridge or fish-market near at hand, no traffic on the nearest bridge of stone, nothing moving on the stream but watermen’s wherries and coal-lighters. Long and broad black tiers of the latter, moored fast in the mud as if they were never to move again, made the shore funereal and silent after dark; and kept what little water-movement there was, far out towards mid-stream. At any hour later than sunset, and not least at that hour when most of the people who have anything to eat at home are going home to eat it, and when most of those who have nothing have hardly yet slunk out to beg or steal, it was a deserted place and looked on a deserted scene.
There’s always, even today, a sudden quiet in that spot amid the loud hustle of the busy roadway. The many sounds fade to the point where it feels like putting cotton in your ears or having your head wrapped in thick fabric. Back then, the difference was even more striking; there were no small steam boats on the river, no landings except for slippery wooden stairs and footpaths, no train tracks on the opposite side, no hanging bridge or nearby fish market, no traffic on the nearest stone bridge, and nothing moving on the water except for the rowboats and coal barges. Long, wide rows of those barges, firmly stuck in the mud as if they’d never move again, made the shore feel somber and quiet after dark, pushing whatever little water movement there was far out towards the middle of the river. Anytime after sunset, especially at that hour when most people who have food at home are heading home to eat it, and when many who have nothing have barely mustered the courage to beg or steal, it felt like a desolate place with a deserted view.
Such was the hour when Clennam stopped at the corner, observing the girl and the strange man as they went down the street. The man’s footsteps were so noisy on the echoing stones that he was unwilling to add the sound of his own. But when they had passed the turning and were in the darkness of the dark corner leading to the terrace, he made after them with such indifferent appearance of being a casual passenger on his way, as he could assume.
It was at that hour when Clennam paused at the corner, watching the girl and the strange man as they walked down the street. The man's footsteps were so loud on the echoing stones that Clennam didn’t want to make any noise himself. But when they turned the corner and entered the darkness leading to the terrace, he followed them, trying to appear like an uninterested passerby on his way.
When he rounded the dark corner, they were walking along the terrace towards a figure which was coming towards them. If he had seen it by itself, under such conditions of gas-lamp, mist, and distance, he might not have known it at first sight, but with the figure of the girl to prompt him, he at once recognised Miss Wade.
When he turned the dark corner, they were walking along the terrace towards a figure that was coming toward them. If he had seen it alone in the gaslight, mist, and distance, he might not have recognized it at first glance, but with the girl beside him, he instantly recognized Miss Wade.
He stopped at the corner, seeming to look back expectantly up the street as if he had made an appointment with some one to meet him there; but he kept a careful eye on the three. When they came together, the man took off his hat, and made Miss Wade a bow. The girl appeared to say a few words as though she presented him, or accounted for his being late, or early, or what not; and then fell a pace or so behind, by herself. Miss Wade and the man then began to walk up and down; the man having the appearance of being extremely courteous and complimentary in manner; Miss Wade having the appearance of being extremely haughty.
He paused at the corner, looking back up the street as if he was waiting for someone to meet him there; but he kept a close watch on the three. When they got close, the man took off his hat and bowed to Miss Wade. The girl seemed to say a few words, as if she was introducing him or explaining why he was late, or early, or something like that; then she fell a step or two behind on her own. Miss Wade and the man then started to walk back and forth; the man seemed very polite and flattering, while Miss Wade looked very proud.
When they came down to the corner and turned, she was saying, ‘If I pinch myself for it, sir, that is my business. Confine yourself to yours, and ask me no question.’
When they reached the corner and turned, she was saying, ‘If I choose to pinch myself for it, sir, that's my business. Stick to your own affairs and don't ask me any questions.’
‘By Heaven, ma’am!’ he replied, making her another bow. ‘It was my profound respect for the strength of your character, and my admiration of your beauty.’
“By Heaven, ma’am!” he replied, bowing to her again. “It was my deep respect for your strong character and my admiration for your beauty.”
‘I want neither the one nor the other from any one,’ said she, ‘and certainly not from you of all creatures. Go on with your report.’
‘I don't want either one from anyone,’ she said, ‘and definitely not from you of all people. Just continue with your report.’
‘Am I pardoned?’ he asked, with an air of half abashed gallantry.
‘Am I forgiven?’ he asked, with a hint of shy charm.
‘You are paid,’ she said, ‘and that is all you want.’
"You get paid," she said, "and that's all you care about."
Whether the girl hung behind because she was not to hear the business, or as already knowing enough about it, Clennam could not determine. They turned and she turned. She looked away at the river, as she walked with her hands folded before her; and that was all he could make of her without showing his face. There happened, by good fortune, to be a lounger really waiting for some one; and he sometimes looked over the railing at the water, and sometimes came to the dark corner and looked up the street, rendering Arthur less conspicuous.
Whether the girl stayed behind because she wasn't supposed to hear what was happening or because she already knew enough about it, Clennam couldn't tell. They turned, and she turned with them. She looked away at the river as she walked with her hands folded in front of her; that was all he could perceive about her without revealing his face. Luckily, there was someone idly waiting for someone else; he occasionally glanced over the railing at the water and sometimes came to the dark corner to look up the street, making Arthur less noticeable.
When Miss Wade and the man came back again, she was saying, ‘You must wait until to-morrow.’
When Miss Wade and the man returned, she was saying, 'You have to wait until tomorrow.'
‘A thousand pardons?’ he returned. ‘My faith! Then it’s not convenient to-night?’
‘A thousand apologies?’ he replied. ‘Really? So it’s not a good time tonight?’
‘No. I tell you I must get it before I can give it to you.’
‘No. I’m telling you I need to get it before I can give it to you.’
She stopped in the roadway, as if to put an end to the conference. He of course stopped too. And the girl stopped.
She paused in the middle of the road, as if to wrap up the conversation. He, of course, stopped as well. And the girl stopped too.
‘It’s a little inconvenient,’ said the man. ‘A little. But, Holy Blue! that’s nothing in such a service. I am without money to-night, by chance. I have a good banker in this city, but I would not wish to draw upon the house until the time when I shall draw for a round sum.’
“It’s a bit inconvenient,” said the man. “A bit. But, Holy Blue! that’s nothing in a service like this. I’m short on cash tonight, by chance. I have a good banker in this city, but I wouldn’t want to tap into the account until it’s time to withdraw a larger amount.”
‘Harriet,’ said Miss Wade, ‘arrange with him—this gentleman here—for sending him some money to-morrow.’ She said it with a slur of the word gentleman which was more contemptuous than any emphasis, and walked slowly on.
‘Harriet,’ said Miss Wade, ‘set up a plan with him—this guy here—for sending him some money tomorrow.’ She said it with a slur on the word guy that was more disrespectful than any emphasis, and walked away slowly.
The man bent his head again, and the girl spoke to him as they both followed her. Clennam ventured to look at the girl as they moved away. He could note that her rich black eyes were fastened upon the man with a scrutinising expression, and that she kept at a little distance from him, as they walked side by side to the further end of the terrace.
The man lowered his head again, and the girl talked to him as they both followed her. Clennam dared to glance at the girl as they left. He noticed that her deep black eyes were focused on the man with an intense look, and that she kept a slight distance from him as they walked side by side to the end of the terrace.
A loud and altered clank upon the pavement warned him, before he could discern what was passing there, that the man was coming back alone. Clennam lounged into the road, towards the railing; and the man passed at a quick swing, with the end of his cloak thrown over his shoulder, singing a scrap of a French song.
A loud and distinct clank on the pavement alerted him, before he could see what was going on, that the man was coming back by himself. Clennam stepped into the street, heading toward the railing; and the man walked by quickly, with the end of his cloak draped over his shoulder, humming a bit of a French song.
The whole vista had no one in it now but himself. The lounger had lounged out of view, and Miss Wade and Tattycoram were gone. More than ever bent on seeing what became of them, and on having some information to give his good friend, Mr Meagles, he went out at the further end of the terrace, looking cautiously about him. He rightly judged that, at first at all events, they would go in a contrary direction from their late companion. He soon saw them in a neighbouring bye-street, which was not a thoroughfare, evidently allowing time for the man to get well out of their way. They walked leisurely arm-in-arm down one side of the street, and returned on the opposite side. When they came back to the street-corner, they changed their pace for the pace of people with an object and a distance before them, and walked steadily away. Clennam, no less steadily, kept them in sight.
The whole scene was empty now except for him. The person who had been lounging was out of sight, and Miss Wade and Tattycoram were gone. More determined than ever to find out what happened to them and to have some news to share with his good friend, Mr. Meagles, he went out to the far end of the terrace, looking around cautiously. He correctly guessed that, for now at least, they would head in the opposite direction from their former companion. He soon spotted them in a nearby side street, which wasn’t a main road, clearly giving the man enough time to get far away. They walked casually, arm-in-arm down one side of the street, then came back on the other side. When they reached the corner of the street, they picked up their pace as if they had a purpose and a destination in mind, and walked away steadily. Clennam, just as determinedly, kept them in his sight.
They crossed the Strand, and passed through Covent Garden (under the windows of his old lodging where dear Little Dorrit had come that night), and slanted away north-east, until they passed the great building whence Tattycoram derived her name, and turned into the Gray’s Inn Road. Clennam was quite at home here, in right of Flora, not to mention the Patriarch and Pancks, and kept them in view with ease. He was beginning to wonder where they might be going next, when that wonder was lost in the greater wonder with which he saw them turn into the Patriarchal street. That wonder was in its turn swallowed up on the greater wonder with which he saw them stop at the Patriarchal door. A low double knock at the bright brass knocker, a gleam of light into the road from the opened door, a brief pause for inquiry and answer and the door was shut, and they were housed.
They crossed the Strand and went through Covent Garden (right under the windows of his old place where dear Little Dorrit had come that night), then headed northeast until they passed the big building that inspired Tattycoram’s name and turned onto Gray’s Inn Road. Clennam felt completely at ease here, thanks to Flora, not to mention the Patriarch and Pancks, and he kept an easy eye on them. He was starting to wonder where they might be heading next when that curiosity faded into a deeper surprise as he saw them turn onto the Patriarchal street. That surprise was quickly overtaken by an even greater one as he watched them stop at the Patriarchal door. A soft double knock at the shiny brass knocker, a flash of light spilling into the street from the open door, a brief pause for inquiry and response, and then the door was shut, and they were inside.
After looking at the surrounding objects for assurance that he was not in an odd dream, and after pacing a little while before the house, Arthur knocked at the door. It was opened by the usual maid-servant, and she showed him up at once, with her usual alacrity, to Flora’s sitting-room.
After checking the nearby items to make sure he wasn't in a weird dream and pacing for a bit in front of the house, Arthur knocked on the door. The usual maid opened it and promptly led him to Flora's sitting room with her typical eagerness.
There was no one with Flora but Mr F.‘s Aunt, which respectable gentlewoman, basking in a balmy atmosphere of tea and toast, was ensconced in an easy-chair by the fireside, with a little table at her elbow, and a clean white handkerchief spread over her lap on which two pieces of toast at that moment awaited consumption. Bending over a steaming vessel of tea, and looking through the steam, and breathing forth the steam, like a malignant Chinese enchantress engaged in the performance of unholy rites, Mr F.‘s Aunt put down her great teacup and exclaimed, ‘Drat him, if he an’t come back again!’
There was no one with Flora except Mr. F’s Aunt, a respectable lady who was relaxing in a cozy chair by the fireplace, enjoying a pleasant atmosphere filled with the smells of tea and toast. Next to her sat a little table with a clean white handkerchief draped over her lap, on which two pieces of toast were waiting to be eaten. Leaning over a steaming pot of tea, and peering through the steam, which she was also exhaling like a wicked Chinese sorceress performing dark magic, Mr. F’s Aunt set down her large teacup and exclaimed, “Drat him, if he hasn’t come back again!”
It would seem from the foregoing exclamation that this uncompromising relative of the lamented Mr F., measuring time by the acuteness of her sensations and not by the clock, supposed Clennam to have lately gone away; whereas at least a quarter of a year had elapsed since he had had the temerity to present himself before her.
It seems from the earlier comment that this strict relative of the late Mr. F., who measured time by her feelings rather than the clock, thought Clennam had recently left; however, at least three months had passed since he had dared to show up in front of her.
‘My goodness Arthur!’ cried Flora, rising to give him a cordial reception, ‘Doyce and Clennam what a start and a surprise for though not far from the machinery and foundry business and surely might be taken sometimes if at no other time about mid-day when a glass of sherry and a humble sandwich of whatever cold meat in the larder might not come amiss nor taste the worse for being friendly for you know you buy it somewhere and wherever bought a profit must be made or they would never keep the place it stands to reason without a motive still never seen and learnt now not to be expected, for as Mr F. himself said if seeing is believing not seeing is believing too and when you don’t see you may fully believe you’re not remembered not that I expect you Arthur Doyce and Clennam to remember me why should I for the days are gone but bring another teacup here directly and tell her fresh toast and pray sit near the fire.’
"My goodness, Arthur!" Flora exclaimed, getting up to warmly welcome him. "Doyce and Clennam, what a shock and a surprise! Though we’re not far from the machinery and foundry business, it’s understandable that you might feel like coming by sometimes—especially around midday when a glass of sherry and a simple sandwich made with whatever cold meat is in the fridge wouldn’t be out of place. It wouldn’t taste any worse for being friendly, since we all know you buy it from somewhere, and wherever it’s bought, there has to be a profit or they wouldn’t stay in business. It's only logical to want a motive. Still, I’ve learned not to expect that kind of thing, because as Mr. F. himself said, if seeing is believing, not seeing is believing too. And when you don’t see someone, you might truly believe you aren’t remembered. Not that I expect you, Arthur Doyce and Clennam, to remember me—why would you? Those days are gone. But please, bring another teacup here right away and tell her to make some fresh toast, and do sit near the fire."
Arthur was in the greatest anxiety to explain the object of his visit; but was put off for the moment, in spite of himself, by what he understood of the reproachful purport of these words, and by the genuine pleasure she testified in seeing him.
Arthur was extremely anxious to explain why he had come; however, he was momentarily distracted, despite himself, by what he perceived as the reproachful meaning behind her words and by the genuine happiness she showed at seeing him.
‘And now pray tell me something all you know,’ said Flora, drawing her chair near to his, ‘about the good dear quiet little thing and all the changes of her fortunes carriage people now no doubt and horses without number most romantic, a coat of arms of course and wild beasts on their hind legs showing it as if it was a copy they had done with mouths from ear to ear good gracious, and has she her health which is the first consideration after all for what is wealth without it Mr F. himself so often saying when his twinges came that sixpence a day and find yourself and no gout so much preferable, not that he could have lived on anything like it being the last man or that the previous little thing though far too familiar an expression now had any tendency of that sort much too slight and small but looked so fragile bless her?’
“Now, please tell me everything you know,” said Flora, pulling her chair closer to his, “about that sweet, quiet little thing and all her changes in fortune—carriage people now, no doubt, and horses galore, so romantic, a coat of arms, of course, and wild beasts on their hind legs showing it as if it were a copy they’d made with mouths stretched from ear to ear. Goodness! And is she healthy? That’s the most important thing, after all, because what is wealth without health? Mr. F. often said when he was having twinges that sixpence a day and no gout was so much better. Not that he could have lived on anything like that, being the last man to do so. And the previous little thing—though that’s far too familiar of a term now—didn’t have any of that going on, as she was much too slight and fragile, bless her.”
Mr F.‘s Aunt, who had eaten a piece of toast down to the crust, here solemnly handed the crust to Flora, who ate it for her as a matter of business. Mr F.‘s Aunt then moistened her ten fingers in slow succession at her lips, and wiped them in exactly the same order on the white handkerchief; then took the other piece of toast, and fell to work upon it. While pursuing this routine, she looked at Clennam with an expression of such intense severity that he felt obliged to look at her in return, against his personal inclinations.
Mr. F.'s Aunt, who had eaten a piece of toast down to the crust, solemnly handed the crust to Flora, who ate it on her behalf as a matter of duty. Mr. F.'s Aunt then slowly moistened her ten fingers at her lips in succession and wiped them in exactly the same order on the white handkerchief; then she took the other piece of toast and began eating it. While following this routine, she looked at Clennam with such an intense severity that he felt compelled to look back at her, despite his personal reluctance.
‘She is in Italy, with all her family, Flora,’ he said, when the dreaded lady was occupied again.
‘She’s in Italy with all her family, Flora,’ he said when the dreaded lady was busy again.
‘In Italy is she really?’ said Flora, ‘with the grapes growing everywhere and lava necklaces and bracelets too that land of poetry with burning mountains picturesque beyond belief though if the organ-boys come away from the neighbourhood not to be scorched nobody can wonder being so young and bringing their white mice with them most humane, and is she really in that favoured land with nothing but blue about her and dying gladiators and Belvederes though Mr F. himself did not believe for his objection when in spirits was that the images could not be true there being no medium between expensive quantities of linen badly got up and all in creases and none whatever, which certainly does not seem probable though perhaps in consequence of the extremes of rich and poor which may account for it.’
“Is she really in Italy?” Flora said. “With grapes growing everywhere and lava necklaces and bracelets too? That land of poetry with its breathtaking burning mountains. But if the organ-grinders leave the area to avoid being scorched, who can blame them? They’re so young and bring their pet white mice, which is quite humane. Is she really in that beautiful place with nothing but blue skies, dying gladiators, and fancy Belvederes? Although Mr. F. himself didn’t believe it; he objected when he was feeling good that the images couldn’t be real. There’s no in-between between expensive, poorly made linen that’s all wrinkled and nothing at all, which certainly doesn’t seem likely. But maybe it’s because of the extremes of wealth and poverty, which could explain it.”
Arthur tried to edge a word in, but Flora hurried on again.
Arthur tried to get a word in, but Flora quickly continued.
‘Venice Preserved too,’ said she, ‘I think you have been there is it well or ill preserved for people differ so and Maccaroni if they really eat it like the conjurors why not cut it shorter, you are acquainted Arthur—dear Doyce and Clennam at least not dear and most assuredly not Doyce for I have not the pleasure but pray excuse me—acquainted I believe with Mantua what has it got to do with Mantua-making for I never have been able to conceive?’
‘Venice Preserved too,’ she said, ‘I think you’ve been there. Is it well or poorly preserved? People have such different opinions. And Maccaroni—if they really eat it like the magicians do, why not cut it shorter? You know Arthur—dear Doyce and Clennam, although not dear and definitely not Doyce, since I don’t have the pleasure. But please excuse me—I believe you’re familiar with Mantua. What does it have to do with making Mantua? I’ve never been able to understand.’
‘I believe there is no connection, Flora, between the two,’ Arthur was beginning, when she caught him up again.
‘I don’t think there’s any connection between the two, Flora,’ Arthur was starting to say, when she interrupted him again.
Original
‘Upon your word no isn’t there I never did but that’s like me I run away with an idea and having none to spare I keep it, alas there was a time dear Arthur that is to say decidedly not dear nor Arthur neither but you understand me when one bright idea gilded the what’s-his-name horizon of et cetera but it is darkly clouded now and all is over.’
‘By your word, no, I never did, but that's typical of me. I get carried away with an idea, and since I have no others to share, I hold onto it. Alas, there was a time, dear Arthur—that is to say, definitely not dear, nor Arthur—but you get what I mean. When one bright idea lit up the, what's-his-name, horizon of whatever, but now it's all dark and cloudy, and it's all over.’
Arthur’s increasing wish to speak of something very different was by this time so plainly written on his face, that Flora stopped in a tender look, and asked him what it was?
Arthur's growing desire to talk about something completely different was clearly visible on his face, prompting Flora to pause with a caring expression and ask him what was on his mind.
‘I have the greatest desire, Flora, to speak to some one who is now in this house—with Mr Casby no doubt. Some one whom I saw come in, and who, in a misguided and deplorable way, has deserted the house of a friend of mine.’
‘I really want to talk to someone who is in this house right now—probably Mr. Casby. Someone I saw come in, and who, in a misguided and unfortunate way, has abandoned the home of a friend of mine.’
‘Papa sees so many and such odd people,’ said Flora, rising, ‘that I shouldn’t venture to go down for any one but you Arthur but for you I would willingly go down in a diving-bell much more a dining-room and will come back directly if you’ll mind and at the same time not mind Mr F.‘s Aunt while I’m gone.’
‘Dad sees so many strange people,’ said Flora, standing up, ‘that I wouldn’t dare go down for anyone but you, Arthur. But for you, I would gladly go down in a diving bell—let alone a dining room—and I'll be back right away if you’ll take care of and at the same time not worry about Mr. F.'s Aunt while I’m gone.’
With those words and a parting glance, Flora bustled out, leaving Clennam under dreadful apprehension of this terrible charge.
With those words and one last look, Flora hurried out, leaving Clennam filled with dread over this awful accusation.
The first variation which manifested itself in Mr F.‘s Aunt’s demeanour when she had finished her piece of toast, was a loud and prolonged sniff. Finding it impossible to avoid construing this demonstration into a defiance of himself, its gloomy significance being unmistakable, Clennam looked plaintively at the excellent though prejudiced lady from whom it emanated, in the hope that she might be disarmed by a meek submission.
The first change in Mr. F.'s Aunt's attitude after she finished her toast was a loud and drawn-out sniff. Unable to ignore how this act felt like a challenge to him, and its gloomy meaning was clear, Clennam looked at the remarkable but biased lady who had made the sound, hoping that his submissive demeanor might soften her.
‘None of your eyes at me,’ said Mr F.‘s Aunt, shivering with hostility. ‘Take that.’
‘None of your eyes on me,’ said Mr. F’s Aunt, shivering with hostility. ‘Take that.’
‘That’ was the crust of the piece of toast. Clennam accepted the boon with a look of gratitude, and held it in his hand under the pressure of a little embarrassment, which was not relieved when Mr F.‘s Aunt, elevating her voice into a cry of considerable power, exclaimed, ‘He has a proud stomach, this chap! He’s too proud a chap to eat it!’ and, coming out of her chair, shook her venerable fist so very close to his nose as to tickle the surface. But for the timely return of Flora, to find him in this difficult situation, further consequences might have ensued. Flora, without the least discomposure or surprise, but congratulating the old lady in an approving manner on being ‘very lively to-night’, handed her back to her chair.
‘That’ was the crust of the piece of toast. Clennam accepted the gift with a look of gratitude, holding it in his hand while feeling a bit embarrassed, a feeling that only grew when Mr. F.'s Aunt, raising her voice loudly, exclaimed, ‘This kid has a proud stomach! He’s too proud to eat it!’ and, getting up from her chair, shook her ancient fist so close to his nose that it almost tickled. If Flora hadn’t come back just in time to find him in this awkward situation, things might have gotten worse. Flora, completely unfazed and unbothered, congratulated the old lady with an approving smile on being ‘very lively tonight’ and helped her back to her chair.
‘He has a proud stomach, this chap,’ said Mr F.‘s relation, on being reseated. ‘Give him a meal of chaff!’
‘He has a proud stomach, this guy,’ said Mr. F.’s relative, as he sat back down. ‘Feed him some chaff!’
‘Oh! I don’t think he would like that, aunt,’ returned Flora.
“Oh! I don’t think he’d like that, Aunt,” Flora replied.
‘Give him a meal of chaff, I tell you,’ said Mr F.‘s Aunt, glaring round Flora on her enemy. ‘It’s the only thing for a proud stomach. Let him eat up every morsel. Drat him, give him a meal of chaff!’
‘Give him a meal of chaff, I’m telling you,’ said Mr. F.’s Aunt, glaring at Flora as she turned to her enemy. ‘It’s the only thing for a proud stomach. Let him eat every last bit. Damn him, give him a meal of chaff!’
Under a general pretence of helping him to this refreshment, Flora got him out on the staircase; Mr F.‘s Aunt even then constantly reiterating, with inexpressible bitterness, that he was ‘a chap,’ and had a ‘proud stomach,’ and over and over again insisting on that equine provision being made for him which she had already so strongly prescribed.
Under the guise of helping him get something to eat, Flora led him out to the staircase; Mr. F.'s Aunt kept insisting, with deep bitterness, that he was "just a guy" and had a "proud attitude," repeatedly demanding that the horse-related arrangement she had already suggested be made for him.
‘Such an inconvenient staircase and so many corner-stairs Arthur,’ whispered Flora, ‘would you object to putting your arm round me under my pelerine?’
‘This staircase is so awkward, and there are so many corners, Arthur,’ whispered Flora, ‘would you mind putting your arm around me under my cape?’
With a sense of going down-stairs in a highly-ridiculous manner, Clennam descended in the required attitude, and only released his fair burden at the dining-room door; indeed, even there she was rather difficult to be got rid of, remaining in his embrace to murmur, ‘Arthur, for mercy’s sake, don’t breathe it to papa!’
With a feeling of awkwardness, Clennam went down the stairs in a rather silly way, and only let go of his lovely companion at the dining-room door; in fact, even then she was a bit hard to shake off, staying in his arms to whisper, ‘Arthur, please, don’t tell dad!’
She accompanied Arthur into the room, where the Patriarch sat alone, with his list shoes on the fender, twirling his thumbs as if he had never left off. The youthful Patriarch, aged ten, looked out of his picture-frame above him with no calmer air than he. Both smooth heads were alike beaming, blundering, and bumpy.
She walked into the room with Arthur, where the Patriarch sat alone, his leather shoes placed on the fender, twirling his thumbs as if he had never stopped. The young Patriarch, who was ten years old, looked down from his picture frame above him with an equally anxious expression. Both smooth heads were similarly bright, awkward, and lopsided.
‘Mr Clennam, I am glad to see you. I hope you are well, sir, I hope you are well. Please to sit down, please to sit down.’
‘Mr. Clennam, it’s great to see you. I hope you’re doing well, sir, I hope you’re doing well. Please have a seat, please have a seat.’
‘I had hoped, sir,’ said Clennam, doing so, and looking round with a face of blank disappointment, ‘not to find you alone.’
"I had hoped, sir," Clennam said, doing so and glancing around with a look of total disappointment, "not to find you alone."
‘Ah, indeed?’ said the Patriarch, sweetly. ‘Ah, indeed?’
'Oh, really?' said the Patriarch, pleasantly. 'Oh, really?'
‘I told you so you know papa,’ cried Flora.
“I told you, so you know, Dad,” cried Flora.
‘Ah, to be sure!’ returned the Patriarch. ‘Yes, just so. Ah, to be sure!’
‘Oh, definitely!’ replied the Patriarch. ‘Yes, exactly. Oh, definitely!’
‘Pray, sir,’ demanded Clennam, anxiously, ‘is Miss Wade gone?’
"Please, sir," asked Clennam, anxiously, "has Miss Wade left?"
‘Miss—? Oh, you call her Wade,’ returned Mr Casby. ‘Highly proper.’
‘Miss—? Oh, you call her Wade,’ Mr. Casby replied. ‘Very appropriate.’
Arthur quickly returned, ‘What do you call her?’
Arthur quickly replied, “What do you call her?”
‘Wade,’ said Mr Casby. ‘Oh, always Wade.’
‘Wade,’ Mr. Casby said. ‘Oh, it’s always Wade.’
After looking at the philanthropic visage and the long silky white hair for a few seconds, during which Mr Casby twirled his thumbs, and smiled at the fire as if he were benevolently wishing it to burn him that he might forgive it, Arthur began:
After looking at the charitable face and the long, smooth white hair for a few seconds, during which Mr. Casby twirled his thumbs and smiled at the fire as if he were kindly wishing it would burn him so he could forgive it, Arthur began:
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Casby—’
"I’m sorry, Mr. Casby—"
‘Not so, not so,’ said the Patriarch, ‘not so.’
‘Not like that, not like that,’ said the Patriarch, ‘not like that.’
‘—But, Miss Wade had an attendant with her—a young woman brought up by friends of mine, over whom her influence is not considered very salutary, and to whom I should be glad to have the opportunity of giving the assurance that she has not yet forfeited the interest of those protectors.’
‘—But Miss Wade had someone with her—a young woman raised by friends of mine, whose influence on her isn’t thought to be very positive, and I would be glad to assure those guardians that she hasn’t yet lost their support.’
‘Really, really?’ returned the Patriarch.
"Seriously?" replied the Patriarch.
‘Will you therefore be so good as to give me the address of Miss Wade?’
"Could you please give me Miss Wade's address?"
‘Dear, dear, dear!’ said the Patriarch, ‘how very unfortunate! If you had only sent in to me when they were here! I observed the young woman, Mr Clennam. A fine full-coloured young woman, Mr Clennam, with very dark hair and very dark eyes. If I mistake not, if I mistake not?’
“Dear, dear, dear!” said the Patriarch, “how very unfortunate! If you had just sent for me when they were here! I noticed the young woman, Mr. Clennam. A beautiful young woman, Mr. Clennam, with very dark hair and very dark eyes. If I’m not mistaken, if I’m not mistaken?”
Arthur assented, and said once more with new expression, ‘If you would be so good as to give me the address.’
Arthur agreed and said again, with a fresh tone, “If you could please give me the address.”
‘Dear, dear, dear!’ exclaimed the Patriarch in sweet regret. ‘Tut, tut, tut! what a pity, what a pity! I have no address, sir. Miss Wade mostly lives abroad, Mr Clennam. She has done so for some years, and she is (if I may say so of a fellow-creature and a lady) fitful and uncertain to a fault, Mr Clennam. I may not see her again for a long, long time. I may never see her again. What a pity, what a pity!’
‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ the Patriarch said with a touch of sadness. ‘What a shame, what a shame! I don’t have an address, sir. Miss Wade mostly lives overseas, Mr. Clennam. She has for several years, and she is (if I might say this about a fellow human and a lady) quite unpredictable and inconsistent, Mr. Clennam. I might not see her again for a long time. I might never see her again. What a shame, what a shame!’
Clennam saw now, that he had as much hope of getting assistance out of the Portrait as out of the Patriarch; but he said nevertheless:
Clennam now realized that he had just as much chance of getting help from the Portrait as he did from the Patriarch; but he still said:
‘Mr Casby, could you, for the satisfaction of the friends I have mentioned, and under any obligation of secrecy that you may consider it your duty to impose, give me any information at all touching Miss Wade? I have seen her abroad, and I have seen her at home, but I know nothing of her. Could you give me any account of her whatever?’
‘Mr. Casby, could you, for the sake of the friends I mentioned, and under any obligation of secrecy that you feel it necessary to impose, provide me with any information about Miss Wade? I've seen her overseas and I've seen her here, but I know nothing about her. Could you share any details about her at all?’
‘None,’ returned the Patriarch, shaking his big head with his utmost benevolence. ‘None at all. Dear, dear, dear! What a real pity that she stayed so short a time, and you delayed! As confidential agency business, agency business, I have occasionally paid this lady money; but what satisfaction is it to you, sir, to know that?’
“None,” replied the Patriarch, shaking his large head with all his kindness. “None at all. Oh dear! What a real shame that she stayed for such a brief time, and you took so long! As part of the confidential agency work, I have sometimes given this lady money, but what does it really matter to you, sir, to know that?”
‘Truly, none at all,’ said Clennam.
‘Honestly, not a single one,’ said Clennam.
‘Truly,’ assented the Patriarch, with a shining face as he philanthropically smiled at the fire, ‘none at all, sir. You hit the wise answer, Mr Clennam. Truly, none at all, sir.’
“Truly,” agreed the Patriarch, with a bright face as he generously smiled at the fire, “none at all, sir. You got it right, Mr. Clennam. Truly, none at all, sir.”
His turning of his smooth thumbs over one another as he sat there, was so typical to Clennam of the way in which he would make the subject revolve if it were pursued, never showing any new part of it nor allowing it to make the smallest advance, that it did much to help to convince him of his labour having been in vain. He might have taken any time to think about it, for Mr Casby, well accustomed to get on anywhere by leaving everything to his bumps and his white hair, knew his strength to lie in silence. So there Casby sat, twirling and twirling, and making his polished head and forehead look largely benevolent in every knob.
The way he turned his smooth thumbs over each other as he sat there was so typical for Clennam; it showed how he would keep the conversation going without revealing anything new or making any real progress. It made Clennam feel that his efforts were pointless. He could have taken his time to think about it, because Mr. Casby, who was used to getting by anywhere with his instincts and white hair, knew his strength was in being quiet. So there sat Casby, twirling and twirling, making his shiny head and forehead look broadly kind with every knob.
With this spectacle before him, Arthur had risen to go, when from the inner Dock where the good ship Pancks was hove down when out in no cruising ground, the noise was heard of that steamer labouring towards him. It struck Arthur that the noise began demonstratively far off, as though Mr Pancks sought to impress on any one who might happen to think about it, that he was working on from out of hearing.
With this scene in front of him, Arthur got up to leave when he heard the sound of the steamer Pancks making its way toward him from the inner Dock, where it had been taken out of service. Arthur noticed that the noise started quite a distance away, almost as if Mr. Pancks wanted anyone who might consider it to know that he was busy working out of earshot.
Mr Pancks and he shook hands, and the former brought his employer a letter or two to sign. Mr Pancks in shaking hands merely scratched his eyebrow with his left forefinger and snorted once, but Clennam, who understood him better now than of old, comprehended that he had almost done for the evening and wished to say a word to him outside. Therefore, when he had taken his leave of Mr Casby, and (which was a more difficult process) of Flora, he sauntered in the neighbourhood on Mr Pancks’s line of road.
Mr. Pancks and he shook hands, and Mr. Pancks handed his boss a letter or two to sign. In shaking hands, Mr. Pancks just scratched his eyebrow with his left forefinger and snorted once, but Clennam, who understood him better than before, realized that he was about done for the evening and wanted to say a word to him outside. So, after he said goodbye to Mr. Casby, and (which was harder) to Flora, he wandered around the area on Mr. Pancks’s route.
He had waited but a short time when Mr Pancks appeared. Mr Pancks shaking hands again with another expressive snort, and taking off his hat to put his hair up, Arthur thought he received his cue to speak to him as one who knew pretty well what had just now passed. Therefore he said, without any preface:
He had only waited a short while when Mr. Pancks showed up. Mr. Pancks shook hands again with another dramatic snort and took off his hat to fix his hair. Arthur assumed this was his signal to talk to him as someone who was already aware of what had just happened. So, he said, without any introduction:
‘I suppose they were really gone, Pancks?’
‘I guess they're really gone, right, Pancks?’
‘Yes,’ replied Pancks. ‘They were really gone.’
‘Yeah,’ replied Pancks. ‘They were really gone.’
‘Does he know where to find that lady?’
‘Does he know where to find that woman?’
‘Can’t say. I should think so.’
"Not sure. I suppose so."
Mr Pancks did not? No, Mr Pancks did not. Did Mr Pancks know anything about her?
Mr. Pancks didn't? No, Mr. Pancks didn't. Did Mr. Pancks know anything about her?
‘I expect,’ rejoined that worthy, ‘I know as much about her as she knows about herself. She is somebody’s child—anybody’s, nobody’s. Put her in a room in London here with any six people old enough to be her parents, and her parents may be there for anything she knows. They may be in any house she sees, they may be in any churchyard she passes, she may run against ‘em in any street, she may make chance acquaintance of ‘em at any time; and never know it. She knows nothing about ‘em. She knows nothing about any relative whatever. Never did. Never will.’
“I expect,” replied that person, “I know as much about her as she knows about herself. She is someone’s child—anyone’s, no one’s. Put her in a room in London with any six people old enough to be her parents, and her parents could be there for all she knows. They could be in any house she sees, in any churchyard she passes, she could bump into them on the street, she could casually meet them at any time; and never know it. She knows nothing about them. She knows nothing about any relatives at all. Never did. Never will.”
‘Mr Casby could enlighten her, perhaps?’
‘Maybe Mr. Casby could clarify things for her?’
‘May be,’ said Pancks. ‘I expect so, but don’t know. He has long had money (not overmuch as I make out) in trust to dole out to her when she can’t do without it. Sometimes she’s proud and won’t touch it for a length of time; sometimes she’s so poor that she must have it. She writhes under her life. A woman more angry, passionate, reckless, and revengeful never lived. She came for money to-night. Said she had peculiar occasion for it.’
“Maybe,” said Pancks. “I think so, but I’m not sure. He’s had some money saved up (not a lot, from what I can tell) to give to her when she really needs it. Sometimes she’s too proud to take it for a while; other times she’s so broke that she has no choice. She’s struggling with her life. No woman has ever been more angry, passionate, reckless, or vengeful. She came for money tonight. Said she had a specific reason for needing it.”
‘I think,’ observed Clennam musing, ‘I by chance know what occasion—I mean into whose pocket the money is to go.’
"I think," Clennam said thoughtfully, "I happen to know what the reason is—I mean whose pocket the money is going into."
‘Indeed?’ said Pancks. ‘If it’s a compact, I recommend that party to be exact in it. I wouldn’t trust myself to that woman, young and handsome as she is, if I had wronged her; no, not for twice my proprietor’s money! Unless,’ Pancks added as a saving clause, ‘I had a lingering illness on me, and wanted to get it over.’
‘Really?’ said Pancks. ‘If it's an agreement, I suggest that person be precise about it. I wouldn't trust myself with that woman, as young and attractive as she is, if I had wronged her; no way, not for double my boss’s money! Unless,’ Pancks added as a caveat, ‘I was dealing with a long illness and just wanted to get it over with.’
Arthur, hurriedly reviewing his own observation of her, found it to tally pretty nearly with Mr Pancks’s view.
Arthur, quickly reflecting on his own observation of her, realized that it aligned closely with Mr. Pancks's opinion.
‘The wonder is to me,’ pursued Pancks, ‘that she has never done for my proprietor, as the only person connected with her story she can lay hold of. Mentioning that, I may tell you, between ourselves, that I am sometimes tempted to do for him myself.’
‘What amazes me,’ Pancks continued, ‘is that she has never gone after my boss, as he’s the only person linked to her story that she can reach out to. Speaking of that, I’ll let you in on a secret: sometimes I’m tempted to take him down myself.’
Arthur started and said, ‘Dear me, Pancks, don’t say that!’
Arthur jumped in and said, ‘Oh no, Pancks, please don’t say that!’
‘Understand me,’ said Pancks, extending five cropped coaly finger-nails on Arthur’s arm; ‘I don’t mean, cut his throat. But by all that’s precious, if he goes too far, I’ll cut his hair!’
‘Understand me,’ Pancks said, extending five short, dirty fingernails on Arthur’s arm; ‘I don’t mean to kill him. But for everything that’s important, if he goes too far, I’ll cut his hair!’
Having exhibited himself in the new light of enunciating this tremendous threat, Mr Pancks, with a countenance of grave import, snorted several times and steamed away.
Having presented himself in the new role of delivering this serious threat, Mr. Pancks, with a solemn expression, snorted a few times and stormed off.
CHAPTER 10. The Dreams of Mrs Flintwinch thicken
The shady waiting-rooms of the Circumlocution Office, where he passed a good deal of time in company with various troublesome Convicts who were under sentence to be broken alive on that wheel, had afforded Arthur Clennam ample leisure, in three or four successive days, to exhaust the subject of his late glimpse of Miss Wade and Tattycoram. He had been able to make no more of it and no less of it, and in this unsatisfactory condition he was fain to leave it.
The dim waiting rooms of the Circumlocution Office, where he spent quite a bit of time with various problematic convicts sentenced to be broken alive on that wheel, had given Arthur Clennam plenty of time over the course of three or four days to ponder his recent encounter with Miss Wade and Tattycoram. He hadn’t been able to make any more sense of it or any less of it, and in this frustrating state, he was resigned to let it go.
During this space he had not been to his mother’s dismal old house. One of his customary evenings for repairing thither now coming round, he left his dwelling and his partner at nearly nine o’clock, and slowly walked in the direction of that grim home of his youth.
During this time, he hadn’t been to his mother’s gloomy old house. Now that one of his usual evenings for heading there had arrived, he left his home and his partner at almost nine o’clock and slowly walked toward that dreary place from his childhood.
It always affected his imagination as wrathful, mysterious, and sad; and his imagination was sufficiently impressible to see the whole neighbourhood under some tinge of its dark shadow. As he went along, upon a dreary night, the dim streets by which he went, seemed all depositories of oppressive secrets. The deserted counting-houses, with their secrets of books and papers locked up in chests and safes; the banking-houses, with their secrets of strong rooms and wells, the keys of which were in a very few secret pockets and a very few secret breasts; the secrets of all the dispersed grinders in the vast mill, among whom there were doubtless plunderers, forgers, and trust-betrayers of many sorts, whom the light of any day that dawned might reveal; he could have fancied that these things, in hiding, imparted a heaviness to the air. The shadow thickening and thickening as he approached its source, he thought of the secrets of the lonely church-vaults, where the people who had hoarded and secreted in iron coffers were in their turn similarly hoarded, not yet at rest from doing harm; and then of the secrets of the river, as it rolled its turbid tide between two frowning wildernesses of secrets, extending, thick and dense, for many miles, and warding off the free air and the free country swept by winds and wings of birds.
It always struck him as angry, mysterious, and sad; and his imagination was sensitive enough to see the entire neighborhood tinted with its dark shadow. As he walked along on a gloomy night, the dim streets felt like they were filled with heavy secrets. The abandoned counting houses, with their locked-up books and papers contained in chests and safes; the banks, with their secrets of secure rooms and vaults, whose keys were hidden in just a few secret pockets and just a few secret hearts; the secrets of all the scattered workers in the huge mill, among whom there were surely thieves, forgers, and betrayers of trust, whom the light of any day might uncover; he could have imagined that these hidden things added a weight to the air. The shadow grew denser as he drew closer to its source; he thought about the secrets of the lonely church vaults, where people who had hoarded and hidden their wealth in iron coffers were themselves similarly concealed, not yet at peace from causing harm; and then about the secrets of the river, as it flowed its muddy tide between two grim landscapes of secrets, stretching thick and heavy for many miles, keeping away the fresh air and the free country swept by winds and flying birds.
The shadow still darkening as he drew near the house, the melancholy room which his father had once occupied, haunted by the appealing face he had himself seen fade away with him when there was no other watcher by the bed, arose before his mind. Its close air was secret. The gloom, and must, and dust of the whole tenement, were secret. At the heart of it his mother presided, inflexible of face, indomitable of will, firmly holding all the secrets of her own and his father’s life, and austerely opposing herself, front to front, to the great final secret of all life.
The shadow grew darker as he approached the house, the sad room where his father had once lived, filled with the haunting memory of the familiar face he had watched fade away when no one else was there by the bed, came to his mind. The air was thick and suffocating. The darkness, the mildew, and the dust of the entire building felt hidden and secretive. At the center of it all, his mother held her ground, her expression stern, her will unyielding, steadfastly guarding all the secrets of her own life and his father’s life, and resolutely confronting the ultimate mystery of existence.
He had turned into the narrow and steep street from which the court of enclosure wherein the house stood opened, when another footstep turned into it behind him, and so close upon his own that he was jostled to the wall. As his mind was teeming with these thoughts, the encounter took him altogether unprepared, so that the other passenger had had time to say, boisterously, ‘Pardon! Not my fault!’ and to pass on before the instant had elapsed which was requisite to his recovery of the realities about him.
He had turned into the narrow and steep street that led to the enclosed area where the house was located when someone else's footsteps followed closely behind him, causing him to bump against the wall. Lost in his thoughts, he was completely caught off guard by the encounter, giving the other person enough time to exclaim cheerfully, "Excuse me! Not my fault!" before moving past him, just as he started to grasp what was happening around him.
When that moment had flashed away, he saw that the man striding on before him was the man who had been so much in his mind during the last few days. It was no casual resemblance, helped out by the force of the impression the man made upon him. It was the man; the man he had followed in company with the girl, and whom he had overheard talking to Miss Wade.
When that moment passed, he realized that the man walking ahead of him was the one who had been on his mind so much in the past few days. It wasn't just a coincidence or a strong impression. It was him; the man he had followed with the girl, the one he had overheard speaking to Miss Wade.
The street was a sharp descent and was crooked too, and the man (who although not drunk had the air of being flushed with some strong drink) went down it so fast that Clennam lost him as he looked at him. With no defined intention of following him, but with an impulse to keep the figure in view a little longer, Clennam quickened his pace to pass the twist in the street which hid him from his sight. On turning it, he saw the man no more.
The street was steep and winding, and the man (who, although he wasn't drunk, looked a bit red from some strong drink) moved down it so quickly that Clennam lost sight of him. Without a clear intention to follow him, but driven by an urge to keep him in sight a bit longer, Clennam picked up his pace to get around the bend in the street that had hidden him from view. When he turned the corner, the man was gone.
Standing now, close to the gateway of his mother’s house, he looked down the street: but it was empty. There was no projecting shadow large enough to obscure the man; there was no turning near that he could have taken; nor had there been any audible sound of the opening and closing of a door. Nevertheless, he concluded that the man must have had a key in his hand, and must have opened one of the many house-doors and gone in.
Standing now, close to the entrance of his mother’s house, he looked down the street: but it was empty. There was no shadow big enough to hide the man; there was no turn nearby that he could've taken; nor had he heard the sound of a door opening or closing. Still, he figured that the man must have had a key in his hand and must have opened one of the many doors and gone inside.
Ruminating on this strange chance and strange glimpse, he turned into the court-yard. As he looked, by mere habit, towards the feebly lighted windows of his mother’s room, his eyes encountered the figure he had just lost, standing against the iron railings of the little waste enclosure looking up at those windows and laughing to himself. Some of the many vagrant cats who were always prowling about there by night, and who had taken fright at him, appeared to have stopped when he had stopped, and were looking at him with eyes by no means unlike his own from tops of walls and porches, and other safe points of pause. He had only halted for a moment to entertain himself thus; he immediately went forward, throwing the end of his cloak off his shoulder as he went, ascended the unevenly sunken steps, and knocked a sounding knock at the door.
Thinking about this odd coincidence and unusual sight, he walked into the courtyard. As he glanced, out of habit, at the dimly lit windows of his mother's room, his eyes fell on the figure he had just lost, leaning against the iron railings of the small neglected area, looking up at those windows and laughing to himself. A few of the many stray cats that always roamed around there at night, having been startled by him, seemed to have paused when he did and were watching him with eyes not so different from his own from the tops of walls, porches, and other safe spots. He had only stopped for a moment to amuse himself; he quickly moved on, shrugging the end of his cloak off his shoulder as he went, climbed the unevenly sunken steps, and knocked loudly on the door.
Clennam’s surprise was not so absorbing but that he took his resolution without any incertitude. He went up to the door too, and ascended the steps too. His friend looked at him with a braggart air, and sang to himself.
Clennam was surprised, but he made his decision without any doubt. He walked up to the door and climbed the steps as well. His friend looked at him with a cocky attitude and hummed to himself.
‘Who passes by this road so late?
‘Who is passing by this road so late?
Compagnon de la Majolaine;
Companion of the Majolaine;
Who passes by this road so late?
Who’s walking down this road so late?
Always gay!’
Always happy!
After which he knocked again.
Then he knocked again.
‘You are impatient, sir,’ said Arthur.
‘You’re being impatient, sir,’ Arthur said.
‘I am, sir. Death of my life, sir,’ returned the stranger, ‘it’s my character to be impatient!’
‘I am, sir. Death of my life, sir,’ the stranger replied, ‘it’s just in my nature to be impatient!’
The sound of Mistress Affery cautiously chaining the door before she opened it, caused them both to look that way. Affery opened it a very little, with a flaring candle in her hands and asked who was that, at that time of night, with that knock! ‘Why, Arthur!’ she added with astonishment, seeing him first. ‘Not you sure? Ah, Lord save us! No,’ she cried out, seeing the other. ‘Him again!’
The sound of Mistress Affery carefully chaining the door before she opened it made them both look that way. Affery opened it just a little, holding a flickering candle, and asked who it was knocking at that time of night. “Why, Arthur!” she said, surprised to see him first. “Not you, right? Oh my God! No,” she exclaimed, noticing the other person. “Him again!”
‘It’s true! Him again, dear Mrs Flintwinch,’ cried the stranger. ‘Open the door, and let me take my dear friend Jeremiah to my arms! Open the door, and let me hasten myself to embrace my Flintwinch!’
‘It’s true! Him again, dear Mrs. Flintwinch,’ shouted the stranger. ‘Open the door, and let me take my dear friend Jeremiah into my arms! Open the door, and let me rush to embrace my Flintwinch!’
‘He’s not at home,’ cried Affery.
‘He’s not at home,’ shouted Affery.
‘Fetch him!’ cried the stranger. ‘Fetch my Flintwinch! Tell him that it is his old Blandois, who comes from arriving in England; tell him that it is his little boy who is here, his cabbage, his well-beloved! Open the door, beautiful Mrs Flintwinch, and in the meantime let me to pass upstairs, to present my compliments—homage of Blandois—to my lady! My lady lives always? It is well. Open then!’
‘Get him!’ shouted the stranger. ‘Get my Flintwinch! Tell him that it’s his old Blandois, who just arrived in England; tell him that it’s his little boy here, his darling, his beloved! Open the door, beautiful Mrs. Flintwinch, and in the meantime, let me go upstairs to pay my respects—Blandois’s tribute—to my lady! Is my lady still living? Good. Then open up!’
To Arthur’s increased surprise, Mistress Affery, stretching her eyes wide at himself, as if in warning that this was not a gentleman for him to interfere with, drew back the chain, and opened the door. The stranger, without ceremony, walked into the hall, leaving Arthur to follow him.
To Arthur’s growing surprise, Mistress Affery, widening her eyes at him as if to signal that this was not a guy he should mess with, pulled back the chain and opened the door. The stranger walked into the hall without any hesitation, leaving Arthur to trail behind him.
‘Despatch then! Achieve then! Bring my Flintwinch! Announce me to my lady!’ cried the stranger, clanking about the stone floor.
‘Dispatch then! Get it done! Bring me my Flintwinch! Announce me to my lady!’ shouted the stranger, making a racket on the stone floor.
‘Pray tell me, Affery,’ said Arthur aloud and sternly, as he surveyed him from head to foot with indignation; ‘who is this gentleman?’
“Please tell me, Affery,” Arthur said loudly and seriously, as he looked him up and down with anger; “who is this guy?”
‘Pray tell me, Affery,’ the stranger repeated in his turn, ‘who—ha, ha, ha!—who is this gentleman?’
“Please tell me, Affery,” the stranger echoed, “who—ha, ha, ha!—who is this gentleman?”
The voice of Mrs Clennam opportunely called from her chamber above, ‘Affery, let them both come up. Arthur, come straight to me!’
The voice of Mrs. Clennam called from her room above, ‘Affery, let them both come up. Arthur, come straight to me!’
‘Arthur?’ exclaimed Blandois, taking off his hat at arm’s length, and bringing his heels together from a great stride in making him a flourishing bow. ‘The son of my lady? I am the all-devoted of the son of my lady!’
‘Arthur?’ exclaimed Blandois, taking off his hat at arm’s length and bringing his heels together from a big stride to give him a grand bow. ‘The son of my lady? I am completely devoted to the son of my lady!’
Arthur looked at him again in no more flattering manner than before, and, turning on his heel without acknowledgment, went up-stairs. The visitor followed him up-stairs. Mistress Affery took the key from behind the door, and deftly slipped out to fetch her lord.
Arthur glanced at him once more, just as uncomplimentary as before, and, without saying a word, turned and headed upstairs. The visitor followed him upstairs. Mistress Affery took the key from behind the door and quickly stepped out to get her husband.
A bystander, informed of the previous appearance of Monsieur Blandois in that room, would have observed a difference in Mrs Clennam’s present reception of him. Her face was not one to betray it; and her suppressed manner, and her set voice, were equally under her control. It wholly consisted in her never taking her eyes off his face from the moment of his entrance, and in her twice or thrice, when he was becoming noisy, swaying herself a very little forward in the chair in which she sat upright, with her hands immovable upon its elbows; as if she gave him the assurance that he should be presently heard at any length he would. Arthur did not fail to observe this; though the difference between the present occasion and the former was not within his power of observation.
A bystander who knew about Monsieur Blandois's previous visit to that room would have noticed a change in how Mrs. Clennam received him now. Her face didn’t show it, and her calm demeanor and steady voice were completely under her control. The only signs were that she never took her eyes off his face from the moment he walked in, and a couple of times, when he started getting loud, she leaned just a bit forward in her chair, sitting up straight with her hands firmly on the arms, almost as if to signal that she was ready to listen to whatever he had to say. Arthur noticed this too, even though he couldn't grasp the differences between this encounter and the last one.
‘Madame,’ said Blandois, ‘do me the honour to present me to Monsieur, your son. It appears to me, madame, that Monsieur, your son, is disposed to complain of me. He is not polite.’
‘Madam,’ said Blandois, ‘please do me the honor of introducing me to your son. It seems to me, madam, that your son is inclined to have a complaint about me. He is not very polite.’
‘Sir,’ said Arthur, striking in expeditiously, ‘whoever you are, and however you come to be here, if I were the master of this house I would lose no time in placing you on the outside of it.’
‘Sir,’ Arthur said, stepping in quickly, ‘whoever you are, and however you got here, if I were in charge of this house, I wouldn’t waste a moment getting you outside of it.’
‘But you are not,’ said his mother, without looking at him. ‘Unfortunately for the gratification of your unreasonable temper, you are not the master, Arthur.’
‘But you aren't,’ said his mother, not looking at him. ‘Unfortunately for the satisfaction of your unreasonable temper, you are not the boss, Arthur.’
‘I make no claim to be, mother. If I object to this person’s manner of conducting himself here, and object to it so much, that if I had any authority here I certainly would not suffer him to remain a minute, I object on your account.’
‘I’m not claiming to be anyone’s authority, Mom. If I’m really bothered by this person's behavior here, so much so that if I had any power, I wouldn’t let him stay for even a minute, it’s because I’m concerned for you.’
‘In the case of objection being necessary,’ she returned, ‘I could object for myself. And of course I should.’
‘If I need to object,’ she replied, ‘I can do it for myself. And of course, I will.’
The subject of their dispute, who had seated himself, laughed aloud, and rapped his legs with his hand.
The person they were arguing about, who had taken a seat, laughed out loud and slapped his legs with his hand.
‘You have no right,’ said Mrs Clennam, always intent on Blandois, however directly she addressed her son, ‘to speak to the prejudice of any gentleman (least of all a gentleman from another country), because he does not conform to your standard, or square his behaviour by your rules. It is possible that the gentleman may, on similar grounds, object to you.’
‘You have no right,’ Mrs. Clennam said, always focused on Blandois, no matter how directly she spoke to her son, ‘to speak poorly of any gentleman (especially one from another country), just because he doesn’t meet your standards or follow your rules. It’s possible that the gentleman might object to you for the same reasons.’
‘I hope so,’ returned Arthur.
"I hope so," Arthur replied.
‘The gentleman,’ pursued Mrs Clennam, ‘on a former occasion brought a letter of recommendation to us from highly esteemed and responsible correspondents. I am perfectly unacquainted with the gentleman’s object in coming here at present. I am entirely ignorant of it, and cannot be supposed likely to be able to form the remotest guess at its nature;’ her habitual frown became stronger, as she very slowly and weightily emphasised those words; ‘but, when the gentleman proceeds to explain his object, as I shall beg him to have the goodness to do to myself and Flintwinch, when Flintwinch returns, it will prove, no doubt, to be one more or less in the usual way of our business, which it will be both our business and our pleasure to advance. It can be nothing else.’
“The gentleman,” continued Mrs. Clennam, “previously brought us a recommendation letter from highly regarded and trustworthy contacts. I'm completely unaware of his purpose in being here now. I have no idea what it might be and can’t even begin to guess its nature;” her usual frown deepened as she slowly and heavily emphasized those words; “but when the gentleman explains his purpose, as I would kindly ask him to do with me and Flintwinch, when Flintwinch returns, it will surely turn out to be something in line with our typical business, which we will both be happy to support. It can only be that.”
‘We shall see, madame!’ said the man of business.
‘We’ll see, ma’am!’ said the businessman.
‘We shall see,’ she assented. ‘The gentleman is acquainted with Flintwinch; and when the gentleman was in London last, I remember to have heard that he and Flintwinch had some entertainment or good-fellowship together. I am not in the way of knowing much that passes outside this room, and the jingle of little worldly things beyond it does not much interest me; but I remember to have heard that.’
‘We’ll see,’ she agreed. ‘The man knows Flintwinch; and when he was in London last, I recall hearing that he and Flintwinch had some fun together. I don’t really keep up with what happens outside this room, and the noise of little worldly matters doesn’t interest me much; but I do remember hearing that.’
‘Right, madame. It is true.’ He laughed again, and whistled the burden of the tune he had sung at the door.
‘Right, ma'am. That’s true.’ He laughed again and whistled the melody of the song he had sung at the door.
‘Therefore, Arthur,’ said his mother, ‘the gentleman comes here as an acquaintance, and no stranger; and it is much to be regretted that your unreasonable temper should have found offence in him. I regret it. I say so to the gentleman. You will not say so, I know; therefore I say it for myself and Flintwinch, since with us two the gentleman’s business lies.’
“Therefore, Arthur,” said his mother, “the gentleman is here as an acquaintance, not a stranger; and it’s really unfortunate that your unreasonable temper took offense to him. I regret that. I’m saying this to the gentleman. You won’t say it, I know; so I’m saying it for myself and Flintwinch, since it’s us two the gentleman is dealing with.”
The key of the door below was now heard in the lock, and the door was heard to open and close. In due sequence Mr Flintwinch appeared; on whose entrance the visitor rose from his chair, laughing loud, and folded him in a close embrace.
The key turned in the lock of the door below, and it opened and closed. Shortly after, Mr. Flintwinch walked in; at his arrival, the visitor stood up from his chair, laughed loudly, and pulled him into a tight hug.
‘How goes it, my cherished friend!’ said he. ‘How goes the world, my Flintwinch? Rose-coloured? So much the better, so much the better! Ah, but you look charming! Ah, but you look young and fresh as the flowers of Spring! Ah, good little boy! Brave child, brave child!’
"How's it going, my dear friend!" he said. "How's the world treating you, my Flintwinch? Feeling optimistic? That's great, that's great! Oh, but you look wonderful! You look young and fresh like the flowers of spring! Oh, good little boy! Brave kid, brave kid!"
While heaping these compliments on Mr Flintwinch, he rolled him about with a hand on each of his shoulders, until the staggerings of that gentleman, who under the circumstances was dryer and more twisted than ever, were like those of a teetotum nearly spent.
While showering these compliments on Mr. Flintwinch, he grabbed him by both shoulders and gave him a shake, until the staggering of that gentleman, who was drier and more twisted than ever given the situation, resembled that of a spinning top nearly running out of momentum.
Original
‘I had a presentiment, last time, that we should be better and more intimately acquainted. Is it coming on you, Flintwinch? Is it yet coming on?’
‘I had a feeling last time that we would become better and more closely acquainted. Is it happening to you, Flintwinch? Is it happening yet?’
‘Why, no, sir,’ retorted Mr Flintwinch. ‘Not unusually. Hadn’t you better be seated? You have been calling for some more of that port, sir, I guess?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Mr. Flintwinch. ‘Not really. Wouldn’t it be better for you to sit down? I’m assuming you’re asking for more of that port, sir?’
‘Ah, Little joker! Little pig!’ cried the visitor. ‘Ha ha ha ha!’ And throwing Mr Flintwinch away, as a closing piece of raillery, he sat down again.
‘Ah, little joker! Little pig!’ the visitor shouted. ‘Ha ha ha ha!’ And, tossing Mr. Flintwinch aside as a final joke, he sat down again.
The amazement, suspicion, resentment, and shame, with which Arthur looked on at all this, struck him dumb. Mr Flintwinch, who had spun backward some two or three yards under the impetus last given to him, brought himself up with a face completely unchanged in its stolidity except as it was affected by shortness of breath, and looked hard at Arthur. Not a whit less reticent and wooden was Mr Flintwinch outwardly, than in the usual course of things: the only perceptible difference in him being that the knot of cravat which was generally under his ear, had worked round to the back of his head: where it formed an ornamental appendage not unlike a bagwig, and gave him something of a courtly appearance.
Arthur was dumbfounded by the mix of amazement, suspicion, resentment, and shame he felt watching everything unfold. Mr. Flintwinch, who had stumbled backward a couple of yards from the last push he received, regained his balance with a face that remained completely expressionless except for his labored breathing, and stared intently at Arthur. Mr. Flintwinch was just as reserved and stiff as usual; the only noticeable change was that the knot of his cravat, which is usually under his ear, had shifted to the back of his head, resembling an ornamental bagwig, giving him a somewhat aristocratic look.
As Mrs Clennam never removed her eyes from Blandois (on whom they had some effect, as a steady look has on a lower sort of dog), so Jeremiah never removed his from Arthur. It was as if they had tacitly agreed to take their different provinces. Thus, in the ensuing silence, Jeremiah stood scraping his chin and looking at Arthur as though he were trying to screw his thoughts out of him with an instrument.
As Mrs. Clennam kept her eyes fixed on Blandois (which had some influence on him, like a steady gaze does on a less refined dog), Jeremiah never took his eyes off Arthur. It was as if they had silently decided to claim their own territories. So, in the silence that followed, Jeremiah stood there, scraping his chin and staring at Arthur as if he were trying to pry his thoughts out with a tool.
After a little, the visitor, as if he felt the silence irksome, rose, and impatiently put himself with his back to the sacred fire which had burned through so many years. Thereupon Mrs Clennam said, moving one of her hands for the first time, and moving it very slightly with an action of dismissal:
After a while, the visitor, seeming to find the silence uncomfortable, got up and turned his back to the sacred fire that had burned for so many years. Then Mrs. Clennam spoke, finally moving one of her hands for the first time, making a small gesture that dismissed him.
‘Please to leave us to our business, Arthur.’
“Please leave us to our business, Arthur.”
‘Mother, I do so with reluctance.’
‘Mom, I really don’t want to.’
‘Never mind with what,’ she returned, ‘or with what not. Please to leave us. Come back at any other time when you may consider it a duty to bury half an hour wearily here. Good night.’
‘It doesn’t matter what,’ she replied, ‘or what doesn’t matter. Please leave us. Come back another time when you feel like wasting half an hour here. Good night.’
She held up her muffled fingers that he might touch them with his, according to their usual custom, and he stood over her wheeled chair to touch her face with his lips. He thought, then, that her cheek was more strained than usual, and that it was colder. As he followed the direction of her eyes, in rising again, towards Mr Flintwinch’s good friend, Mr Blandois, Mr Blandois snapped his finger and thumb with one loud contemptuous snap.
She held up her covered fingers so he could touch them with his, as they usually did, and he leaned over her wheeled chair to kiss her cheek. He noticed that her cheek felt more tense than usual and that it was colder. As he looked in the direction of her gaze, rising again towards Mr. Flintwinch’s good friend, Mr. Blandois, Mr. Blandois snapped his fingers and thumb with a loud, contemptuous snap.
‘I leave your—your business acquaintance in my mother’s room, Mr Flintwinch,’ said Clennam, ‘with a great deal of surprise and a great deal of unwillingness.’
‘I leave your—your business acquaintance in my mother’s room, Mr Flintwinch,’ said Clennam, ‘with a lot of surprise and a lot of reluctance.’
The person referred to snapped his finger and thumb again.
The person mentioned snapped his fingers again.
‘Good night, mother.’
'Good night, Mom.'
‘Good night.’
'Good night.'
‘I had a friend once, my good comrade Flintwinch,’ said Blandois, standing astride before the fire, and so evidently saying it to arrest Clennam’s retreating steps, that he lingered near the door; ‘I had a friend once, who had heard so much of the dark side of this city and its ways, that he wouldn’t have confided himself alone by night with two people who had an interest in getting him under the ground—my faith! not even in a respectable house like this—unless he was bodily too strong for them. Bah! What a poltroon, my Flintwinch! Eh?’
‘I once had a friend, my good comrade Flintwinch,’ said Blandois, standing with his legs apart in front of the fire, clearly saying it to stop Clennam’s retreating steps, which made him linger near the door; ‘I once had a friend who had heard so much about the dark side of this city and its ways that he wouldn’t have dared to be alone at night with two people who wanted to bury him—my goodness! not even in a respectable house like this—unless he was physically strong enough to handle them. Bah! What a coward, my Flintwinch! Eh?’
‘A cur, sir.’
"A mutt, sir."
‘Agreed! A cur. But he wouldn’t have done it, my Flintwinch, unless he had known them to have the will to silence him, without the power. He wouldn’t have drunk from a glass of water under such circumstances—not even in a respectable house like this, my Flintwinch—unless he had seen one of them drink first, and swallow too!’
‘Agreed! A coward. But he wouldn’t have done it, my Flintwinch, unless he knew they had the will to silence him, even if they didn’t have the power. He wouldn’t have drunk from a glass of water in those circumstances—not even in a respectable place like this, my Flintwinch—unless he had seen one of them drink first and swallow too!’
Disdaining to speak, and indeed not very well able, for he was half-choking, Clennam only glanced at the visitor as he passed out. The visitor saluted him with another parting snap, and his nose came down over his moustache and his moustache went up under his nose, in an ominous and ugly smile.
Not bothering to speak, and honestly unable to do so because he was half-choking, Clennam just gave a glance at the visitor as he walked out. The visitor gave him a final snarl, and his nose hovered over his mustache while his mustache curled up under his nose, creating a threatening and ugly smile.
‘For Heaven’s sake, Affery,’ whispered Clennam, as she opened the door for him in the dark hall, and he groped his way to the sight of the night-sky, ‘what is going on here?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Affery,’ whispered Clennam as she opened the door for him in the dark hallway, and he felt his way to see the night sky, ‘what’s happening here?’
Her own appearance was sufficiently ghastly, standing in the dark with her apron thrown over her head, and speaking behind it in a low, deadened voice.
Her appearance was pretty horrifying, standing in the dark with her apron draped over her head and speaking behind it in a quiet, muffled voice.
‘Don’t ask me anything, Arthur. I’ve been in a dream for ever so long. Go away!’
‘Don’t ask me anything, Arthur. I’ve been in a dream for a really long time. Just go away!’
He went out, and she shut the door upon him. He looked up at the windows of his mother’s room, and the dim light, deadened by the yellow blinds, seemed to say a response after Affery, and to mutter, ‘Don’t ask me anything. Go away!’
He went outside, and she closed the door behind him. He looked up at the windows of his mother’s room, and the faint light, muffled by the yellow blinds, seemed to respond after Affery and whisper, ‘Don’t ask me anything. Just leave!’
CHAPTER 11. A Letter from Little Dorrit
Dear Mr Clennam,
Dear Mr. Clennam,
As I said in my last that it was best for nobody to write to me, and as my sending you another little letter can therefore give you no other trouble than the trouble of reading it (perhaps you may not find leisure for even that, though I hope you will some day), I am now going to devote an hour to writing to you again. This time, I write from Rome.
As I mentioned in my last message, it’s probably best if no one writes to me. Since sending you another short letter only adds the inconvenience of reading it (and maybe you won’t even have time for that, although I hope you will eventually), I’m going to spend an hour writing to you again. This time, I'm writing from Rome.
We left Venice before Mr and Mrs Gowan did, but they were not so long upon the road as we were, and did not travel by the same way, and so when we arrived we found them in a lodging here, in a place called the Via Gregoriana. I dare say you know it.
We left Venice before Mr. and Mrs. Gowan, but they didn’t take as long on the road as we did, and they didn’t travel the same route. So when we got here, we found them staying in a place called Via Gregoriana. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.
Now I am going to tell you all I can about them, because I know that is what you most want to hear. Theirs is not a very comfortable lodging, but perhaps I thought it less so when I first saw it than you would have done, because you have been in many different countries and have seen many different customs. Of course it is a far, far better place—millions of times—than any I have ever been used to until lately; and I fancy I don’t look at it with my own eyes, but with hers. For it would be easy to see that she has always been brought up in a tender and happy home, even if she had not told me so with great love for it.
Now I’m going to share everything I can about them because I know that’s what you really want to hear. Their place isn’t very comfortable, but maybe I thought it was less so when I first saw it than you would, since you’ve traveled to many different countries and experienced a variety of customs. Of course, it’s a much better place—millions of times better—than any I’ve been used to until recently; and I think I see it not just through my own eyes, but through hers. It would be easy to tell she grew up in a loving and happy home, even if she hadn’t told me so with such affection for it.
Well, it is a rather bare lodging up a rather dark common staircase, and it is nearly all a large dull room, where Mr Gowan paints. The windows are blocked up where any one could look out, and the walls have been all drawn over with chalk and charcoal by others who have lived there before—oh,—I should think, for years! There is a curtain more dust-coloured than red, which divides it, and the part behind the curtain makes the private sitting-room. When I first saw her there she was alone, and her work had fallen out of her hand, and she was looking up at the sky shining through the tops of the windows. Pray do not be uneasy when I tell you, but it was not quite so airy, nor so bright, nor so cheerful, nor so happy and youthful altogether as I should have liked it to be.
Well, it's a pretty bare place up a dark common staircase, and it's mostly just a big, dull room where Mr. Gowan paints. The windows are blocked so no one can look out, and the walls are covered with chalk and charcoal drawings by previous occupants—oh, I’d guess it’s been like that for years! There’s a curtain that’s more dust-colored than red, which separates the space, and the area behind the curtain serves as a private sitting room. When I first saw her there, she was alone, and her work had slipped from her hands as she looked up at the sky shining through the tops of the windows. Please don’t be worried when I tell you, but it wasn’t exactly airy, bright, cheerful, or happy and youthful in the way I would have liked it to be.
On account of Mr Gowan’s painting Papa’s picture (which I am not quite convinced I should have known from the likeness if I had not seen him doing it), I have had more opportunities of being with her since then than I might have had without this fortunate chance. She is very much alone. Very much alone indeed.
Because Mr. Gowan painted Papa’s portrait (which I’m not sure I would have recognized as him if I hadn’t seen him doing it), I’ve had more chances to be with her since then than I would have otherwise. She is quite lonely. Really quite lonely.
Shall I tell you about the second time I saw her? I went one day, when it happened that I could run round by myself, at four or five o’clock in the afternoon. She was then dining alone, and her solitary dinner had been brought in from somewhere, over a kind of brazier with a fire in it, and she had no company or prospect of company, that I could see, but the old man who had brought it. He was telling her a long story (of robbers outside the walls being taken up by a stone statue of a Saint), to entertain her—as he said to me when I came out, ‘because he had a daughter of his own, though she was not so pretty.’
Should I tell you about the second time I saw her? One day, when I had the chance to go out by myself, around four or five in the afternoon, I found her dining alone. Her solitary meal had been delivered from somewhere, over a kind of brazier with a fire in it, and as far as I could tell, she had no company or expectation of company, except for the old man who had brought the food. He was telling her a long story (about robbers outside the walls being captured by a stone statue of a Saint) to keep her entertained—as he mentioned to me when I came out, ‘because he had a daughter of his own, though she wasn’t as pretty.’
I ought now to mention Mr Gowan, before I say what little more I have to say about her. He must admire her beauty, and he must be proud of her, for everybody praises it, and he must be fond of her, and I do not doubt that he is—but in his way. You know his way, and if it appears as careless and discontented in your eyes as it does in mine, I am not wrong in thinking that it might be better suited to her. If it does not seem so to you, I am quite sure I am wholly mistaken; for your unchanged poor child confides in your knowledge and goodness more than she could ever tell you if she was to try. But don’t be frightened, I am not going to try.
I should mention Mr. Gowan now before I wrap up what little more I have to say about her. He must admire her beauty and feel proud of her since everyone praises it, and I’m sure he cares for her, though in his own way. You know his way, and if it seems as careless and unhappy to you as it does to me, I’m not wrong in thinking it might be better suited to her. If it doesn’t seem that way to you, I’m sure I must be completely mistaken because your unchanged poor child trusts your insight and goodness more than she could ever express, even if she tried. But don’t worry, I’m not going to try.
Owing (as I think, if you think so too) to Mr Gowan’s unsettled and dissatisfied way, he applies himself to his profession very little. He does nothing steadily or patiently; but equally takes things up and throws them down, and does them, or leaves them undone, without caring about them. When I have heard him talking to Papa during the sittings for the picture, I have sat wondering whether it could be that he has no belief in anybody else, because he has no belief in himself. Is it so? I wonder what you will say when you come to this! I know how you will look, and I can almost hear the voice in which you would tell me on the Iron Bridge.
Because (as I think, and maybe you think so too) of Mr. Gowan’s restless and unhappy demeanor, he puts very little effort into his work. He doesn’t do anything consistently or patiently; instead, he picks things up and drops them just as quickly, doing some tasks and leaving others incomplete without any concern. When I’ve heard him chatting with Dad during the painting sessions, I’ve found myself wondering if he doesn’t believe in anyone else because he doesn’t believe in himself. Is that the case? I’m curious what you’ll say when you read this! I can picture your expression, and I can almost hear the way you would talk to me on the Iron Bridge.
Mr Gowan goes out a good deal among what is considered the best company here—though he does not look as if he enjoyed it or liked it when he is with it—and she sometimes accompanies him, but lately she has gone out very little. I think I have noticed that they have an inconsistent way of speaking about her, as if she had made some great self-interested success in marrying Mr Gowan, though, at the same time, the very same people, would not have dreamed of taking him for themselves or their daughters. Then he goes into the country besides, to think about making sketches; and in all places where there are visitors, he has a large acquaintance and is very well known. Besides all this, he has a friend who is much in his society both at home and away from home, though he treats this friend very coolly and is very uncertain in his behaviour to him. I am quite sure (because she has told me so), that she does not like this friend. He is so revolting to me, too, that his being away from here, at present, is quite a relief to my mind. How much more to hers!
Mr. Gowan goes out a lot among what’s considered the best crowd here—though he doesn’t seem to enjoy it or like being around them—and she sometimes goes with him, but lately she has been going out very little. I’ve noticed that they talk about her in a mixed way, as if she achieved some huge self-serving success by marrying Mr. Gowan, even though the same people wouldn’t have dreamed of picking him for themselves or their daughters. He also goes out to the countryside to think about making sketches; he has a wide circle of acquaintances and is well-known wherever there are visitors. On top of that, he has a friend he spends a lot of time with both at home and outside, even though he treats this friend pretty coolly and is very unpredictable in his behavior toward him. I’m certain (because she has told me so) that she doesn’t like this friend. He’s so off-putting to me, too, that his absence right now is a relief to my mind. How much more so to hers!
But what I particularly want you to know, and why I have resolved to tell you so much while I am afraid it may make you a little uncomfortable without occasion, is this. She is so true and so devoted, and knows so completely that all her love and duty are his for ever, that you may be certain she will love him, admire him, praise him, and conceal all his faults, until she dies. I believe she conceals them, and always will conceal them, even from herself. She has given him a heart that can never be taken back; and however much he may try it, he will never wear out its affection. You know the truth of this, as you know everything, far far better than I; but I cannot help telling you what a nature she shows, and that you can never think too well of her.
But what I really want you to understand, and why I've decided to share so much even though it might make you a bit uncomfortable for no reason, is this. She is incredibly loyal and dedicated, and she fully knows that all her love and commitment belong to him forever. You can be sure that she will love him, admire him, praise him, and hide all his faults until the end of her days. I believe she hides those faults, and she always will, even from herself. She has given him a heart that can never be reclaimed; no matter how much he might try, he will never diminish its love. You know this truth as well as you know anything, much better than I do; but I can't help but tell you about the kind of person she is, and that you can never think too highly of her.
I have not yet called her by her name in this letter, but we are such friends now that I do so when we are quietly together, and she speaks to me by my name—I mean, not my Christian name, but the name you gave me. When she began to call me Amy, I told her my short story, and that you had always called me Little Dorrit. I told her that the name was much dearer to me than any other, and so she calls me Little Dorrit too.
I haven't called her by her name in this letter yet, but we're such good friends now that I do when we're alone together, and she calls me by my name—I mean, not my first name, but the name you gave me. When she started calling me Amy, I shared my short story with her and told her that you always called me Little Dorrit. I explained that the name means so much more to me than any other, and now she calls me Little Dorrit too.
Perhaps you have not heard from her father or mother yet, and may not know that she has a baby son. He was born only two days ago, and just a week after they came. It has made them very happy. However, I must tell you, as I am to tell you all, that I fancy they are under a constraint with Mr Gowan, and that they feel as if his mocking way with them was sometimes a slight given to their love for her. It was but yesterday, when I was there, that I saw Mr Meagles change colour, and get up and go out, as if he was afraid that he might say so, unless he prevented himself by that means. Yet I am sure they are both so considerate, good-humoured, and reasonable, that he might spare them. It is hard in him not to think of them a little more.
Maybe you haven't heard from her parents yet, and you might not know that she has a baby son. He was born just two days ago, only a week after they arrived. It's made them really happy. However, I have to tell you, as I’m meant to let you know, that I think they feel a bit constrained around Mr. Gowan, and it seems like his mocking attitude towards them sometimes feels like a slight against their love for her. Just yesterday, when I was there, I saw Mr. Meagles change color and get up to leave, as if he was worried he might say something unless he stopped himself that way. Yet I’m sure they are both so considerate, good-humored, and reasonable that he could be a little kinder to them. It's hard for him not to think of them a bit more.
I stopped at the last full stop to read all this over. It looked at first as if I was taking on myself to understand and explain so much, that I was half inclined not to send it. But when I thought it over a little, I felt more hopeful for your knowing at once that I had only been watchful for you, and had only noticed what I think I have noticed, because I was quickened by your interest in it. Indeed, you may be sure that is the truth.
I paused at the last period to go over everything. At first, it felt like I was trying to understand and explain too much, and I was tempted not to send it. But after thinking it through a bit, I felt more optimistic that you would realize I was just paying attention to you, and I only noticed what I think I've noticed because your interest inspired me. Honestly, you can be sure that's the truth.
And now I have done with the subject in the present letter, and have little left to say.
And now I've finished discussing the topic in this letter and don't have much more to add.
We are all quite well, and Fanny improves every day. You can hardly think how kind she is to me, and what pains she takes with me. She has a lover, who has followed her, first all the way from Switzerland, and then all the way from Venice, and who has just confided to me that he means to follow her everywhere. I was much confused by his speaking to me about it, but he would. I did not know what to say, but at last I told him that I thought he had better not. For Fanny (but I did not tell him this) is much too spirited and clever to suit him. Still, he said he would, all the same. I have no lover, of course.
We’re all doing pretty well, and Fanny gets better every day. You can hardly imagine how kind she is to me and the effort she puts into it. She has a boyfriend who followed her all the way from Switzerland and then from Venice, and he just told me that he plans to follow her everywhere. I was really thrown off by him bringing it up with me, but he insisted. I didn’t know how to respond, but eventually, I told him I thought he should probably not do that. Because Fanny (but I didn’t tell him this) is way too spirited and smart for him. Still, he said he would go for it anyway. I don’t have a boyfriend, of course.
If you should ever get so far as this in this long letter, you will perhaps say, Surely Little Dorrit will not leave off without telling me something about her travels, and surely it is time she did. I think it is indeed, but I don’t know what to tell you. Since we left Venice we have been in a great many wonderful places, Genoa and Florence among them, and have seen so many wonderful sights, that I am almost giddy when I think what a crowd they make. But you can tell me so much more about them than I can tell you, that why should I tire you with my accounts and descriptions?
If you’ve made it this far in this long letter, you might be thinking, “Surely Little Dorrit will end this without sharing something about her travels, and it’s definitely time she did.” I agree, it is time, but I’m not sure what to share. Since we left Venice, we’ve visited many amazing places, including Genoa and Florence, and we’ve seen so many incredible sights that it makes my head spin just thinking about them. However, you know so much more about them than I do, so why should I bore you with my stories and descriptions?
Dear Mr Clennam, as I had the courage to tell you what the familiar difficulties in my travelling mind were before, I will not be a coward now. One of my frequent thoughts is this:—Old as these cities are, their age itself is hardly so curious, to my reflections, as that they should have been in their places all through those days when I did not even know of the existence of more than two or three of them, and when I scarcely knew of anything outside our old walls. There is something melancholy in it, and I don’t know why. When we went to see the famous leaning tower at Pisa, it was a bright sunny day, and it and the buildings near it looked so old, and the earth and the sky looked so young, and its shadow on the ground was so soft and retired! I could not at first think how beautiful it was, or how curious, but I thought, ‘O how many times when the shadow of the wall was falling on our room, and when that weary tread of feet was going up and down the yard—O how many times this place was just as quiet and lovely as it is to-day!’ It quite overpowered me. My heart was so full that tears burst out of my eyes, though I did what I could to restrain them. And I have the same feeling often—often.
Dear Mr. Clennam, since I had the courage to share the familiar struggles in my traveling thoughts with you before, I won’t be a coward now. One of my recurring thoughts is this: even though these cities are old, their age itself isn't as fascinating to me as the fact that they have stood in their places all through the days when I didn’t even know about the existence of more than two or three of them, and when I barely knew anything beyond our old walls. There’s something melancholic about it, and I can’t quite put my finger on why. When we visited the famous leaning tower in Pisa, it was a bright, sunny day, and it, along with the buildings around it, looked so ancient while the earth and sky seemed so youthful, and its shadow on the ground was so gentle and understated! At first, I couldn’t grasp how beautiful or intriguing it was, but I thought, ‘Oh, how many times when the shadow of the wall fell across our room, and that weary tread of footsteps echoed up and down the yard—oh, how many times this place was just as quiet and lovely as it is today!’ It completely overwhelmed me. My heart was so full that tears streamed down my face, even though I tried my best to hold them back. And I often feel the same way—often.
Do you know that since the change in our fortunes, though I appear to myself to have dreamed more than before, I have always dreamed of myself as very young indeed! I am not very old, you may say. No, but that is not what I mean. I have always dreamed of myself as a child learning to do needlework. I have often dreamed of myself as back there, seeing faces in the yard little known, and which I should have thought I had quite forgotten; but, as often as not, I have been abroad here—in Switzerland, or France, or Italy—somewhere where we have been—yet always as that little child. I have dreamed of going down to Mrs General, with the patches on my clothes in which I can first remember myself. I have over and over again dreamed of taking my place at dinner at Venice when we have had a large company, in the mourning for my poor mother which I wore when I was eight years old, and wore long after it was threadbare and would mend no more. It has been a great distress to me to think how irreconcilable the company would consider it with my father’s wealth, and how I should displease and disgrace him and Fanny and Edward by so plainly disclosing what they wished to keep secret. But I have not grown out of the little child in thinking of it; and at the self-same moment I have dreamed that I have sat with the heart-ache at table, calculating the expenses of the dinner, and quite distracting myself with thinking how they were ever to be made good. I have never dreamed of the change in our fortunes itself; I have never dreamed of your coming back with me that memorable morning to break it; I have never even dreamed of you.
Do you know that since our fortunes changed, although I feel like I've been dreaming more than before, I've always pictured myself as very, very young? I'm not that old, you might say. But that's not what I mean. I've always envisioned myself as a child learning to sew. I often dream of being back there, seeing familiar faces in the yard that I thought I had completely forgotten. Yet just as often, I’ve been abroad—here in Switzerland, or in France, or Italy—somewhere we've visited—but still as that little child. I've dreamed of going down to Mrs. General, wearing the patched clothes I remember from my early years. Time and time again, I’ve dreamt of sitting at dinner in Venice with a large group, wearing the mourning outfit for my poor mother that I had when I was eight, which I wore long after it became threadbare and couldn’t be mended anymore. It has really distressed me to think how the company would consider it incompatible with my father's wealth, and how I would upset and disgrace him, Fanny, and Edward by revealing what they wanted to keep secret. But I haven’t outgrown the child inside me when I think of it; and at the same time, I've dreamed that I've sat there with a heavy heart at the table, calculating the dinner expenses and distracting myself with thoughts of how they would ever be paid. I’ve never dreamt of the change in our fortunes itself; I’ve never dreamt of you coming back with me that memorable morning to break the news; I haven’t even dreamed of you.
Dear Mr Clennam, it is possible that I have thought of you—and others—so much by day, that I have no thoughts left to wander round you by night. For I must now confess to you that I suffer from home-sickness—that I long so ardently and earnestly for home, as sometimes, when no one sees me, to pine for it. I cannot bear to turn my face further away from it. My heart is a little lightened when we turn towards it, even for a few miles, and with the knowledge that we are soon to turn away again. So dearly do I love the scene of my poverty and your kindness. O so dearly, O so dearly!
Dear Mr. Clennam, it's possible that I've thought about you—and others—so much during the day that I have no thoughts left to spend on you at night. I must confess that I'm homesick—that I long so deeply and passionately for home that sometimes, when no one is watching me, I yearn for it. I can't stand to turn my face away from it any longer. My heart feels a little lighter when we head back toward it, even if it's just for a few miles, along with the knowledge that we will soon have to turn away again. I love the place of my struggles and your kindness so dearly. Oh, so dearly!
Heaven knows when your poor child will see England again. We are all fond of the life here (except me), and there are no plans for our return. My dear father talks of a visit to London late in this next spring, on some affairs connected with the property, but I have no hope that he will bring me with him.
Heaven knows when your poor child will see England again. We all enjoy life here (except me), and there are no plans for our return. My dear father is talking about a visit to London late this spring for some business related to the property, but I have no hope that he will take me with him.
I have tried to get on a little better under Mrs General’s instruction, and I hope I am not quite so dull as I used to be. I have begun to speak and understand, almost easily, the hard languages I told you about. I did not remember, at the moment when I wrote last, that you knew them both; but I remembered it afterwards, and it helped me on. God bless you, dear Mr Clennam. Do not forget
I have tried to improve a bit under Mrs. General’s guidance, and I hope I’m not as dull as I used to be. I’ve started to speak and understand, almost effortlessly, the difficult languages I mentioned to you before. I didn’t remember, when I last wrote, that you knew both of them; but I remembered later, and it gave me a boost. God bless you, dear Mr. Clennam. Don’t forget
Your ever grateful and affectionate
Always grateful and affectionate
LITTLE
DORRIT.=
P.S.—Particularly remember that Minnie Gowan deserves the best remembrance in which you can hold her. You cannot think too generously or too highly of her. I forgot Mr Pancks last time. Please, if you should see him, give him your Little Dorrit’s kind regard. He was very good to Little D.
P.S.—Make sure to keep Minnie Gowan in the best memories you have. You can't think of her too kindly or too highly. I forgot to mention Mr. Pancks last time. If you happen to see him, please send him your kind regards from Little Dorrit. He was really good to Little D.
CHAPTER 12. In which a Great Patriotic Conference is holden
The famous name of Merdle became, every day, more famous in the land. Nobody knew that the Merdle of such high renown had ever done any good to any one, alive or dead, or to any earthly thing; nobody knew that he had any capacity or utterance of any sort in him, which had ever thrown, for any creature, the feeblest farthing-candle ray of light on any path of duty or diversion, pain or pleasure, toil or rest, fact or fancy, among the multiplicity of paths in the labyrinth trodden by the sons of Adam; nobody had the smallest reason for supposing the clay of which this object of worship was made, to be other than the commonest clay, with as clogged a wick smouldering inside of it as ever kept an image of humanity from tumbling to pieces. All people knew (or thought they knew) that he had made himself immensely rich; and, for that reason alone, prostrated themselves before him, more degradedly and less excusably than the darkest savage creeps out of his hole in the ground to propitiate, in some log or reptile, the Deity of his benighted soul.
The well-known name of Merdle became more and more famous every day in the country. Nobody knew that this highly regarded Merdle had ever done anything good for anyone—alive or dead—or for any earthly thing; no one was aware that he possessed any ability or expression that ever offered even the faintest glimmer of guidance to anyone on their journey through duty or leisure, pain or joy, work or rest, reality or imagination, in the maze navigated by humanity. There was no reason for anyone to believe that this idol of worship was made of anything other than the most ordinary clay, with as clogged a wick smoldering inside it as ever prevented a human figure from falling apart. Everyone knew (or thought they knew) that he had made himself extremely wealthy; and for that reason alone, they bowed down to him, more humbly and less justifiably than the most primitive person emerging from their cave to appease, in some log or creature, the god of their darkened soul.
Nay, the high priests of this worship had the man before them as a protest against their meanness. The multitude worshipped on trust—though always distinctly knowing why—but the officiators at the altar had the man habitually in their view. They sat at his feasts, and he sat at theirs. There was a spectre always attendant on him, saying to these high priests, ‘Are such the signs you trust, and love to honour; this head, these eyes, this mode of speech, the tone and manner of this man? You are the levers of the Circumlocution Office, and the rulers of men. When half-a-dozen of you fall out by the ears, it seems that mother earth can give birth to no other rulers. Does your qualification lie in the superior knowledge of men which accepts, courts, and puffs this man? Or, if you are competent to judge aright the signs I never fail to show you when he appears among you, is your superior honesty your qualification?’ Two rather ugly questions these, always going about town with Mr Merdle; and there was a tacit agreement that they must be stifled.
No, the high priests of this worship had the man in front of them as a protest against their pettiness. The crowd worshipped out of trust—always knowing exactly why—but the officials at the altar had the man constantly in their sights. They joined him at his celebrations, and he joined them at theirs. There was always a haunting presence alongside him, asking these high priests, ‘Are these the signs you trust and love to honor; this head, these eyes, this way of speaking, the tone and manner of this man? You are the levers of the Circumlocution Office and the rulers of men. When half a dozen of you argue, it seems that mother earth can’t produce any other rulers. Is your qualification based on the superior knowledge of men that recognizes, courts, and promotes this man? Or, if you are capable of accurately judging the signs I consistently show you when he’s among you, is your honesty your true qualification?’ These are two rather uncomfortable questions that always circulate with Mr. Merdle; and there was an unspoken agreement that they must be silenced.
In Mrs Merdle’s absence abroad, Mr Merdle still kept the great house open for the passage through it of a stream Of visitors. A few of these took affable possession of the establishment. Three or four ladies of distinction and liveliness used to say to one another, ‘Let us dine at our dear Merdle’s next Thursday. Whom shall we have?’ Our dear Merdle would then receive his instructions; and would sit heavily among the company at table and wander lumpishly about his drawing-rooms afterwards, only remarkable for appearing to have nothing to do with the entertainment beyond being in its way.
In Mrs. Merdle’s absence abroad, Mr. Merdle still kept the big house open for a steady stream of visitors. A few of them made themselves comfortable in the establishment. Three or four lively ladies of distinction would say to each other, “Let’s have dinner at our dear Merdle’s next Thursday. Who should we invite?” Our dear Merdle would then get his instructions and would sit heavily among the guests at the table, wandering awkwardly around his drawing rooms afterward, mostly just seeming to be part of the furniture rather than contributing to the evening.
The Chief Butler, the Avenging Spirit of this great man’s life, relaxed nothing of his severity. He looked on at these dinners when the bosom was not there, as he looked on at other dinners when the bosom was there; and his eye was a basilisk to Mr Merdle. He was a hard man, and would never bate an ounce of plate or a bottle of wine. He would not allow a dinner to be given, unless it was up to his mark. He set forth the table for his own dignity. If the guests chose to partake of what was served, he saw no objection; but it was served for the maintenance of his rank. As he stood by the sideboard he seemed to announce, ‘I have accepted office to look at this which is now before me, and to look at nothing less than this.’ If he missed the presiding bosom, it was as a part of his own state of which he was, from unavoidable circumstances, temporarily deprived, just as he might have missed a centre-piece, or a choice wine-cooler, which had been sent to the Banker’s.
The Chief Butler, the Avenging Spirit of this great man’s life, didn’t relax his severity at all. He observed these dinners when the host was missing, just like he watched other dinners when the host was present; and his gaze was as piercing as a basilisk to Mr. Merdle. He was a tough man and wouldn’t budge on the amount of silverware or wine. He wouldn’t permit a dinner to happen unless it met his standards. He arranged the table for his own dignity. If the guests wanted to enjoy what was offered, he had no problem with that; but it was set up to uphold his status. As he stood next to the sideboard, he seemed to declare, ‘I’ve taken this position to oversee what’s right in front of me, and nothing less.’ If he noticed the absence of the host, it felt like a part of his own prestige that he was, due to unavoidable circumstances, temporarily missing, just as he might have missed a centerpiece or a fine wine cooler that had been sent to the Banker’s.
Mr Merdle issued invitations for a Barnacle dinner. Lord Decimus was to be there, Mr Tite Barnacle was to be there, the pleasant young Barnacle was to be there; and the Chorus of Parliamentary Barnacles who went about the provinces when the House was up, warbling the praises of their Chief, were to be represented there. It was understood to be a great occasion. Mr Merdle was going to take up the Barnacles. Some delicate little negotiations had occurred between him and the noble Decimus—the young Barnacle of engaging manners acting as negotiator—and Mr Merdle had decided to cast the weight of his great probity and great riches into the Barnacle scale. Jobbery was suspected by the malicious; perhaps because it was indisputable that if the adherence of the immortal Enemy of Mankind could have been secured by a job, the Barnacles would have jobbed him—for the good of the country, for the good of the country.
Mr. Merdle sent out invitations for a Barnacle dinner. Lord Decimus was going to be there, Mr. Tite Barnacle was going to be there, and the charming young Barnacle was going to be there too; plus, the Chorus of Parliamentary Barnacles who traveled the provinces when the House was recessed, singing the praises of their Leader, would be represented as well. It was understood to be a significant event. Mr. Merdle was planning to support the Barnacles. Some delicate negotiations had taken place between him and the noble Decimus—the engaging young Barnacle acting as the negotiator—and Mr. Merdle had decided to lend his impressive integrity and considerable wealth to the Barnacle cause. The malicious suspected foul play; perhaps because it was undeniable that if the allegiance of the eternal Enemy of Mankind could have been secured through a bribe, the Barnacles would have done it—for the good of the country, for the good of the country.
Mrs Merdle had written to this magnificent spouse of hers, whom it was heresy to regard as anything less than all the British Merchants since the days of Whittington rolled into one, and gilded three feet deep all over—had written to this spouse of hers, several letters from Rome, in quick succession, urging upon him with importunity that now or never was the time to provide for Edmund Sparkler. Mrs Merdle had shown him that the case of Edmund was urgent, and that infinite advantages might result from his having some good thing directly. In the grammar of Mrs Merdle’s verbs on this momentous subject, there was only one mood, the Imperative; and that Mood had only one Tense, the Present. Mrs Merdle’s verbs were so pressingly presented to Mr Merdle to conjugate, that his sluggish blood and his long coat-cuffs became quite agitated.
Mrs. Merdle had written to her amazing husband, who was, without question, the most important figure among British merchants since the days of Dick Whittington, and completely covered in gold—she had sent him several letters from Rome, one after another, urgently insisting that now was the time to secure a future for Edmund Sparkler. Mrs. Merdle made it clear that Edmund's situation was critical and that there could be countless benefits if he had something good to rely on directly. In Mrs. Merdle's language about this crucial issue, there was only one command, the Imperative; and that command had only one time frame, the Present. Mrs. Merdle’s directives were so forcefully directed at Mr. Merdle to act on, that his sluggish blood and long coat cuffs became quite flustered.
In which state of agitation, Mr Merdle, evasively rolling his eyes round the Chief Butler’s shoes without raising them to the index of that stupendous creature’s thoughts, had signified to him his intention of giving a special dinner: not a very large dinner, but a very special dinner. The Chief Butler had signified, in return, that he had no objection to look on at the most expensive thing in that way that could be done; and the day of the dinner was now come.
In a state of anxiety, Mr. Merdle, nervously glancing at the Chief Butler’s shoes without meeting the gaze of that extraordinary person, had expressed his intention to host a special dinner: not a huge dinner, but a very exclusive one. The Chief Butler had indicated, in response, that he had no problem watching the most extravagant event unfold. Now, the day of the dinner had arrived.
Mr Merdle stood in one of his drawing-rooms, with his back to the fire, waiting for the arrival of his important guests. He seldom or never took the liberty of standing with his back to the fire unless he was quite alone. In the presence of the Chief Butler, he could not have done such a deed. He would have clasped himself by the wrists in that constabulary manner of his, and have paced up and down the hearthrug, or gone creeping about among the rich objects of furniture, if his oppressive retainer had appeared in the room at that very moment. The sly shadows which seemed to dart out of hiding when the fire rose, and to dart back into it when the fire fell, were sufficient witnesses of his making himself so easy. They were even more than sufficient, if his uncomfortable glances at them might be taken to mean anything.
Mr. Merdle stood in one of his drawing rooms, with his back to the fire, waiting for his important guests to arrive. He rarely stood with his back to the fire unless he was completely alone. In the presence of the Chief Butler, he wouldn’t have dared to do such a thing. He would have clasped his wrists together in that stiff way of his and paced back and forth on the hearth rug, or quietly roamed among the expensive furniture, if his oppressive attendant had walked into the room at that very moment. The sly shadows that seemed to leap out of hiding when the fire blazed and retreat when it dimmed were clear witnesses to his relaxed stance. They were more than just witnesses if his uncomfortable glances at them meant anything at all.
Mr Merdle’s right hand was filled with the evening paper, and the evening paper was full of Mr Merdle. His wonderful enterprise, his wonderful wealth, his wonderful Bank, were the fattening food of the evening paper that night. The wonderful Bank, of which he was the chief projector, establisher, and manager, was the latest of the many Merdle wonders. So modest was Mr Merdle withal, in the midst of these splendid achievements, that he looked far more like a man in possession of his house under a distraint, than a commercial Colossus bestriding his own hearthrug, while the little ships were sailing into dinner.
Mr. Merdle’s right hand was filled with the evening paper, and the evening paper was all about Mr. Merdle. His amazing business ventures, his incredible wealth, and his impressive Bank were the main topics in the evening paper that night. The remarkable Bank, of which he was the key creator, founder, and manager, was the latest among the many Merdle marvels. So humble was Mr. Merdle, despite these grand achievements, that he looked much more like a person at risk of losing his house than a financial giant dominating his own living room while the little ships were coming in for dinner.
Original
Behold the vessels coming into port! The engaging young Barnacle was the first arrival; but Bar overtook him on the staircase. Bar, strengthened as usual with his double eye-glass and his little jury droop, was overjoyed to see the engaging young Barnacle; and opined that we were going to sit in Banco, as we lawyers called it, to take a special argument?
Look at the boats coming into port! The charming young Barnacle was the first one to arrive, but Bar caught up with him on the stairs. Bar, as usual, with his double eyeglass and slight droop, was thrilled to see the charming young Barnacle and suggested that we were going to sit in Banco, as we lawyers called it, to have a special argument?
‘Indeed,’ said the sprightly young Barnacle, whose name was Ferdinand; ‘how so?’
‘For sure,’ said the lively young Barnacle, whose name was Ferdinand; ‘how come?’
‘Nay,’ smiled Bar. ‘If you don’t know, how can I know? You are in the innermost sanctuary of the temple; I am one of the admiring concourse on the plain without.’
‘No,’ Bar smiled. ‘If you don’t know, how can I know? You’re in the heart of the temple; I’m just one of the admirers outside on the plain.’
Bar could be light in hand, or heavy in hand, according to the customer he had to deal with. With Ferdinand Barnacle he was gossamer. Bar was likewise always modest and self-depreciatory—in his way. Bar was a man of great variety; but one leading thread ran through the woof of all his patterns. Every man with whom he had to do was in his eyes a jury-man; and he must get that jury-man over, if he could.
Bar could be either easygoing or strict, depending on the customer he was dealing with. With Ferdinand Barnacle, he was delicate. Bar was always humble and hard on himself—in his own way. He was a man of many talents, but one main idea connected all his actions. Every man he interacted with was a jury member in his eyes, and he had to win that jury member over, if he could.
‘Our illustrious host and friend,’ said Bar; ‘our shining mercantile star;—going into politics?’
‘Our esteemed host and friend,’ said Bar; ‘our shining business star—venturing into politics?’
‘Going? He has been in Parliament some time, you know,’ returned the engaging young Barnacle.
“Going? He’s been in Parliament for a while now, you know,” replied the charming young Barnacle.
‘True,’ said Bar, with his light-comedy laugh for special jury-men, which was a very different thing from his low-comedy laugh for comic tradesmen on common juries: ‘he has been in Parliament for some time. Yet hitherto our star has been a vacillating and wavering star? Humph?’
‘True,’ said Bar, with his lighthearted laugh meant for specific jurors, which was quite different from his more sarcastic laugh for the everyday tradesmen on regular juries: ‘he’s been in Parliament for a while. But up until now, our star has been an inconsistent and wobbly star? Hmm?’
An average witness would have been seduced by the Humph? into an affirmative answer, But Ferdinand Barnacle looked knowingly at Bar as he strolled up-stairs, and gave him no answer at all.
An average witness would have been swayed by the Humph? into saying yes, but Ferdinand Barnacle glanced knowingly at Bar as he walked upstairs and didn’t say a word.
‘Just so, just so,’ said Bar, nodding his head, for he was not to be put off in that way, ‘and therefore I spoke of our sitting in Banco to take a special argument—meaning this to be a high and solemn occasion, when, as Captain Macheath says, “the judges are met: a terrible show!” We lawyers are sufficiently liberal, you see, to quote the Captain, though the Captain is severe upon us. Nevertheless, I think I could put in evidence an admission of the Captain’s,’ said Bar, with a little jocose roll of his head; for, in his legal current of speech, he always assumed the air of rallying himself with the best grace in the world; ‘an admission of the Captain’s that Law, in the gross, is at least intended to be impartial. For what says the Captain, if I quote him correctly—and if not,’ with a light-comedy touch of his double eye-glass on his companion’s shoulder, ‘my learned friend will set me right:
“Exactly, exactly,” said Bar, nodding his head, refusing to be dismissed that easily. “That’s why I mentioned our sitting in Banco for a special argument—treating this as a significant and serious occasion, when, as Captain Macheath puts it, ‘the judges are met: a terrible show!’ We lawyers are generous enough, you see, to quote the Captain, even though he’s harsh on us. Still, I think I could introduce evidence of an admission from the Captain,” Bar said, with a playful tilt of his head; in his legal speech, he always took on the demeanor of lightly teasing himself as gracefully as possible. “An admission from the Captain that the law, in general, is at least meant to be impartial. So what does the Captain say, if I’m quoting him right—and if not,” he added with a comedic twinkle in his eye as he adjusted his double eye-glass on his companion’s shoulder, “my learned friend will correct me:
“Since laws were made for every degree,
“Since laws were created for every level,
To curb vice in others as well as in me,
To cut down on bad behavior in others as well as in myself,
I wonder we ha’n’t better company
I wonder why we don't have better company.
Upon Tyburn Tree!”’
At Tyburn Tree!”’
These words brought them to the drawing-room, where Mr Merdle stood before the fire. So immensely astounded was Mr Merdle by the entrance of Bar with such a reference in his mouth, that Bar explained himself to have been quoting Gay. ‘Assuredly not one of our Westminster Hall authorities,’ said he, ‘but still no despicable one to a man possessing the largely-practical Mr Merdle’s knowledge of the world.’
These words led them to the drawing-room, where Mr. Merdle was standing by the fireplace. Mr. Merdle was so shocked by Bar’s entrance and the reference he made that Bar clarified he was quoting Gay. “Definitely not one of our Westminster Hall experts,” he said, “but still not insignificant for a man with Mr. Merdle's extensive practical knowledge of the world.”
Mr Merdle looked as if he thought he would say something, but subsequently looked as if he thought he wouldn’t. The interval afforded time for Bishop to be announced.
Mr. Merdle seemed like he was about to say something, but then he looked like he decided not to. The pause allowed time for Bishop to be announced.
Bishop came in with meekness, and yet with a strong and rapid step as if he wanted to get his seven-league dress-shoes on, and go round the world to see that everybody was in a satisfactory state. Bishop had no idea that there was anything significant in the occasion. That was the most remarkable trait in his demeanour. He was crisp, fresh, cheerful, affable, bland; but so surprisingly innocent.
The bishop walked in humbly but with a confident and quick stride, as if he wanted to put on his seven-league dress shoes and travel the world to ensure everyone was doing well. He had no clue that the event was anything special. That was the most striking aspect of his behavior. He was sharp, fresh, cheerful, friendly, easygoing; but so unexpectedly naive.
Bar sidled up to prefer his politest inquiries in reference to the health of Mrs Bishop. Mrs Bishop had been a little unfortunate in the article of taking cold at a Confirmation, but otherwise was well. Young Mr Bishop was also well. He was down, with his young wife and little family, at his Cure of Souls.
Bar approached to politely ask about Mrs. Bishop's health. Mrs. Bishop had caught a slight cold at a Confirmation, but aside from that, she was doing well. Young Mr. Bishop was also fine. He was visiting, along with his young wife and small children, at his Cure of Souls.
The representatives of the Barnacle Chorus dropped in next, and Mr Merdle’s physician dropped in next. Bar, who had a bit of one eye and a bit of his double eye-glass for every one who came in at the door, no matter with whom he was conversing or what he was talking about, got among them all by some skilful means, without being seen to get at them, and touched each individual gentleman of the jury on his own individual favourite spot. With some of the Chorus, he laughed about the sleepy member who had gone out into the lobby the other night, and voted the wrong way: with others, he deplored that innovating spirit in the time which could not even be prevented from taking an unnatural interest in the public service and the public money: with the physician he had a word to say about the general health; he had also a little information to ask him for, concerning a professional man of unquestioned erudition and polished manners—but those credentials in their highest development he believed were the possession of other professors of the healing art (jury droop)—whom he had happened to have in the witness-box the day before yesterday, and from whom he had elicited in cross-examination that he claimed to be one of the exponents of this new mode of treatment which appeared to Bar to—eh?—well, Bar thought so; Bar had thought, and hoped, Physician would tell him so. Without presuming to decide where doctors disagreed, it did appear to Bar, viewing it as a question of common sense and not of so-called legal penetration, that this new system was—might be, in the presence of so great an authority—say, Humbug? Ah! Fortified by such encouragement, he could venture to say Humbug; and now Bar’s mind was relieved.
The Barnacle Chorus representatives dropped by next, followed by Mr. Merdle’s doctor. Bar, who had a bit of one eye and a bit of his double eyeglasses for everyone who came through the door, no matter who he was talking to or what the conversation was about, managed to mingle with them skillfully without being noticed and touched each juror in their favorite spot. With some of the Chorus members, he joked about the sleepy juror who had gone out to the lobby the other night and voted the wrong way; with others, he lamented the innovative spirit of the times that couldn't be stopped from taking an unnatural interest in public service and public funds. He had a word with the doctor about general health, and he also had a few questions for him about a professional with unquestionable knowledge and polished manners—though those qualifications, in their highest form, he believed belonged to other doctors (jury droop)—whom he had in the witness box the day before yesterday, from whom he had gotten in cross-examination that he claimed to be among those advocating this new treatment, which Bar thought—eh?—well, Bar believed so; he had thought and hoped the physician would confirm it. Without claiming to settle things where doctors disagreed, Bar thought, viewing it as a matter of common sense and not so-called legal insight, that this new system was—might be, in front of such a respected authority—let's say, Humbug? Ah! Encouraged by such thoughts, he felt he could indeed call it Humbug; and now Bar’s mind felt cleared.
Mr Tite Barnacle, who, like Dr Johnson’s celebrated acquaintance, had only one idea in his head and that was a wrong one, had appeared by this time. This eminent gentleman and Mr Merdle, seated diverse ways and with ruminating aspects on a yellow ottoman in the light of the fire, holding no verbal communication with each other, bore a strong general resemblance to the two cows in the Cuyp picture over against them.
Mr. Tite Barnacle, who, like Dr. Johnson’s famous friend, had only one idea in his mind and it was the wrong one, had shown up by this time. This distinguished gentleman and Mr. Merdle, sitting in different positions with thoughtful looks on a yellow ottoman in the warm glow of the fire, who were not speaking to each other, bore a striking resemblance to the two cows in the Cuyp painting across from them.
But now, Lord Decimus arrived. The Chief Butler, who up to this time had limited himself to a branch of his usual function by looking at the company as they entered (and that, with more of defiance than favour), put himself so far out of his way as to come up-stairs with him and announce him. Lord Decimus being an overpowering peer, a bashful young member of the Lower House who was the last fish but one caught by the Barnacles, and who had been invited on this occasion to commemorate his capture, shut his eyes when his Lordship came in.
But now, Lord Decimus arrived. The Chief Butler, who until now had just been keeping an eye on the guests as they entered (and with more defiance than friendliness), made an effort to go upstairs with him and introduce him. Lord Decimus, being a very influential nobleman, caused a shy young member of the Lower House, who was the second-to-last person caught by the Barnacles and was invited this time to celebrate his capture, to shut his eyes when his Lordship walked in.
Lord Decimus, nevertheless, was glad to see the Member. He was also glad to see Mr Merdle, glad to see Bishop, glad to see Bar, glad to see Physician, glad to see Tite Barnacle, glad to see Chorus, glad to see Ferdinand his private secretary. Lord Decimus, though one of the greatest of the earth, was not remarkable for ingratiatory manners, and Ferdinand had coached him up to the point of noticing all the fellows he might find there, and saying he was glad to see them. When he had achieved this rush of vivacity and condescension, his Lordship composed himself into the picture after Cuyp, and made a third cow in the group.
Lord Decimus, however, was happy to see the Member. He was also glad to see Mr. Merdle, glad to see Bishop, glad to see Bar, glad to see Physician, glad to see Tite Barnacle, glad to see Chorus, and glad to see Ferdinand, his private secretary. Lord Decimus, even though he was one of the most important people on earth, wasn’t known for being overly friendly, and Ferdinand had helped him to the point of recognizing all the people he might encounter there and saying he was glad to see them. Once he managed this burst of energy and friendliness, his Lordship settled into a pose like a painting by Cuyp and became a third cow in the group.
Bar, who felt that he had got all the rest of the jury and must now lay hold of the Foreman, soon came sidling up, double eye-glass in hand. Bar tendered the weather, as a subject neatly aloof from official reserve, for the Foreman’s consideration. Bar said that he was told (as everybody always is told, though who tells them, and why, will ever remain a mystery), that there was to be no wall-fruit this year. Lord Decimus had not heard anything amiss of his peaches, but rather believed, if his people were correct, he was to have no apples. No apples? Bar was lost in astonishment and concern. It would have been all one to him, in reality, if there had not been a pippin on the surface of the earth, but his show of interest in this apple question was positively painful. Now, to what, Lord Decimus—for we troublesome lawyers loved to gather information, and could never tell how useful it might prove to us—to what, Lord Decimus, was this to be attributed? Lord Decimus could not undertake to propound any theory about it. This might have stopped another man; but Bar, sticking to him fresh as ever, said, ‘As to pears, now?’
Bar, feeling confident that he had won over the rest of the jury, approached the Foreman, double eyeglasses in hand. He brought up the weather as a topic that was far removed from official matters, hoping it would engage the Foreman's interest. Bar mentioned that he had heard (as everyone always does, though the source and the reason remain a mystery) that there would be no wall-fruit this year. Lord Decimus hadn't heard of any trouble with his peaches, but he believed, based on what his people told him, that he wouldn’t have any apples. No apples? Bar was taken aback and worried. Truthfully, it wouldn't matter to him if not a single pippin existed on the planet, but his feigned concern about the apple situation was almost painful to witness. Now, Lord Decimus—because we pesky lawyers loved to gather information, never knowing how it might come in handy—what could this be attributed to? Lord Decimus couldn’t offer any theory on it. This might have deterred someone else, but Bar, sticking to him as ever, asked, “What about pears then?”
Long after Bar got made Attorney-General, this was told of him as a master-stroke. Lord Decimus had a reminiscence about a pear-tree formerly growing in a garden near the back of his dame’s house at Eton, upon which pear-tree the only joke of his life perennially bloomed. It was a joke of a compact and portable nature, turning on the difference between Eton pears and Parliamentary pairs; but it was a joke, a refined relish of which would seem to have appeared to Lord Decimus impossible to be had without a thorough and intimate acquaintance with the tree. Therefore, the story at first had no idea of such a tree, sir, then gradually found it in winter, carried it through the changing season, saw it bud, saw it blossom, saw it bear fruit, saw the fruit ripen; in short, cultivated the tree in that diligent and minute manner before it got out of the bed-room window to steal the fruit, that many thanks had been offered up by belated listeners for the trees having been planted and grafted prior to Lord Decimus’s time. Bar’s interest in apples was so overtopped by the wrapt suspense in which he pursued the changes of these pears, from the moment when Lord Decimus solemnly opened with ‘Your mentioning pears recalls to my remembrance a pear-tree,’ down to the rich conclusion, ‘And so we pass, through the various changes of life, from Eton pears to Parliamentary pairs,’ that he had to go down-stairs with Lord Decimus, and even then to be seated next to him at table in order that he might hear the anecdote out. By that time, Bar felt that he had secured the Foreman, and might go to dinner with a good appetite.
Long after Bar became Attorney-General, people still talked about this masterful moment he created. Lord Decimus reminisced about a pear tree that used to grow in a garden behind his mother’s house at Eton, where the only joke of his life endlessly thrived. It was a clever joke that played on the difference between Eton pears and Parliamentary pairs, but it seemed that Lord Decimus felt you needed a deep knowledge of the tree to truly appreciate it. So, the story started without any mention of such a tree and gradually found its way through winter, then into spring, where it saw buds, blossoms, and ripening fruit; in short, it carefully cultivated this tree in such detail before it could steal the fruit from the bedroom window that people were thankful the trees had already been planted and grafted before Lord Decimus’s time. Bar’s interest in apples was overshadowed by the intense suspense with which he followed the transformations of the pears, ever since Lord Decimus began with ‘Your mentioning pears reminds me of a pear tree’ all the way to the rich conclusion, ‘And so we transition, through life’s changes, from Eton pears to Parliamentary pairs.’ He had to go downstairs with Lord Decimus, and even then, sit next to him at the table just to hear the whole story. By then, Bar felt he had won over the Foreman and could sit down to dinner with a good appetite.
It was a dinner to provoke an appetite, though he had not had one. The rarest dishes, sumptuously cooked and sumptuously served; the choicest fruits; the most exquisite wines; marvels of workmanship in gold and silver, china and glass; innumerable things delicious to the senses of taste, smell, and sight, were insinuated into its composition. O, what a wonderful man this Merdle, what a great man, what a master man, how blessedly and enviably endowed—in one word, what a rich man!
It was a dinner meant to whet the appetite, even though he didn't have one. The rarest dishes, lavishly cooked and presented; the finest fruits; the most exquisite wines; stunning creations in gold and silver, china and glass; countless delights for the senses of taste, smell, and sight were part of it. Oh, what an incredible man this Merdle is, what a great man, what a masterful man, how blessed and enviably gifted— in short, what a wealthy man!
He took his usual poor eighteenpennyworth of food in his usual indigestive way, and had as little to say for himself as ever a wonderful man had. Fortunately Lord Decimus was one of those sublimities who have no occasion to be talked to, for they can be at any time sufficiently occupied with the contemplation of their own greatness. This enabled the bashful young Member to keep his eyes open long enough at a time to see his dinner. But, whenever Lord Decimus spoke, he shut them again.
He ate his usual cheap meal in his usual way that didn’t sit well with him, and had as little to say for himself as any remarkable person could. Luckily, Lord Decimus was one of those extraordinary individuals who don’t need to be engaged in conversation, as they can always be fully occupied with thoughts of their own importance. This allowed the shy young Member to keep his eyes open long enough to see his dinner. However, whenever Lord Decimus spoke, he shut his eyes again.
The agreeable young Barnacle, and Bar, were the talkers of the party. Bishop would have been exceedingly agreeable also, but that his innocence stood in his way. He was so soon left behind. When there was any little hint of anything being in the wind, he got lost directly. Worldly affairs were too much for him; he couldn’t make them out at all.
The pleasant young Barnacle and Bar were the main talkers of the group. Bishop would have been very agreeable too, but his innocence held him back. He would quickly fall behind. Whenever there was even a hint of something going on, he would get lost right away. Worldly matters were beyond him; he just couldn’t understand them at all.
This was observable when Bar said, incidentally, that he was happy to have heard that we were soon to have the advantage of enlisting on the good side, the sound and plain sagacity—not demonstrative or ostentatious, but thoroughly sound and practical—of our friend Mr Sparkler.
This became clear when Bar casually mentioned that he was glad to hear we would soon be able to enlist the solid and straightforward wisdom—not flashy or showy, but completely reliable and practical—of our friend Mr. Sparkler.
Ferdinand Barnacle laughed, and said oh yes, he believed so. A vote was a vote, and always acceptable.
Ferdinand Barnacle laughed and said, "Oh yes, I believe so. A vote is a vote and always worth accepting."
Bar was sorry to miss our good friend Mr Sparkler to-day, Mr Merdle.
Bar was sorry to miss our good friend Mr. Sparkler today, Mr. Merdle.
‘He is away with Mrs Merdle,’ returned that gentleman, slowly coming out of a long abstraction, in the course of which he had been fitting a tablespoon up his sleeve. ‘It is not indispensable for him to be on the spot.’
‘He’s with Mrs. Merdle,’ the man replied, slowly coming out of a long daze, during which he had been tucking a tablespoon up his sleeve. ‘It’s not necessary for him to be here.’
‘The magic name of Merdle,’ said Bar, with the jury droop, ‘no doubt will suffice for all.’
‘The famous name of Merdle,’ said Bar, looking defeated, ‘will probably be enough for everyone.’
‘Why—yes—I believe so,’ assented Mr Merdle, putting the spoon aside, and clumsily hiding each of his hands in the coat-cuff of the other hand. ‘I believe the people in my interest down there will not make any difficulty.’
‘Yeah, I think so,’ agreed Mr. Merdle, setting the spoon down and awkwardly tucking each hand into the cuff of the other hand’s coat. ‘I believe the people I represent down there won’t have any issues.’
‘Model people!’ said Bar.
“Model citizens!” said Bar.
‘I am glad you approve of them,’ said Mr Merdle.
“I’m glad you approve of them,” said Mr. Merdle.
‘And the people of those other two places, now,’ pursued Bar, with a bright twinkle in his keen eye, as it slightly turned in the direction of his magnificent neighbour; ‘we lawyers are always curious, always inquisitive, always picking up odds and ends for our patchwork minds, since there is no knowing when and where they may fit into some corner;—the people of those other two places now? Do they yield so laudably to the vast and cumulative influence of such enterprise and such renown; do those little rills become absorbed so quietly and easily, and, as it were by the influence of natural laws, so beautifully, in the swoop of the majestic stream as it flows upon its wondrous way enriching the surrounding lands; that their course is perfectly to be calculated, and distinctly to be predicated?’
"And what about the people from those other two places now?" Bar continued, his sharp eyes sparkling as they glanced towards his impressive neighbor. "Us lawyers are always curious, always looking for information, always gathering bits and pieces for our patchwork minds, since we never know when they might come in handy. So, do the people of those other two places readily embrace the great and growing impact of such enterprise and fame? Do those little streams blend in so seamlessly and effortlessly, as if guided by natural laws, beautifully joining the flow of the grand river as it travels along its incredible path, enriching the lands around it; so much so that their paths can be accurately predicted and clearly understood?"
Mr Merdle, a little troubled by Bar’s eloquence, looked fitfully about the nearest salt-cellar for some moments, and then said hesitating:
Mr. Merdle, feeling a bit unsettled by Bar’s persuasive speech, glanced nervously around the nearest salt shaker for a few moments, and then said hesitantly:
‘They are perfectly aware, sir, of their duty to Society. They will return anybody I send to them for that purpose.’
‘They know very well, sir, their responsibility to society. They will take back anyone I send to them for that reason.’
‘Cheering to know,’ said Bar. ‘Cheering to know.’
‘It's great to know,’ said Bar. ‘It's great to know.’
The three places in question were three little rotten holes in this Island, containing three little ignorant, drunken, guzzling, dirty, out-of-the-way constituencies, that had reeled into Mr Merdle’s pocket. Ferdinand Barnacle laughed in his easy way, and airily said they were a nice set of fellows. Bishop, mentally perambulating among paths of peace, was altogether swallowed up in absence of mind.
The three places in question were three tiny, decaying spots on this island, home to three clueless, drunk, greedy, dirty, remote constituencies that had ended up in Mr. Merdle’s grasp. Ferdinand Barnacle laughed casually and jokingly said they were a great bunch of guys. Bishop, lost in his thoughts as he wandered through imagined peaceful paths, was completely absorbed in daydreaming.
‘Pray,’ asked Lord Decimus, casting his eyes around the table, ‘what is this story I have heard of a gentleman long confined in a debtors’ prison proving to be of a wealthy family, and having come into the inheritance of a large sum of money? I have met with a variety of allusions to it. Do you know anything of it, Ferdinand?’
‘Pray,’ asked Lord Decimus, looking around the table, ‘what is this story I’ve heard about a gentleman who was stuck in a debtors' prison, only to find out he comes from a wealthy family and has inherited a large sum of money? I've seen a lot of references to it. Do you know anything about it, Ferdinand?’
‘I only know this much,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that he has given the Department with which I have the honour to be associated;’ this sparkling young Barnacle threw off the phrase sportively, as who should say, We know all about these forms of speech, but we must keep it up, we must keep the game alive; ‘no end of trouble, and has put us into innumerable fixes.’
“I only know this much,” said Ferdinand, “that he has caused the Department I’m proud to be part of a lot of trouble;” this lively young Barnacle said it playfully, as if to say, We get all these formalities, but we have to stick with it, we have to keep the fun going; “he’s put us in countless tough situations.”
‘Fixes?’ repeated Lord Decimus, with a majestic pausing and pondering on the word that made the bashful Member shut his eyes quite tight. ‘Fixes?’
“Fixes?” repeated Lord Decimus, pausing dramatically to consider the word that made the shy Member close his eyes tightly. “Fixes?”
‘A very perplexing business indeed,’ observed Mr Tite Barnacle, with an air of grave resentment.
‘A really confusing situation,’ remarked Mr. Tite Barnacle, with a look of serious discontent.
‘What,’ said Lord Decimus, ‘was the character of his business; what was the nature of these—a—Fixes, Ferdinand?’
‘What,’ said Lord Decimus, ‘was the nature of his business; what were these—uh—Fixes, Ferdinand?’
‘Oh, it’s a good story, as a story,’ returned that gentleman; ‘as good a thing of its kind as need be. This Mr Dorrit (his name is Dorrit) had incurred a responsibility to us, ages before the fairy came out of the Bank and gave him his fortune, under a bond he had signed for the performance of a contract which was not at all performed. He was a partner in a house in some large way—spirits, or buttons, or wine, or blacking, or oatmeal, or woollen, or pork, or hooks and eyes, or iron, or treacle, or shoes, or something or other that was wanted for troops, or seamen, or somebody—and the house burst, and we being among the creditors, detainees were lodged on the part of the Crown in a scientific manner, and all the rest of it. When the fairy had appeared and he wanted to pay us off, Egad we had got into such an exemplary state of checking and counter-checking, signing and counter-signing, that it was six months before we knew how to take the money, or how to give a receipt for it. It was a triumph of public business,’ said this handsome young Barnacle, laughing heartily, ‘You never saw such a lot of forms in your life. “Why,” the attorney said to me one day, “if I wanted this office to give me two or three thousand pounds instead of take it, I couldn’t have more trouble about it.” “You are right, old fellow,” I told him, “and in future you’ll know that we have something to do here.”’ The pleasant young Barnacle finished by once more laughing heartily. He was a very easy, pleasant fellow indeed, and his manners were exceedingly winning.
“Oh, it’s a great story, as stories go,” replied that gentleman; “as good as it gets. This Mr. Dorrit (his name is Dorrit) had taken on a responsibility to us long before the fairy came out of the Bank and gave him his fortune, based on a contract he signed that was never fulfilled. He was a partner in some big business—spirits, buttons, wine, shoe polish, oatmeal, wool, pork, hooks and eyes, iron, treacle, shoes, or something that was needed for the troops, sailors, or someone—and the business went under. Since we were among the creditors, they had us detained by the Crown in a very technical way, and all that went with it. When the fairy showed up and he wanted to pay us, we got into such an elaborate state of checking and cross-checking, signing and re-signing, that it took us six months to figure out how to accept the money or how to provide a receipt for it. It was a real achievement in public business,” said this handsome young Barnacle, laughing heartily, “You’ve never seen so many forms in your life. 'Why,' the lawyer said to me one day, 'if I wanted this office to give me two or three thousand pounds instead of take it, I couldn't have more trouble with it.' 'You're right, my friend,' I told him, 'and from now on you'll know we have something to accomplish here.'” The cheerful young Barnacle ended with another hearty laugh. He was really easy-going and pleasant, and his manners were incredibly charming.
Mr Tite Barnacle’s view of the business was of a less airy character. He took it ill that Mr Dorrit had troubled the Department by wanting to pay the money, and considered it a grossly informal thing to do after so many years. But Mr Tite Barnacle was a buttoned-up man, and consequently a weighty one. All buttoned-up men are weighty. All buttoned-up men are believed in. Whether or no the reserved and never-exercised power of unbuttoning, fascinates mankind; whether or no wisdom is supposed to condense and augment when buttoned up, and to evaporate when unbuttoned; it is certain that the man to whom importance is accorded is the buttoned-up man. Mr Tite Barnacle never would have passed for half his current value, unless his coat had been always buttoned-up to his white cravat.
Mr. Tite Barnacle had a much more serious view of the business. He was annoyed that Mr. Dorrit had bothered the Department by wanting to pay the money, considering it a very inappropriate thing to do after all these years. But Mr. Tite Barnacle was a reserved man, which made him seem significant. All reserved men seem significant. All reserved men are taken seriously. Whether or not the hidden and never-used potential of unbuttoning intrigues people; whether or not wisdom is thought to become more concentrated and valuable when buttoned up, and to fade away when unbuttoned; it’s clear that the person who gets respect is the buttoned-up man. Mr. Tite Barnacle wouldn’t have been seen as worth half what he was, if his coat hadn’t always been buttoned up to his white cravat.
‘May I ask,’ said Lord Decimus, ‘if Mr Darrit—or Dorrit—has any family?’
“Can I ask,” said Lord Decimus, “if Mr. Darrit—or Dorrit—has any family?”
Nobody else replying, the host said, ‘He has two daughters, my lord.’
Nobody else replied, so the host said, "He has two daughters, my lord."
‘Oh! you are acquainted with him?’ asked Lord Decimus.
"Oh! Do you know him?" asked Lord Decimus.
‘Mrs Merdle is. Mr Sparkler is, too. In fact,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I rather believe that one of the young ladies has made an impression on Edmund Sparkler. He is susceptible, and—I—think—the conquest—’ Here Mr Merdle stopped, and looked at the table-cloth, as he usually did when he found himself observed or listened to.
‘Mrs. Merdle is. Mr. Sparkler is, too. Actually,’ said Mr. Merdle, ‘I kind of think that one of the young ladies has caught Edmund Sparkler's eye. He’s quite impressionable, and—I—believe—the conquest—’ Here Mr. Merdle paused and stared at the tablecloth, as he often did when he realized he was being watched or listened to.
Bar was uncommonly pleased to find that the Merdle family, and this family, had already been brought into contact. He submitted, in a low voice across the table to Bishop, that it was a kind of analogical illustration of those physical laws, in virtue of which Like flies to Like. He regarded this power of attraction in wealth to draw wealth to it, as something remarkably interesting and curious—something indefinably allied to the loadstone and gravitation. Bishop, who had ambled back to earth again when the present theme was broached, acquiesced. He said it was indeed highly important to Society that one in the trying situation of unexpectedly finding himself invested with a power for good or for evil in Society, should become, as it were, merged in the superior power of a more legitimate and more gigantic growth, the influence of which (as in the case of our friend at whose board we sat) was habitually exercised in harmony with the best interests of Society. Thus, instead of two rival and contending flames, a larger and a lesser, each burning with a lurid and uncertain glare, we had a blended and a softened light whose genial ray diffused an equable warmth throughout the land. Bishop seemed to like his own way of putting the case very much, and rather dwelt upon it; Bar, meanwhile (not to throw away a jury-man), making a show of sitting at his feet and feeding on his precepts.
Bar was unusually pleased to discover that the Merdle family had already connected with this family. He quietly suggested to Bishop across the table that it was a sort of analogy illustrating the physical law of "Like attracts Like." He found this attraction of wealth to draw more wealth to it to be remarkably interesting and curious—somehow linked to the loadstone and gravity. Bishop, who had come back to reality when this topic was brought up, agreed. He said it was indeed crucial for society that someone in a challenging situation—unexpectedly given the power to do good or evil—should merge, so to speak, with the greater influence of a more legitimate and substantial presence, the impact of which (as in the case of our host) was usually exercised in sync with society's best interests. So, instead of having two competing flames, one larger and one smaller, each flickering with a harsh and uncertain light, we had a blended and softer glow that spread a warm and steady light throughout the land. Bishop seemed to really enjoy his own way of expressing this and lingered on it; meanwhile, Bar (not wanting to waste a valuable opportunity) pretended to be absorbing his wisdom like a devoted student.
The dinner and dessert being three hours long, the bashful Member cooled in the shadow of Lord Decimus faster than he warmed with food and drink, and had but a chilly time of it. Lord Decimus, like a tall tower in a flat country, seemed to project himself across the table-cloth, hide the light from the honourable Member, cool the honourable Member’s marrow, and give him a woeful idea of distance. When he asked this unfortunate traveller to take wine, he encompassed his faltering steps with the gloomiest of shades; and when he said, ‘Your health sir!’ all around him was barrenness and desolation.
The dinner and dessert lasted three hours, and the shy Member felt uncomfortable in the shadow of Lord Decimus, cooling off faster than he could warm up with food and drink, resulting in a rather unpleasant time. Lord Decimus, towering like a skyscraper in a flat landscape, seemed to loom over the tablecloth, blocking the light from the honorable Member, chilling him to the bone, and creating a stark sense of distance. When he invited this unfortunate guest to drink, he surrounded his hesitant movements with the darkest shadows; and when he raised his glass and said, "Cheers to your health, sir!" everything around him felt barren and desolate.
At length Lord Decimus, with a coffee-cup in his hand, began to hover about among the pictures, and to cause an interesting speculation to arise in all minds as to the probabilities of his ceasing to hover, and enabling the smaller birds to flutter up-stairs; which could not be done until he had urged his noble pinions in that direction. After some delay, and several stretches of his wings which came to nothing, he soared to the drawing-rooms.
At last, Lord Decimus, holding a coffee cup, started wandering around the pictures, leading everyone to wonder whether he would finally stop hovering and allow the smaller birds to fly upstairs; that couldn't happen until he directed his noble wings in that direction. After a bit of waiting and several pointless flaps of his wings, he took off to the drawing rooms.
And here a difficulty arose, which always does arise when two people are specially brought together at a dinner to confer with one another. Everybody (except Bishop, who had no suspicion of it) knew perfectly well that this dinner had been eaten and drunk, specifically to the end that Lord Decimus and Mr Merdle should have five minutes’ conversation together. The opportunity so elaborately prepared was now arrived, and it seemed from that moment that no mere human ingenuity could so much as get the two chieftains into the same room. Mr Merdle and his noble guest persisted in prowling about at opposite ends of the perspective. It was in vain for the engaging Ferdinand to bring Lord Decimus to look at the bronze horses near Mr Merdle. Then Mr Merdle evaded, and wandered away. It was in vain for him to bring Mr Merdle to Lord Decimus to tell him the history of the unique Dresden vases. Then Lord Decimus evaded and wandered away, while he was getting his man up to the mark.
And here came a challenge, which always happens when two people are specifically brought together at a dinner to have a discussion. Everyone (except the Bishop, who had no clue) knew quite well that this dinner had been organized solely so that Lord Decimus and Mr. Merdle could have five minutes of conversation. The moment that had been carefully arranged had now arrived, and from that point on, it seemed that no amount of clever planning could get the two main figures into the same room. Mr. Merdle and his noble guest continued to linger at opposite ends of the venue. It was pointless for the eager Ferdinand to try and get Lord Decimus to look at the bronze horses near Mr. Merdle. Then Mr. Merdle slipped away and wandered off. It was also futile for him to bring Mr. Merdle to Lord Decimus to discuss the history of the unique Dresden vases. Then Lord Decimus slipped away and wandered off just as he was trying to get his attention.
‘Did you ever see such a thing as this?’ said Ferdinand to Bar when he had been baffled twenty times.
‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’ Ferdinand asked Bar after he had been puzzled twenty times.
‘Often,’ returned Bar.
“Usually,” replied Bar.
‘Unless I butt one of them into an appointed corner, and you butt the other,’ said Ferdinand, ‘it will not come off after all.’
‘Unless I push one of them into a designated spot, and you push the other,’ said Ferdinand, ‘it won't work out in the end.’
‘Very good,’ said Bar. ‘I’ll butt Merdle, if you like; but not my lord.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Bar. ‘I’ll confront Merdle if you want; but not my lord.’
Ferdinand laughed, in the midst of his vexation. ‘Confound them both!’ said he, looking at his watch. ‘I want to get away. Why the deuce can’t they come together! They both know what they want and mean to do. Look at them!’
Ferdinand laughed, despite his frustration. “Damn them both!” he said, checking his watch. “I just want to leave. Why the hell can’t they arrive at the same time? They both know what they want and what they plan to do. Just look at them!”
They were still looming at opposite ends of the perspective, each with an absurd pretence of not having the other on his mind, which could not have been more transparently ridiculous though his real mind had been chalked on his back. Bishop, who had just now made a third with Bar and Ferdinand, but whose innocence had again cut him out of the subject and washed him in sweet oil, was seen to approach Lord Decimus and glide into conversation.
They were still standing at opposite ends of the view, each with a ridiculous act of pretending not to think about the other, which couldn’t have been more obviously silly, even if their true thoughts were written on their backs. Bishop, who had just joined Bar and Ferdinand, but whose naivety had once again excluded him from the topic and smoothed things over for him, was seen approaching Lord Decimus and smoothly starting a conversation.
‘I must get Merdle’s doctor to catch and secure him, I suppose,’ said Ferdinand; ‘and then I must lay hold of my illustrious kinsman, and decoy him if I can—drag him if I can’t—to the conference.’
‘I guess I need to get Merdle’s doctor to catch and secure him,’ said Ferdinand; ‘and then I need to grab my famous relative and lure him if I can—pull him if I can’t—to the meeting.’
‘Since you do me the honour,’ said Bar, with his slyest smile, to ask for my poor aid, it shall be yours with the greatest pleasure. I don’t think this is to be done by one man. But if you will undertake to pen my lord into that furthest drawing-room where he is now so profoundly engaged, I will undertake to bring our dear Merdle into the presence, without the possibility of getting away.’
“Since you’re being so kind,” Bar said with his slyest smile, “to ask for my humble help, I’ll be happy to provide it. I don’t think this can be done by just one person. But if you’re willing to keep my lord occupied in that farthest drawing room where he’s currently so deeply engrossed, I’ll make sure to bring our dear Merdle in without any chance of escaping.”
‘Done!’ said Ferdinand. ‘Done!’ said Bar.
‘Finished!’ said Ferdinand. ‘Finished!’ said Bar.
Bar was a sight wondrous to behold, and full of matter, when, jauntily waving his double eye-glass by its ribbon, and jauntily drooping to an Universe of Jurymen, he, in the most accidental manner ever seen, found himself at Mr Merdle’s shoulder, and embraced that opportunity of mentioning a little point to him, on which he particularly wished to be guided by the light of his practical knowledge. (Here he took Mr Merdle’s arm and walked him gently away.) A banker, whom we would call A. B., advanced a considerable sum of money, which we would call fifteen thousand pounds, to a client or customer of his, whom he would call P. Q. (Here, as they were getting towards Lord Decimus, he held Mr Merdle tight.) As a security for the repayment of this advance to P. Q. whom we would call a widow lady, there were placed in A. B.‘s hands the title-deeds of a freehold estate, which we would call Blinkiter Doddles. Now, the point was this. A limited right of felling and lopping in the woods of Blinkiter Doddles, lay in the son of P. Q. then past his majority, and whom we would call X. Y.—but really this was too bad! In the presence of Lord Decimus, to detain the host with chopping our dry chaff of law, was really too bad! Another time! Bar was truly repentant, and would not say another syllable. Would Bishop favour him with half-a-dozen words? (He had now set Mr Merdle down on a couch, side by side with Lord Decimus, and to it they must go, now or never.)
Bar was an impressive sight, casually waving his double eye-glass by its ribbon and playfully leaning toward a group of Jurymen. In a completely unplanned way, he found himself at Mr. Merdle’s side and took the chance to bring up a small issue he really wanted guidance on from Merdle's practical knowledge. (He took Mr. Merdle’s arm and gently steered him away.) A banker, whom we'll call A. B., lent a significant amount of money, let’s say fifteen thousand pounds, to a client, whom we’ll refer to as P. Q. (As they made their way toward Lord Decimus, he held Mr. Merdle tightly.) As security for this loan to P. Q., whom we’ll say is a widow, A. B. received the title deeds to a freehold estate, which we’ll call Blinkiter Doddles. The issue was this: the son of P. Q., who had just come of age and whom we’ll call X. Y., had a limited right to cut and trim the woods of Blinkiter Doddles. But really, this was too much! In front of Lord Decimus, holding up the host with our legal complications was just unacceptable! Another time! Bar was genuinely regretful and promised not to say another word. Would Bishop be kind enough to share a few words with him? (He had now seated Mr. Merdle on a couch next to Lord Decimus, and they had to address it now or never.)
And now the rest of the company, highly excited and interested, always excepting Bishop, who had not the slightest idea that anything was going on, formed in one group round the fire in the next drawing-room, and pretended to be chatting easily on the infinite variety of small topics, while everybody’s thoughts and eyes were secretly straying towards the secluded pair. The Chorus were excessively nervous, perhaps as labouring under the dreadful apprehension that some good thing was going to be diverted from them! Bishop alone talked steadily and evenly. He conversed with the great Physician on that relaxation of the throat with which young curates were too frequently afflicted, and on the means of lessening the great prevalence of that disorder in the church. Physician, as a general rule, was of opinion that the best way to avoid it was to know how to read, before you made a profession of reading. Bishop said dubiously, did he really think so? And Physician said, decidedly, yes he did.
And now the rest of the group, buzzing with excitement and interest—except for Bishop, who had no clue that anything was happening—gathered around the fire in the next living room and pretended to have a casual chat about a seemingly endless array of trivial topics, while everyone’s thoughts and glances kept drifting toward the secluded couple. The onlookers were extremely nervous, perhaps worried that something good was about to be taken away from them! Only Bishop kept talking steadily and calmly. He chatted with the great Physician about the throat issues that young curates often faced, and how to reduce the high occurrence of that problem in the church. The Physician generally believed that the best way to avoid it was to know how to read before you committed to a career in reading. Bishop said uncertainly, did he really believe that? And the Physician replied firmly, yes, he did.
Ferdinand, meanwhile, was the only one of the party who skirmished on the outside of the circle; he kept about mid-way between it and the two, as if some sort of surgical operation were being performed by Lord Decimus on Mr Merdle, or by Mr Merdle on Lord Decimus, and his services might at any moment be required as Dresser. In fact, within a quarter of an hour Lord Decimus called to him ‘Ferdinand!’ and he went, and took his place in the conference for some five minutes more. Then a half-suppressed gasp broke out among the Chorus; for Lord Decimus rose to take his leave. Again coached up by Ferdinand to the point of making himself popular, he shook hands in the most brilliant manner with the whole company, and even said to Bar, ‘I hope you were not bored by my pears?’ To which Bar retorted, ‘Eton, my lord, or Parliamentary?’ neatly showing that he had mastered the joke, and delicately insinuating that he could never forget it while his life remained.
Ferdinand was the only one in the group who lingered outside the circle; he positioned himself halfway between it and the two, as if some kind of surgical procedure was being done by Lord Decimus on Mr. Merdle, or by Mr. Merdle on Lord Decimus, and his help might be needed at any time as the Dresser. In fact, within about fifteen minutes, Lord Decimus called out, "Ferdinand!" and he joined the discussion for another five minutes. Then a barely contained gasp spread among the Chorus as Lord Decimus stood up to leave. Having been coached by Ferdinand to be charming, he shook hands with everyone in a dazzling way and even said to Bar, "I hope you weren't bored by my pears?" To which Bar replied, "Eton, my lord, or Parliamentary?" cleverly indicating that he had understood the joke, and subtly suggesting that he would never forget it for as long as he lived.
All the grave importance that was buttoned up in Mr Tite Barnacle, took itself away next; and Ferdinand took himself away next, to the opera. Some of the rest lingered a little, marrying golden liqueur glasses to Buhl tables with sticky rings; on the desperate chance of Mr Merdle’s saying something. But Merdle, as usual, oozed sluggishly and muddily about his drawing-room, saying never a word.
All the serious importance that was bound up in Mr. Tite Barnacle faded away next, and Ferdinand left for the opera. Some of the others stuck around a bit longer, pairing golden liqueur glasses with Buhl tables that had sticky rings, hoping desperately that Mr. Merdle would say something. But Merdle, as usual, shuffled slowly and unceremoniously around his drawing-room, not saying a word.
In a day or two it was announced to all the town, that Edmund Sparkler, Esquire, son-in-law of the eminent Mr Merdle of worldwide renown, was made one of the Lords of the Circumlocution Office; and proclamation was issued, to all true believers, that this admirable appointment was to be hailed as a graceful and gracious mark of homage, rendered by the graceful and gracious Decimus, to that commercial interest which must ever in a great commercial country—and all the rest of it, with blast of trumpet. So, bolstered by this mark of Government homage, the wonderful Bank and all the other wonderful undertakings went on and went up; and gapers came to Harley Street, Cavendish Square, only to look at the house where the golden wonder lived.
In a day or two, it was announced to the whole town that Edmund Sparkler, Esquire, son-in-law of the famous Mr. Merdle, known worldwide, had been appointed as one of the Lords of the Circumlocution Office. A proclamation was made to all true believers, declaring that this excellent appointment should be celebrated as a flattering tribute from the charming Decimus to the commercial interests that are always prominent in a major commercial country—and all that, with a blast of trumpets. So, backed by this gesture of Government favor, the impressive Bank and all the other remarkable ventures continued to thrive; curious onlookers flocked to Harley Street, Cavendish Square, just to see the house where the golden wonder lived.
And when they saw the Chief Butler looking out at the hall-door in his moments of condescension, the gapers said how rich he looked, and wondered how much money he had in the wonderful Bank. But, if they had known that respectable Nemesis better, they would not have wondered about it, and might have stated the amount with the utmost precision.
And when they saw the Chief Butler looking out from the hall door during his moments of generosity, the onlookers said how wealthy he looked and wondered how much money he had in that amazing bank. But if they had known respectable Nemesis better, they wouldn't have been so curious about it and might have been able to state the amount with perfect accuracy.
CHAPTER 13. The Progress of an Epidemic
That it is at least as difficult to stay a moral infection as a physical one; that such a disease will spread with the malignity and rapidity of the Plague; that the contagion, when it has once made head, will spare no pursuit or condition, but will lay hold on people in the soundest health, and become developed in the most unlikely constitutions: is a fact as firmly established by experience as that we human creatures breathe an atmosphere. A blessing beyond appreciation would be conferred upon mankind, if the tainted, in whose weakness or wickedness these virulent disorders are bred, could be instantly seized and placed in close confinement (not to say summarily smothered) before the poison is communicable.
The truth is that it's just as hard to contain a moral infection as it is a physical one; that this kind of sickness can spread with the same intensity and speed as the Plague; that once the contagion takes hold, it won't spare anyone or any situation, but will affect even the healthiest individuals and thrive in the most unexpected bodies: this is a fact as well-established by experience as that we human beings breathe an atmosphere. It would be an immeasurable blessing for humanity if those who are tainted, whether through their weaknesses or their evil, could be immediately captured and kept in strict confinement (not to mention swiftly ended) before they can spread the poison.
As a vast fire will fill the air to a great distance with its roar, so the sacred flame which the mighty Barnacles had fanned caused the air to resound more and more with the name of Merdle. It was deposited on every lip, and carried into every ear. There never was, there never had been, there never again should be, such a man as Mr Merdle. Nobody, as aforesaid, knew what he had done; but everybody knew him to be the greatest that had appeared.
As a huge fire creates a loud roar that can be heard from far away, the sacred flame that the powerful Barnacles had stoked made everyone talk more and more about Merdle. His name was on everyone's lips and in everyone's ears. There had never been, there wasn't at the moment, and there likely wouldn't ever be another man like Mr. Merdle. No one, as mentioned before, knew what he had accomplished; but everyone recognized him as the greatest ever.
Down in Bleeding Heart Yard, where there was not one unappropriated halfpenny, as lively an interest was taken in this paragon of men as on the Stock Exchange. Mrs Plornish, now established in the small grocery and general trade in a snug little shop at the crack end of the Yard, at the top of the steps, with her little old father and Maggy acting as assistants, habitually held forth about him over the counter in conversation with her customers. Mr Plornish, who had a small share in a small builder’s business in the neighbourhood, said, trowel in hand, on the tops of scaffolds and on the tiles of houses, that people did tell him as Mr Merdle was the one, mind you, to put us all to rights in respects of that which all on us looked to, and to bring us all safe home as much as we needed, mind you, fur toe be brought. Mr Baptist, sole lodger of Mr and Mrs Plornish was reputed in whispers to lay by the savings which were the result of his simple and moderate life, for investment in one of Mr Merdle’s certain enterprises. The female Bleeding Hearts, when they came for ounces of tea, and hundredweights of talk, gave Mrs Plornish to understand, That how, ma’am, they had heard from their cousin Mary Anne, which worked in the line, that his lady’s dresses would fill three waggons. That how she was as handsome a lady, ma’am, as lived, no matter wheres, and a busk like marble itself. That how, according to what they was told, ma’am, it was her son by a former husband as was took into the Government; and a General he had been, and armies he had marched again and victory crowned, if all you heard was to be believed. That how it was reported that Mr Merdle’s words had been, that if they could have made it worth his while to take the whole Government he would have took it without a profit, but that take it he could not and stand a loss. That how it was not to be expected, ma’am, that he should lose by it, his ways being, as you might say and utter no falsehood, paved with gold; but that how it was much to be regretted that something handsome hadn’t been got up to make it worth his while; for it was such and only such that knowed the heighth to which the bread and butchers’ meat had rose, and it was such and only such that both could and would bring that heighth down.
Down in Bleeding Heart Yard, where not a single penny was free, people were just as interested in this ideal man as they were on the Stock Exchange. Mrs. Plornish, now running a small grocery and general store in a cozy little shop at the far end of the Yard, at the top of the steps, with her elderly father and Maggy helping her, often talked about him over the counter to her customers. Mr. Plornish, who had a minor stake in a small building business nearby, would say, trowel in hand, on the top of scaffolds and roofs, that people told him Mr. Merdle was the one, mind you, to get everything sorted for us, regarding what we all relied on, and to safely provide all we needed, mind you, to be provided for. Mr. Baptist, the only tenant of Mr. and Mrs. Plornish, was rumored to be saving the money from his simple and modest lifestyle to invest in one of Mr. Merdle’s guaranteed ventures. The women of Bleeding Heart Yard, when they came for ounces of tea and lots of gossip, let Mrs. Plornish know that they had heard from their cousin Mary Anne, who worked in the business, that his wife’s dresses would fill three wagons. That she was as beautiful a lady, ma’am, as any you’d find, no matter where, and her waist was like marble itself. That according to what they were told, ma’am, it was her son from a previous marriage who had joined the Government, and he had been a General, leading armies to victory, if you believed everything you heard. That it was said Mr. Merdle had remarked that if they could have made it worthwhile for him to take over the whole Government he would have done it without profit, but he couldn’t take it on at a loss. That it shouldn’t be expected, ma’am, that he would take a loss, since his ways were, as you might say without lying, paved with gold; but it was certainly regrettable that something appealing hadn’t been put together to make it worth his effort; because only those who really understood how high the prices of bread and meat had risen knew how to bring them back down.
So rife and potent was the fever in Bleeding Heart Yard, that Mr Pancks’s rent-days caused no interval in the patients. The disease took the singular form, on those occasions, of causing the infected to find an unfathomable excuse and consolation in allusions to the magic name.
So widespread and intense was the fever in Bleeding Heart Yard that Mr. Pancks’s rent days didn’t diminish the number of patients. During those times, the sickness took on the unusual form of making those affected come up with deep excuses and comfort in references to that magical name.
‘Now, then!’ Mr Pancks would say, to a defaulting lodger. ‘Pay up! Come on!’
‘Now, then!’ Mr. Pancks would say to a behind-on-rent lodger. ‘Pay up! Come on!’
‘I haven’t got it, Mr Pancks,’ Defaulter would reply. ‘I tell you the truth, sir, when I say I haven’t got so much as a single sixpence of it to bless myself with.’
‘I don’t have it, Mr. Pancks,’ Defaulter would reply. ‘I’m being honest, sir, when I say I don’t have even a single sixpence to my name.’
‘This won’t do, you know,’ Mr Pancks would retort. ‘You don’t expect it will do; do you?’
‘This won’t work, you know,’ Mr. Pancks would reply. ‘You don’t actually think it will work, do you?’
Defaulter would admit, with a low-spirited ‘No, sir,’ having no such expectation.
Defaulter would respond with a defeated, "No, sir," not having any hope for that.
‘My proprietor isn’t going to stand this, you know,’ Mr Pancks would proceed. ‘He don’t send me here for this. Pay up! Come!’
‘My boss isn’t going to put up with this, you know,’ Mr. Pancks would continue. ‘He doesn’t send me here for this. Pay up! Come on!’
The Defaulter would make answer, ‘Ah, Mr Pancks. If I was the rich gentleman whose name is in everybody’s mouth—if my name was Merdle, sir—I’d soon pay up, and be glad to do it.’
The Defaulter responded, "Ah, Mr. Pancks. If I were the wealthy gentleman everyone is talking about—if my name were Merdle, sir—I’d pay up in no time and be happy to do it."
Dialogues on the rent-question usually took place at the house-doors or in the entries, and in the presence of several deeply interested Bleeding Hearts. They always received a reference of this kind with a low murmur of response, as if it were convincing; and the Defaulter, however black and discomfited before, always cheered up a little in making it.
Dialogues about the rent issue usually happened at the front doors or in the entryways, often in front of several concerned Bleeding Hearts. They responded to this kind of reference with a quiet murmur, as if it were persuasive; and the Defaulter, no matter how guilty or embarrassed they seemed before, always felt a bit better after saying it.
‘If I was Mr Merdle, sir, you wouldn’t have cause to complain of me then. No, believe me!’ the Defaulter would proceed with a shake of the head. ‘I’d pay up so quick then, Mr Pancks, that you shouldn’t have to ask me.’
‘If I were Mr. Merdle, sir, you wouldn’t have any reason to complain about me then. No, trust me!’ the Defaulter would continue, shaking his head. ‘I’d settle up so fast, Mr. Pancks, that you wouldn’t even need to ask me.’
The response would be heard again here, implying that it was impossible to say anything fairer, and that this was the next thing to paying the money down.
The response would be heard again here, suggesting that it was impossible to say anything more reasonable, and that this was the next best thing to paying the money upfront.
Mr Pancks would be now reduced to saying as he booked the case, ‘Well! You’ll have the broker in, and be turned out; that’s what’ll happen to you. It’s no use talking to me about Mr Merdle. You are not Mr Merdle, any more than I am.’
Mr. Pancks would now just say as he booked the case, ‘Well! You’ll have the broker in, and you’ll be kicked out; that’s what’s going to happen to you. There’s no point in talking to me about Mr. Merdle. You are not Mr. Merdle, any more than I am.’
‘No, sir,’ the Defaulter would reply. ‘I only wish you were him, sir.’
‘No, sir,’ the Defaulter would reply. ‘I only wish you were him, sir.’
The response would take this up quickly; replying with great feeling, ‘Only wish you were him, sir.’
The response would come quickly, replying with great emotion, ‘I only wish you were him, sir.’
‘You’d be easier with us if you were Mr Merdle, sir,’ the Defaulter would go on with rising spirits, ‘and it would be better for all parties. Better for our sakes, and better for yours, too. You wouldn’t have to worry no one, then, sir. You wouldn’t have to worry us, and you wouldn’t have to worry yourself. You’d be easier in your own mind, sir, and you’d leave others easier, too, you would, if you were Mr Merdle.’
“You’d have an easier time with us if you were Mr. Merdle, sir,” the Defaulter continued, feeling more optimistic, “and it would be better for everyone involved. Better for us, and better for you, too. You wouldn’t have to worry about anyone then, sir. You wouldn’t have to worry us, and you wouldn’t have to worry about yourself. You’d feel more at ease in your own mind, sir, and you’d leave others feeling easier too, if you were Mr. Merdle.”
Mr Pancks, in whom these impersonal compliments produced an irresistible sheepishness, never rallied after such a charge. He could only bite his nails and puff away to the next Defaulter. The responsive Bleeding Hearts would then gather round the Defaulter whom he had just abandoned, and the most extravagant rumours would circulate among them, to their great comfort, touching the amount of Mr Merdle’s ready money.
Mr. Pancks, who felt an overwhelming awkwardness from these generic compliments, could never recover after such an encounter. He could only bite his nails and move on to the next Defaulter. The eager Bleeding Hearts would then gather around the Defaulter he had just left, and the wildest rumors would spread among them, to their great amusement, about how much cash Mr. Merdle had.
From one of the many such defeats of one of many rent-days, Mr Pancks, having finished his day’s collection, repaired with his note-book under his arm to Mrs Plornish’s corner. Mr Pancks’s object was not professional, but social. He had had a trying day, and wanted a little brightening. By this time he was on friendly terms with the Plornish family, having often looked in upon them at similar seasons, and borne his part in recollections of Miss Dorrit.
After one of the many defeat-filled rent-days, Mr. Pancks, having completed his collection for the day, made his way with his notebook under his arm to the corner where Mrs. Plornish was. Mr. Pancks wasn't there for work; he was there for a social visit. He had a rough day and was looking for a little cheer. By now, he was on good terms with the Plornish family, as he had often dropped by around this time and had shared memories of Miss Dorrit with them.
Mrs Plornish’s shop-parlour had been decorated under her own eye, and presented, on the side towards the shop, a little fiction in which Mrs Plornish unspeakably rejoiced. This poetical heightening of the parlour consisted in the wall being painted to represent the exterior of a thatched cottage; the artist having introduced (in as effective a manner as he found compatible with their highly disproportionate dimensions) the real door and window. The modest sunflower and hollyhock were depicted as flourishing with great luxuriance on this rustic dwelling, while a quantity of dense smoke issuing from the chimney indicated good cheer within, and also, perhaps, that it had not been lately swept. A faithful dog was represented as flying at the legs of the friendly visitor, from the threshold; and a circular pigeon-house, enveloped in a cloud of pigeons, arose from behind the garden-paling. On the door (when it was shut), appeared the semblance of a brass-plate, presenting the inscription, Happy Cottage, T. and M. Plornish; the partnership expressing man and wife. No Poetry and no Art ever charmed the imagination more than the union of the two in this counterfeit cottage charmed Mrs Plornish. It was nothing to her that Plornish had a habit of leaning against it as he smoked his pipe after work, when his hat blotted out the pigeon-house and all the pigeons, when his back swallowed up the dwelling, when his hands in his pockets uprooted the blooming garden and laid waste the adjacent country. To Mrs Plornish, it was still a most beautiful cottage, a most wonderful deception; and it made no difference that Mr Plornish’s eye was some inches above the level of the gable bed-room in the thatch. To come out into the shop after it was shut, and hear her father sing a song inside this cottage, was a perfect Pastoral to Mrs Plornish, the Golden Age revived. And truly if that famous period had been revived, or had ever been at all, it may be doubted whether it would have produced many more heartily admiring daughters than the poor woman.
Mrs. Plornish’s shop-parlor had been decorated under her own watch, and on the side facing the shop, it created a little fantasy that Mrs. Plornish utterly delighted in. This whimsical enhancement of the parlor featured walls painted to resemble the outside of a thatched cottage, with the artist cleverly including the real door and window, despite their mismatched sizes. The modest sunflower and hollyhock were shown thriving vibrantly on this rustic home, while a plume of thick smoke coming from the chimney suggested warmth inside and maybe that it hadn’t been cleaned recently. A loyal dog was depicted excitedly jumping at the legs of a friendly visitor from the threshold, and a round pigeon house, surrounded by a flurry of pigeons, rose behind the garden fence. When the door was closed, a representation of a brass plate appeared, reading "Happy Cottage, T. and M. Plornish," indicating the partnership of husband and wife. No poetry or art ever captivated the imagination more than this blend of the two in the fake cottage enchanted Mrs. Plornish. It didn’t bother her that Plornish often leaned against it while smoking his pipe after work, obscuring the pigeon house and all the pigeons with his hat, or that his back blocked the cottage, or that his hands in his pockets destroyed the blooming garden and ruined the nearby landscape. To Mrs. Plornish, it remained a beautiful cottage, a marvelous illusion; and it made no difference that Mr. Plornish’s eye was several inches above the level of the gable bedroom in the thatch. To step out into the shop after it was closed and hear her father sing a song inside this cottage felt like a perfect pastoral scene to Mrs. Plornish, a revival of the Golden Age. And truly, if that famous era had been revived, or had ever existed at all, one might wonder if it would have produced many more daughters who admired life as wholeheartedly as that poor woman did.
Warned of a visitor by the tinkling bell at the shop-door, Mrs Plornish came out of Happy Cottage to see who it might be. ‘I guessed it was you, Mr Pancks,’ said she, ‘for it’s quite your regular night; ain’t it? Here’s father, you see, come out to serve at the sound of the bell, like a brisk young shopman. Ain’t he looking well? Father’s more pleased to see you than if you was a customer, for he dearly loves a gossip; and when it turns upon Miss Dorrit, he loves it all the more. You never heard father in such voice as he is at present,’ said Mrs Plornish, her own voice quavering, she was so proud and pleased. ‘He gave us Strephon last night to that degree that Plornish gets up and makes him this speech across the table. “John Edward Nandy,” says Plornish to father, “I never heard you come the warbles as I have heard you come the warbles this night.” An’t it gratifying, Mr Pancks, though; really?’
Alerted by the ringing bell at the shop door, Mrs. Plornish stepped out of Happy Cottage to see who had arrived. “I figured it was you, Mr. Pancks,” she said, “since it’s your regular night, right? Here’s my father, you see, quick to come out at the sound of the bell, just like an eager young shop assistant. Doesn’t he look well? He’s happier to see you than if you were a customer because he loves a good chat, especially when it’s about Miss Dorrit. You’ve never heard him sound so lively as he does right now,” Mrs. Plornish said, her voice trembling with pride and happiness. “He entertained us with Strephon last night so much that Plornish stood up and made a speech across the table. ‘John Edward Nandy,’ Plornish said to him, ‘I’ve never heard you sing as beautifully as you did tonight.’ Isn’t that delightful, Mr. Pancks, really?”
Mr Pancks, who had snorted at the old man in his friendliest manner, replied in the affirmative, and casually asked whether that lively Altro chap had come in yet? Mrs Plornish answered no, not yet, though he had gone to the West-End with some work, and had said he should be back by tea-time. Mr Pancks was then hospitably pressed into Happy Cottage, where he encountered the elder Master Plornish just come home from school. Examining that young student, lightly, on the educational proceedings of the day, he found that the more advanced pupils who were in the large text and the letter M, had been set the copy ‘Merdle, Millions.’
Mr. Pancks, who had greeted the old man in a friendly way, replied yes and casually asked if that lively Altro guy had come in yet. Mrs. Plornish said no, not yet, although he had gone to the West End with some work and said he would be back by tea time. Mr. Pancks was then warmly invited into Happy Cottage, where he ran into the older Master Plornish just back from school. After lightly questioning the young student about what he learned that day, he discovered that the more advanced students who were studying the large text and the letter M had been given the assignment ‘Merdle, Millions.’
‘And how are you getting on, Mrs Plornish,’ said Pancks, ‘since we’re mentioning millions?’
‘And how are you doing, Mrs. Plornish,’ said Pancks, ‘since we’re talking about millions?’
‘Very steady, indeed, sir,’ returned Mrs Plornish. ‘Father, dear, would you go into the shop and tidy the window a little bit before tea, your taste being so beautiful?’
‘Very steady, indeed, sir,’ replied Mrs. Plornish. ‘Dad, could you go into the shop and tidy the window a bit before tea? Your taste is so lovely!’
John Edward Nandy trotted away, much gratified, to comply with his daughter’s request. Mrs Plornish, who was always in mortal terror of mentioning pecuniary affairs before the old gentleman, lest any disclosure she made might rouse his spirit and induce him to run away to the workhouse, was thus left free to be confidential with Mr Pancks.
John Edward Nandy walked away, feeling very pleased, to fulfill his daughter's request. Mrs. Plornish, who was always extremely anxious about discussing money matters in front of the old gentleman, fearing that any mention might upset him and make him run off to the workhouse, was now able to confide in Mr. Pancks.
‘It’s quite true that the business is very steady indeed,’ said Mrs Plornish, lowering her voice; ‘and has a excellent connection. The only thing that stands in its way, sir, is the Credit.’
“It’s absolutely true that the business is very stable,” Mrs. Plornish said, lowering her voice, “and has a great network. The only thing that holds it back, sir, is the Credit.”
This drawback, rather severely felt by most people who engaged in commercial transactions with the inhabitants of Bleeding Heart Yard, was a large stumbling-block in Mrs Plornish’s trade. When Mr Dorrit had established her in the business, the Bleeding Hearts had shown an amount of emotion and a determination to support her in it, that did honour to human nature. Recognising her claim upon their generous feelings as one who had long been a member of their community, they pledged themselves, with great feeling, to deal with Mrs Plornish, come what would and bestow their patronage on no other establishment. Influenced by these noble sentiments, they had even gone out of their way to purchase little luxuries in the grocery and butter line to which they were unaccustomed; saying to one another, that if they did stretch a point, was it not for a neighbour and a friend, and for whom ought a point to be stretched if not for such? So stimulated, the business was extremely brisk, and the articles in stock went off with the greatest celerity. In short, if the
This issue, which was keenly felt by most people who did business with the residents of Bleeding Heart Yard, posed a significant obstacle for Mrs. Plornish's trade. When Mr. Dorrit set her up in the business, the Bleeding Hearts had shown a remarkable amount of emotion and a strong commitment to support her, which reflected well on human nature. Acknowledging her place in their community as someone who had been part of it for a long time, they promised with great sincerity to shop with Mrs. Plornish, no matter what, and to give their patronage to no other store. Motivated by these admirable feelings, they even went out of their way to buy small luxuries in groceries and dairy that they usually avoided; they reasoned with each other that if they were going to stretch their budgets, it should be for a neighbor and a friend—and who else should they do that for? With this encouragement, business was very lively, and the items in stock flew off the shelves. In short, if the
Bleeding Hearts had but paid, the undertaking would have been a complete success; whereas, by reason of their exclusively confining themselves to owing, the profits actually realised had not yet begun to appear in the books.
Bleeding Hearts had only paid, the project would have been a total success; however, because they only focused on what they owed, the profits they actually gained hadn’t started to show up in the records yet.
Original
Mr Pancks was making a very porcupine of himself by sticking his hair up in the contemplation of this state of accounts, when old Mr Nandy, re-entering the cottage with an air of mystery, entreated them to come and look at the strange behaviour of Mr Baptist, who seemed to have met with something that had scared him. All three going into the shop, and watching through the window, then saw Mr Baptist, pale and agitated, go through the following extraordinary performances. First, he was observed hiding at the top of the steps leading down into the Yard, and peeping up and down the street with his head cautiously thrust out close to the side of the shop-door. After very anxious scrutiny, he came out of his retreat, and went briskly down the street as if he were going away altogether; then, suddenly turned about, and went, at the same pace, and with the same feint, up the street. He had gone no further up the street than he had gone down, when he crossed the road and disappeared. The object of this last manoeuvre was only apparent, when his entering the shop with a sudden twist, from the steps again, explained that he had made a wide and obscure circuit round to the other, or Doyce and Clennam, end of the Yard, and had come through the Yard and bolted in. He was out of breath by that time, as he might well be, and his heart seemed to jerk faster than the little shop-bell, as it quivered and jingled behind him with his hasty shutting of the door.
Mr. Pancks was making quite a scene with his hair sticking up as he pondered this state of accounts, when old Mr. Nandy came back into the cottage with an air of mystery and urged them to come see the strange behavior of Mr. Baptist, who appeared to have encountered something frightening. The three of them went into the shop and watched through the window, seeing Mr. Baptist, pale and shaken, engage in the following bizarre antics. First, he was spotted hiding at the top of the steps leading down into the Yard, peeking up and down the street with his head cautiously poking out close to the side of the shop door. After a tense observation, he emerged from his hiding spot and walked briskly down the street as if he were leaving for good; then, suddenly, he turned around and walked back up the street at the same speed, with the same pretense. He hadn't gone further up the street than he had down, when he crossed the road and vanished. The purpose of this last move became clear when he suddenly entered the shop again from the steps, showing that he had made a wide and obscure loop around to the other side, or Doyce and Clennam end of the Yard, and had come through the Yard and bolted in. By that time, he was out of breath, as one could expect, and his heart seemed to race faster than the little shop bell, which quivered and jingled behind him as he hurriedly shut the door.
‘Hallo, old chap!’ said Mr Pancks. ‘Altro, old boy! What’s the matter?’
‘Hey there, old friend!’ said Mr. Pancks. ‘What’s up, buddy? What’s going on?’
Mr Baptist, or Signor Cavalletto, understood English now almost as well as Mr Pancks himself, and could speak it very well too. Nevertheless, Mrs Plornish, with a pardonable vanity in that accomplishment of hers which made her all but Italian, stepped in as interpreter.
Mr. Baptist, or Signor Cavalletto, understood English almost as well as Mr. Pancks did, and he could speak it pretty well too. However, Mrs. Plornish, with a natural pride in her near-Italian skill, stepped in as the interpreter.
‘E ask know,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘what go wrong?’
‘You ask to know,’ said Mrs. Plornish, ‘what went wrong?’
‘Come into the happy little cottage, Padrona,’ returned Mr Baptist, imparting great stealthiness to his flurried back-handed shake of his right forefinger. ‘Come there!’
‘Come into the cozy little cottage, Padrona,’ Mr. Baptist replied, adding a sense of urgency to his hurried sideways motion of his right forefinger. ‘Come on in!’
Mrs Plornish was proud of the title Padrona, which she regarded as signifying: not so much Mistress of the house, as Mistress of the Italian tongue. She immediately complied with Mr Baptist’s request, and they all went into the cottage.
Mrs. Plornish was proud of the title Padrona, which she saw as meaning: not just Mistress of the house, but Mistress of the Italian language. She quickly agreed to Mr. Baptist's request, and they all went into the cottage.
‘E ope you no fright,’ said Mrs Plornish then, interpreting Mr Pancks in a new way with her usual fertility of resource. ‘What appen? Peaka Padrona!’
‘I hope you're not scared,’ said Mrs. Plornish then, understanding Mr. Pancks in a different way with her usual quick thinking. ‘What happened? Peek-a-boo, lady!’
‘I have seen some one,’ returned Baptist. ‘I have rincontrato him.’
‘I have seen someone,’ replied Baptist. ‘I ran into him.’
‘Im? Oo him?’ asked Mrs Plornish.
"Who? Him?" asked Mrs. Plornish.
‘A bad man. A baddest man. I have hoped that I should never see him again.’
‘A bad man. A really bad man. I hoped I would never have to see him again.’
‘Ow you know him bad?’ asked Mrs Plornish.
'How do you know him so well?' asked Mrs. Plornish.
‘It does not matter, Padrona. I know it too well.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Padrona. I know it all too well.’
‘E see you?’ asked Mrs Plornish.
‘Do you see us?’ asked Mrs. Plornish.
‘No. I hope not. I believe not.’
‘No. I hope not. I don't think so.’
‘He says,’ Mrs Plornish then interpreted, addressing her father and Pancks with mild condescension, ‘that he has met a bad man, but he hopes the bad man didn’t see him—Why,’ inquired Mrs Plornish, reverting to the Italian language, ‘why ope bad man no see?’
‘He says,’ Mrs. Plornish then explained, speaking to her father and Pancks with a touch of condescension, ‘that he met a bad man, but he hopes the bad man didn’t see him—Why,’ asked Mrs. Plornish, switching back to Italian, ‘why didn’t the bad man see?’
‘Padrona, dearest,’ returned the little foreigner whom she so considerately protected, ‘do not ask, I pray. Once again I say it matters not. I have fear of this man. I do not wish to see him, I do not wish to be known of him—never again! Enough, most beautiful. Leave it.’
‘Lady, my dear,’ replied the little foreigner whom she kindly protected, ‘please don’t ask. I'm telling you again, it doesn’t matter. I’m afraid of this man. I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to be associated with him—never again! That’s enough, you’re beautiful. Just drop it.’
The topic was so disagreeable to him, and so put his usual liveliness to the rout, that Mrs Plornish forbore to press him further: the rather as the tea had been drawing for some time on the hob. But she was not the less surprised and curious for asking no more questions; neither was Mr Pancks, whose expressive breathing had been labouring hard since the entrance of the little man, like a locomotive engine with a great load getting up a steep incline. Maggy, now better dressed than of yore, though still faithful to the monstrous character of her cap, had been in the background from the first with open mouth and eyes, which staring and gaping features were not diminished in breadth by the untimely suppression of the subject. However, no more was said about it, though much appeared to be thought on all sides: by no means excepting the two young Plornishes, who partook of the evening meal as if their eating the bread and butter were rendered almost superfluous by the painful probability of the worst of men shortly presenting himself for the purpose of eating them. Mr Baptist, by degrees began to chirp a little; but never stirred from the seat he had taken behind the door and close to the window, though it was not his usual place. As often as the little bell rang, he started and peeped out secretly, with the end of the little curtain in his hand and the rest before his face; evidently not at all satisfied but that the man he dreaded had tracked him through all his doublings and turnings, with the certainty of a terrible bloodhound.
The topic was so unpleasant to him, and it completely drained his usual energy, that Mrs. Plornish decided not to press him any further, especially since the tea had been simmering for a while on the stove. However, she was still surprised and curious, even without asking more questions; the same went for Mr. Pancks, whose heavy breathing had been working hard since the little man arrived, like a train struggling to climb a steep hill. Maggy, now dressed better than before but still sticking to her ridiculous cap, had been standing in the background with her mouth open and eyes wide, and her shocked expression wasn’t lessened by the awkward silence on the topic. Despite the silence, everyone seemed to have a lot on their minds, including the two young Plornishes, who ate their meal almost as if it didn’t matter because of the looming fear of the worst man showing up to eat them instead. Mr. Baptist gradually started to relax a bit, but he didn’t move from his spot behind the door, close to the window, which wasn't his usual place. Every time the little bell rang, he flinched and peeked out secretly, holding the edge of the small curtain while keeping the rest in front of his face; he clearly wasn’t satisfied that the man he feared hadn’t tracked him down through all his twists and turns, like a relentless bloodhound.
The entrance, at various times, of two or three customers and of Mr Plornish, gave Mr Baptist just enough of this employment to keep the attention of the company fixed upon him. Tea was over, and the children were abed, and Mrs Plornish was feeling her way to the dutiful proposal that her father should favour them with Chloe, when the bell rang again, and Mr Clennam came in.
The entrance of two or three customers and Mr. Plornish at different times kept Mr. Baptist just busy enough to keep everyone's attention on him. Tea was done, the kids were in bed, and Mrs. Plornish was trying to work up to suggesting that her father should let them have Chloe, when the bell rang again, and Mr. Clennam walked in.
Clennam had been poring late over his books and letters; for the waiting-rooms of the Circumlocution Office ravaged his time sorely. Over and above that, he was depressed and made uneasy by the late occurrence at his mother’s. He looked worn and solitary. He felt so, too; but, nevertheless, was returning home from his counting-house by that end of the Yard to give them the intelligence that he had received another letter from Miss Dorrit.
Clennam had been deeply focused on his books and letters late into the night because the waiting rooms of the Circumlocution Office wasted a lot of his time. On top of that, he was feeling down and anxious because of the recent event at his mother's place. He looked tired and alone. He felt that way too; still, he was heading home from his office through that part of the Yard to inform them that he had received another letter from Miss Dorrit.
The news made a sensation in the cottage which drew off the general attention from Mr Baptist. Maggy, who pushed her way into the foreground immediately, would have seemed to draw in the tidings of her Little Mother equally at her ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, but that the last were obstructed by tears. She was particularly delighted when Clennam assured her that there were hospitals, and very kindly conducted hospitals, in Rome. Mr Pancks rose into new distinction in virtue of being specially remembered in the letter. Everybody was pleased and interested, and Clennam was well repaid for his trouble.
The news caused a stir in the cottage, taking everyone's attention away from Mr. Baptist. Maggy, who immediately stepped into the spotlight, seemed to absorb the news about her Little Mother through her ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, though her eyes were blocked by tears. She was especially thrilled when Clennam reassured her that there were hospitals, and very caring hospitals, in Rome. Mr. Pancks gained new recognition for being specifically mentioned in the letter. Everyone was happy and engaged, and Clennam felt rewarded for his efforts.
‘But you are tired, sir. Let me make you a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘if you’d condescend to take such a thing in the cottage; and many thanks to you, too, I am sure, for bearing us in mind so kindly.’
‘But you look tired, sir. Let me make you a cup of tea,’ said Mrs. Plornish, ‘if you wouldn’t mind having it in the cottage; and thank you so much for thinking of us so kindly.’
Mr Plornish deeming it incumbent on him, as host, to add his personal acknowledgments, tendered them in the form which always expressed his highest ideal of a combination of ceremony with sincerity.
Mr. Plornish felt it was his duty as the host to offer his personal thanks, doing so in a way that always reflected his ideal mix of formality and genuine feeling.
‘John Edward Nandy,’ said Mr Plornish, addressing the old gentleman. ‘Sir. It’s not too often that you see unpretending actions without a spark of pride, and therefore when you see them give grateful honour unto the same, being that if you don’t, and live to want ‘em, it follows serve you right.’
‘John Edward Nandy,’ Mr. Plornish said, speaking to the old gentleman. ‘Sir, it’s not often you see genuine actions without a hint of pride, and when you do, it’s important to show your gratitude. If you don't, and later find yourself in need of such actions, then it serves you right.’
To which Mr Nandy replied:
Mr. Nandy replied:
‘I am heartily of your opinion, Thomas, and which your opinion is the same as mine, and therefore no more words and not being backwards with that opinion, which opinion giving it as yes, Thomas, yes, is the opinion in which yourself and me must ever be unanimously jined by all, and where there is not difference of opinion there can be none but one opinion, which fully no, Thomas, Thomas, no!’
‘I completely agree with you, Thomas, and since our views are the same, there’s no need for more discussion. We should stand firm in this shared opinion, which yes, Thomas, yes, is something you and I must always be united on. When there is no disagreement, there can only be one opinion, and that is definitely not, Thomas, Thomas, no!’
Arthur, with less formality, expressed himself gratified by their high appreciation of so very slight an attention on his part; and explained as to the tea that he had not yet dined, and was going straight home to refresh after a long day’s labour, or he would have readily accepted the hospitable offer. As Mr Pancks was somewhat noisily getting his steam up for departure, he concluded by asking that gentleman if he would walk with him? Mr Pancks said he desired no better engagement, and the two took leave of Happy Cottage.
Arthur, more casually, expressed that he was pleased by their high regard for such a small gesture from him. He explained about the tea, saying he hadn’t eaten yet and was heading home to recharge after a long day at work; otherwise, he would have gladly accepted their kind offer. As Mr. Pancks was somewhat loudly preparing to leave, he ended by asking if that gentleman would walk with him. Mr. Pancks said he couldn’t think of a better way to spend his time, and the two said goodbye to Happy Cottage.
‘If you will come home with me, Pancks,’ said Arthur, when they got into the street, ‘and will share what dinner or supper there is, it will be next door to an act of charity; for I am weary and out of sorts to-night.’
‘If you come home with me, Pancks,’ said Arthur, when they got onto the street, ‘and share whatever dinner or supper I have, it will be almost an act of kindness; because I’m tired and feeling off tonight.’
‘Ask me to do a greater thing than that,’ said Pancks, ‘when you want it done, and I’ll do it.’
"Ask me to do something bigger than that," said Pancks, "whenever you need it done, and I'll handle it."
Between this eccentric personage and Clennam, a tacit understanding and accord had been always improving since Mr Pancks flew over Mr Rugg’s back in the Marshalsea Yard. When the carriage drove away on the memorable day of the family’s departure, these two had looked after it together, and had walked slowly away together. When the first letter came from little Dorrit, nobody was more interested in hearing of her than Mr Pancks. The second letter, at that moment in Clennam’s breast-pocket, particularly remembered him by name. Though he had never before made any profession or protestation to Clennam, and though what he had just said was little enough as to the words in which it was expressed, Clennam had long had a growing belief that Mr Pancks, in his own odd way, was becoming attached to him. All these strings intertwining made Pancks a very cable of anchorage that night.
Between this quirky person and Clennam, a silent understanding and connection had been steadily improving since Mr. Pancks leaped over Mr. Rugg’s back in the Marshalsea Yard. When the carriage drove away on the memorable day of the family's departure, they had watched it together and walked away slowly together. When the first letter arrived from little Dorrit, no one was more eager to hear about her than Mr. Pancks. The second letter, which was currently in Clennam’s breast pocket, specifically mentioned him by name. Although he had never before made any declarations or claims to Clennam, and even though what he had just said was minimal in its wording, Clennam had long held a growing sense that Mr. Pancks, in his own peculiar way, was becoming fond of him. All these intertwining connections made Pancks a strong anchor that night.
‘I am quite alone,’ Arthur explained as they walked on. ‘My partner is away, busily engaged at a distance on his branch of our business, and you shall do just as you like.’
"I’m pretty much on my own," Arthur said as they walked. "My partner is away, busy handling his part of our business from afar, and you can do whatever you want."
‘Thank you. You didn’t take particular notice of little Altro just now; did you?’ said Pancks.
“Thanks. You didn’t really pay attention to little Altro just now, did you?” said Pancks.
‘No. Why?’
'No. Why not?'
‘He’s a bright fellow, and I like him,’ said Pancks. ‘Something has gone amiss with him to-day. Have you any idea of any cause that can have overset him?’
‘He’s a smart guy, and I like him,’ said Pancks. ‘Something seems off with him today. Do you have any idea what could have upset him?’
‘You surprise me! None whatever.’
"You surprise me! Not at all."
Mr Pancks gave his reasons for the inquiry. Arthur was quite unprepared for them, and quite unable to suggest an explanation of them.
Mr. Pancks explained why he was asking questions. Arthur was totally caught off guard and couldn’t come up with any explanation for them.
‘Perhaps you’ll ask him,’ said Pancks, ‘as he’s a stranger?’
'Maybe you should ask him,' said Pancks, 'since he’s a stranger?'
‘Ask him what?’ returned Clennam.
"Ask him what?" Clennam replied.
‘What he has on his mind.’
‘What he's thinking.’
‘I ought first to see for myself that he has something on his mind, I think,’ said Clennam. ‘I have found him in every way so diligent, so grateful (for little enough), and so trustworthy, that it might look like suspecting him. And that would be very unjust.’
"I should probably check for myself that he has something on his mind, I think," said Clennam. "I've found him to be diligent in every way, so appreciative (for not much), and so reliable that it could come off as suspecting him. And that would be really unfair."
‘True,’ said Pancks. ‘But, I say! You oughtn’t to be anybody’s proprietor, Mr Clennam. You’re much too delicate.’
“True,” said Pancks. “But, I have to say! You shouldn’t be anyone’s owner, Mr. Clennam. You’re way too delicate.”
‘For the matter of that,’ returned Clennam laughing, ‘I have not a large proprietary share in Cavalletto. His carving is his livelihood. He keeps the keys of the Factory, watches it every alternate night, and acts as a sort of housekeeper to it generally; but we have little work in the way of his ingenuity, though we give him what we have. No! I am rather his adviser than his proprietor. To call me his standing counsel and his banker would be nearer the fact. Speaking of being his banker, is it not curious, Pancks, that the ventures which run just now in so many people’s heads, should run even in little Cavalletto’s?’
“Regarding that,” Clennam said with a laugh, “I don’t have a significant ownership stake in Cavalletto. His carving is how he makes a living. He holds the keys to the Factory, checks on it every other night, and generally acts as a sort of housekeeper for it; but we don’t have much work that involves his creativity, though we provide him with what we can. No! I’m more like his advisor than his owner. It would be more accurate to call me his ongoing counsel and banker. Speaking of being his banker, isn’t it interesting, Pancks, that the ideas currently swirling in so many people’s minds are also on little Cavalletto’s?”
‘Ventures?’ retorted Pancks, with a snort. ‘What ventures?’
‘Ventures?’ Pancks scoffed with a snort. ‘What ventures?’
‘These Merdle enterprises.’
‘These Merdle businesses.’
‘Oh! Investments,’ said Pancks. ‘Ay, ay! I didn’t know you were speaking of investments.’
‘Oh! Investments,’ said Pancks. ‘Yeah, I didn’t realize you were talking about investments.’
His quick way of replying caused Clennam to look at him, with a doubt whether he meant more than he said. As it was accompanied, however, with a quickening of his pace and a corresponding increase in the labouring of his machinery, Arthur did not pursue the matter, and they soon arrived at his house.
His fast way of responding made Clennam look at him, wondering if he meant more than he said. However, because it was accompanied by him quickening his pace and increasing the effort of his machinery, Arthur didn’t press the issue, and they quickly reached his house.
A dinner of soup and a pigeon-pie, served on a little round table before the fire, and flavoured with a bottle of good wine, oiled Mr Pancks’s works in a highly effective manner; so that when Clennam produced his Eastern pipe, and handed Mr Pancks another Eastern pipe, the latter gentleman was perfectly comfortable.
A dinner of soup and pigeon pie, served on a small round table in front of the fire, and paired with a bottle of good wine, really set Mr. Pancks up nicely; so when Clennam pulled out his Eastern pipe and offered Mr. Pancks another Eastern pipe, the latter was completely at ease.
They puffed for a while in silence, Mr Pancks like a steam-vessel with wind, tide, calm water, and all other sea-going conditions in her favour. He was the first to speak, and he spoke thus:
They puffed for a while in silence, Mr. Pancks like a steamship with wind, tide, calm water, and all other favorable sea conditions. He was the first to speak, and he said this:
‘Yes. Investments is the word.’
"Yes. Investing is the word."
Clennam, with his former look, said ‘Ah!’
Clennam, with his previous expression, said, "Ah!"
‘I am going back to it, you see,’ said Pancks.
‘I’m going back to it, you see,’ said Pancks.
‘Yes. I see you are going back to it,’ returned Clennam, wondering why.
‘Yes. I see you’re going back to it,’ Clennam replied, curious about why.
‘Wasn’t it a curious thing that they should run in little Altro’s head? Eh?’ said Pancks as he smoked. ‘Wasn’t that how you put it?’
‘Isn’t it strange that they would run through little Altro’s mind? Huh?’ said Pancks as he smoked. ‘Isn’t that how you said it?’
‘That was what I said.’
"That's what I said."
‘Ay! But think of the whole Yard having got it. Think of their all meeting me with it, on my collecting days, here and there and everywhere. Whether they pay, or whether they don’t pay. Merdle, Merdle, Merdle. Always Merdle.’
‘Oh! But imagine the entire Yard having it. Think of them all confronting me with it on my collecting days, here, there, and everywhere. Whether they pay or not. Merdle, Merdle, Merdle. Always Merdle.’
‘Very strange how these runs on an infatuation prevail,’ said Arthur.
"Isn't it odd how these sudden infatuations come and go?" Arthur said.
‘An’t it?’ returned Pancks. After smoking for a minute or so, more drily than comported with his recent oiling, he added: ‘Because you see these people don’t understand the subject.’
‘Isn’t it?’ responded Pancks. After smoking for a minute or so, more dryly than suited his recent oiling, he added: ‘Because you see, these people don’t get the topic.’
‘Not a bit,’ assented Clennam.
"Not at all," agreed Clennam.
‘Not a bit,’ cried Pancks. ‘Know nothing of figures. Know nothing of money questions. Never made a calculation. Never worked it, sir!’
‘Not at all,’ shouted Pancks. ‘I don’t know anything about numbers. I don’t know anything about money matters. I’ve never done any calculations. Never dealt with it, sir!’
‘If they had—’ Clennam was going on to say; when Mr Pancks, without change of countenance, produced a sound so far surpassing all his usual efforts, nasal or bronchial, that he stopped.
‘If they had—’ Clennam was about to say; when Mr. Pancks, without changing his expression, made a sound that completely exceeded all his usual attempts, whether nasal or bronchial, causing him to stop.
‘If they had?’ repeated Pancks in an inquiring tone.
‘If they had?’ Pancks asked, sounding curious.
‘I thought you—spoke,’ said Arthur, hesitating what name to give the interruption.
‘I thought you—spoke,’ Arthur said, pausing to decide what name to use for the interruption.
‘Not at all,’ said Pancks. ‘Not yet. I may in a minute. If they had?’
‘Not at all,’ said Pancks. ‘Not yet. I might in a minute. What if they had?’
‘If they had,’ observed Clennam, who was a little at a loss how to take his friend, ‘why, I suppose they would have known better.’
‘If they had,’ Clennam said, feeling a bit unsure about how to read his friend, ‘I guess they would have figured it out.’
‘How so, Mr Clennam?’ Pancks asked quickly, and with an odd effect of having been from the commencement of the conversation loaded with the heavy charge he now fired off. ‘They’re right, you know. They don’t mean to be, but they’re right.’
‘How so, Mr. Clennam?’ Pancks asked quickly, as if he had been carrying the weight of this question from the very start of the conversation. ‘They’re right, you know. They don’t mean to be, but they are.’
‘Right in sharing Cavalletto’s inclination to speculate with Mr Merdle?’
‘Isn’t it just like Cavalletto to share that tendency to speculate with Mr. Merdle?’
‘Per-fectly, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘I’ve gone into it. I’ve made the calculations. I’ve worked it. They’re safe and genuine.’ Relieved by having got to this, Mr Pancks took as long a pull as his lungs would permit at his Eastern pipe, and looked sagaciously and steadily at Clennam while inhaling and exhaling too.
‘Perfectly, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘I’ve looked into it. I’ve done the calculations. I’ve figured it out. They’re safe and real.’ Feeling relieved to have reached this point, Mr. Pancks took a deep drag on his Eastern pipe and looked wisely and steadily at Clennam while inhaling and exhaling as well.
In those moments, Mr Pancks began to give out the dangerous infection with which he was laden. It is the manner of communicating these diseases; it is the subtle way in which they go about.
In those moments, Mr. Pancks started to spread the dangerous infection he was carrying. That's how these diseases are transmitted; it's the sneaky way they operate.
‘Do you mean, my good Pancks,’ asked Clennam emphatically, ‘that you would put that thousand pounds of yours, let us say, for instance, out at this kind of interest?’
‘Do you mean, my good Pancks,’ asked Clennam seriously, ‘that you would invest that thousand pounds of yours, let's say, for example, at this kind of interest?’
‘Certainly,’ said Pancks. ‘Already done it, sir.’
‘Of course,’ said Pancks. ‘I've already taken care of it, sir.’
Mr Pancks took another long inhalation, another long exhalation, another long sagacious look at Clennam.
Mr. Pancks took another deep breath, another long exhale, and gave Clennam another thoughtful look.
‘I tell you, Mr Clennam, I’ve gone into it,’ said Pancks. ‘He’s a man of immense resources—enormous capital—government influence. They’re the best schemes afloat. They’re safe. They’re certain.’
“I’m telling you, Mr. Clennam, I’ve looked into it,” said Pancks. “He’s a guy with major resources—huge capital—government connections. These are the best plans around. They’re secure. They’re guaranteed.”
‘Well!’ returned Clennam, looking first at him gravely and then at the fire gravely. ‘You surprise me!’
‘Well!’ Clennam replied, first looking at him seriously and then at the fire seriously. ‘You surprise me!’
‘Bah!’ Pancks retorted. ‘Don’t say that, sir. It’s what you ought to do yourself! Why don’t you do as I do?’
‘Bah!’ Pancks shot back. ‘Don’t say that, sir. It’s what you should do yourself! Why don’t you do what I do?’
Of whom Mr Pancks had taken the prevalent disease, he could no more have told than if he had unconsciously taken a fever. Bred at first, as many physical diseases are, in the wickedness of men, and then disseminated in their ignorance, these epidemics, after a period, get communicated to many sufferers who are neither ignorant nor wicked. Mr Pancks might, or might not, have caught the illness himself from a subject of this class; but in this category he appeared before Clennam, and the infection he threw off was all the more virulent.
Mr. Pancks couldn’t say who he caught the common disease from, just like he wouldn’t be able to explain how he caught a fever without realizing it. Like many physical illnesses, it starts from human wrongdoing and spreads through ignorance. After some time, these epidemics affect many people who are neither ignorant nor wicked. Mr. Pancks might have caught the illness from someone like that, but when he met Clennam, he seemed to belong to this group, and the way he spread the infection was even more intense.
‘And you have really invested,’ Clennam had already passed to that word, ‘your thousand pounds, Pancks?’
‘So you’ve really invested,’ Clennam had already moved on to that word, ‘your thousand pounds, Pancks?’
‘To be sure, sir!’ replied Pancks boldly, with a puff of smoke. ‘And only wish it ten!’
‘Of course, sir!’ Pancks replied confidently, blowing out a puff of smoke. ‘And I only wish it were ten!’
Now, Clennam had two subjects lying heavy on his lonely mind that night; the one, his partner’s long-deferred hope; the other, what he had seen and heard at his mother’s. In the relief of having this companion, and of feeling that he could trust him, he passed on to both, and both brought him round again, with an increase and acceleration of force, to his point of departure.
Now, Clennam had two weighty thoughts on his lonely mind that night; one was the long-delayed hope of his partner, and the other was what he had seen and heard at his mother's. In the relief of having this companion and feeling that he could trust him, he moved on to both topics, and each brought him back again, with even more intensity, to where he started.
It came about in the simplest manner. Quitting the investment subject, after an interval of silent looking at the fire through the smoke of his pipe, he told Pancks how and why he was occupied with the great National Department. ‘A hard case it has been, and a hard case it is on Doyce,’ he finished by saying, with all the honest feeling the topic roused in him.
It happened in the simplest way. After shifting away from the investment topic and looking silently at the fire while smoking his pipe, he explained to Pancks how and why he was involved with the important National Department. "It has been a tough situation, and it's still difficult for Doyce," he concluded, expressing all the genuine emotion the subject stirred in him.
‘Hard indeed,’ Pancks acquiesced. ‘But you manage for him, Mr Clennam?’
“It's tough, for sure,” Pancks agreed. “But you take care of him, Mr. Clennam?”
‘How do you mean?’
"What do you mean?"
‘Manage the money part of the business?’
‘Take care of the financial side of the business?’
‘Yes. As well as I can.’
‘Yes. As well as I can.’
‘Manage it better, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘Recompense him for his toils and disappointments. Give him the chances of the time. He’ll never benefit himself in that way, patient and preoccupied workman. He looks to you, sir.’
“Take better care of it, sir,” said Pancks. “Compensate him for his hard work and setbacks. Provide him with the opportunities of the moment. He won’t improve his situation on his own, this diligent and focused worker. He’s counting on you, sir.”
‘I do my best, Pancks,’ returned Clennam, uneasily. ‘As to duly weighing and considering these new enterprises of which I have had no experience, I doubt if I am fit for it, I am growing old.’
"I do my best, Pancks," Clennam replied, feeling uneasy. "As for properly weighing and considering these new ventures I've never dealt with before, I doubt I'm cut out for it; I'm getting older."
‘Growing old?’ cried Pancks. ‘Ha, ha!’
‘Getting old?’ laughed Pancks. ‘Ha, ha!’
There was something so indubitably genuine in the wonderful laugh, and series of snorts and puffs, engendered in Mr Pancks’s astonishment at, and utter rejection of, the idea, that his being quite in earnest could not be questioned.
There was something undeniably real in the amazing laugh, along with the snorts and puffs, that came from Mr. Pancks’s shock and complete dismissal of the idea, so his sincerity couldn't be doubted.
‘Growing old?’ cried Pancks. ‘Hear, hear, hear! Old? Hear him, hear him!’
‘Getting old?’ shouted Pancks. ‘Hear, hear, hear! Old? Listen to him, listen to him!’
The positive refusal expressed in Mr Pancks’s continued snorts, no less than in these exclamations, to entertain the sentiment for a single instant, drove Arthur away from it. Indeed, he was fearful of something happening to Mr Pancks in the violent conflict that took place between the breath he jerked out of himself and the smoke he jerked into himself. This abandonment of the second topic threw him on the third.
The clear refusal shown in Mr. Pancks’s ongoing snorts, just like in his outbursts, to consider the idea for even a moment, pushed Arthur away from it. In fact, he was worried that something might happen to Mr. Pancks in the intense struggle between the air he forced out and the smoke he inhaled. This shift away from the second topic led him to focus on the third.
‘Young, old, or middle-aged, Pancks,’ he said, when there was a favourable pause, ‘I am in a very anxious and uncertain state; a state that even leads me to doubt whether anything now seeming to belong to me, may be really mine. Shall I tell you how this is? Shall I put a great trust in you?’
‘Young, old, or middle-aged, Pancks,’ he said during a moment when things calmed down, ‘I’m feeling really anxious and uncertain; I’m even starting to doubt whether anything that seems to belong to me actually does. Should I share what’s going on? Can I trust you with this?’
‘You shall, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘if you believe me worthy of it.’
‘You will, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘if you think I'm worthy of it.’
‘I do.’
"I do."
‘You may!’ Mr Pancks’s short and sharp rejoinder, confirmed by the sudden outstretching of his coaly hand, was most expressive and convincing. Arthur shook the hand warmly.
‘You may!’ Mr. Pancks’s quick and pointed reply, reinforced by the sudden extension of his coal-stained hand, was very expressive and convincing. Arthur shook his hand warmly.
He then, softening the nature of his old apprehensions as much as was possible consistently with their being made intelligible and never alluding to his mother by name, but speaking vaguely of a relation of his, confided to Mr Pancks a broad outline of the misgivings he entertained, and of the interview he had witnessed. Mr Pancks listened with such interest that, regardless of the charms of the Eastern pipe, he put it in the grate among the fire-irons, and occupied his hands during the whole recital in so erecting the loops and hooks of hair all over his head, that he looked, when it came to a conclusion, like a journeyman Hamlet in conversation with his father’s spirit.
He then tried to ease his old fears as much as he could while still making them clear and never mentioning his mother by name, instead speaking vaguely about a relative of his. He shared with Mr. Pancks a general idea of the worries he had and the meeting he had witnessed. Mr. Pancks listened with such interest that, forgetting about the allure of the Eastern pipe, he tossed it into the grate with the fire tools and spent the entire time fixing the loops and hooks of hair all over his head. By the time the story ended, he looked like a working-class Hamlet chatting with his father's ghost.
‘Brings me back, sir,’ was his exclamation then, with a startling touch on Clennam’s knee, ‘brings me back, sir, to the Investments! I don’t say anything of your making yourself poor to repair a wrong you never committed. That’s you. A man must be himself. But I say this, fearing you may want money to save your own blood from exposure and disgrace—make as much as you can!’
“Brings me back, sir,” he exclaimed, startling Clennam with a touch on his knee, “brings me back, sir, to the Investments! I’m not saying anything about you making yourself poor to fix a wrong you didn’t commit. That’s just you. A man has to be true to himself. But I’ll say this, out of concern that you might need money to protect your own family from exposure and disgrace—make as much as you can!”
Arthur shook his head, but looked at him thoughtfully too.
Arthur shook his head but looked at him thoughtfully as well.
‘Be as rich as you can, sir,’ Pancks adjured him with a powerful concentration of all his energies on the advice. ‘Be as rich as you honestly can. It’s your duty. Not for your sake, but for the sake of others. Take time by the forelock. Poor Mr Doyce (who really is growing old) depends upon you. Your relative depends upon you. You don’t know what depends upon you.’
‘Be as rich as you can, sir,’ Pancks urged him, focusing all his energy on the advice. ‘Be as rich as you honestly can. It's your duty. Not for yourself, but for others. Seize the opportunity. Poor Mr. Doyce (who is really getting old) relies on you. Your relative depends on you. You have no idea what rests on your shoulders.’
‘Well, well, well!’ returned Arthur. ‘Enough for to-night.’
‘Well, well, well!’ Arthur replied. ‘That's enough for tonight.’
‘One word more, Mr Clennam,’ retorted Pancks, ‘and then enough for to-night. Why should you leave all the gains to the gluttons, knaves, and impostors? Why should you leave all the gains that are to be got to my proprietor and the like of him? Yet you’re always doing it. When I say you, I mean such men as you. You know you are. Why, I see it every day of my life. I see nothing else. It’s my business to see it. Therefore I say,’ urged Pancks, ‘Go in and win!’
"One more thing, Mr. Clennam," Pancks shot back, "and then that's it for tonight. Why should you let all the profits go to the greedy, dishonest, and fake people? Why should you give all the gains to my boss and people like him? Yet you keep doing it. When I say you, I mean people like you. You know it’s true. I notice it every single day of my life. It's all I see. It's my job to see it. So I say," Pancks insisted, "Get in there and succeed!"
‘But what of Go in and lose?’ said Arthur.
‘But what about going in and losing?’ said Arthur.
‘Can’t be done, sir,’ returned Pancks. ‘I have looked into it. Name up everywhere—immense resources—enormous capital—great position—high connection—government influence. Can’t be done!’
"Can't be done, sir," Pancks responded. "I've looked into it. Name is everywhere—huge resources—massive capital—strong position—high connections—government influence. Can't be done!"
Gradually, after this closing exposition, Mr Pancks subsided; allowed his hair to droop as much as it ever would droop on the utmost persuasion; reclaimed the pipe from the fire-irons, filled it anew, and smoked it out. They said little more; but were company to one another in silently pursuing the same subjects, and did not part until midnight. On taking his leave, Mr Pancks, when he had shaken hands with Clennam, worked completely round him before he steamed out at the door. This, Arthur received as an assurance that he might implicitly rely on Pancks, if he ever should come to need assistance; either in any of the matters of which they had spoken that night, or any other subject that could in any way affect himself.
Gradually, after this final explanation, Mr. Pancks settled down; let his hair hang as much as it ever would with the greatest encouragement; reclaimed the pipe from the fireplace tools, refilled it, and smoked it out. They said little more; but enjoyed each other's company while silently focusing on the same topics, and didn’t part ways until midnight. When he left, Mr. Pancks, after shaking hands with Clennam, fully circled around him before making his way out the door. Arthur took this as a sign that he could fully count on Pancks if he ever needed help, whether it was related to the issues they had discussed that night or any other topic that could possibly impact him.
At intervals all next day, and even while his attention was fixed on other things, he thought of Mr Pancks’s investment of his thousand pounds, and of his having ‘looked into it.’ He thought of Mr Pancks’s being so sanguine in this matter, and of his not being usually of a sanguine character. He thought of the great National Department, and of the delight it would be to him to see Doyce better off. He thought of the darkly threatening place that went by the name of Home in his remembrance, and of the gathering shadows which made it yet more darkly threatening than of old. He observed anew that wherever he went, he saw, or heard, or touched, the celebrated name of Merdle; he found it difficult even to remain at his desk a couple of hours, without having it presented to one of his bodily senses through some agency or other. He began to think it was curious too that it should be everywhere, and that nobody but he should seem to have any mistrust of it. Though indeed he began to remember, when he got to this, even he did not mistrust it; he had only happened to keep aloof from it.
Throughout the next day, and even while he focused on other things, he thought about Mr. Pancks’s investment of his thousand pounds and how he had "looked into it." He considered how optimistic Mr. Pancks was about this situation, especially since he wasn't usually an optimistic person. He was reminded of the great National Department and how happy it would make him to see Doyce doing better. He thought about the menacing place he remembered as Home and the growing shadows that made it feel even more threatening than before. He noticed again that wherever he went, he saw, heard, or felt the infamous name of Merdle; it was challenging for him to stay at his desk for even a couple of hours without it coming to his attention in one way or another. He began to think it was strange that it was everywhere, and that no one else seemed to doubt it. Although he realized, as he considered this, that even he didn’t actually doubt it; he had just chosen to keep his distance from it.
Such symptoms, when a disease of the kind is rife, are usually the signs of sickening.
Such symptoms, when a disease of this type is widespread, are usually signs of getting sick.
CHAPTER 14. Taking Advice
When it became known to the Britons on the shore of the yellow Tiber that their intelligent compatriot, Mr Sparkler, was made one of the Lords of their Circumlocution Office, they took it as a piece of news with which they had no nearer concern than with any other piece of news—any other Accident or Offence—in the English papers. Some laughed; some said, by way of complete excuse, that the post was virtually a sinecure, and any fool who could spell his name was good enough for it; some, and these the more solemn political oracles, said that Decimus did wisely to strengthen himself, and that the sole constitutional purpose of all places within the gift of Decimus, was, that Decimus should strengthen himself. A few bilious Britons there were who would not subscribe to this article of faith; but their objection was purely theoretical. In a practical point of view, they listlessly abandoned the matter, as being the business of some other Britons unknown, somewhere, or nowhere. In like manner, at home, great numbers of Britons maintained, for as long as four-and-twenty consecutive hours, that those invisible and anonymous Britons ‘ought to take it up;’ and that if they quietly acquiesced in it, they deserved it. But of what class the remiss Britons were composed, and where the unlucky creatures hid themselves, and why they hid themselves, and how it constantly happened that they neglected their interests, when so many other Britons were quite at a loss to account for their not looking after those interests, was not, either upon the shore of the yellow Tiber or the shore of the black Thames, made apparent to men.
When the people on the shores of the yellow Tiber found out that their clever fellow countryman, Mr. Sparkler, was appointed as one of the Lords of their Circumlocution Office, they treated it like any other piece of news—just another incident or scandal from the English papers. Some laughed; others argued, as a way of justifying it, that the position was essentially a no-show job, and that any fool who could write their name was fit for it; some, especially the more serious political commentators, remarked that Decimus was smart to bolster his own power, and that the main purpose of all positions given by Decimus was for Decimus to strengthen himself. A few disgruntled Britons wouldn’t agree with this belief; but their objections were merely theoretical. Practically speaking, they lazily let the matter go, viewing it as the responsibility of some other, unknown Britons, somewhere or nowhere. Similarly, back home, many Britons insisted, for a full twenty-four hours, that those unseen and unnamed Britons “should address it,” and that if they passively accepted it, they deserved what happened. However, what kind of people these negligent Britons were, where they were hiding, why they chose to hide, and how they repeatedly failed to look after their own interests—while so many other Britons were completely puzzled as to why they didn’t—was not clear to anyone, either on the shore of the yellow Tiber or the shore of the black Thames.
Mrs Merdle circulated the news, as she received congratulations on it, with a careless grace that displayed it to advantage, as the setting displays the jewel. Yes, she said, Edmund had taken the place. Mr Merdle wished him to take it, and he had taken it. She hoped Edmund might like it, but really she didn’t know. It would keep him in town a good deal, and he preferred the country. Still, it was not a disagreeable position—and it was a position. There was no denying that the thing was a compliment to Mr Merdle, and was not a bad thing for Edmund if he liked it. It was just as well that he should have something to do, and it was just as well that he should have something for doing it. Whether it would be more agreeable to Edmund than the army, remained to be seen.
Mrs. Merdle spread the news with a casual elegance that showcased it perfectly, like a setting enhances a jewel. Yes, she said, Edmund had accepted the position. Mr. Merdle wanted him to take it, and he did. She hoped Edmund would enjoy it, but honestly, she wasn’t sure. It would keep him in the city quite a bit, and he preferred the countryside. Still, it was not a bad position—and it was a position. There was no denying that it was a compliment to Mr. Merdle, and it could be good for Edmund if he liked it. It was just as well that he should have something to do, and it was just as well that he should be compensated for it. Whether he would find it more enjoyable than the army remained to be seen.
Thus the Bosom; accomplished in the art of seeming to make things of small account, and really enhancing them in the process. While Henry Gowan, whom Decimus had thrown away, went through the whole round of his acquaintance between the Gate of the People and the town of Albano, vowing, almost (but not quite) with tears in his eyes, that Sparkler was the sweetest-tempered, simplest-hearted, altogether most lovable jackass that ever grazed on the public common; and that only one circumstance could have delighted him (Gowan) more, than his (the beloved jackass’s) getting this post, and that would have been his (Gowan’s) getting it himself. He said it was the very thing for Sparkler. There was nothing to do, and he would do it charmingly; there was a handsome salary to draw, and he would draw it charmingly; it was a delightful, appropriate, capital appointment; and he almost forgave the donor his slight of himself, in his joy that the dear donkey for whom he had so great an affection was so admirably stabled. Nor did his benevolence stop here. He took pains, on all social occasions, to draw Mr Sparkler out, and make him conspicuous before the company; and, although the considerate action always resulted in that young gentleman’s making a dreary and forlorn mental spectacle of himself, the friendly intention was not to be doubted.
So, the Bosom; skilled in the art of downplaying things while actually making them seem more significant. Meanwhile, Henry Gowan, whom Decimus had disregarded, went around his entire circle of friends between the Gate of the People and the town of Albano, swearing, almost (but not quite) with tears in his eyes, that Sparkler was the sweetest-natured, most uncomplicated, entirely lovable jackass that ever roamed the public common; and that the only thing that could have made him (Gowan) happier than Sparkler getting this position would have been if he (Gowan) had gotten it himself. He said it was perfect for Sparkler. There was nothing to do, and Sparkler would do it beautifully; there was a good salary to collect, and he would collect it charmingly; it was a wonderful, fitting, excellent role; and he nearly forgave the giver for slighting him, in his joy that the dear donkey he cared for so much was so perfectly situated. His kindness didn’t stop there. He made an effort, on all social occasions, to draw Mr. Sparkler out and make him stand out in front of everyone; and although this thoughtful action always ended with that young guy making a gloomy and hopeless impression of himself, the friendly intention was undeniable.
Unless, indeed, it chanced to be doubted by the object of Mr Sparkler’s affections. Miss Fanny was now in the difficult situation of being universally known in that light, and of not having dismissed Mr Sparkler, however capriciously she used him. Hence, she was sufficiently identified with the gentleman to feel compromised by his being more than usually ridiculous; and hence, being by no means deficient in quickness, she sometimes came to his rescue against Gowan, and did him very good service. But, while doing this, she was ashamed of him, undetermined whether to get rid of him or more decidedly encourage him, distracted with apprehensions that she was every day becoming more and more immeshed in her uncertainties, and tortured by misgivings that Mrs Merdle triumphed in her distress. With this tumult in her mind, it is no subject for surprise that Miss Fanny came home one night in a state of agitation from a concert and ball at Mrs Merdle’s house, and on her sister affectionately trying to soothe her, pushed that sister away from the toilette-table at which she sat angrily trying to cry, and declared with a heaving bosom that she detested everybody, and she wished she was dead.
Unless, of course, the person Mr. Sparkler was interested in happened to doubt it. Miss Fanny was now in a tough spot, being widely known in that way but not having completely dismissed Mr. Sparkler, no matter how whimsically she dealt with him. As a result, she felt tied to him and embarrassed by how ridiculous he could be. Still, she was clever enough to sometimes defend him against Gowan and really helped him out. But while doing that, she felt ashamed of him, unsure whether to break things off or encourage him more, worried that each day she was getting further entangled in her difficulties, and troubled by the thought that Mrs. Merdle was enjoying her distress. With all this chaos in her mind, it’s no wonder that Miss Fanny came home one night upset after a concert and ball at Mrs. Merdle’s house. When her sister tried to comfort her, she angrily pushed her away from the vanity where she sat, trying not to cry, and declared with a heavy heart that she hated everyone and wished she were dead.
‘Dear Fanny, what is the matter? Tell me.’
‘Dear Fanny, what’s wrong? Please tell me.’
‘Matter, you little Mole,’ said Fanny. ‘If you were not the blindest of the blind, you would have no occasion to ask me. The idea of daring to pretend to assert that you have eyes in your head, and yet ask me what’s the matter!’
'Matter, you little Mole,' Fanny said. 'If you weren't the blindest of the blind, you wouldn't need to ask me. The idea of pretending that you have eyes in your head and still asking me what's the matter!'
‘Is it Mr Sparkler, dear?’
“Is it Mr. Sparkler, dear?”
‘Mis-ter Spark-ler!’ repeated Fanny, with unbounded scorn, as if he were the last subject in the Solar system that could possibly be near her mind. ‘No, Miss Bat, it is not.’
‘Mr. Sparkler!’ repeated Fanny, with complete disdain, as if he were the last person in the universe she could ever think about. ‘No, Miss Bat, it’s not.’
Immediately afterwards, she became remorseful for having called her sister names; declaring with sobs that she knew she made herself hateful, but that everybody drove her to it.
Immediately after, she felt guilty for having insulted her sister, crying as she admitted that she knew she made herself unlikable, but that everyone pushed her to do it.
‘I don’t think you are well to-night, dear Fanny.’
‘I don’t think you’re feeling well tonight, dear Fanny.’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ replied the young lady, turning angry again; ‘I am as well as you are. Perhaps I might say better, and yet make no boast of it.’
“That's ridiculous!” the young lady shot back, getting angry again. “I’m just as good as you are. Maybe I could even say I’m better, but I won’t brag about it.”
Poor Little Dorrit, not seeing her way to the offering of any soothing words that would escape repudiation, deemed it best to remain quiet. At first, Fanny took this ill, too; protesting to her looking-glass, that of all the trying sisters a girl could have, she did think the most trying sister was a flat sister. That she knew she was at times a wretched temper; that she knew she made herself hateful; that when she made herself hateful, nothing would do her half the good as being told so; but that, being afflicted with a flat sister, she never was told so, and the consequence resulted that she was absolutely tempted and goaded into making herself disagreeable. Besides (she angrily told her looking-glass), she didn’t want to be forgiven. It was not a right example, that she should be constantly stooping to be forgiven by a younger sister. And this was the Art of it—that she was always being placed in the position of being forgiven, whether she liked it or not. Finally she burst into violent weeping, and, when her sister came and sat close at her side to comfort her, said, ‘Amy, you’re an Angel!’
Poor Little Dorrit, unable to find any comforting words that wouldn’t be rejected, thought it was best to stay quiet. At first, Fanny took this the wrong way too; complaining to her reflection that of all the difficult sisters a girl could have, she really believed the most difficult sister was a dull one. She knew she could be a really unpleasant person sometimes; she knew she made herself unbearable; that when she did make herself unbearable, nothing helped her more than being told so; but since she had a dull sister, she was never told that, and the outcome was that she was completely tempted and pushed into being unpleasant. Plus (she angrily told her reflection), she didn’t want to be forgiven. It wasn’t a good example for her to always be seeking forgiveness from a younger sister. And this was the catch—she was always put in the position of needing to be forgiven, whether she liked it or not. Finally, she broke down in tears, and when her sister came and sat close to comfort her, she said, ‘Amy, you’re an Angel!’
‘But, I tell you what, my Pet,’ said Fanny, when her sister’s gentleness had calmed her, ‘it now comes to this; that things cannot and shall not go on as they are at present going on, and that there must be an end of this, one way or another.’
‘But, let me tell you something, my dear,’ said Fanny, when her sister’s kindness had relaxed her, ‘it’s come down to this: things can't and won’t continue the way they are right now, and there has to be a resolution to this, one way or another.’
As the announcement was vague, though very peremptory, Little Dorrit returned, ‘Let us talk about it.’
As the announcement was unclear yet quite final, Little Dorrit replied, “Let’s discuss it.”
‘Quite so, my dear,’ assented Fanny, as she dried her eyes. ‘Let us talk about it. I am rational again now, and you shall advise me. Will you advise me, my sweet child?’
“Absolutely, my dear,” Fanny agreed, wiping her eyes. “Let’s talk about it. I’m clearheaded now, and you can help me. Will you help me, my sweet child?”
Even Amy smiled at this notion, but she said, ‘I will, Fanny, as well as I can.’
Even Amy smiled at this idea, but she said, ‘I will, Fanny, as best as I can.’
‘Thank you, dearest Amy,’ returned Fanny, kissing her. ‘You are my anchor.’
‘Thanks, my dear Amy,’ replied Fanny, giving her a kiss. ‘You’re my anchor.’
Having embraced her Anchor with great affection, Fanny took a bottle of sweet toilette water from the table, and called to her maid for a fine handkerchief. She then dismissed that attendant for the night, and went on to be advised; dabbing her eyes and forehead from time to time to cool them.
Having embraced her Anchor with great affection, Fanny took a bottle of sweet perfume from the table and called her maid for a nice handkerchief. She then sent the maid away for the night and continued to care for herself, dabbing her eyes and forehead now and then to cool them.
‘My love,’ Fanny began, ‘our characters and points of view are sufficiently different (kiss me again, my darling), to make it very probable that I shall surprise you by what I am going to say. What I am going to say, my dear, is, that notwithstanding our property, we labour, socially speaking, under disadvantages. You don’t quite understand what I mean, Amy?’
‘My love,’ Fanny began, ‘our personalities and perspectives are different enough (kiss me again, my darling) that I’m likely to surprise you with what I’m about to say. What I’m going to say, my dear, is that despite our wealth, we still face social disadvantages. Do you understand what I mean, Amy?’
‘I have no doubt I shall,’ said Amy, mildly, ‘after a few words more.’
“I have no doubt I will,” said Amy calmly, “after a few more words.”
‘Well, my dear, what I mean is, that we are, after all, newcomers into fashionable life.’
‘Well, my dear, what I mean is that we are, after all, newcomers to the fashionable scene.’
‘I am sure, Fanny,’ Little Dorrit interposed in her zealous admiration, ‘no one need find that out in you.’
‘I’m sure, Fanny,’ Little Dorrit chimed in with her enthusiastic admiration, ‘no one would ever discover that in you.’
‘Well, my dear child, perhaps not,’ said Fanny, ‘though it’s most kind and most affectionate in you, you precious girl, to say so.’ Here she dabbed her sister’s forehead, and blew upon it a little. ‘But you are,’ resumed Fanny, ‘as is well known, the dearest little thing that ever was! To resume, my child. Pa is extremely gentlemanly and extremely well informed, but he is, in some trifling respects, a little different from other gentlemen of his fortune: partly on account of what he has gone through, poor dear: partly, I fancy, on account of its often running in his mind that other people are thinking about that, while he is talking to them. Uncle, my love, is altogether unpresentable. Though a dear creature to whom I am tenderly attached, he is, socially speaking, shocking. Edward is frightfully expensive and dissipated. I don’t mean that there is anything ungenteel in that itself—far from it—but I do mean that he doesn’t do it well, and that he doesn’t, if I may so express myself, get the money’s-worth in the sort of dissipated reputation that attaches to him.’
"Well, my dear child, maybe not," said Fanny, "although it's really kind and so sweet of you to say that, you precious girl." She touched her sister’s forehead gently and blew on it a little. "But you are," Fanny continued, "as everyone knows, the cutest little thing ever! To get back to my point, my child. Dad is very gentlemanly and really well-informed, but in some minor ways, he’s a bit different from other men of his wealth: partly because of what he’s been through, poor dear; and partly, I think, because he often worries that other people are focused on that when he’s talking to them. Uncle, my love, is totally unpresentable. Although he’s a dear person to whom I’m very attached, he’s, socially speaking, a disaster. Edward is extremely expensive and wild. I don’t mean that there's anything unrefined about that itself—far from it—but I do mean that he doesn’t handle it well, and that he doesn’t, if I can put it this way, get his money’s worth in the kind of wild reputation that follows him."
‘Poor Edward!’ sighed Little Dorrit, with the whole family history in the sigh.
‘Poor Edward!’ sighed Little Dorrit, letting out a breath full of the entire family history.
‘Yes. And poor you and me, too,’ returned Fanny, rather sharply. ‘Very true! Then, my dear, we have no mother, and we have a Mrs General. And I tell you again, darling, that Mrs General, if I may reverse a common proverb and adapt it to her, is a cat in gloves who will catch mice. That woman, I am quite sure and confident, will be our mother-in-law.’
“Yeah. And poor you and me, too,” Fanny replied somewhat sharply. “That’s very true! So, my dear, we don’t have a mother, and we have a Mrs. General. And I’ll say it again, darling, that Mrs. General, if I may twist a common saying to fit her, is a cat in gloves who will catch mice. I’m pretty sure she’ll be our mother-in-law.”
‘I can hardly think, Fanny—’ Fanny stopped her.
‘I can barely think, Fanny—’ Fanny interrupted her.
‘Now, don’t argue with me about it, Amy,’ said she, ‘because I know better.’ Feeling that she had been sharp again, she dabbed her sister’s forehead again, and blew upon it again. ‘To resume once more, my dear. It then becomes a question with me (I am proud and spirited, Amy, as you very well know: too much so, I dare say) whether I shall make up my mind to take it upon myself to carry the family through.’
"Now, don’t argue with me about it, Amy," she said, "because I know better." Realizing she had been a bit harsh again, she gently touched her sister’s forehead and blew on it once more. "To continue, my dear. It then becomes a question for me (I am proud and spirited, Amy, as you know very well: perhaps too much so) whether I should decide to take on the responsibility of supporting the family."
‘How?’ asked her sister, anxiously.
"How?" her sister asked, anxious.
‘I will not,’ said Fanny, without answering the question, ‘submit to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General; and I will not submit to be, in any respect whatever, either patronised or tormented by Mrs Merdle.’
“I won’t,” Fanny said, avoiding the question, “let Mrs. General treat me like a mother-in-law; and I refuse to be either looked down on or harassed by Mrs. Merdle.”
Little Dorrit laid her hand upon the hand that held the bottle of sweet water, with a still more anxious look. Fanny, quite punishing her own forehead with the vehement dabs she now began to give it, fitfully went on.
Little Dorrit put her hand on the hand that was holding the bottle of sweet water, looking even more worried. Fanny, almost punishing her own forehead with the intense taps she started to give it, continued on sporadically.
‘That he has somehow or other, and how is of no consequence, attained a very good position, no one can deny. That it is a very good connection, no one can deny. And as to the question of clever or not clever, I doubt very much whether a clever husband would be suitable to me. I cannot submit. I should not be able to defer to him enough.’
‘That he has somehow managed to achieve a very good position, no one can deny. That it is a great connection, no one can deny. And regarding the issue of whether he's clever or not, I really doubt that a clever husband would be right for me. I cannot accept that. I wouldn't be able to defer to him enough.’
‘O, my dear Fanny!’ expostulated Little Dorrit, upon whom a kind of terror had been stealing as she perceived what her sister meant. ‘If you loved any one, all this feeling would change. If you loved any one, you would no more be yourself, but you would quite lose and forget yourself in your devotion to him. If you loved him, Fanny—’ Fanny had stopped the dabbing hand, and was looking at her fixedly.
‘Oh, my dear Fanny!’ exclaimed Little Dorrit, feeling a kind of terror as she realized what her sister was getting at. ‘If you loved anyone, all this feeling would change. If you loved someone, you wouldn’t be yourself anymore; you’d completely lose and forget yourself in your devotion to him. If you loved him, Fanny—’ Fanny had stopped the dabbing hand and was staring at her intently.
‘O, indeed!’ cried Fanny. ‘Really? Bless me, how much some people know of some subjects! They say every one has a subject, and I certainly seem to have hit upon yours, Amy. There, you little thing, I was only in fun,’ dabbing her sister’s forehead; ‘but don’t you be a silly puss, and don’t you think flightily and eloquently about degenerate impossibilities. There! Now, I’ll go back to myself.’
‘Oh, really!’ Fanny exclaimed. ‘Seriously? Wow, some people know so much about certain topics! They say everyone has their own thing, and I guess I’ve found yours, Amy. There, you little thing, I was just joking,’ she said, tapping her sister’s forehead; ‘but don’t be silly, and don’t get lost in your thoughts about impossible things. There! Now, I’ll get back to my own business.’
‘Dear Fanny, let me say first, that I would far rather we worked for a scanty living again than I would see you rich and married to Mr Sparkler.’
‘Dear Fanny, let me start by saying that I would much prefer to go back to struggling to make ends meet than see you wealthy and married to Mr. Sparkler.’
‘Let you say, my dear?’ retorted Fanny. ‘Why, of course, I will let you say anything. There is no constraint upon you, I hope. We are together to talk it over. And as to marrying Mr Sparkler, I have not the slightest intention of doing so to-night, my dear, or to-morrow morning either.’
‘Go ahead and say what you want, my dear?’ replied Fanny. ‘Of course, I will let you say anything. I hope you feel free to speak. We’re together to discuss this. And as for marrying Mr. Sparkler, I have no plans to do that tonight, my dear, or tomorrow morning, either.’
‘But at some time?’
"But at some point?"
‘At no time, for anything I know at present,’ answered Fanny, with indifference. Then, suddenly changing her indifference into a burning restlessness, she added, ‘You talk about the clever men, you little thing! It’s all very fine and easy to talk about the clever men; but where are they? I don’t see them anywhere near me!’
“At no point, as far as I know right now,” Fanny replied, sounding indifferent. Then, suddenly shifting from indifference to a restless intensity, she added, “You talk about the smart guys, you little thing! It’s all very nice and easy to talk about the smart guys, but where are they? I don’t see them around me!”
‘My dear Fanny, so short a time—’
‘My dear Fanny, it’s been such a short time—’
‘Short time or long time,’ interrupted Fanny. ‘I am impatient of our situation. I don’t like our situation, and very little would induce me to change it. Other girls, differently reared and differently circumstanced altogether, might wonder at what I say or may do. Let them. They are driven by their lives and characters; I am driven by mine.’
‘Short time or long time,’ interrupted Fanny. ‘I can’t stand our situation. I don’t like it, and it wouldn’t take much to make me want to change it. Other girls, raised differently and in completely different circumstances, might be surprised by what I say or do. Let them be. They are shaped by their lives and personalities; I am shaped by mine.’
‘Fanny, my dear Fanny, you know that you have qualities to make you the wife of one very superior to Mr Sparkler.’
‘Fanny, my dear Fanny, you know that you have qualities that could make you the wife of someone much better than Mr. Sparkler.’
‘Amy, my dear Amy,’ retorted Fanny, parodying her words, ‘I know that I wish to have a more defined and distinct position, in which I can assert myself with greater effect against that insolent woman.’
‘Amy, my dear Amy,’ replied Fanny, mocking her words, ‘I know that I want a clearer and more defined role where I can stand up to that arrogant woman more effectively.’
‘Would you therefore—forgive my asking, Fanny—therefore marry her son?’
‘Would you, therefore—sorry to ask, Fanny—therefore marry her son?’
‘Why, perhaps,’ said Fanny, with a triumphant smile. ‘There may be many less promising ways of arriving at an end than that, my dear. That piece of insolence may think, now, that it would be a great success to get her son off upon me, and shelve me. But, perhaps, she little thinks how I would retort upon her if I married her son. I would oppose her in everything, and compete with her. I would make it the business of my life.’
‘Well, maybe,’ Fanny said with a proud smile. ‘There are probably a lot of less effective ways to reach a goal than that, my dear. That act of disrespect might think it would be a big win to push her son onto me and set me aside. But she might not realize how I'd respond if I married her son. I would stand against her in everything and compete with her. I would make it my life's mission.’
Fanny set down the bottle when she came to this, and walked about the room; always stopping and standing still while she spoke.
Fanny put down the bottle when she got to this point and walked around the room, always stopping and standing still while she talked.
‘One thing I could certainly do, my child: I could make her older. And I would!’
‘One thing I can definitely do, my child: I can make her older. And I will!’
This was followed by another walk.
This was followed by another walk.
‘I would talk of her as an old woman. I would pretend to know—if I didn’t, but I should from her son—all about her age. And she should hear me say, Amy: affectionately, quite dutifully and affectionately: how well she looked, considering her time of life. I could make her seem older at once, by being myself so much younger. I may not be as handsome as she is; I am not a fair judge of that question, I suppose; but I know I am handsome enough to be a thorn in her side. And I would be!’
‘I would talk about her like she’s an old woman. I would pretend to know—if I didn’t, but I should from her son—all about her age. And she should hear me say, Amy: affectionately, quite dutifully and affectionately: how great she looked, considering her age. I could make her seem older right away by being so much younger myself. I may not be as attractive as she is; I’m not a great judge of that, I guess; but I know I’m good-looking enough to be a thorn in her side. And I would be!’
‘My dear sister, would you condemn yourself to an unhappy life for this?’
‘My dear sister, would you really choose to live an unhappy life for this?’
‘It wouldn’t be an unhappy life, Amy. It would be the life I am fitted for. Whether by disposition, or whether by circumstances, is no matter; I am better fitted for such a life than for almost any other.’
‘It wouldn’t be an unhappy life, Amy. It would be the life I’m suited for. Whether it’s my personality or the situation I’m in doesn’t matter; I’m better suited for this kind of life than for almost any other.’
There was something of a desolate tone in those words; but, with a short proud laugh she took another walk, and after passing a great looking-glass came to another stop.
There was a bit of a bleak tone in those words; but with a quick, proud laugh, she continued walking, and after passing a big mirror, she stopped again.
‘Figure! Figure, Amy! Well. The woman has a good figure. I will give her her due, and not deny it. But is it so far beyond all others that it is altogether unapproachable? Upon my word, I am not so sure of it. Give some much younger woman the latitude as to dress that she has, being married; and we would see about that, my dear!’
‘Figure! Figure, Amy! Well. The woman has a good figure. I’ll give her that and not deny it. But is it really so much better than everyone else’s that it can’t be compared at all? Honestly, I’m not so sure. If a much younger woman had the same freedom to dress as she does, being married; then we could see about that, my dear!’
Something in the thought that was agreeable and flattering, brought her back to her seat in a gayer temper. She took her sister’s hands in hers, and clapped all four hands above her head as she looked in her sister’s face laughing:
Something about the thought that was nice and flattering made her return to her seat in a happier mood. She took her sister's hands in hers, and raised all four hands above her head while laughing as she looked into her sister's face.
‘And the dancer, Amy, that she has quite forgotten—the dancer who bore no sort of resemblance to me, and of whom I never remind her, oh dear no!—should dance through her life, and dance in her way, to such a tune as would disturb her insolent placidity a little. Just a little, my dear Amy, just a little!’
‘And the dancer, Amy, that she has almost completely forgotten—the dancer who didn’t look anything like me, and whom I never bring up, oh no!—should dance through her life, dancing in her style, to a tune that would shake up her arrogant calm just a bit. Just a bit, my dear Amy, just a bit!’
Meeting an earnest and imploring look in Amy’s face, she brought the four hands down, and laid only one on Amy’s lips.
Meeting the sincere and pleading look on Amy’s face, she lowered the four hands and placed just one on Amy’s lips.
‘Now, don’t argue with me, child,’ she said in a sterner way, ‘because it is of no use. I understand these subjects much better than you do. I have not nearly made up my mind, but it may be. Now we have talked this over comfortably, and may go to bed. You best and dearest little mouse, Good night!’ With those words Fanny weighed her Anchor, and—having taken so much advice—left off being advised for that occasion.
‘Now, don’t argue with me, kid,’ she said more sternly, ‘because it won’t help. I understand these things much better than you do. I haven't completely made up my mind yet, but it could happen. Now that we’ve talked this over calmly, it’s time to go to bed. You best and dearest little mouse, good night!’ With those words, Fanny weighed her Anchor and—having taken so much advice—decided not to seek any more for that occasion.
Thenceforward, Amy observed Mr Sparkler’s treatment by his enslaver, with new reasons for attaching importance to all that passed between them. There were times when Fanny appeared quite unable to endure his mental feebleness, and when she became so sharply impatient of it that she would all but dismiss him for good. There were other times when she got on much better with him; when he amused her, and when her sense of superiority seemed to counterbalance that opposite side of the scale. If Mr Sparkler had been other than the faithfullest and most submissive of swains, he was sufficiently hard pressed to have fled from the scene of his trials, and have set at least the whole distance from Rome to London between himself and his enchantress. But he had no greater will of his own than a boat has when it is towed by a steam-ship; and he followed his cruel mistress through rough and smooth, on equally strong compulsion.
From that point on, Amy watched how Mr. Sparkler was treated by his owner, with new reasons to pay attention to everything that happened between them. There were times when Fanny seemed completely unable to tolerate his weakness, and she became so impatient that she almost decided to end things with him for good. Then there were other times when they got along much better; he entertained her, and her feeling of superiority seemed to balance out the other side of things. If Mr. Sparkler had been anything but the most devoted and compliant of suitors, he would have felt so overwhelmed that he could have easily run away and put as much distance as possible between himself and his enchantress. But he had no more will of his own than a boat being pulled by a steamship; he followed his cruel mistress through ups and downs, equally compelled.
Mrs Merdle, during these passages, said little to Fanny, but said more about her. She was, as it were, forced to look at her through her eye-glass, and in general conversation to allow commendations of her beauty to be wrung from her by its irresistible demands. The defiant character it assumed when Fanny heard these extollings (as it generally happened that she did), was not expressive of concessions to the impartial bosom; but the utmost revenge the bosom took was, to say audibly, ‘A spoilt beauty—but with that face and shape, who could wonder?’
Mrs. Merdle, during these conversations, didn’t say much to Fanny but talked more about her. She was, in a way, forced to view her through her eye-glass, and during casual chats, she couldn’t help but let praise for Fanny's beauty slip out due to its undeniable influence. The defiant attitude Fanny displayed when she heard these compliments (which usually happened to be the case) didn’t indicate any willingness to accept them openly; instead, the only revenge the inner self took was to remark out loud, “A spoiled beauty—but with that face and figure, who could blame her?”
It might have been about a month or six weeks after the night of the new advice, when Little Dorrit began to think she detected some new understanding between Mr Sparkler and Fanny. Mr Sparkler, as if in attendance to some compact, scarcely ever spoke without first looking towards Fanny for leave. That young lady was too discreet ever to look back again; but, if Mr Sparkler had permission to speak, she remained silent; if he had not, she herself spoke. Moreover, it became plain whenever Henry Gowan attempted to perform the friendly office of drawing him out, that he was not to be drawn. And not only that, but Fanny would presently, without any pointed application in the world, chance to say something with such a sting in it that Gowan would draw back as if he had put his hand into a bee-hive.
It was about a month or six weeks after the night of the new advice when Little Dorrit started to notice some new understanding between Mr. Sparkler and Fanny. Mr. Sparkler seemed to follow some unspoken agreement, rarely speaking without first glancing at Fanny for permission. Fanny, being too discreet, never looked back at him; if Mr. Sparkler had the go-ahead to talk, she stayed quiet, and if he didn’t, she would speak up herself. It also became clear that whenever Henry Gowan tried to encourage Mr. Sparkler to open up, he wouldn’t budge. Furthermore, Fanny would soon, without any direct prompting, say something so sharp that Gowan would pull back as if he'd touched a bee's nest.
There was yet another circumstance which went a long way to confirm Little Dorrit in her fears, though it was not a great circumstance in itself. Mr Sparkler’s demeanour towards herself changed. It became fraternal. Sometimes, when she was in the outer circle of assemblies—at their own residence, at Mrs Merdle’s, or elsewhere—she would find herself stealthily supported round the waist by Mr Sparkler’s arm. Mr Sparkler never offered the slightest explanation of this attention; but merely smiled with an air of blundering, contented, good-natured proprietorship, which, in so heavy a gentleman, was ominously expressive.
There was one more thing that really made Little Dorrit more anxious, even though it wasn't a huge deal on its own. Mr. Sparkler's behavior toward her changed. It became brotherly. Sometimes, when she was at events—at their home, at Mrs. Merdle’s, or somewhere else—she would feel Mr. Sparkler's arm sneakily around her waist. He never explained this attention at all; he just smiled with a clumsy, satisfied, good-natured sense of ownership that was quite concerning, coming from such a heavy man.
Little Dorrit was at home one day, thinking about Fanny with a heavy heart. They had a room at one end of their drawing-room suite, nearly all irregular bay-window, projecting over the street, and commanding all the picturesque life and variety of the Corso, both up and down. At three or four o’clock in the afternoon, English time, the view from this window was very bright and peculiar; and Little Dorrit used to sit and muse here, much as she had been used to while away the time in her balcony at Venice. Seated thus one day, she was softly touched on the shoulder, and Fanny said, ‘Well, Amy dear,’ and took her seat at her side. Their seat was a part of the window; when there was anything in the way of a procession going on, they used to have bright draperies hung out of the window, and used to kneel or sit on this seat, and look out at it, leaning on the brilliant colour. But there was no procession that day, and Little Dorrit was rather surprised by Fanny’s being at home at that hour, as she was generally out on horseback then.
Little Dorrit was at home one day, thinking about Fanny with a heavy heart. They had a room at one end of their drawing-room suite, almost entirely consisting of an irregular bay window that jutted out over the street, giving them a view of all the lively and varied scenes of the Corso, both up and down. In the afternoon, around three or four o'clock, the view from this window was really bright and unique; Little Dorrit would sit and reflect there, much like she used to do in her balcony in Venice. One day, as she was sitting like this, she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder, and Fanny said, "Well, Amy dear," as she took a seat next to her. Their spot was part of the window; during any processions, they would hang bright fabrics out of the window, kneeling or sitting there to watch, leaning on the vibrant colors. But there was no procession that day, and Little Dorrit was a bit surprised to see Fanny at home at that time, since she usually went out riding then.
‘Well, Amy,’ said Fanny, ‘what are you thinking of, little one?’
‘Well, Amy,’ Fanny said, ‘what are you thinking about, little one?’
‘I was thinking of you, Fanny.’
‘I was thinking about you, Fanny.’
‘No? What a coincidence! I declare here’s some one else. You were not thinking of this some one else too; were you, Amy?’
‘No? What a coincidence! I say there’s someone else. You weren’t thinking of this someone else too, were you, Amy?’
Amy had been thinking of this some one else too; for it was Mr Sparkler. She did not say so, however, as she gave him her hand. Mr Sparkler came and sat down on the other side of her, and she felt the fraternal railing come behind her, and apparently stretch on to include Fanny.
Amy had been thinking about someone else too; it was Mr. Sparkler. She didn’t mention it, though, as she offered him her hand. Mr. Sparkler sat down on the other side of her, and she felt the brotherly teasing come up behind her, apparently extending to include Fanny.
‘Well, my little sister,’ said Fanny with a sigh, ‘I suppose you know what this means?’
‘Well, my little sister,’ Fanny said with a sigh, ‘I guess you know what this means?’
‘She’s as beautiful as she’s doated on,’ stammered Mr Sparkler—‘and there’s no nonsense about her—it’s arranged—’
‘She’s as beautiful as she is adored,’ stammered Mr. Sparkler—‘and there’s no nonsense about her—it’s all set—’
‘You needn’t explain, Edmund,’ said Fanny.
'You don't need to explain, Edmund,' Fanny said.
‘No, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler.
‘No, my love,’ Mr. Sparkler said.
‘In short, pet,’ proceeded Fanny, ‘on the whole, we are engaged. We must tell papa about it either to-night or to-morrow, according to the opportunities. Then it’s done, and very little more need be said.’
‘In short, dear,’ Fanny continued, ‘overall, we are engaged. We need to tell Dad about it either tonight or tomorrow, depending on the opportunities. Then it’s settled, and not much more needs to be said.’
‘My dear Fanny,’ said Mr Sparkler, with deference, ‘I should like to say a word to Amy.’
'My dear Fanny,' said Mr. Sparkler, respectfully, 'I’d like to speak to Amy.'
‘Well, well! Say it for goodness’ sake,’ returned the young lady.
‘Well, well! Just say it already,’ replied the young lady.
‘I am convinced, my dear Amy,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘that if ever there was a girl, next to your highly endowed and beautiful sister, who had no nonsense about her—’
‘I am convinced, my dear Amy,’ said Mr. Sparkler, ‘that if there was ever a girl, other than your talented and beautiful sister, who had no nonsense about her—’
‘We know all about that, Edmund,’ interposed Miss Fanny. ‘Never mind that. Pray go on to something else besides our having no nonsense about us.’
‘We know all about that, Edmund,’ interrupted Miss Fanny. ‘Forget that. Please move on to something else instead of us not having any nonsense.’
‘Yes, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘And I assure you, Amy, that nothing can be a greater happiness to myself, myself—next to the happiness of being so highly honoured with the choice of a glorious girl who hasn’t an atom of—’
‘Yes, my love,’ said Mr. Sparkler. ‘And I promise you, Amy, that nothing would make me happier, myself—next to the joy of being so incredibly honored with the choice of such an amazing girl who doesn’t have a hint of—’
‘Pray, Edmund, pray!’ interrupted Fanny, with a slight pat of her pretty foot upon the floor.
"Please, Edmund, pray!" interrupted Fanny, giving a gentle tap of her pretty foot on the floor.
‘My love, you’re quite right,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘and I know I have a habit of it. What I wished to declare was, that nothing can be a greater happiness to myself, myself-next to the happiness of being united to pre-eminently the most glorious of girls—than to have the happiness of cultivating the affectionate acquaintance of Amy. I may not myself,’ said Mr Sparkler manfully, ‘be up to the mark on some other subjects at a short notice, and I am aware that if you were to poll Society the general opinion would be that I am not; but on the subject of Amy I AM up to the mark!’
‘My love, you’re absolutely right,’ said Mr. Sparkler, ‘and I know I have a tendency to do that. What I wanted to say is that nothing could make me happier, aside from being with the most amazing girl of all, than to have the joy of getting to know Amy better. I might not be great at some other things on the spot, and I know if you asked Society, they’d probably say I’m not; but when it comes to Amy, I definitely am!’
Mr Sparkler kissed her, in witness thereof.
Mr. Sparkler kissed her, to prove it.
‘A knife and fork and an apartment,’ proceeded Mr Sparkler, growing, in comparison with his oratorical antecedents, quite diffuse, ‘will ever be at Amy’s disposal. My Governor, I am sure, will always be proud to entertain one whom I so much esteem. And regarding my mother,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘who is a remarkably fine woman, with—’
‘A knife and fork and a place to live,’ Mr. Sparkler continued, becoming, compared to his previous speeches, quite talkative, ‘will always be available for Amy. I’m sure my dad will be proud to host someone I value so much. And about my mom,’ Mr. Sparkler said, ‘who is an exceptionally wonderful woman, with—’
‘Edmund, Edmund!’ cried Miss Fanny, as before.
‘Edmund, Edmund!’ cried Miss Fanny, just like before.
‘With submission, my soul,’ pleaded Mr Sparkler. ‘I know I have a habit of it, and I thank you very much, my adorable girl, for taking the trouble to correct it; but my mother is admitted on all sides to be a remarkably fine woman, and she really hasn’t any.’
‘With all due respect, my dear,’ begged Mr. Sparkler. ‘I know I tend to do that, and I really appreciate you for trying to help me fix it; but my mother is recognized everywhere as a truly amazing woman, and she doesn’t have that issue at all.’
‘That may be, or may not be,’ returned Fanny, ‘but pray don’t mention it any more.’
"That might be true, or it might not," Fanny replied, "but please don’t bring it up again."
‘I will not, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler.
‘I won’t, my love,’ said Mr. Sparkler.
‘Then, in fact, you have nothing more to say, Edmund; have you?’ inquired Fanny.
“Then, really, you have nothing else to say, Edmund; do you?” Fanny asked.
‘So far from it, my adorable girl,’ answered Mr Sparkler, ‘I apologise for having said so much.’
"So far from it, my lovely girl," replied Mr. Sparkler, "I'm sorry for saying so much."
Mr Sparkler perceived, by a kind of inspiration, that the question implied had he not better go? He therefore withdrew the fraternal railing, and neatly said that he thought he would, with submission, take his leave. He did not go without being congratulated by Amy, as well as she could discharge that office in the flutter and distress of her spirits.
Mr. Sparkler realized, almost intuitively, that the question suggested he should leave. So, he put aside the friendly teasing and politely stated that he thought it would be best to take his leave. He didn’t leave without receiving congratulations from Amy, as best as she could manage in her flustered and anxious state.
When he was gone, she said, ‘O Fanny, Fanny!’ and turned to her sister in the bright window, and fell upon her bosom and cried there. Fanny laughed at first; but soon laid her face against her sister’s and cried too—a little. It was the last time Fanny ever showed that there was any hidden, suppressed, or conquered feeling in her on the matter. From that hour the way she had chosen lay before her, and she trod it with her own imperious self-willed step.
When he left, she said, “Oh Fanny, Fanny!” and turned to her sister in the bright window, collapsing against her and crying. Fanny laughed at first, but soon pressed her face against her sister's and cried a little too. That was the last time Fanny ever showed that she had any hidden, suppressed, or conquered feelings about it. From that moment on, the path she had chosen was clear, and she walked it with her own determined, strong-willed steps.
CHAPTER 15. No just Cause or Impediment why these Two Persons
should not be joined together
should not be combined
Mr Dorrit, on being informed by his elder daughter that she had accepted matrimonial overtures from Mr Sparkler, to whom she had plighted her troth, received the communication at once with great dignity and with a large display of parental pride; his dignity dilating with the widened prospect of advantageous ground from which to make acquaintances, and his parental pride being developed by Miss Fanny’s ready sympathy with that great object of his existence. He gave her to understand that her noble ambition found harmonious echoes in his heart; and bestowed his blessing on her, as a child brimful of duty and good principle, self-devoted to the aggrandisement of the family name.
Mr. Dorrit, upon hearing from his older daughter that she had accepted marriage proposals from Mr. Sparkler, to whom she had pledged her loyalty, received the news with great dignity and a proud display of parental pride. His dignity grew with the prospect of new social connections, and his parental pride was boosted by Miss Fanny’s enthusiastic support for his primary goal in life. He made it clear that her noble ambition resonated deeply with him and gave her his blessing, seeing her as a devoted child full of responsibility and good values, committed to enhancing the family name.
To Mr Sparkler, when Miss Fanny permitted him to appear, Mr Dorrit said, he would not disguise that the alliance Mr Sparkler did him the honour to propose was highly congenial to his feelings; both as being in unison with the spontaneous affections of his daughter Fanny, and as opening a family connection of a gratifying nature with Mr Merdle, the master spirit of the age. Mrs Merdle also, as a leading lady rich in distinction, elegance, grace, and beauty, he mentioned in very laudatory terms. He felt it his duty to remark (he was sure a gentleman of Mr Sparkler’s fine sense would interpret him with all delicacy), that he could not consider this proposal definitely determined on, until he should have had the privilege of holding some correspondence with Mr Merdle; and of ascertaining it to be so far accordant with the views of that eminent gentleman as that his (Mr Dorrit’s) daughter would be received on that footing which her station in life and her dowry and expectations warranted him in requiring that she should maintain in what he trusted he might be allowed, without the appearance of being mercenary, to call the Eye of the Great World. While saying this, which his character as a gentleman of some little station, and his character as a father, equally demanded of him, he would not be so diplomatic as to conceal that the proposal remained in hopeful abeyance and under conditional acceptance, and that he thanked Mr Sparkler for the compliment rendered to himself and to his family. He concluded with some further and more general observations on the—ha—character of an independent gentleman, and the—hum—character of a possibly too partial and admiring parent. To sum the whole up shortly, he received Mr Sparkler’s offer very much as he would have received three or four half-crowns from him in the days that were gone.
To Mr. Sparkler, when Miss Fanny allowed him to show up, Mr. Dorrit said that he wouldn’t hide the fact that the engagement Mr. Sparkler honored him with was very much in line with his feelings; it resonated with his daughter Fanny's sincere affections and established a family connection that was gratifying, especially with Mr. Merdle, the prominent figure of the era. He also spoke highly of Mrs. Merdle, noting her as a leading lady rich in distinction, elegance, grace, and beauty. He felt it was his duty to point out (he was sure a gentleman like Mr. Sparkler would understand him with all delicacy) that he couldn’t consider this proposal as final until he had the chance to correspond with Mr. Merdle and ascertain whether it aligned with that esteemed gentleman’s views to the extent that his (Mr. Dorrit's) daughter would be accepted on the terms that her status, dowry, and expectations justified him in requiring for her to hold in what he hoped he might call the Eye of the Great World, without seeming mercenary. While saying this, which his position as a gentleman of some standing and as a father both called for him to express, he wouldn’t be so diplomatic as to hide that the proposal remained in hopeful limbo and was conditionally accepted, and he was grateful to Mr. Sparkler for the compliment to himself and his family. He wrapped up with a few more general remarks on the—ha—nature of an independent gentleman and the—hum—nature of a possibly overly partial and admiring parent. To sum it all up briefly, he took Mr. Sparkler’s offer much like he would have accepted three or four half-crowns from him in the past.
Mr Sparkler, finding himself stunned by the words thus heaped upon his inoffensive head, made a brief though pertinent rejoinder; the same being neither more nor less than that he had long perceived Miss Fanny to have no nonsense about her, and that he had no doubt of its being all right with his Governor. At that point the object of his affections shut him up like a box with a spring lid, and sent him away.
Mr. Sparkler, taken aback by the comments directed at him, gave a short but fitting response; it was simply that he had noticed Miss Fanny was straightforward and that he was confident everything was fine with his father. At that moment, the woman he loved dismissed him quickly and sent him on his way.
Proceeding shortly afterwards to pay his respects to the Bosom, Mr Dorrit was received by it with great consideration. Mrs Merdle had heard of this affair from Edmund. She had been surprised at first, because she had not thought Edmund a marrying man. Society had not thought Edmund a marrying man. Still, of course she had seen, as a woman (we women did instinctively see these things, Mr Dorrit!), that Edmund had been immensely captivated by Miss Dorrit, and she had openly said that Mr Dorrit had much to answer for in bringing so charming a girl abroad to turn the heads of his countrymen.
Shortly after, when Mr. Dorrit came to pay his respects to the Bosom, he was received with great consideration. Mrs. Merdle had heard about this situation from Edmund. At first, she was surprised because she hadn't considered Edmund to be the marrying type. Society hadn't thought so either. Still, as a woman (we women can instinctively see these things, Mr. Dorrit!), she definitely noticed that Edmund was completely taken with Miss Dorrit, and she had openly remarked that Mr. Dorrit had a lot to answer for by bringing such a charming girl abroad to distract his fellow countrymen.
‘Have I the honour to conclude, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘that the direction which Mr Sparkler’s affections have taken, is—ha-approved of by you?’
“Do I have the honor of concluding, ma'am,” Mr. Dorrit said, “that the direction Mr. Sparkler’s feelings have taken is—ah—approved by you?”
‘I assure you, Mr Dorrit,’ returned the lady, ‘that, personally, I am charmed.’
‘I assure you, Mr. Dorrit,’ the lady replied, ‘that, personally, I am delighted.’
That was very gratifying to Mr Dorrit.
That really made Mr. Dorrit happy.
‘Personally,’ repeated Mrs Merdle, ‘charmed.’
"Honestly," repeated Mrs. Merdle, "charmed."
This casual repetition of the word ‘personally,’ moved Mr Dorrit to express his hope that Mr Merdle’s approval, too, would not be wanting?
This casual repetition of the word "personally" prompted Mr. Dorrit to express his hope that Mr. Merdle's approval would also be forthcoming?
‘I cannot,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘take upon myself to answer positively for Mr Merdle; gentlemen, especially gentlemen who are what Society calls capitalists, having their own ideas of these matters. But I should think—merely giving an opinion, Mr Dorrit—I should think Mr Merdle would be upon the whole,’ here she held a review of herself before adding at her leisure, ‘quite charmed.’
"I can't," said Mrs. Merdle, "say for sure what Mr. Merdle thinks; men, especially those that Society labels as capitalists, have their own views on these things. But I would think—just giving my opinion, Mr. Dorrit—I believe Mr. Merdle would, overall," here she paused to consider her words before adding casually, "be quite pleased."
At the mention of gentlemen whom Society called capitalists, Mr Dorrit had coughed, as if some internal demur were breaking out of him. Mrs Merdle had observed it, and went on to take up the cue.
At the mention of gentlemen whom Society referred to as capitalists, Mr. Dorrit coughed, as if some internal objection were surfacing. Mrs. Merdle noticed it and continued to follow the lead.
‘Though, indeed, Mr Dorrit, it is scarcely necessary for me to make that remark, except in the mere openness of saying what is uppermost to one whom I so highly regard, and with whom I hope I may have the pleasure of being brought into still more agreeable relations. For one cannot but see the great probability of your considering such things from Mr Merdle’s own point of view, except indeed that circumstances have made it Mr Merdle’s accidental fortune, or misfortune, to be engaged in business transactions, and that they, however vast, may a little cramp his horizons. I am a very child as to having any notion of business,’ said Mrs Merdle; ‘but I am afraid, Mr Dorrit, it may have that tendency.’
“Although, Mr. Dorrit, I hardly need to mention that, it’s just my way of being open with someone I really respect, and I hope we can develop an even more pleasant relationship. It’s clear that you might see things from Mr. Merdle’s perspective, except that circumstances have turned Mr. Merdle’s dealings into what may be a chance fortunate or unfortunate situation, and those dealings, no matter how extensive, might limit his view a bit. I’m really clueless about business,” Mrs. Merdle said, “but I worry, Mr. Dorrit, that it may have that effect.”
This skilful see-saw of Mr Dorrit and Mrs Merdle, so that each of them sent the other up, and each of them sent the other down, and neither had the advantage, acted as a sedative on Mr Dorrit’s cough. He remarked with his utmost politeness, that he must beg to protest against its being supposed, even by Mrs Merdle, the accomplished and graceful (to which compliment she bent herself), that such enterprises as Mr Merdle’s, apart as they were from the puny undertakings of the rest of men, had any lower tendency than to enlarge and expand the genius in which they were conceived. ‘You are generosity itself,’ said Mrs Merdle in return, smiling her best smile; ‘let us hope so. But I confess I am almost superstitious in my ideas about business.’
This clever back-and-forth between Mr. Dorrit and Mrs. Merdle, where each of them lifted the other up and brought the other down, with neither gaining the upper hand, acted as a calming influence on Mr. Dorrit's cough. He politely stated that he must insist on not allowing anyone, even Mrs. Merdle, the talented and elegant one (to which she acknowledged with a slight bow), to think that endeavors like Mr. Merdle's, no matter how far removed they were from the small efforts of others, had any lesser purpose than to enhance and broaden the creativity behind them. “You are truly generous,” Mrs. Merdle replied, flashing her brightest smile; “let's hope that’s the case. But I must admit, I have almost superstitious beliefs when it comes to business.”
Mr Dorrit threw in another compliment here, to the effect that business, like the time which was precious in it, was made for slaves; and that it was not for Mrs Merdle, who ruled all hearts at her supreme pleasure, to have anything to do with it. Mrs Merdle laughed, and conveyed to Mr Dorrit an idea that the Bosom flushed—which was one of her best effects.
Mr. Dorrit added another compliment, saying that business, like the valuable time associated with it, was meant for the subservient; and that it wasn’t right for Mrs. Merdle, who captivated everyone at her whim, to be involved in it at all. Mrs. Merdle laughed and gave Mr. Dorrit the impression that her chest reddened—which was one of her best tricks.
‘I say so much,’ she then explained, ‘merely because Mr Merdle has always taken the greatest interest in Edmund, and has always expressed the strongest desire to advance his prospects. Edmund’s public position, I think you know. His private position rests solely with Mr Merdle. In my foolish incapacity for business, I assure you I know no more.’
"I say all this," she explained, "simply because Mr. Merdle has always shown a strong interest in Edmund and has continually expressed his desire to help improve his future. I believe you know about Edmund's public role. His private situation completely relies on Mr. Merdle. Due to my lack of business skills, I can honestly say I don't know any more."
Mr Dorrit again expressed, in his own way, the sentiment that business was below the ken of enslavers and enchantresses. He then mentioned his intention, as a gentleman and a parent, of writing to Mr Merdle. Mrs Merdle concurred with all her heart—or with all her art, which was exactly the same thing—and herself despatched a preparatory letter by the next post to the eighth wonder of the world.
Mr. Dorrit once more expressed, in his own way, the belief that business was beneath the understanding of those who enslave and enchant. He then shared his plan, as a gentleman and a parent, to write to Mr. Merdle. Mrs. Merdle wholeheartedly agreed—or with all her skill, which was basically the same thing—and she sent off a preliminary letter to the eighth wonder of the world in the next postal delivery.
In his epistolary communication, as in his dialogues and discourses on the great question to which it related, Mr Dorrit surrounded the subject with flourishes, as writing-masters embellish copy-books and ciphering-books: where the titles of the elementary rules of arithmetic diverge into swans, eagles, griffins, and other calligraphic recreations, and where the capital letters go out of their minds and bodies into ecstasies of pen and ink. Nevertheless, he did render the purport of his letter sufficiently clear, to enable Mr Merdle to make a decent pretence of having learnt it from that source. Mr Merdle replied to it accordingly. Mr Dorrit replied to Mr Merdle; Mr Merdle replied to Mr Dorrit; and it was soon announced that the corresponding powers had come to a satisfactory understanding.
In his letters, just like in his conversations and discussions on the important issue at hand, Mr. Dorrit dressed the topic up with elaborate flourishes, similar to how writing teachers decorate notebooks and practice books: where the headings of basic arithmetic rules turn into swans, eagles, griffins, and other artistic designs, and where the capital letters seem to lose their minds and bodies in ecstatic displays of pen and ink. Still, he made the main point of his message clear enough for Mr. Merdle to pretend he had understood it from that source. Mr. Merdle replied to it accordingly. Mr. Dorrit responded to Mr. Merdle; Mr. Merdle replied to Mr. Dorrit; and it was soon announced that both parties had reached a satisfactory agreement.
Now, and not before, Miss Fanny burst upon the scene, completely arrayed for her new part. Now and not before, she wholly absorbed Mr Sparkler in her light, and shone for both, and twenty more. No longer feeling that want of a defined place and character which had caused her so much trouble, this fair ship began to steer steadily on a shaped course, and to swim with a weight and balance that developed her sailing qualities.
Now, and not before, Miss Fanny entered the scene, fully dressed for her new role. Now and not before, she completely captured Mr. Sparkler’s attention, shining for him and for many others. No longer feeling the lack of a clear identity that had troubled her so much, this confident woman began to navigate steadily on a set path, moving with a grace and stability that showcased her talents.
‘The preliminaries being so satisfactorily arranged, I think I will now, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘announce—ha—formally, to Mrs General—’
‘Now that everything is arranged satisfactorily, I believe I will formally announce—ha—to Mrs. General—’ said Mr. Dorrit.
‘Papa,’ returned Fanny, taking him up short upon that name, ‘I don’t see what Mrs General has got to do with it.’
‘Dad,’ Fanny replied, interrupting him with that name, ‘I don’t see what Mrs. General has to do with it.’
‘My dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘it will be an act of courtesy to—hum—a lady, well bred and refined—’
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘it would be polite to—um—a lady, well-mannered and sophisticated—’
‘Oh! I am sick of Mrs General’s good breeding and refinement, papa,’ said Fanny. ‘I am tired of Mrs General.’
'Oh! I'm so tired of Mrs. General's politeness and sophistication, Dad,' said Fanny. 'I'm just fed up with Mrs. General.'
‘Tired,’ repeated Mr Dorrit in reproachful astonishment, ‘of—ha—Mrs General.’
'Tired,' repeated Mr. Dorrit in a reproachful tone, 'of—uh—Mrs. General.'
‘Quite disgusted with her, papa,’ said Fanny. ‘I really don’t see what she has to do with my marriage. Let her keep to her own matrimonial projects—if she has any.’
‘Honestly, I’m really annoyed with her, Dad,’ said Fanny. ‘I just don’t understand what she has to do with my marriage. She should stick to her own plans for marriage—if she has any.’
‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit, with a grave and weighty slowness upon him, contrasting strongly with his daughter’s levity: ‘I beg the favour of your explaining—ha—what it is you mean.’
‘Fanny,’ Mr. Dorrit replied, speaking slowly and seriously, which was a stark contrast to his daughter’s lightheartedness: ‘Could you please explain—uh—what you mean?’
‘I mean, papa,’ said Fanny, ‘that if Mrs General should happen to have any matrimonial projects of her own, I dare say they are quite enough to occupy her spare time. And that if she has not, so much the better; but still I don’t wish to have the honour of making announcements to her.’
‘I mean, Dad,’ Fanny said, ‘that if Mrs. General happens to have any plans for marriage, I’m sure they’re more than enough to fill her free time. And if she doesn’t, even better; but I still don’t want to take on the honor of making announcements to her.’
‘Permit me to ask you, Fanny,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘why not?’
'May I ask you, Fanny,' Mr. Dorrit said, 'why not?'
‘Because she can find my engagement out for herself, papa,’ retorted Fanny. ‘She is watchful enough, I dare say. I think I have seen her so. Let her find it out for herself. If she should not find it out for herself, she will know it when I am married. And I hope you will not consider me wanting in affection for you, papa, if I say it strikes me that will be quite enough for Mrs General.’
“Because she can figure out my engagement on her own, Dad,” Fanny shot back. “She’s observant enough, I’m sure. I think I’ve noticed that. Let her discover it for herself. If she doesn’t figure it out, she will find out when I’m married. And I hope you won’t think I don’t care about you, Dad, if I say that seems to be more than enough for Mrs. General.”
‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit, ‘I am amazed, I am displeased by this—hum—this capricious and unintelligible display of animosity towards—ha—Mrs General.’
‘Fanny,’ replied Mr. Dorrit, ‘I’m astonished, I’m upset by this—um—this unpredictable and confusing display of hostility towards—uh—Mrs. General.’
‘Do not, if you please, papa,’ urged Fanny, ‘call it animosity, because I assure you I do not consider Mrs General worth my animosity.’
‘Please don’t, Dad,’ Fanny urged, ‘call it animosity, because I really don’t think Mrs. General is worth my animosity.’
At this, Mr Dorrit rose from his chair with a fixed look of severe reproof, and remained standing in his dignity before his daughter. His daughter, turning the bracelet on her arm, and now looking at him, and now looking from him, said, ‘Very well, papa. I am truly sorry if you don’t like it; but I can’t help it. I am not a child, and I am not Amy, and I must speak.’
At this, Mr. Dorrit got up from his chair with a stern look of disapproval and stood there in his dignity facing his daughter. His daughter, twisting the bracelet on her arm and alternating her gaze between him and elsewhere, said, "Alright, Dad. I'm really sorry if you don't like it, but I can't change that. I'm not a child, I'm not Amy, and I have to speak my mind."
‘Fanny,’ gasped Mr Dorrit, after a majestic silence, ‘if I request you to remain here, while I formally announce to Mrs General, as an exemplary lady, who is—hum—a trusted member of this family, the—ha—the change that is contemplated among us; if I—ha—not only request it, but—hum—insist upon it—’
‘Fanny,’ gasped Mr. Dorrit, after a dramatic pause, ‘if I ask you to stay here while I formally inform Mrs. General, who is—um—a respected member of this family, about the—uh—the changes we’re considering; if I—um—not only ask this but—er—insist on it—’
‘Oh, papa,’ Fanny broke in with pointed significance, ‘if you make so much of it as that, I have in duty nothing to do but comply. I hope I may have my thoughts upon the subject, however, for I really cannot help it under the circumstances.’ So, Fanny sat down with a meekness which, in the junction of extremes, became defiance; and her father, either not deigning to answer, or not knowing what to answer, summoned Mr Tinkler into his presence.
‘Oh, Dad,’ Fanny interrupted with pointed emphasis, ‘if you’re making such a big deal out of it, I guess I have no choice but to go along with it. I still hope I can share my thoughts on the matter, though, because I really can’t help it in this situation.’ So, Fanny sat down with a submissiveness that, in this mix of extremes, turned into defiance; and her father, either choosing not to respond or unsure of how to respond, called Mr. Tinkler into the room.
‘Mrs General.’
'Mrs. General'
Mr Tinkler, unused to receive such short orders in connection with the fair varnisher, paused. Mr Dorrit, seeing the whole Marshalsea and all its testimonials in the pause, instantly flew at him with, ‘How dare you, sir? What do you mean?’
Mr. Tinkler, not used to receiving such brief instructions about the fair varnisher, paused. Mr. Dorrit, seeing the entire Marshalsea and all its implications in the pause, immediately confronted him with, "How dare you, sir? What do you mean?"
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ pleaded Mr Tinkler, ‘I was wishful to know—’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Mr. Tinkler pleaded, ‘I wanted to know—’
‘You wished to know nothing, sir,’ cried Mr Dorrit, highly flushed. ‘Don’t tell me you did. Ha. You didn’t. You are guilty of mockery, sir.’
‘You wanted to know nothing, sir,’ shouted Mr. Dorrit, very flushed. ‘Don’t tell me you did. Ha. You didn’t. You’re guilty of mockery, sir.’
‘I assure you, sir—’ Mr Tinkler began.
‘I assure you, sir—’ Mr. Tinkler started.
‘Don’t assure me!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I will not be assured by a domestic. You are guilty of mockery. You shall leave me—hum—the whole establishment shall leave me. What are you waiting for?’
‘Don’t reassure me!’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘I refuse to be reassured by a servant. You’re just mocking me. You need to go—umm—the entire staff needs to go. What are you waiting for?’
‘Only for my orders, sir.’
"Just for my orders, sir."
‘It’s false,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘you have your orders. Ha—hum. My compliments to Mrs General, and I beg the favour of her coming to me, if quite convenient, for a few minutes. Those are your orders.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘you have your instructions. Ha—hum. Please give my regards to Mrs. General, and I would appreciate it if she could come see me for a few minutes, if it’s not too much trouble. Those are your instructions.’
In his execution of this mission, Mr Tinkler perhaps expressed that Mr Dorrit was in a raging fume. However that was, Mrs General’s skirts were very speedily heard outside, coming along—one might almost have said bouncing along—with unusual expedition. Albeit, they settled down at the door and swept into the room with their customary coolness.
In carrying out this mission, Mr. Tinkler might have indicated that Mr. Dorrit was extremely angry. Regardless, Mrs. General’s skirts were soon heard outside, almost bouncing in with unusual speed. However, they stopped at the door and entered the room with their usual composure.
‘Mrs General,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘take a chair.’
“Mrs. General,” Mr. Dorrit said, “please take a seat.”
Mrs General, with a graceful curve of acknowledgment, descended into the chair which Mr Dorrit offered.
Mrs. General, with a graceful nod, sat down in the chair that Mr. Dorrit offered.
‘Madam,’ pursued that gentleman, ‘as you have had the kindness to undertake the—hum—formation of my daughters, and as I am persuaded that nothing nearly affecting them can—ha—be indifferent to you—’
‘Madam,’ continued that gentleman, ‘since you have kindly agreed to take on the—um—education of my daughters, and since I believe that nothing concerning them can—uh—be unimportant to you—’
‘Wholly impossible,’ said Mrs General in the calmest of ways.
“Completely impossible,” said Mrs. General in the calmest way.
‘—I therefore wish to announce to you, madam, that my daughter now present—’
‘—I would like to inform you, ma'am, that my daughter is now here—’
Mrs General made a slight inclination of her head to Fanny, who made a very low inclination of her head to Mrs General, and came loftily upright again.
Mrs. General nodded slightly at Fanny, who responded with a low bow to Mrs. General before standing tall again.
‘—That my daughter Fanny is—ha—contracted to be married to Mr Sparkler, with whom you are acquainted. Hence, madam, you will be relieved of half your difficult charge—ha—difficult charge.’ Mr Dorrit repeated it with his angry eye on Fanny. ‘But not, I hope, to the—hum—diminution of any other portion, direct or indirect, of the footing you have at present the kindness to occupy in my family.’
‘—That my daughter Fanny is—uh—engaged to be married to Mr. Sparkler, whom you know. So, madam, you will be relieved of half your tough responsibility—uh—tough responsibility.’ Mr. Dorrit said it again, glaring at Fanny. ‘But I hope that doesn’t reduce any other part, directly or indirectly, of the position you currently have the kindness to hold in my family.’
‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, with her gloved hands resting on one another in exemplary repose, ‘is ever considerate, and ever but too appreciative of my friendly services.’
‘Mr. Dorrit,’ replied Mrs. General, with her gloved hands resting on one another in perfect calm, ‘is always thoughtful and far too grateful for my helpful services.’
(Miss Fanny coughed, as much as to say, ‘You are right.’)
(Miss Fanny coughed, as if to say, ‘You’re right.’)
‘Miss Dorrit has no doubt exercised the soundest discretion of which the circumstances admitted, and I trust will allow me to offer her my sincere congratulations. When free from the trammels of passion,’ Mrs General closed her eyes at the word, as if she could not utter it, and see anybody; ‘when occurring with the approbation of near relatives; and when cementing the proud structure of a family edifice; these are usually auspicious events. I trust Miss Dorrit will allow me to offer her my best congratulations.’
"Miss Dorrit has definitely shown the best judgment possible under the circumstances, and I hope she'll let me extend my heartfelt congratulations to her. When it's free from the constraints of emotion," Mrs. General closed her eyes at the word, as if she couldn't say it and look at anyone; "when it happens with the approval of close family; and when it strengthens the proud foundation of a family legacy; these are usually positive events. I hope Miss Dorrit will let me offer her my best congratulations."
Here Mrs General stopped, and added internally, for the setting of her face, ‘Papa, potatoes, poultry, Prunes, and prism.’
Here Mrs. General paused and thought to herself, for the expression on her face, ‘Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism.’
‘Mr Dorrit,’ she superadded aloud, ‘is ever most obliging; and for the attention, and I will add distinction, of having this confidence imparted to me by himself and Miss Dorrit at this early time, I beg to offer the tribute of my thanks. My thanks, and my congratulations, are equally the meed of Mr Dorrit and of Miss Dorrit.’
“Mr. Dorrit,” she added out loud, “is always very kind; and for the attention—and I’ll also say the honor—of having this confidence shared with me by him and Miss Dorrit at this early point, I want to express my gratitude. My thanks, along with my congratulations, go equally to Mr. Dorrit and Miss Dorrit.”
‘To me,’ observed Miss Fanny, ‘they are excessively gratifying—inexpressibly so. The relief of finding that you have no objection to make, Mrs General, quite takes a load off my mind, I am sure. I hardly know what I should have done,’ said Fanny, ‘if you had interposed any objection, Mrs General.’
“To me,” Miss Fanny remarked, “they’re incredibly satisfying—beyond words, really. The relief of knowing you have no objections, Mrs. General, really lifts a weight off my mind, I’m sure. I honestly don’t know what I would have done,” Fanny said, “if you had raised any concerns, Mrs. General.”
Mrs General changed her gloves, as to the right glove being uppermost and the left undermost, with a Prunes and Prism smile.
Mrs. General switched her gloves, making sure the right one was on top and the left one underneath, all while wearing a Prunes and Prism smile.
‘To preserve your approbation, Mrs General,’ said Fanny, returning the smile with one in which there was no trace of those ingredients, ‘will of course be the highest object of my married life; to lose it, would of course be perfect wretchedness. I am sure your great kindness will not object, and I hope papa will not object, to my correcting a small mistake you have made, however. The best of us are so liable to mistakes, that even you, Mrs General, have fallen into a little error. The attention and distinction you have so impressively mentioned, Mrs General, as attaching to this confidence, are, I have no doubt, of the most complimentary and gratifying description; but they don’t at all proceed from me. The merit of having consulted you on the subject would have been so great in me, that I feel I must not lay claim to it when it really is not mine. It is wholly papa’s. I am deeply obliged to you for your encouragement and patronage, but it was papa who asked for it. I have to thank you, Mrs General, for relieving my breast of a great weight by so handsomely giving your consent to my engagement, but you have really nothing to thank me for. I hope you will always approve of my proceedings after I have left home and that my sister also may long remain the favoured object of your condescension, Mrs General.’
"To keep your approval, Mrs. General," Fanny said, smiling back without any of those emotions, "will definitely be the most important goal of my married life; losing it would be pure misery. I'm sure your immense kindness won't mind, and I hope Dad won't mind either, if I correct a small mistake you've made. Even the best of us are prone to errors, and even you, Mrs. General, have made a little slip. The attention and distinction you've very graciously mentioned as being linked to this confidence are, I have no doubt, very flattering and satisfying; however, they don't come from me at all. The accomplishment of consulting you on this matter would have been so significant for me that I can't take credit for it when it's truly not mine. It's entirely Dad's. I'm incredibly grateful for your support and encouragement, but it was Dad who requested it. I owe you my thanks, Mrs. General, for lifting a great weight off my chest by so generously giving your consent to my engagement, but you really have nothing to thank me for. I hope you will always approve of my actions after I leave home and that my sister will continue to be the favored recipient of your kindness, Mrs. General."
With this address, which was delivered in her politest manner, Fanny left the room with an elegant and cheerful air—to tear up-stairs with a flushed face as soon as she was out of hearing, pounce in upon her sister, call her a little Dormouse, shake her for the better opening of her eyes, tell her what had passed below, and ask her what she thought of Pa now?
With this address, delivered in her politest manner, Fanny left the room with an elegant and cheerful vibe—only to rush upstairs with a flushed face as soon as she was out of earshot, burst in on her sister, call her a little Dormouse, shake her to help her wake up, tell her what had happened downstairs, and ask her what she thought of Pa now?
Towards Mrs Merdle, the young lady comported herself with great independence and self-possession; but not as yet with any more decided opening of hostilities. Occasionally they had a slight skirmish, as when Fanny considered herself patted on the back by that lady, or as when Mrs Merdle looked particularly young and well; but Mrs Merdle always soon terminated those passages of arms by sinking among her cushions with the gracefullest indifference, and finding her attention otherwise engaged. Society (for that mysterious creature sat upon the Seven Hills too) found Miss Fanny vastly improved by her engagement. She was much more accessible, much more free and engaging, much less exacting; insomuch that she now entertained a host of followers and admirers, to the bitter indignation of ladies with daughters to marry, who were to be regarded as Having revolted from Society on the Miss Dorrit grievance, and erected a rebellious standard. Enjoying the flutter she caused. Miss Dorrit not only haughtily moved through it in her own proper person, but haughtily, even Ostentatiously, led Mr Sparkler through it too: seeming to say to them all, ‘If I think proper to march among you in triumphal procession attended by this weak captive in bonds, rather than a stronger one, that is my business. Enough that I choose to do it!’ Mr Sparkler for his part, questioned nothing; but went wherever he was taken, did whatever he was told, felt that for his bride-elect to be distinguished was for him to be distinguished on the easiest terms, and was truly grateful for being so openly acknowledged.
Towards Mrs. Merdle, the young lady carried herself with great independence and self-confidence; but still without any more clear display of hostility. Occasionally they'd have a little clash, like when Fanny felt she was being praised by that lady, or when Mrs. Merdle looked especially youthful and vibrant; but Mrs. Merdle always quickly ended those moments by sinking into her cushions with the utmost indifference, finding her attention drawn elsewhere. Society (because that mysterious entity also existed on the Seven Hills) found Miss Fanny significantly improved by her engagement. She was much more approachable, much more relaxed and charming, much less demanding; to the point that she now had a crowd of followers and admirers, much to the bitter annoyance of ladies with daughters to marry, who considered her as having turned away from Society due to the Miss Dorrit issue and raised a rebellious banner. Enjoying the attention she generated, Miss Dorrit not only proudly moved through the crowd in her own right, but also proudly, even ostentatiously, led Mr. Sparkler through it as well: seeming to say to them all, “If I choose to march among you in a triumphant parade with this weak captive in tow, instead of a stronger one, that’s my choice. It’s enough that I want to do it!” Mr. Sparkler, for his part, questioned nothing; he followed wherever he was led, did whatever he was instructed to do, felt that his bride-to-be being recognized meant he was being recognized too on very favorable terms, and was genuinely thankful for being so openly acknowledged.
The winter passing on towards the spring while this condition of affairs prevailed, it became necessary for Mr Sparkler to repair to England, and take his appointed part in the expression and direction of its genius, learning, commerce, spirit, and sense. The land of Shakespeare, Milton, Bacon, Newton, Watt, the land of a host of past and present abstract philosophers, natural philosophers, and subduers of Nature and Art in their myriad forms, called to Mr Sparkler to come and take care of it, lest it should perish. Mr Sparkler, unable to resist the agonised cry from the depths of his country’s soul, declared that he must go.
As winter gave way to spring, and while the current situation continued, Mr. Sparkler needed to return to England and fulfill his role in shaping and guiding its culture, knowledge, economy, spirit, and values. The land of Shakespeare, Milton, Bacon, Newton, and Watt, along with countless other past and present thinkers and innovators in various fields, beckoned Mr. Sparkler to come and look after it, so it wouldn’t be lost. Unable to ignore the desperate call from his country’s soul, Mr. Sparkler declared that he had to go.
It followed that the question was rendered pressing when, where, and how Mr Sparkler should be married to the foremost girl in all this world with no nonsense about her. Its solution, after some little mystery and secrecy, Miss Fanny herself announced to her sister.
It became crucial to decide when, where, and how Mr. Sparkler would marry the best girl in the world, without any nonsense involved. After some mystery and secrecy, Miss Fanny revealed the solution to her sister.
‘Now, my child,’ said she, seeking her out one day, ‘I am going to tell you something. It is only this moment broached; and naturally I hurry to you the moment it is broached.’
“Now, my child,” she said, finding her one day, “I’m going to tell you something. It’s just come up, and I’m rushing to tell you the moment it does.”
‘Your marriage, Fanny?’
"Your marriage, Fanny?"
‘My precious child,’ said Fanny, ‘don’t anticipate me. Let me impart my confidence to you, you flurried little thing, in my own way. As to your guess, if I answered it literally, I should answer no. For really it is not my marriage that is in question, half as much as it is Edmund’s.’
‘My dear child,’ said Fanny, ‘don’t jump ahead of me. Let me share my thoughts with you, you anxious little thing, in my own way. Regarding your guess, if I took it literally, I would say no. Because it’s really not my marriage that’s at stake, it’s more about Edmund’s.’
Little Dorrit looked, and perhaps not altogether without cause, somewhat at a loss to understand this fine distinction.
Little Dorrit looked, and maybe not completely without reason, a bit confused about this fine distinction.
‘I am in no difficulty,’ exclaimed Fanny, ‘and in no hurry. I am not wanted at any public office, or to give any vote anywhere else. But Edmund is. And Edmund is deeply dejected at the idea of going away by himself, and, indeed, I don’t like that he should be trusted by himself. For, if it’s possible—and it generally is—to do a foolish thing, he is sure to do it.’
"I’m not in any trouble," Fanny said. "And I’m not in a rush. I’m not needed at any public office or to vote anywhere else. But Edmund is. And Edmund is really down about the thought of going away alone, and honestly, I don’t like the idea of him being on his own. Because if there’s a chance— and there usually is—of doing something foolish, he’s definitely going to do it."
As she concluded this impartial summary of the reliance that might be safely placed upon her future husband, she took off, with an air of business, the bonnet she wore, and dangled it by its strings upon the ground.
As she wrapped up this fair assessment of the trust that could be placed in her future husband, she removed her bonnet with a sense of purpose and let it dangle by its strings on the ground.
‘It is far more Edmund’s question, therefore, than mine. However, we need say no more about that. That is self-evident on the face of it. Well, my dearest Amy! The point arising, is he to go by himself, or is he not to go by himself, this other point arises, are we to be married here and shortly, or are we to be married at home months hence?’
‘It is much more Edmund’s question than mine. But we don’t need to discuss that anymore. It’s obvious. Well, my dearest Amy! The question now is, is he going by himself or not? And another question comes up: are we getting married here soon, or are we waiting to get married at home in a few months?’
‘I see I am going to lose you, Fanny.’
‘I see I’m going to lose you, Fanny.’
‘What a little thing you are,’ cried Fanny, half tolerant and half impatient, ‘for anticipating one! Pray, my darling, hear me out. That woman,’ she spoke of Mrs Merdle, of course, ‘remains here until after Easter; so, in the case of my being married here and going to London with Edmund, I should have the start of her. That is something. Further, Amy. That woman being out of the way, I don’t know that I greatly object to Mr Merdle’s proposal to Pa that Edmund and I should take up our abode in that house—you know—where you once went with a dancer, my dear, until our own house can be chosen and fitted up. Further still, Amy. Papa having always intended to go to town himself, in the spring,—you see, if Edmund and I were married here, we might go off to Florence, where papa might join us, and we might all three travel home together. Mr Merdle has entreated Pa to stay with him in that same mansion I have mentioned, and I suppose he will. But he is master of his own actions; and upon that point (which is not at all material) I can’t speak positively.’
“What a tiny thing you are,” exclaimed Fanny, part tolerant and part impatient, “for jumping to conclusions! Please, my darling, let me explain. That woman,” she was referring to Mrs. Merdle, “will be here until after Easter; so if I get married here and go to London with Edmund, I'll have a head start on her. That matters. Furthermore, Amy. With that woman out of the picture, I don’t mind Mr. Merdle’s suggestion to Dad that Edmund and I could stay in that house—you know—the one where you once went with a dancer, my dear, until we find and set up our own place. Additionally, Amy. Dad has always planned to head to the city himself in the spring—you see, if Edmund and I get married here, we could head off to Florence, where Dad could join us, and we could all travel home together. Mr. Merdle has asked Dad to stay with him in that same mansion I mentioned, and I assume he will. But he’s in control of his own choices; on that point (which isn’t really important), I can’t say for sure.”
The difference between papa’s being master of his own actions and Mr Sparkler’s being nothing of the sort, was forcibly expressed by Fanny in her manner of stating the case. Not that her sister noticed it; for she was divided between regret at the coming separation, and a lingering wish that she had been included in the plans for visiting England.
The difference between Dad being in control of his own actions and Mr. Sparkler not being in the same position was clearly shown by Fanny in how she presented the situation. Not that her sister noticed it; she was caught between feeling sad about the upcoming separation and still wishing she had been part of the plans to visit England.
‘And these are the arrangements, Fanny dear?’
‘So, are these the plans, Fanny dear?’
‘Arrangements!’ repeated Fanny. ‘Now, really, child, you are a little trying. You know I particularly guarded myself against laying my words open to any such construction. What I said was, that certain questions present themselves; and these are the questions.’
‘Arrangements!’ Fanny repeated. ‘Honestly, kid, you're a bit annoying. You know I was very careful not to make my words open to any misunderstanding. What I said was that certain questions come up; and these are the questions.’
Little Dorrit’s thoughtful eyes met hers, tenderly and quietly.
Little Dorrit’s thoughtful eyes met hers, gently and quietly.
‘Now, my own sweet girl,’ said Fanny, weighing her bonnet by the strings with considerable impatience, ‘it’s no use staring. A little owl could stare. I look to you for advice, Amy. What do you advise me to do?’
‘Now, my sweet girl,’ said Fanny, tugging at her bonnet strings with noticeable impatience, ‘there’s no point in just staring. Even a little owl could do that. I’m looking to you for advice, Amy. What do you think I should do?’
‘Do you think,’ asked Little Dorrit, persuasively, after a short hesitation, ‘do you think, Fanny, that if you were to put it off for a few months, it might be, considering all things, best?’
‘Do you think,’ asked Little Dorrit, trying to convince her after a brief pause, ‘do you think, Fanny, that if you waited a few months, it might be, all things considered, the best option?’
‘No, little Tortoise,’ retorted Fanny, with exceeding sharpness. ‘I don’t think anything of the kind.’
‘No, little Tortoise,’ Fanny snapped back, very sharply. ‘I don’t think that at all.’
Here, she threw her bonnet from her altogether, and flounced into a chair. But, becoming affectionate almost immediately, she flounced out of it again, and kneeled down on the floor to take her sister, chair and all, in her arms.
Here, she tossed her bonnet aside and flopped into a chair. But, feeling affectionate almost right away, she hopped out of it again and knelt on the floor to hug her sister, chair and all, in her arms.
‘Don’t suppose I am hasty or unkind, darling, because I really am not. But you are such a little oddity! You make one bite your head off, when one wants to be soothing beyond everything. Didn’t I tell you, you dearest baby, that Edmund can’t be trusted by himself? And don’t you know that he can’t?’
‘Don’t think I’m rushing or being unkind, my dear, because I’m really not. But you’re such a quirky little thing! You make one want to snap when all one wants to do is be comforting. Didn’t I tell you, my sweetest, that Edmund can’t be left alone? And don’t you realize he can’t?’
‘Yes, yes, Fanny. You said so, I know.’
‘Yeah, yeah, Fanny. You mentioned that, I remember.’
‘And you know it, I know,’ retorted Fanny. ‘Well, my precious child! If he is not to be trusted by himself, it follows, I suppose, that I should go with him?’
‘And you know it, I know,’ replied Fanny. ‘Well, my dear child! If he can’t be trusted on his own, I guess that means I should go with him?’
‘It—seems so, love,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘It—seems so, love,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘Therefore, having heard the arrangements that are feasible to carry out that object, am I to understand, dearest Amy, that on the whole you advise me to make them?’
‘So, after hearing the plans that are possible to achieve that goal, should I take it, my dear Amy, that overall you recommend I go ahead with them?’
‘It—seems so, love,’ said Little Dorrit again.
‘It—seems that way, love,’ said Little Dorrit again.
‘Very well,’ cried Fanny with an air of resignation, ‘then I suppose it must be done! I came to you, my sweet, the moment I saw the doubt, and the necessity of deciding. I have now decided. So let it be.’
‘Alright,’ Fanny said with a sense of acceptance, ‘I guess it has to be done! I came to you, my dear, as soon as I noticed the uncertainty and the need to make a decision. I’ve made my choice now. So be it.’
After yielding herself up, in this pattern manner, to sisterly advice and the force of circumstances, Fanny became quite benignant: as one who had laid her own inclinations at the feet of her dearest friend, and felt a glow of conscience in having made the sacrifice. ‘After all, my Amy,’ she said to her sister, ‘you are the best of small creatures, and full of good sense; and I don’t know what I shall ever do without you!’
After giving in, like this, to her sisterly advice and the pressure of the situation, Fanny became really kind-hearted: as someone who had put her own desires aside for her closest friend, and felt proud for making that sacrifice. ‘After all, my Amy,’ she said to her sister, ‘you are the best of little beings and so sensible; and I don’t know what I’ll ever do without you!’
With which words she folded her in a closer embrace, and a really fond one.
With those words, she pulled her in for a tighter and truly affectionate hug.
‘Not that I contemplate doing without You, Amy, by any means, for I hope we shall ever be next to inseparable. And now, my pet, I am going to give you a word of advice. When you are left alone here with Mrs General—’
‘Not that I plan to be without you, Amy, at all, because I hope we’ll always be practically inseparable. And now, my dear, I’m going to give you a piece of advice. When you’re left alone here with Mrs. General—’
‘I am to be left alone here with Mrs General?’ said Little Dorrit, quietly.
‘I have to stay here alone with Mrs. General?’ said Little Dorrit, quietly.
‘Why, of course, my precious, till papa comes back! Unless you call Edward company, which he certainly is not, even when he is here, and still more certainly is not when he is away at Naples or in Sicily. I was going to say—but you are such a beloved little Marplot for putting one out—when you are left alone here with Mrs General, Amy, don’t you let her slide into any sort of artful understanding with you that she is looking after Pa, or that Pa is looking after her. She will if she can. I know her sly manner of feeling her way with those gloves of hers. But don’t you comprehend her on any account. And if Pa should tell you when he comes back, that he has it in contemplation to make Mrs General your mama (which is not the less likely because I am going away), my advice to you is, that you say at once, “Papa, I beg to object most strongly. Fanny cautioned me about this, and she objected, and I object.” I don’t mean to say that any objection from you, Amy, is likely to be of the smallest effect, or that I think you likely to make it with any degree of firmness. But there is a principle involved—a filial principle—and I implore you not to submit to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General, without asserting it in making every one about you as uncomfortable as possible. I don’t expect you to stand by it—indeed, I know you won’t, Pa being concerned—but I wish to rouse you to a sense of duty. As to any help from me, or as to any opposition that I can offer to such a match, you shall not be left in the lurch, my love. Whatever weight I may derive from my position as a married girl not wholly devoid of attractions—used, as that position always shall be, to oppose that woman—I will bring to bear, you May depend upon it, on the head and false hair (for I am confident it’s not all real, ugly as it is and unlikely as it appears that any One in their Senses would go to the expense of buying it) of Mrs General!’
“Of course, my dear, until Dad comes back! Unless you consider Edward company, which he definitely isn’t, even when he’s here, and even more so when he’s away in Naples or Sicily. I was going to say—but you’re such a dear little spoilsport that you throw me off—when you’re left alone here with Mrs. General, Amy, don’t let her create any sort of clever understanding with you that she’s looking after Dad, or that Dad is looking after her. She will if she can. I know her sly way of trying to feel things out with those gloves of hers. But don’t understand her at all. And if Dad should tell you when he comes back that he’s thinking about making Mrs. General your mom (which is all the more likely because I’m leaving), my advice to you is to say immediately, ‘Dad, I strongly object. Fanny warned me about this, and she objected, and I object.’ I don’t mean to say that any objection from you, Amy, will have any real effect, or that I think you’ll say it with any firmness. But there’s a principle at stake—a filial principle—and I urge you not to let Mrs. General become your mother-in-law without making a statement and making everyone around you as uncomfortable as possible. I don’t expect you to stand your ground—honestly, I know you won’t, since Dad is involved—but I want to wake you up to your duty. As for any help from me, or any resistance I can provide against such a match, you won’t be left hanging, my love. Whatever influence I may have from my position as a married girl who isn’t entirely without charm—and effectively used to oppose that woman—I will use, you can count on it, against the head and fake hair (because I’m sure it’s not all real, as ugly as it is and as unlikely as it seems that anyone in their right mind would spend money on it) of Mrs. General!”
Little Dorrit received this counsel without venturing to oppose it but without giving Fanny any reason to believe that she intended to act upon it. Having now, as it were, formally wound up her single life and arranged her worldly affairs, Fanny proceeded with characteristic ardour to prepare for the serious change in her condition.
Little Dorrit took this advice without arguing against it, but she didn’t give Fanny any reason to think she planned to follow it. Having, in a way, officially closed the chapter on her single life and sorted out her worldly matters, Fanny eagerly began to get ready for the significant change in her situation.
The preparation consisted in the despatch of her maid to Paris under the protection of the Courier, for the purchase of that outfit for a bride on which it would be extremely low, in the present narrative, to bestow an English name, but to which (on a vulgar principle it observes of adhering to the language in which it professes to be written) it declines to give a French one. The rich and beautiful wardrobe purchased by these agents, in the course of a few weeks made its way through the intervening country, bristling with custom-houses, garrisoned by an immense army of shabby mendicants in uniform who incessantly repeated the Beggar’s Petition over it, as if every individual warrior among them were the ancient Belisarius: and of whom there were so many Legions, that unless the Courier had expended just one bushel and a half of silver money relieving their distresses, they would have worn the wardrobe out before it got to Rome, by turning it over and over. Through all such dangers, however, it was triumphantly brought, inch by inch, and arrived at its journey’s end in fine condition.
The preparation involved sending her maid to Paris under the protection of the Courier to buy that bridal outfit, which it would be quite inappropriate to name in English here, but it also doesn’t want to provide a French name following the idea of sticking to the language in which it claims to be written. The rich and beautiful wardrobe purchased by these agents made its way through the intervening area over a few weeks, bristling with customs checkpoints manned by a huge army of shabby beggars in uniform who constantly repeated the Beggar’s Petition, as if each one of them were the ancient Belisarius. There were so many of them that unless the Courier had spent just one and a half bushels of silver on helping them, the wardrobe would have been worn out by the time it reached Rome from all the handling. Despite all these dangers, it was successfully delivered, inch by inch, and arrived at its destination in great condition.
There it was exhibited to select companies of female viewers, in whose gentle bosoms it awakened implacable feelings. Concurrently, active preparations were made for the day on which some of its treasures were to be publicly displayed. Cards of breakfast-invitation were sent out to half the English in the city of Romulus; the other half made arrangements to be under arms, as criticising volunteers, at various outer points of the solemnity. The most high and illustrious English Signor Edgardo Dorrit, came post through the deep mud and ruts (from forming a surface under the improving Neapolitan nobility), to grace the occasion. The best hotel and all its culinary myrmidons, were set to work to prepare the feast. The drafts of Mr Dorrit almost constituted a run on the Torlonia Bank. The British Consul hadn’t had such a marriage in the whole of his Consularity.
There it was shown to select groups of women, stirring strong emotions in their kind hearts. At the same time, preparations were in full swing for the day when some of its treasures would be revealed to the public. Breakfast invitations were sent out to half the English in the city of Romulus; the other half organized themselves to be ready as volunteer critics at various locations around the event. The esteemed Englishman, Mr. Edgardo Dorrit, traveled through the deep mud and ruts (created by the improving Neapolitan elite) to attend the occasion. The best hotel and all its chefs were busy preparing the feast. Mr. Dorrit's orders almost created a rush at the Torlonia Bank. The British Consul had never witnessed such a grand marriage during his entire time in office.
The day came, and the She-Wolf in the Capitol might have snarled with envy to see how the Island Savages contrived these things now-a-days. The murderous-headed statues of the wicked Emperors of the Soldiery, whom sculptors had not been able to flatter out of their villainous hideousness, might have come off their pedestals to run away with the Bride. The choked old fountain, where erst the gladiators washed, might have leaped into life again to honour the ceremony. The Temple of Vesta might have sprung up anew from its ruins, expressly to lend its countenance to the occasion. Might have done; but did not. Like sentient things—even like the lords and ladies of creation sometimes—might have done much, but did nothing. The celebration went off with admirable pomp; monks in black robes, white robes, and russet robes stopped to look after the carriages; wandering peasants in fleeces of sheep, begged and piped under the house-windows; the English volunteers defiled; the day wore on to the hour of vespers; the festival wore away; the thousand churches rang their bells without any reference to it; and St Peter denied that he had anything to do with it.
The day arrived, and the She-Wolf in the Capitol might have snarled with envy at how the Island Savages pulled off these things nowadays. The monstrous statues of the evil Emperors of the Soldiery, which sculptors couldn’t flatter away from their villainous ugliness, could have jumped off their pedestals to run away with the Bride. The old fountain, once used by gladiators, might have come to life again to honor the ceremony. The Temple of Vesta might have arisen anew from its ruins just to be part of the occasion. It could have happened, but it didn’t. Like living beings—even like the lords and ladies of creation sometimes—it might have done a lot, but did nothing. The celebration went off with great splendor; monks in black, white, and brown robes stopped to watch the carriages; wandering peasants in sheepskin begged and played pipes under the windows; the English volunteers marched by; the day passed into evening prayer; the festival faded away; the thousand churches rang their bells without a thought for it; and St. Peter insisted he had nothing to do with it.
But by that time the Bride was near the end of the first day’s journey towards Florence. It was the peculiarity of the nuptials that they were all Bride. Nobody noticed the Bridegroom. Nobody noticed the first Bridesmaid. Few could have seen Little Dorrit (who held that post) for the glare, even supposing many to have sought her. So, the Bride had mounted into her handsome chariot, incidentally accompanied by the Bridegroom; and after rolling for a few minutes smoothly over a fair pavement, had begun to jolt through a Slough of Despond, and through a long, long avenue of wrack and ruin. Other nuptial carriages are said to have gone the same road, before and since.
But by that time, the Bride was nearing the end of the first day's journey to Florence. The unique thing about the wedding was that everyone was focused on the Bride. Nobody paid attention to the Bridegroom. Nobody noticed the first Bridesmaid. Very few could have seen Little Dorrit (who was in that role) because of the bright light, even if many had looked for her. So, the Bride had gotten into her beautiful carriage, with the Bridegroom incidentally alongside her; and after cruising smoothly for a few minutes over a nice road, they began to bump through a Slough of Despond and a long, long stretch of decay and destruction. Other wedding carriages are said to have traveled the same path, both before and after.
If Little Dorrit found herself left a little lonely and a little low that night, nothing would have done so much against her feeling of depression as the being able to sit at work by her father, as in the old time, and help him to his supper and his rest. But that was not to be thought of now, when they sat in the state-equipage with Mrs General on the coach-box. And as to supper! If Mr Dorrit had wanted supper, there was an Italian cook and there was a Swiss confectioner, who must have put on caps as high as the Pope’s Mitre, and have performed the mysteries of Alchemists in a copper-saucepaned laboratory below, before he could have got it.
If Little Dorrit felt a bit lonely and down that night, nothing would have helped her feel better than sitting by her father, like in the old days, and helping him with his supper and rest. But that wasn’t an option now, with them in the fancy carriage alongside Mrs. General on the coach box. And as for supper! If Mr. Dorrit wanted something to eat, there was an Italian chef and a Swiss pastry chef, who must have worn hats as tall as the Pope’s mitre and worked their magic in a copper saucepan laboratory below before he could have gotten anything.
He was sententious and didactic that night. If he had been simply loving, he would have done Little Dorrit more good; but she accepted him as he was—when had she not accepted him as he was!—and made the most and best of him. Mrs General at length retired. Her retirement for the night was always her frostiest ceremony, as if she felt it necessary that the human imagination should be chilled into stone to prevent its following her. When she had gone through her rigid preliminaries, amounting to a sort of genteel platoon-exercise, she withdrew. Little Dorrit then put her arm round her father’s neck, to bid him good night.
He was preachy and overly instructional that night. If he had just been loving, he would have done Little Dorrit more good; but she accepted him as he was—when had she not accepted him as he was?—and made the most of him. Mrs. General finally retired. Her nightly exit was always her coldest routine, as if she felt it was necessary for the human imagination to be frozen to keep it from following her. After going through her strict rituals, which felt like a sort of fancy drill, she left. Little Dorrit then put her arm around her father’s neck to say goodnight.
‘Amy, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, taking her by the hand, ‘this is the close of a day, that has—ha—greatly impressed and gratified me.’
‘Amy, my dear,’ said Mr. Dorrit, taking her by the hand, ‘this is the end of a day that has—ha—greatly impressed and pleased me.’
‘A little tired you, dear, too?’
‘Are you a bit tired too, dear?’
‘No,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘no: I am not sensible of fatigue when it arises from an occasion so—hum—replete with gratification of the purest kind.’
‘No,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘no: I don’t feel tired when it comes from an event so—um—full of the purest kind of enjoyment.’
Little Dorrit was glad to find him in such heart, and smiled from her own heart.
Little Dorrit was happy to see him in such good spirits, and she smiled genuinely.
‘My dear,’ he continued, ‘this is an occasion—ha—teeming with a good example. With a good example, my favourite and attached child—hum—to you.’
‘My dear,’ he continued, ‘this is an occasion—ha—full of a great example. A great example, my favorite and beloved child—hum—to you.’
Little Dorrit, fluttered by his words, did not know what to say, though he stopped as if he expected her to say something.
Little Dorrit, flustered by his words, didn’t know what to say, even though he stopped as if he was expecting her to respond.
‘Amy,’ he resumed; ‘your dear sister, our Fanny, has contracted ha hum—a marriage, eminently calculated to extend the basis of our—ha—connection, and to—hum—consolidate our social relations. My love, I trust that the time is not far distant when some—ha—eligible partner may be found for you.’
‘Amy,’ he continued; ‘your beloved sister, our Fanny, has gotten herself married—um—a match that is sure to strengthen the foundation of our—um—relationship and to—uh—solidify our social ties. My dear, I hope that it's not long before we find you a—um—suitable partner.’
‘Oh no! Let me stay with you. I beg and pray that I may stay with you! I want nothing but to stay and take care of you!’
‘Oh no! Let me stay with you. I’m begging you to let me stay! All I want is to be here and take care of you!’
She said it like one in sudden alarm.
She said it suddenly and in alarm.
‘Nay, Amy, Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘This is weak and foolish, weak and foolish. You have a—ha—responsibility imposed upon you by your position. It is to develop that position, and be—hum—worthy of that position. As to taking care of me; I can—ha—take care of myself. Or,’ he added after a moment, ‘if I should need to be taken care of, I—hum—can, with the—ha—blessing of Providence, be taken care of, I—ha hum—I cannot, my dear child, think of engrossing, and—ha—as it were, sacrificing you.’
“No, Amy, Amy,” Mr. Dorrit said. “This is weak and foolish, weak and foolish. You have a—uh—responsibility that comes with your position. It's your job to grow into that role and be—um—worthy of it. As for taking care of me; I can—uh—take care of myself. Or,” he added after a moment, “if I do need care, I—uh—can, with the—uh—help of Providence, be taken care of. I—uh—cannot, my dear child, imagine taking up all your time and—uh—sacrificing you.”
O what a time of day at which to begin that profession of self-denial; at which to make it, with an air of taking credit for it; at which to believe it, if such a thing could be!
O what a time of day to start that commitment to self-denial; to announce it as if you're proud of it; to truly believe it, if that's even possible!
‘Don’t speak, Amy. I positively say I cannot do it. I—ha—must not do it. My—hum—conscience would not allow it. I therefore, my love, take the opportunity afforded by this gratifying and impressive occasion of—ha—solemnly remarking, that it is now a cherished wish and purpose of mine to see you—ha—eligibly (I repeat eligibly) married.’
“Don’t say anything, Amy. I honestly can’t do it. I—uh—mustn’t do it. My—um—conscience won’t let me. So, my love, I’m taking this chance presented by this wonderful and significant moment to—uh—seriously express that it’s now a cherished wish of mine to see you—uh—happily (I emphasize happily) married.”
‘Oh no, dear! Pray!’
“Oh no, dear! Please pray!”
‘Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I am well persuaded that if the topic were referred to any person of superior social knowledge, of superior delicacy and sense—let us say, for instance, to—ha—Mrs General—that there would not be two opinions as to the—hum—affectionate character and propriety of my sentiments. But, as I know your loving and dutiful nature from—hum—from experience, I am quite satisfied that it is necessary to say no more. I have—hum—no husband to propose at present, my dear: I have not even one in view. I merely wish that we should—ha—understand each other. Hum. Good night, my dear and sole remaining daughter. Good night. God bless you!’
“Amy,” Mr. Dorrit said, “I truly believe that if this were discussed with someone more socially aware, more refined and sensible—let's say, for example, Mrs. General—there would be no disagreement about the loving nature and appropriateness of my feelings. However, knowing your caring and respectful nature from experience, I feel it’s necessary to say no more. I don’t have a husband to propose at the moment, my dear; I don’t even have anyone in mind. I just want us to understand each other. Good night, my dear and only remaining daughter. Good night. God bless you!”
If the thought ever entered Little Dorrit’s head that night, that he could give her up lightly now in his prosperity, and when he had it in his mind to replace her with a second wife, she drove it away. Faithful to him still, as in the worst times through which she had borne him single-handed, she drove the thought away; and entertained no harder reflection, in her tearful unrest, than that he now saw everything through their wealth, and through the care he always had upon him that they should continue rich, and grow richer.
If Little Dorrit ever thought that night that he could easily give her up now that he was successful, and when he planned to find a second wife, she pushed that thought aside. Still loyal to him, just as she had been during the toughest times when she had supported him on her own, she dismissed the notion. In her tearful anxiety, the hardest thought she entertained was that he now viewed everything through the lens of their wealth and the constant worry he had about staying rich and getting even richer.
They sat in their equipage of state, with Mrs General on the box, for three weeks longer, and then he started for Florence to join Fanny. Little Dorrit would have been glad to bear him company so far, only for the sake of her own love, and then to have turned back alone, thinking of dear England. But, though the Courier had gone on with the Bride, the Valet was next in the line; and the succession would not have come to her, as long as any one could be got for money.
They sat in their fancy carriage, with Mrs. General up front, for another three weeks, and then he left for Florence to meet Fanny. Little Dorrit would have loved to accompany him for part of the journey, just for the sake of her own feelings, and then head back alone, thinking of dear England. But even though the Courier had gone on with the Bride, the Valet was next in line; and she wouldn't have had her chance as long as anyone could be hired for money.
Mrs General took life easily—as easily, that is, as she could take anything—when the Roman establishment remained in their sole occupation; and Little Dorrit would often ride out in a hired carriage that was left them, and alight alone and wander among the ruins of old Rome. The ruins of the vast old Amphitheatre, of the old Temples, of the old commemorative Arches, of the old trodden highways, of the old tombs, besides being what they were, to her were ruins of the old Marshalsea—ruins of her own old life—ruins of the faces and forms that of old peopled it—ruins of its loves, hopes, cares, and joys. Two ruined spheres of action and suffering were before the solitary girl often sitting on some broken fragment; and in the lonely places, under the blue sky, she saw them both together.
Mrs. General approached life with ease—as easily as she could manage—while the Roman authorities remained comfortably in charge; and Little Dorrit would frequently go out in a rented carriage left for them, getting out alone to wander among the ruins of ancient Rome. The remnants of the grand old Amphitheatre, the ancient Temples, the old commemorative Arches, the well-worn roads, and the old tombs were not just what they appeared to be; to her, they were also remnants of the old Marshalsea—ruins of her past life—memories of the faces and figures that once filled it—fragments of its loves, hopes, worries, and joys. Two shattered worlds of action and suffering lay before the solitary girl, often sitting on some broken piece, and in the desolate spaces, beneath the blue sky, she perceived them both together.
Up, then, would come Mrs General; taking all the colour out of everything, as Nature and Art had taken it out of herself; writing Prunes and Prism, in Mr Eustace’s text, wherever she could lay a hand; looking everywhere for Mr Eustace and company, and seeing nothing else; scratching up the driest little bones of antiquity, and bolting them whole without any human visitings—like a Ghoule in gloves.
Up would come Mrs. General, draining the color from everything, just as Nature and Art had drained it from her; scribbling Prunes and Prism in Mr. Eustace's text wherever she could get her hands on it; searching everywhere for Mr. Eustace and his friends, and ignoring everything else; digging up the driest little bones of history and swallowing them whole without any human touch—like a Ghoul in gloves.
CHAPTER 16. Getting on
The newly married pair, on their arrival in Harley Street, Cavendish Square, London, were received by the Chief Butler. That great man was not interested in them, but on the whole endured them. People must continue to be married and given in marriage, or Chief Butlers would not be wanted. As nations are made to be taxed, so families are made to be butlered. The Chief Butler, no doubt, reflected that the course of nature required the wealthy population to be kept up, on his account.
The newlyweds, upon their arrival at Harley Street, Cavendish Square, London, were greeted by the Chief Butler. This important figure wasn't particularly interested in them, but he tolerated their presence. Marriage and weddings must go on, or there would be no need for Chief Butlers. Just as nations exist to be taxed, families exist to require butlers. The Chief Butler surely thought that the natural order demanded the affluent to keep being married, all for his benefit.
He therefore condescended to look at the carriage from the Hall-door without frowning at it, and said, in a very handsome way, to one of his men, ‘Thomas, help with the luggage.’ He even escorted the Bride up-stairs into Mr Merdle’s presence; but this must be considered as an act of homage to the sex (of which he was an admirer, being notoriously captivated by the charms of a certain Duchess), and not as a committal of himself with the family.
He graciously took a look at the carriage from the front door without scowling and said to one of his men, “Thomas, help with the luggage.” He even escorted the bride upstairs to Mr. Merdle, but this should be seen as a sign of respect for women (which he admired, being famously enchanted by a certain Duchess's charms) rather than a commitment to the family.
Mr Merdle was slinking about the hearthrug, waiting to welcome Mrs Sparkler. His hand seemed to retreat up his sleeve as he advanced to do so, and he gave her such a superfluity of coat-cuff that it was like being received by the popular conception of Guy Fawkes. When he put his lips to hers, besides, he took himself into custody by the wrists, and backed himself among the ottomans and chairs and tables as if he were his own Police officer, saying to himself, ‘Now, none of that! Come! I’ve got you, you know, and you go quietly along with me!’
Mr. Merdle was hovering around the hearthrug, waiting to greet Mrs. Sparkler. His hand seemed to pull back into his sleeve as he stepped forward, and he greeted her with so much coat-cuff that it felt like being welcomed by the popular image of Guy Fawkes. When he pressed his lips to hers, he also held his own wrists, backing himself into the ottomans, chairs, and tables as if he were his own police officer, saying to himself, “Now, none of that! Come on! I've got you, you know, and you're going to come along with me quietly!”
Mrs Sparkler, installed in the rooms of state—the innermost sanctuary of down, silk, chintz, and fine linen—felt that so far her triumph was good, and her way made, step by step. On the day before her marriage, she had bestowed on Mrs Merdle’s maid with an air of gracious indifference, in Mrs Merdle’s presence, a trifling little keepsake (bracelet, bonnet, and two dresses, all new) about four times as valuable as the present formerly made by Mrs Merdle to her. She was now established in Mrs Merdle’s own rooms, to which some extra touches had been given to render them more worthy of her occupation. In her mind’s eye, as she lounged there, surrounded by every luxurious accessory that wealth could obtain or invention devise, she saw the fair bosom that beat in unison with the exultation of her thoughts, competing with the bosom that had been famous so long, outshining it, and deposing it. Happy? Fanny must have been happy. No more wishing one’s self dead now.
Mrs. Sparkler, settled into the luxurious rooms—filled with soft fabrics, silk, chintz, and fine linen—felt that her victory was going well and that she was progressing step by step. The day before her wedding, she had casually given Mrs. Merdle’s maid, in Mrs. Merdle’s presence, a small keepsake (a bracelet, a bonnet, and two new dresses) that was about four times more valuable than the gift Mrs. Merdle had once given her. She was now living in Mrs. Merdle’s own rooms, which had been enhanced to make them more suitable for her. As she lounged there, surrounded by every luxurious item that wealth could buy or creativity could imagine, she envisioned her own beautiful figure, matching the excitement of her thoughts, outshining the renowned figure of the past and replacing it. Happy? Fanny must have been happy. No more wishing to be dead now.
The Courier had not approved of Mr Dorrit’s staying in the house of a friend, and had preferred to take him to an hotel in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square. Mr Merdle ordered his carriage to be ready early in the morning that he might wait upon Mr Dorrit immediately after breakfast.
The Courier didn't approve of Mr. Dorrit staying at a friend’s house and preferred to take him to a hotel on Brook Street, Grosvenor Square. Mr. Merdle had his carriage ready early in the morning so he could visit Mr. Dorrit right after breakfast.
Bright the carriage looked, sleek the horses looked, gleaming the harness looked, luscious and lasting the liveries looked. A rich, responsible turn-out. An equipage for a Merdle. Early people looked after it as it rattled along the streets, and said, with awe in their breath, ‘There he goes!’
The carriage looked bright, the horses looked sleek, the harness looked shiny, and the uniforms looked luxurious and durable. It was an impressive turnout, fit for a Merdle. Early risers watched it as it clattered down the streets, saying in hushed tones, 'There he goes!'
There he went, until Brook Street stopped him. Then, forth from its magnificent case came the jewel; not lustrous in itself, but quite the contrary.
There he went, until Brook Street stopped him. Then, out of its beautiful case came the jewel; not shiny on its own, but quite the opposite.
Commotion in the office of the hotel. Merdle! The landlord, though a gentleman of a haughty spirit who had just driven a pair of thorough-bred horses into town, turned out to show him up-stairs. The clerks and servants cut him off by back-passages, and were found accidentally hovering in doorways and angles, that they might look upon him. Merdle! O ye sun, moon, and stars, the great man! The rich man, who had in a manner revised the New Testament, and already entered into the kingdom of Heaven. The man who could have any one he chose to dine with him, and who had made the money! As he went up the stairs, people were already posted on the lower stairs, that his shadow might fall upon them when he came down. So were the sick brought out and laid in the track of the Apostle—who had not got into the good society, and had not made the money.
Commotion in the hotel lobby. Merdle! The landlord, a proud man who had just driven into town with a pair of thoroughbred horses, went up to show him to his room. The clerks and staff cut through back hallways and were found lingering in doorways and corners just to catch a glimpse of him. Merdle! Oh, you sun, moon, and stars, the great man! The rich man, who had in a way revised the New Testament and had already entered the kingdom of Heaven. The man who could invite anyone he wanted to dinner and who had made the money! As he climbed the stairs, people were already waiting on the lower steps so that his shadow would fall on them when he came down. Likewise, the sick were brought out and placed in the path of the Apostle—who had not broken into high society and had not made the money.
Mr Dorrit, dressing-gowned and newspapered, was at his breakfast. The Courier, with agitation in his voice, announced ‘Miss Mairdale!’ Mr Dorrit’s overwrought heart bounded as he leaped up.
Mr. Dorrit, wearing his bathrobe and reading the newspaper, was having breakfast. The Courier, with excitement in his voice, announced, "Miss Mairdale!" Mr. Dorrit's excited heart raced as he jumped up.
‘Mr Merdle, this is—ha—indeed an honour. Permit me to express the—hum—sense, the high sense, I entertain of this—ha hum—highly gratifying act of attention. I am well aware, sir, of the many demands upon your time, and its—ha—enormous value,’ Mr Dorrit could not say enormous roundly enough for his own satisfaction. ‘That you should—ha—at this early hour, bestow any of your priceless time upon me, is—ha—a compliment that I acknowledge with the greatest esteem.’ Mr Dorrit positively trembled in addressing the great man.
“Mr. Merdle, it’s truly an honor. Allow me to express the—um—considerable regard I have for this—uh—very gratifying gesture. I fully recognize, sir, the many demands on your time and its—um—immense value,” Mr. Dorrit couldn’t emphasize immense strongly enough for his own satisfaction. “That you would—um—dedicate any of your precious time to me at this early hour is—um—a compliment I accept with the highest respect.” Mr. Dorrit was genuinely nervous speaking to the great man.
Mr Merdle uttered, in his subdued, inward, hesitating voice, a few sounds that were to no purpose whatever; and finally said, ‘I am glad to see you, sir.’
Mr. Merdle spoke in his quiet, hesitant voice, mumbling a few words that didn’t mean anything; and finally said, ‘I’m glad to see you, sir.’
‘You are very kind,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Truly kind.’ By this time the visitor was seated, and was passing his great hand over his exhausted forehead. ‘You are well, I hope, Mr Merdle?’
“You're very kind,” said Mr. Dorrit. “Truly kind.” By this point, the visitor was sitting down, rubbing his tired forehead with his large hand. “I hope you're doing well, Mr. Merdle?”
‘I am as well as I—yes, I am as well as I usually am,’ said Mr Merdle.
‘I’m doing as well as I usually do,’ said Mr. Merdle.
‘Your occupations must be immense.’
'Your tasks must be huge.'
‘Tolerably so. But—Oh dear no, there’s not much the matter with me,’ said Mr Merdle, looking round the room.
‘I’m doing alright. But—Oh no, there’s really not much wrong with me,’ said Mr. Merdle, looking around the room.
‘A little dyspeptic?’ Mr Dorrit hinted.
“Feeling a bit under the weather?” Mr. Dorrit suggested.
‘Very likely. But I—Oh, I am well enough,’ said Mr Merdle.
"Very likely. But I—Oh, I'm fine," said Mr. Merdle.
There were black traces on his lips where they met, as if a little train of gunpowder had been fired there; and he looked like a man who, if his natural temperament had been quicker, would have been very feverish that morning. This, and his heavy way of passing his hand over his forehead, had prompted Mr Dorrit’s solicitous inquiries.
There were dark marks on his lips where they touched, as if a small spark of gunpowder had gone off there; and he looked like someone who, if he had a more excitable nature, would have been quite restless that morning. This, along with the heavy way he ran his hand over his forehead, had led Mr. Dorrit to ask concerned questions.
‘Mrs Merdle,’ Mr Dorrit insinuatingly pursued, ‘I left, as you will be prepared to hear, the—ha—observed of all observers, the—hum—admired of all admirers, the leading fascination and charm of Society in Rome. She was looking wonderfully well when I quitted it.’
‘Mrs. Merdle,’ Mr. Dorrit suggested slyly, ‘I left, as you might expect, the—ha—most watched of all watchers, the—hum—most adored of all admirers, the biggest attraction and charm of society in Rome. She looked absolutely fantastic when I departed.’
‘Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘is generally considered a very attractive woman. And she is, no doubt. I am sensible of her being so.’
‘Mrs. Merdle,’ said Mr. Merdle, ‘is usually seen as a very attractive woman. And she is, without a doubt. I recognize that.’
‘Who can be otherwise?’ responded Mr Dorrit.
"Who can be different?" replied Mr. Dorrit.
Mr Merdle turned his tongue in his closed mouth—it seemed rather a stiff and unmanageable tongue—moistened his lips, passed his hand over his forehead again, and looked all round the room again, principally under the chairs.
Mr. Merdle rolled his tongue around in his closed mouth—it felt pretty stiff and unmanageable—moistened his lips, brushed his hand over his forehead again, and scanned the room all over again, mainly under the chairs.
‘But,’ he said, looking Mr Dorrit in the face for the first time, and immediately afterwards dropping his eyes to the buttons of Mr Dorrit’s waistcoat; ‘if we speak of attractions, your daughter ought to be the subject of our conversation. She is extremely beautiful. Both in face and figure, she is quite uncommon. When the young people arrived last night, I was really surprised to see such charms.’
‘But,’ he said, looking Mr. Dorrit in the eye for the first time, then quickly lowering his gaze to the buttons on Mr. Dorrit’s waistcoat; ‘if we’re talking about attractions, your daughter should be the main topic. She is incredibly beautiful. Both her face and figure are quite extraordinary. When the young people arrived last night, I was genuinely surprised to see such beauty.’
Mr Dorrit’s gratification was such that he said—ha—he could not refrain from telling Mr Merdle verbally, as he had already done by letter, what honour and happiness he felt in this union of their families. And he offered his hand. Mr Merdle looked at the hand for a little while, took it on his for a moment as if his were a yellow salver or fish-slice, and then returned it to Mr Dorrit.
Mr. Dorrit was so pleased that he said—ha—he couldn’t help but tell Mr. Merdle in person, as he had already done in writing, how honored and happy he felt about the union of their families. He offered his hand. Mr. Merdle looked at the hand for a moment, took it in his own as if it were a yellow tray or fish slice, and then returned it to Mr. Dorrit.
‘I thought I would drive round the first thing,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘to offer my services, in case I can do anything for you; and to say that I hope you will at least do me the honour of dining with me to-day, and every day when you are not better engaged during your stay in town.’
“I thought I’d stop by first,” Mr. Merdle said, “to offer my help, in case there’s anything I can do for you, and to say that I hope you’ll at least do me the honor of having dinner with me today, and every day you’re not too busy while you’re in town.”
Mr Dorrit was enraptured by these attentions.
Mr. Dorrit was thrilled by this attention.
‘Do you stay long, sir?’
'Are you staying long, sir?'
‘I have not at present the intention,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘of—ha—exceeding a fortnight.’
‘I don’t intend,’ Mr. Dorrit said, ‘to—um—go beyond a fortnight.’
‘That’s a very short stay, after so long a journey,’ returned Mr Merdle.
"That's a really short visit after such a long trip," replied Mr. Merdle.
‘Hum. Yes,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘But the truth is—ha—my dear Mr Merdle, that I find a foreign life so well suited to my health and taste, that I—hum—have but two objects in my present visit to London. First, the—ha—the distinguished happiness and—ha—privilege which I now enjoy and appreciate; secondly, the arrangement—hum—the laying out, that is to say, in the best way, of—ha, hum—my money.’
“Um. Yes,” said Mr. Dorrit. “But the truth is—uh—my dear Mr. Merdle, that I find living abroad so much better for my health and preferences that I—um—only have two goals for my current visit to London. First, the—uh—the great happiness and—uh—privilege that I now enjoy and appreciate; and second, the planning—um—the organizing, to put it another way, of—uh, um—my money in the best way possible.”
‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Merdle, after turning his tongue again, ‘if I can be of any use to you in that respect, you may command me.’
“Sure thing, sir,” Mr. Merdle said, after pausing to gather his thoughts, “if I can help you with that, just let me know.”
Mr Dorrit’s speech had had more hesitation in it than usual, as he approached the ticklish topic, for he was not perfectly clear how so exalted a potentate might take it. He had doubts whether reference to any individual capital, or fortune, might not seem a wretchedly retail affair to so wholesale a dealer. Greatly relieved by Mr Merdle’s affable offer of assistance, he caught at it directly, and heaped acknowledgments upon him.
Mr. Dorrit's speech was more hesitant than usual as he got close to the sensitive topic, since he wasn't sure how such a powerful person would react. He was concerned that mentioning any specific capital or wealth might come off as insignificant to someone who dealt in larger matters. Feeling greatly relieved by Mr. Merdle's friendly offer to help, he jumped at it right away and showered him with thanks.
‘I scarcely—ha—dared,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I assure you, to hope for so—hum—vast an advantage as your direct advice and assistance. Though of course I should, under any circumstances, like the—ha, hum—rest of the civilised world, have followed in Mr Merdle’s train.’
‘I hardly—ha—dared,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘I assure you, to hope for such—hum—great support as your direct advice and help. But of course, I would, in any case, like the—ha, hum—rest of the civilized world, have followed in Mr. Merdle’s footsteps.’
‘You know we may almost say we are related, sir,’ said Mr Merdle, curiously interested in the pattern of the carpet, ‘and, therefore, you may consider me at your service.’
'You know, we could almost say we're related, sir,' said Mr. Merdle, looking intently at the carpet pattern, 'so you can consider me at your service.'
‘Ha. Very handsome, indeed!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Ha. Most handsome!’
‘Ha. Very handsome, indeed!’ exclaimed Mr. Dorrit. ‘Ha. Truly handsome!’
‘It would not,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘be at the present moment easy for what I may call a mere outsider to come into any of the good things—of course I speak of my own good things—’
‘It wouldn’t,’ said Mr. Merdle, ‘be easy right now for what I’d call a mere outsider to get in on any of the good things—of course, I’m talking about my own good things—’
‘Of course, of course!’ cried Mr Dorrit, in a tone implying that there were no other good things.
‘Of course, of course!’ exclaimed Mr. Dorrit, in a tone suggesting that there were no other good things.
‘—Unless at a high price. At what we are accustomed to term a very long figure.’
‘—Unless for a high price. At what we usually call a very long number.’
Mr Dorrit laughed in the buoyancy of his spirit. Ha, ha, ha! Long figure. Good. Ha. Very expressive to be sure!
Mr. Dorrit laughed with a light heart. Ha, ha, ha! Tall figure. Good. Ha. Very expressive, for sure!
‘However,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I do generally retain in my own hands the power of exercising some preference—people in general would be pleased to call it favour—as a sort of compliment for my care and trouble.’
“However,” said Mr. Merdle, “I usually keep the power to show some preference—most people would call it favoritism—as a way to acknowledge my effort and hard work.”
‘And public spirit and genius,’ Mr Dorrit suggested.
'And community spirit and talent,' Mr. Dorrit suggested.
Mr Merdle, with a dry, swallowing action, seemed to dispose of those qualities like a bolus; then added, ‘As a sort of return for it. I will see, if you please, how I can exert this limited power (for people are jealous, and it is limited), to your advantage.’
Mr. Merdle, with a dry gulp, seemed to get rid of those qualities like a lump; then added, ‘As a way to repay you. I’ll see, if you don’t mind, how I can use this limited power (since people are jealous, and it is limited) to benefit you.’
‘You are very good,’ replied Mr Dorrit. ‘You are very good.’
‘You’re really great,’ replied Mr. Dorrit. ‘You’re really great.’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘there must be the strictest integrity and uprightness in these transactions; there must be the purest faith between man and man; there must be unimpeached and unimpeachable confidence; or business could not be carried on.’
“Of course,” said Mr. Merdle, “there has to be complete integrity and honesty in these transactions; there must be absolute trust between people; there needs to be unwavering and unquestionable confidence; otherwise, business couldn't function.”
Mr Dorrit hailed these generous sentiments with fervour.
Mr. Dorrit warmly welcomed these generous sentiments.
‘Therefore,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I can only give you a preference to a certain extent.’
“Therefore,” said Mr. Merdle, “I can only offer you a preference to a certain extent.”
‘I perceive. To a defined extent,’ observed Mr Dorrit.
"I understand. To a certain extent," said Mr. Dorrit.
‘Defined extent. And perfectly above-board. As to my advice, however,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘that is another matter. That, such as it is—’
‘Clearly defined. And completely legitimate. As for my advice, though,’ said Mr. Merdle, ‘that's a different story. That, such as it is—’
Oh! Such as it was! (Mr Dorrit could not bear the faintest appearance of its being depreciated, even by Mr Merdle himself.)
Oh! Just like that! (Mr. Dorrit couldn't stand even the slightest hint that it was being looked down upon, not even by Mr. Merdle himself.)
‘—That, there is nothing in the bonds of spotless honour between myself and my fellow-man to prevent my parting with, if I choose. And that,’ said Mr Merdle, now deeply intent upon a dust-cart that was passing the windows, ‘shall be at your command whenever you think proper.’
‘—There’s nothing in the bonds of pure honor between me and my fellow man that prevents me from letting go of it if I choose. And that,’ said Mr. Merdle, now focused on a dust cart passing by the windows, ‘will be at your disposal whenever you see fit.’
New acknowledgments from Mr Dorrit. New passages of Mr Merdle’s hand over his forehead. Calm and silence. Contemplation of Mr Dorrit’s waistcoat buttons by Mr Merdle.
New acknowledgments from Mr. Dorrit. New gestures from Mr. Merdle as he runs his hand over his forehead. Calm and silence. Mr. Merdle contemplates the buttons on Mr. Dorrit's waistcoat.
‘My time being rather precious,’ said Mr Merdle, suddenly getting up, as if he had been waiting in the interval for his legs and they had just come, ‘I must be moving towards the City. Can I take you anywhere, sir? I shall be happy to set you down, or send you on. My carriage is at your disposal.’
‘My time is quite valuable,’ Mr. Merdle said, suddenly standing up as if he had been waiting for his legs to catch up with him, ‘I need to head to the City. Can I take you anywhere? I’d be happy to drop you off or send you along. My carriage is at your service.’
Mr Dorrit bethought himself that he had business at his banker’s. His banker’s was in the City. That was fortunate; Mr Merdle would take him into the City. But, surely, he might not detain Mr Merdle while he assumed his coat? Yes, he might and must; Mr Merdle insisted on it. So Mr Dorrit, retiring into the next room, put himself under the hands of his valet, and in five minutes came back glorious.
Mr. Dorrit remembered that he had business at his bank. The bank was in the City, which was convenient because Mr. Merdle would take him there. However, he didn't want to keep Mr. Merdle waiting while he put on his coat. But he could and had to; Mr. Merdle insisted on it. So, Mr. Dorrit stepped into the next room, got himself ready with the help of his valet, and returned in five minutes looking splendid.
Then said Mr Merdle, ‘Allow me, sir. Take my arm!’ Then leaning on Mr Merdle’s arm, did Mr Dorrit descend the staircase, seeing the worshippers on the steps, and feeling that the light of Mr Merdle shone by reflection in himself. Then the carriage, and the ride into the City; and the people who looked at them; and the hats that flew off grey heads; and the general bowing and crouching before this wonderful mortal the like of which prostration of spirit was not to be seen—no, by high Heaven, no! It may be worth thinking of by Fawners of all denominations—in Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul’s Cathedral put together, on any Sunday in the year. It was a rapturous dream to Mr Dorrit to find himself set aloft in this public car of triumph, making a magnificent progress to that befitting destination, the golden Street of the Lombards.
Then Mr. Merdle said, “Let me help you, sir. Take my arm!” With Mr. Merdle’s arm to lean on, Mr. Dorrit went down the staircase, noticing the admirers on the steps and feeling the glow of Mr. Merdle reflected in himself. Soon they were in the carriage, riding into the City, with people staring at them, hats flying off gray heads, and everyone bowing and crouching before this amazing person—truly, nothing like this level of admiration could be witnessed, no, by high Heaven, no! It might be worth considering by sycophants of every kind—in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s Cathedral combined, on any Sunday of the year. For Mr. Dorrit, it felt like a glorious dream to be elevated in this grand carriage of triumph, making a magnificent journey toward the appropriate destination, the golden Street of the Lombards.
There Mr Merdle insisted on alighting and going his way a-foot, and leaving his poor equipage at Mr Dorrit’s disposition. So the dream increased in rapture when Mr Dorrit came out of the bank alone, and people looked at him in default of Mr Merdle, and when, with the ears of his mind, he heard the frequent exclamation as he rolled glibly along, ‘A wonderful man to be Mr Merdle’s friend!’
There Mr. Merdle insisted on getting out and going his own way on foot, leaving his poor carriage up to Mr. Dorrit. The excitement grew even more when Mr. Dorrit came out of the bank alone, and people looked at him instead of Mr. Merdle. As he moved smoothly along, he could hear the common phrase, ‘What a wonderful man to be Mr. Merdle’s friend!’
At dinner that day, although the occasion was not foreseen and provided for, a brilliant company of such as are not made of the dust of the earth, but of some superior article for the present unknown, shed their lustrous benediction upon Mr Dorrit’s daughter’s marriage. And Mr Dorrit’s daughter that day began, in earnest, her competition with that woman not present; and began it so well that Mr Dorrit could all but have taken his affidavit, if required, that Mrs Sparkler had all her life been lying at full length in the lap of luxury, and had never heard of such a rough word in the English tongue as Marshalsea.
At dinner that day, even though the event wasn't planned or expected, an impressive group of people—clearly not made from ordinary stuff but something far more extraordinary—blessed Mr. Dorrit's daughter's marriage with their glowing presence. On that day, Mr. Dorrit's daughter seriously started her rivalry with that woman who wasn’t there; and she began so effectively that Mr. Dorrit could have confidently sworn, if needed, that Mrs. Sparkler had spent her whole life comfortably immersed in luxury and had never encountered such a harsh word in English as Marshalsea.
Next day, and the day after, and every day, all graced by more dinner company, cards descended on Mr Dorrit like theatrical snow. As the friend and relative by marriage of the illustrious Merdle, Bar, Bishop, Treasury, Chorus, Everybody, wanted to make or improve Mr Dorrit’s acquaintance. In Mr Merdle’s heap of offices in the City, when Mr Dorrit appeared at any of them on his business taking him Eastward (which it frequently did, for it throve amazingly), the name of Dorrit was always a passport to the great presence of Merdle. So the dream increased in rapture every hour, as Mr Dorrit felt increasingly sensible that this connection had brought him forward indeed.
The next day, and the day after, and every day after that, more dinner invitations flooded in for Mr. Dorrit like falling snow. As the friend and relative by marriage of the famous Merdle—Bar, Bishop, Treasury, Chorus, Everybody—everyone wanted to get to know or connect with Mr. Dorrit. Whenever Mr. Dorrit showed up at any of Mr. Merdle's many offices in the City on business that often took him East (which it did, since his business was thriving), the name Dorrit was always a ticket to meeting the influential Merdle. So the excitement grew more intense with each passing hour as Mr. Dorrit became more aware that this connection had truly advanced his status.
Only one thing sat otherwise than auriferously, and at the same time lightly, on Mr Dorrit’s mind. It was the Chief Butler. That stupendous character looked at him, in the course of his official looking at the dinners, in a manner that Mr Dorrit considered questionable. He looked at him, as he passed through the hall and up the staircase, going to dinner, with a glazed fixedness that Mr Dorrit did not like. Seated at table in the act of drinking, Mr Dorrit still saw him through his wine-glass, regarding him with a cold and ghostly eye. It misgave him that the Chief Butler must have known a Collegian, and must have seen him in the College—perhaps had been presented to him. He looked as closely at the Chief Butler as such a man could be looked at, and yet he did not recall that he had ever seen him elsewhere. Ultimately he was inclined to think that there was no reverence in the man, no sentiment in the great creature. But he was not relieved by that; for, let him think what he would, the Chief Butler had him in his supercilious eye, even when that eye was on the plate and other table-garniture; and he never let him out of it. To hint to him that this confinement in his eye was disagreeable, or to ask him what he meant, was an act too daring to venture upon; his severity with his employers and their visitors being terrific, and he never permitting himself to be approached with the slightest liberty.
Only one thing weighed on Mr. Dorrit's mind, and it wasn't a pleasant thought. It was the Chief Butler. That impressive figure watched him while overseeing the dinners in a way that Mr. Dorrit found unsettling. As he walked through the hall and up the stairs to dinner, the Butler's unblinking stare made him uneasy. Even while sitting at the table and drinking, Mr. Dorrit could still see him through his wine glass, regarding him with a cold, ghostly gaze. He worried that the Chief Butler might have known a fellow student and possibly encountered him at the College—maybe he had even been introduced to him. Mr. Dorrit scrutinized the Chief Butler as closely as possible, yet he couldn't recall ever having seen him before. In the end, he leaned towards thinking that there was no respect or sentiment in this man, this imposing figure. But that thought didn’t make him feel any better, as no matter what he tried to convince himself of, the Chief Butler always had a superior look fixed on him, even when his gaze was focused on the plate and other dinnerware, and he never let it go. To suggest that this scrutiny was uncomfortable, or to inquire what he meant by it, felt too bold to even consider; his sternness with his employers and their guests was intimidating, and he never allowed himself to be approached with any familiarity.
CHAPTER 17. Missing
The term of Mr Dorrit’s visit was within two days of being out, and he was about to dress for another inspection by the Chief Butler (whose victims were always dressed expressly for him), when one of the servants of the hotel presented himself bearing a card. Mr Dorrit, taking it, read:
The time for Mr. Dorrit's visit was almost up, and he was getting ready for another inspection by the Chief Butler (whose subjects were always dressed specifically for him), when one of the hotel staff came forward with a card. Mr. Dorrit took it and read:
‘Mrs Finching.’
'Mrs. Finching.'
The servant waited in speechless deference.
The servant waited in quiet respect.
‘Man, man,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning upon him with grievous indignation, ‘explain your motive in bringing me this ridiculous name. I am wholly unacquainted with it. Finching, sir?’ said Mr Dorrit, perhaps avenging himself on the Chief Butler by Substitute. ‘Ha! What do you mean by Finching?’
“Man, man,” said Mr. Dorrit, turning to him with deep indignation, “explain why you brought me this ridiculous name. I have no idea what it is. Finching, sir?” Mr. Dorrit said, possibly taking his revenge on the Chief Butler by proxy. “Ha! What do you mean by Finching?”
The man, man, seemed to mean Flinching as much as anything else, for he backed away from Mr Dorrit’s severe regard, as he replied, ‘A lady, sir.’
The man seemed to mean Flinching as much as anything else, because he backed away from Mr. Dorrit's intense stare as he replied, "A lady, sir."
‘I know no such lady, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Take this card away. I know no Finching of either sex.’
‘I don’t know any lady like that, sir,’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘Take this card away. I don’t know any Finching, male or female.’
‘Ask your pardon, sir. The lady said she was aware she might be unknown by name. But she begged me to say, sir, that she had formerly the honour of being acquainted with Miss Dorrit. The lady said, sir, the youngest Miss Dorrit.’
"Excuse me, sir. The lady mentioned that she realized she might not be recognized by name. But she asked me to tell you, sir, that she used to have the honor of knowing Miss Dorrit. The lady said, sir, the youngest Miss Dorrit."
Mr Dorrit knitted his brows and rejoined, after a moment or two, ‘Inform Mrs Finching, sir,’ emphasising the name as if the innocent man were solely responsible for it, ‘that she can come up.’
Mr. Dorrit frowned and replied, after a moment or two, ‘Let Mrs. Finching know, sir,’ stressing the name as if the poor man were entirely to blame for it, ‘that she can come up.’
He had reflected, in his momentary pause, that unless she were admitted she might leave some message, or might say something below, having a disgraceful reference to that former state of existence. Hence the concession, and hence the appearance of Flora, piloted in by the man, man.
He paused to think that if she wasn’t let in, she might leave a message or say something down below that hinted at her embarrassing past. That’s why he agreed, and that’s why Flora appeared, led in by the man.
‘I have not the pleasure,’ said Mr Dorrit, standing with the card in his hand, and with an air which imported that it would scarcely have been a first-class pleasure if he had had it, ‘of knowing either this name, or yourself, madam. Place a chair, sir.’
"I don't have the pleasure," said Mr. Dorrit, holding the card in his hand, with an expression that suggested it wouldn't have been a great pleasure even if he did, "of knowing either this name or you, madam. Please set a chair, sir."
The responsible man, with a start, obeyed, and went out on tiptoe. Flora, putting aside her veil with a bashful tremor upon her, proceeded to introduce herself. At the same time a singular combination of perfumes was diffused through the room, as if some brandy had been put by mistake in a lavender-water bottle, or as if some lavender-water had been put by mistake in a brandy-bottle.
The responsible man, startled, complied and quietly slipped out. Flora, removing her veil with a shy flutter, began to introduce herself. Meanwhile, a strange mix of fragrances filled the room, as if some brandy had accidentally been poured into a lavender-water bottle, or if some lavender-water had mistakenly ended up in a brandy bottle.
‘I beg Mr Dorrit to offer a thousand apologies and indeed they would be far too few for such an intrusion which I know must appear extremely bold in a lady and alone too, but I thought it best upon the whole however difficult and even apparently improper though Mr F.‘s Aunt would have willingly accompanied me and as a character of great force and spirit would probably have struck one possessed of such a knowledge of life as no doubt with so many changes must have been acquired, for Mr F. himself said frequently that although well educated in the neighbourhood of Blackheath at as high as eighty guineas which is a good deal for parents and the plate kept back too on going away but that is more a meanness than its value that he had learnt more in his first years as a commercial traveller with a large commission on the sale of an article that nobody would hear of much less buy which preceded the wine trade a long time than in the whole six years in that academy conducted by a college Bachelor, though why a Bachelor more clever than a married man I do not see and never did but pray excuse me that is not the point.’
“I ask Mr. Dorrit to please accept my sincere apologies, though even a thousand wouldn’t be enough for such an unexpected intrusion, which I know must seem quite bold for a lady to do alone. However, I thought it best overall. While it may seem difficult and even a bit inappropriate, Mr. F.’s Aunt would have happily come with me. As a person of great strength and spirit, she would likely have impressed someone with such knowledge of life, which I’m sure must have been acquired through various experiences. Mr. F. often mentioned that even though he received a solid education in the Blackheath area, costing as much as eighty guineas—which is a significant amount for parents—and with some of the fees withheld upon departure (though that’s more about stinginess than actual value), he learned more in his early years as a commercial traveler with a substantial commission for selling a product that nobody really wanted to hear about, much less buy, which came before the wine trade long ago, than he did in the entire six years in that academy run by a college graduate. Although I’ve never understood why a graduate would be considered more capable than a married man, please forgive me; that’s not the point.”
Mr Dorrit stood rooted to the carpet, a statue of mystification.
Mr. Dorrit stood frozen on the carpet, a statue of confusion.
‘I must openly admit that I have no pretensions,’ said Flora, ‘but having known the dear little thing which under altered circumstances appears a liberty but is not so intended and Goodness knows there was no favour in half-a-crown a-day to such a needle as herself but quite the other way and as to anything lowering in it far from it the labourer is worthy of his hire and I am sure I only wish he got it oftener and more animal food and less rheumatism in the back and legs poor soul.’
“I have to honestly say that I don’t have any pretensions,” Flora said, “but having known the dear little thing that, under different circumstances, looks like a liberty but isn’t meant to be, and goodness knows there was nothing generous about half a crown a day for someone like her—in fact, it’s quite the opposite. As for anything demeaning about it, far from it; the worker deserves their pay, and I really only wish they received it more often, along with more nutritious food and less pain in their back and legs, poor thing.”
‘Madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, recovering his breath by a great effort, as the relict of the late Mr Finching stopped to take hers; ‘madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, very red in the face, ‘if I understand you to refer to—ha—to anything in the antecedents of—hum—a daughter of mine, involving—ha hum—daily compensation, madam, I beg to observe that the—ha—fact, assuming it—ha—to be fact, never was within my knowledge. Hum. I should not have permitted it. Ha. Never! Never!’
“Ma'am,” Mr. Dorrit said, taking a moment to catch his breath as the widow of the late Mr. Finching paused to take hers. “Ma'am,” he continued, his face flushed, “if I understand you to be referring to—uh—the past of—um—a daughter of mine, involving—uh—daily compensation, ma'am, I need to express that the—um—fact, assuming it—uh—to be a fact, was never known to me. Um. I would not have allowed it. Uh. Never! Never!”
‘Unnecessary to pursue the subject,’ returned Flora, ‘and would not have mentioned it on any account except as supposing it a favourable and only letter of introduction but as to being fact no doubt whatever and you may set your mind at rest for the very dress I have on now can prove it and sweetly made though there is no denying that it would tell better on a better figure for my own is much too fat though how to bring it down I know not, pray excuse me I am roving off again.’
"There's no need to keep discussing this," Flora replied. "I wouldn't have brought it up at all if I didn't think it was a good introduction. But it's definitely true, and you can relax about it because the very dress I'm wearing right now can prove it. It's beautifully made, even though I can't deny it would look better on a slimmer figure since mine is quite curvy. I just don't know how to slim down, so please excuse me, I'm getting off track again."
Mr Dorrit backed to his chair in a stony way, and seated himself, as Flora gave him a softening look and played with her parasol.
Mr. Dorrit stepped back to his chair in a cold manner and sat down, while Flora gave him a gentle glance and fiddled with her parasol.
‘The dear little thing,’ said Flora, ‘having gone off perfectly limp and white and cold in my own house or at least papa’s for though not a freehold still a long lease at a peppercorn on the morning when Arthur—foolish habit of our youthful days and Mr Clennam far more adapted to existing circumstances particularly addressing a stranger and that stranger a gentleman in an elevated station—communicated the glad tidings imparted by a person of name of Pancks emboldens me.’
‘The sweet little thing,’ said Flora, ‘having gone completely limp, pale, and cold in my own house—or at least my dad’s, since it’s not technically a freehold, but a long lease for a token rent—on the morning when Arthur—such a silly habit from our younger days—and Mr. Clennam, who is much more suited to the situation, especially when talking to a stranger, and that stranger being a gentleman of high status—shared the good news given to him by someone named Pancks gives me courage.’
At the mention of these two names, Mr Dorrit frowned, stared, frowned again, hesitated with his fingers at his lips, as he had hesitated long ago, and said, ‘Do me the favour to—ha—state your pleasure, madam.’
At the mention of these two names, Mr. Dorrit frowned, stared, frowned again, hesitated with his fingers at his lips, just like he had long ago, and said, ‘Please do me the favor of—uh—telling me what you want, ma'am.’
‘Mr Dorrit,’ said Flora, ‘you are very kind in giving me permission and highly natural it seems to me that you should be kind for though more stately I perceive a likeness filled out of course but a likeness still, the object of my intruding is my own without the slightest consultation with any human being and most decidedly not with Arthur—pray excuse me Doyce and Clennam I don’t know what I am saying Mr Clennam solus—for to put that individual linked by a golden chain to a purple time when all was ethereal out of any anxiety would be worth to me the ransom of a monarch not that I have the least idea how much that would come to but using it as the total of all I have in the world and more.’
“Mr. Dorrit,” Flora said, “you’re very kind to give me permission, and it seems completely natural to me that you would be kind. Though you’re more formal, I see a resemblance—filled out, of course, but still a resemblance. The reason I’m intruding is entirely my own, without consulting anyone else, and definitely not Arthur—please excuse me, Doyce and Clennam. I don’t know what I’m saying, Mr. Clennam alone—because to relieve that individual, linked by a golden chain to a vibrant time when everything felt otherworldly, of any worry would be worth more to me than a king’s ransom. Not that I have the slightest idea how much that would actually be, but I use it as a measure of everything I possess in the world and beyond.”
Mr Dorrit, without greatly regarding the earnestness of these latter words, repeated, ‘State your pleasure, madam.’
Mr. Dorrit, not paying much attention to the seriousness of her words, repeated, "Please tell me what you want, ma'am."
‘It’s not likely I well know,’ said Flora, ‘but it’s possible and being possible when I had the gratification of reading in the papers that you had arrived from Italy and were going back I made up my mind to try it for you might come across him or hear something of him and if so what a blessing and relief to all!’
“It’s not very likely, I know,” said Flora, “but it’s possible. And since I got the pleasure of reading in the papers that you had arrived from Italy and were heading back, I decided to give it a shot. You might run into him or hear something about him, and if that happens, what a blessing and relief it would be for everyone!”
‘Allow me to ask, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, with his ideas in wild confusion, ‘to whom—ha—TO WHOM,’ he repeated it with a raised voice in mere desperation, ‘you at present allude?’
“May I ask, ma’am,” said Mr. Dorrit, his thoughts in a jumble, “to whom—ha—TO WHOM,” he repeated in a raised voice out of sheer desperation, “are you referring?”
‘To the foreigner from Italy who disappeared in the City as no doubt you have read in the papers equally with myself,’ said Flora, ‘not referring to private sources by the name of Pancks from which one gathers what dreadfully ill-natured things some people are wicked enough to whisper most likely judging others by themselves and what the uneasiness and indignation of Arthur—quite unable to overcome it Doyce and Clennam—cannot fail to be.’
‘To the foreigner from Italy who vanished in the City, as I'm sure you've seen in the newspapers just like I have,’ said Flora, ‘not mentioning private sources like Pancks, from which one learns what terribly nasty things some people are cruel enough to say—likely judging others based on their own flaws—and what the discomfort and anger of Arthur—who can’t seem to shake it—Doyce and Clennam must feel.’
It happened, fortunately for the elucidation of any intelligible result, that Mr Dorrit had heard or read nothing about the matter. This caused Mrs Finching, with many apologies for being in great practical difficulties as to finding the way to her pocket among the stripes of her dress at length to produce a police handbill, setting forth that a foreign gentleman of the name of Blandois, last from Venice, had unaccountably disappeared on such a night in such a part of the city of London; that he was known to have entered such a house, at such an hour; that he was stated by the inmates of that house to have left it, about so many minutes before midnight; and that he had never been beheld since. This, with exact particulars of time and locality, and with a good detailed description of the foreign gentleman who had so mysteriously vanished, Mr Dorrit read at large.
It happened, thankfully for the clarity of any understandable outcome, that Mr. Dorrit had heard or read nothing about the situation. This led Mrs. Finching, after apologizing for the trouble she was having finding her wallet among the stripes of her dress, to finally pull out a police handbill. It stated that a foreign gentleman named Blandois, who had recently arrived from Venice, had mysteriously disappeared on a certain night in a specific part of London; that he was known to have entered a particular house at a certain hour; that the people in that house claimed he had left it about a few minutes before midnight; and that he had not been seen since. Mr. Dorrit read this, which included precise details of time and place along with a thorough description of the foreign gentleman who had vanished so mysteriously.
‘Blandois!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Venice! And this description! I know this gentleman. He has been in my house. He is intimately acquainted with a gentleman of good family (but in indifferent circumstances), of whom I am a—hum—patron.’
‘Blandois!’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘Venice! And this description! I know this guy. He’s been to my house. He’s closely connected with a man of good family (but not in great shape financially), of whom I am a—um—patron.’
‘Then my humble and pressing entreaty is the more,’ said Flora, ‘that in travelling back you will have the kindness to look for this foreign gentleman along all the roads and up and down all the turnings and to make inquiries for him at all the hotels and orange-trees and vineyards and volcanoes and places for he must be somewhere and why doesn’t he come forward and say he’s there and clear all parties up?’
‘Then my humble and urgent request is even greater,’ said Flora, ‘that when you travel back, you will kindly look for this foreign gentleman along all the roads and every turn, and ask about him at all the hotels, orange groves, vineyards, volcanoes, and places. He must be somewhere, and why doesn’t he just come forward and say he’s here and sort everything out?’
‘Pray, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, referring to the handbill again, ‘who is Clennam and Co.? Ha. I see the name mentioned here, in connection with the occupation of the house which Monsieur Blandois was seen to enter: who is Clennam and Co.? Is it the individual of whom I had formerly—hum—some—ha—slight transitory knowledge, and to whom I believe you have referred? Is it—ha—that person?’
“Please, ma'am,” Mr. Dorrit said, pointing to the handbill again, “who is Clennam and Co.? Ha. I see the name mentioned here, linked to the house that Monsieur Blandois was seen entering: who is Clennam and Co.? Is it the person I had—um—some—ha—brief acquaintance with, and to whom I believe you have alluded? Is it—ha—that person?”
‘It’s a very different person indeed,’ replied Flora, ‘with no limbs and wheels instead and the grimmest of women though his mother.’
‘It’s a completely different person,’ replied Flora, ‘with no limbs and wheels instead, and the grimmest of mothers.’
‘Clennam and Co. a—hum—a mother!’ exclaimed Mr Dorrit.
‘Clennam and Co. a—um—a mother!’ exclaimed Mr. Dorrit.
‘And an old man besides,’ said Flora.
‘And an old man too,’ said Flora.
Mr Dorrit looked as if he must immediately be driven out of his mind by this account. Neither was it rendered more favourable to sanity by Flora’s dashing into a rapid analysis of Mr Flintwinch’s cravat, and describing him, without the lightest boundary line of separation between his identity and Mrs Clennam’s, as a rusty screw in gaiters. Which compound of man and woman, no limbs, wheels, rusty screw, grimness, and gaiters, so completely stupefied Mr Dorrit, that he was a spectacle to be pitied.
Mr. Dorrit looked like he was about to lose his mind over this account. It didn’t help his sanity that Flora jumped in with a quick analysis of Mr. Flintwinch’s cravat, referring to him—without any clear distinction between him and Mrs. Clennam—as a rusty screw in gaiters. This bizarre mix of man and woman, with no limbs, wheels, rusty screw, grimness, and gaiters, completely bewildered Mr. Dorrit, making him a sight to be pitied.
‘But I would not detain you one moment longer,’ said Flora, upon whom his condition wrought its effect, though she was quite unconscious of having produced it, ‘if you would have the goodness to give your promise as a gentleman that both in going back to Italy and in Italy too you would look for this Mr Blandois high and low and if you found or heard of him make him come forward for the clearing of all parties.’
‘But I wouldn’t keep you any longer,’ said Flora, who was affected by his condition, even though she didn’t realize she had caused it, ‘if you would kindly promise, as a gentleman, that both on your way back to Italy and while you’re there, you would search for this Mr. Blandois everywhere, and if you find or hear anything about him, you would make him come forward to clear things up for everyone.’
By that time Mr Dorrit had so far recovered from his bewilderment, as to be able to say, in a tolerably connected manner, that he should consider that his duty. Flora was delighted with her success, and rose to take her leave.
By that time, Mr. Dorrit had recovered enough from his confusion to express, in a fairly coherent way, that he would see it as his duty. Flora was thrilled with her achievement and stood up to say goodbye.
‘With a million thanks,’ said she, ‘and my address upon my card in case of anything to be communicated personally, I will not send my love to the dear little thing for it might not be acceptable, and indeed there is no dear little thing left in the transformation so why do it but both myself and Mr F.‘s Aunt ever wish her well and lay no claim to any favour on our side you may be sure of that but quite the other way for what she undertook to do she did and that is more than a great many of us do, not to say anything of her doing it as well as it could be done and I myself am one of them for I have said ever since I began to recover the blow of Mr F’s death that I would learn the Organ of which I am extremely fond but of which I am ashamed to say I do not yet know a note, good evening!’
"Thank you so much," she said. "Here’s my card with my address in case you need to communicate anything personally. I won't send my love to the dear little one since it might not be appreciated, and honestly, there's no dear little one left in the transition, so why bother? But I want you to know that both I and Mr. F's Aunt wish her well and don't expect any favors. Quite the opposite, actually; she accomplished what she set out to do, which is more than a lot of us can say. Not to mention she did it beautifully. I've said since I started to recover from Mr. F's death that I would learn to play the organ, which I really love, but I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t know a single note yet. Good evening!"
When Mr Dorrit, who attended her to the room-door, had had a little time to collect his senses, he found that the interview had summoned back discarded reminiscences which jarred with the Merdle dinner-table. He wrote and sent off a brief note excusing himself for that day, and ordered dinner presently in his own rooms at the hotel. He had another reason for this. His time in London was very nearly out, and was anticipated by engagements; his plans were made for returning; and he thought it behoved his importance to pursue some direct inquiry into the Blandois disappearance, and be in a condition to carry back to Mr Henry Gowan the result of his own personal investigation. He therefore resolved that he would take advantage of that evening’s freedom to go down to Clennam and Co.‘s, easily to be found by the direction set forth in the handbill; and see the place, and ask a question or two there himself.
When Mr. Dorrit, who had accompanied her to the door, had a moment to gather his thoughts, he realized that the conversation had brought back old memories that clashed with the atmosphere of the Merdle dinner. He wrote and sent a short note excusing himself for the day and ordered dinner to be served in his hotel room. He had another reason for this. His time in London was almost over, and he had upcoming commitments; he had plans to return, and he believed it was important for him to investigate the Blandois disappearance directly and be prepared to report back to Mr. Henry Gowan with the findings from his personal inquiry. So, he decided to take advantage of the free evening to go to Clennam and Co., which he could easily locate following the directions in the handbill, and check out the place, asking a couple of questions while he was there.
Having dined as plainly as the establishment and the Courier would let him, and having taken a short sleep by the fire for his better recovery from Mrs Finching, he set out in a hackney-cabriolet alone. The deep bell of St Paul’s was striking nine as he passed under the shadow of Temple Bar, headless and forlorn in these degenerate days.
Having eaten as simply as the place and the Courier would allow, and after taking a quick nap by the fire to recover from Mrs. Finching, he set out alone in a cab. The deep bell of St. Paul’s was striking nine as he passed under the shadow of Temple Bar, headless and lonely in these declining times.
As he approached his destination through the by-streets and water-side ways, that part of London seemed to him an uglier spot at such an hour than he had ever supposed it to be. Many long years had passed since he had seen it; he had never known much of it; and it wore a mysterious and dismal aspect in his eyes. So powerfully was his imagination impressed by it, that when his driver stopped, after having asked the way more than once, and said to the best of his belief this was the gateway they wanted, Mr Dorrit stood hesitating, with the coach-door in his hand, half afraid of the dark look of the place.
As he got closer to his destination through the side streets and along the waterfront, that part of London felt uglier to him at that hour than he had ever imagined. Many years had passed since he last saw it; he didn’t know much about it, and it had a mysterious and gloomy vibe in his eyes. His imagination was so strongly affected that when his driver stopped, after asking for directions more than once, and said that, to the best of his belief, this was the entrance they were looking for, Mr. Dorrit hesitated, with the coach door in his hand, feeling a bit afraid of the dark appearance of the place.
Truly, it looked as gloomy that night as even it had ever looked. Two of the handbills were posted on the entrance wall, one on either side, and as the lamp flickered in the night air, shadows passed over them, not unlike the shadows of fingers following the lines. A watch was evidently kept upon the place. As Mr Dorrit paused, a man passed in from over the way, and another man passed out from some dark corner within; and both looked at him in passing, and both remained standing about.
It really looked as gloomy that night as it ever had. Two of the flyers were stuck on the entrance wall, one on each side, and as the lamp flickered in the night air, shadows moved across them, like fingers tracing the lines. It was clear that someone was keeping an eye on the place. As Mr. Dorrit paused, a man walked in from across the street, and another man came out from some dark corner inside; both glanced at him as they passed and then stayed nearby.
As there was only one house in the enclosure, there was no room for uncertainty, so he went up the steps of that house and knocked. There was a dim light in two windows on the first-floor. The door gave back a dreary, vacant sound, as though the house were empty; but it was not, for a light was visible, and a step was audible, almost directly. They both came to the door, and a chain grated, and a woman with her apron thrown over her face and head stood in the aperture.
Since there was only one house in the area, there was no doubt about it, so he climbed the steps of that house and knocked. There was a faint light in two windows on the first floor. The door made a hollow, empty sound, as if the house were vacant; but it wasn't, as a light was clearly visible, and a step could be heard almost immediately. They both approached the door, a chain rattled, and a woman with her apron draped over her face and head stood in the doorway.
‘Who is it?’ said the woman.
‘Who is it?’ the woman asked.
Mr Dorrit, much amazed by this appearance, replied that he was from Italy, and that he wished to ask a question relative to the missing person, whom he knew.
Mr. Dorrit, quite surprised by this appearance, responded that he was from Italy and that he wanted to ask a question about the missing person he knew.
‘Hi!’ cried the woman, raising a cracked voice. ‘Jeremiah!’
‘Hi!’ called the woman, her voice sounding rough. ‘Jeremiah!’
Upon this, a dry old man appeared, whom Mr Dorrit thought he identified by his gaiters, as the rusty screw. The woman was under apprehensions of the dry old man, for she whisked her apron away as he approached, and disclosed a pale affrighted face. ‘Open the door, you fool,’ said the old man; ‘and let the gentleman in.’
Upon this, a dry old man showed up, and Mr. Dorrit thought he recognized him by his gaiters, calling him the rusty screw. The woman was worried about the dry old man, so she quickly pulled her apron away as he got closer, revealing a pale, frightened face. "Open the door, you fool," the old man said, "and let the gentleman in."
Mr Dorrit, not without a glance over his shoulder towards his driver and the cabriolet, walked into the dim hall. ‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch, ‘you can ask anything here you think proper; there are no secrets here, sir.’
Mr. Dorrit, casting a quick look back at his driver and the cab, walked into the dim hall. “Now, sir,” said Mr. Flintwinch, “you can ask anything you’d like here; there are no secrets here, sir.”
Before a reply could be made, a strong stern voice, though a woman’s, called from above, ‘Who is it?’
Before anyone could respond, a firm, authoritative voice, even though it was a woman's, called down from above, 'Who is it?'
‘Who is it?’ returned Jeremiah. ‘More inquiries. A gentleman from Italy.’
“Who is it?” Jeremiah replied. “More questions. A man from Italy.”
‘Bring him up here!’
"Bring him up here!"
Mr Flintwinch muttered, as if he deemed that unnecessary; but, turning to Mr Dorrit, said, ‘Mrs Clennam. She will do as she likes. I’ll show you the way.’ He then preceded Mr Dorrit up the blackened staircase; that gentleman, not unnaturally looking behind him on the road, saw the woman following, with her apron thrown over her head again in her former ghastly manner.
Mr. Flintwinch muttered, as if he thought it was unnecessary; but, turning to Mr. Dorrit, said, ‘Mrs. Clennam. She will do what she wants. I’ll show you the way.’ He then led Mr. Dorrit up the darkened staircase; that gentleman, not surprisingly looking back on the way, saw the woman following, with her apron thrown over her head again in her previous eerie manner.
Mrs Clennam had her books open on her little table. ‘Oh!’ said she abruptly, as she eyed her visitor with a steady look. ‘You are from Italy, sir, are you. Well?’
Mrs. Clennam had her books open on her small table. "Oh!" she said suddenly, fixing her gaze on her visitor. "You’re from Italy, right? Well?"
Mr Dorrit was at a loss for any more distinct rejoinder at the moment than ‘Ha—well?’
Mr. Dorrit couldn't think of a better response at that moment than, "Ha—well?"
‘Where is this missing man? Have you come to give us information where he is? I hope you have?’
‘Where is this missing guy? Did you come to give us information about where he is? I hope you did?’
‘So far from it, I—hum—have come to seek information.’
‘Not at all, I—um—have come to find out some information.’
‘Unfortunately for us, there is none to be got here. Flintwinch, show the gentleman the handbill. Give him several to take away. Hold the light for him to read it.’
‘Unfortunately for us, there's none available here. Flintwinch, show the gentleman the handbill. Give him several to take with him. Hold the light so he can read it.’
Mr Flintwinch did as he was directed, and Mr Dorrit read it through, as if he had not previously seen it; glad enough of the opportunity of collecting his presence of mind, which the air of the house and of the people in it had a little disturbed. While his eyes were on the paper, he felt that the eyes of Mr Flintwinch and of Mrs Clennam were on him. He found, when he looked up, that this sensation was not a fanciful one.
Mr. Flintwinch followed the instructions he was given, and Mr. Dorrit read it again, as if he hadn't seen it before; he was relieved to have the chance to gather his thoughts, which had been slightly shaken by the atmosphere of the house and the people around him. While he focused on the paper, he sensed that Mr. Flintwinch and Mrs. Clennam were watching him. When he finally looked up, he realized that his feeling was not just in his head.
‘Now you know as much,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘as we know, sir. Is Mr Blandois a friend of yours?’
“Now you know as much,” said Mrs. Clennam, “as we do, sir. Is Mr. Blandois a friend of yours?”
‘No—a—hum—an acquaintance,’ answered Mr Dorrit.
‘No—a—um—human acquaintance,’ answered Mr Dorrit.
‘You have no commission from him, perhaps?’
‘You don’t have any commission from him, do you?’
‘I? Ha. Certainly not.’
"I? Ha. Definitely not."
The searching look turned gradually to the floor, after taking Mr Flintwinch’s face in its way. Mr Dorrit, discomfited by finding that he was the questioned instead of the questioner, applied himself to the reversal of that unexpected order of things.
The searching gaze slowly dropped to the floor after briefly taking in Mr. Flintwinch’s face. Mr. Dorrit, feeling awkward at being the one questioned instead of asking the questions, focused on turning that unexpected situation around.
‘I am—ha—a gentleman of property, at present residing in Italy with my family, my servants, and—hum—my rather large establishment. Being in London for a short time on affairs connected with—ha—my estate, and hearing of this strange disappearance, I wished to make myself acquainted with the circumstances at first-hand, because there is—ha hum—an English gentleman in Italy whom I shall no doubt see on my return, who has been in habits of close and daily intimacy with Monsieur Blandois. Mr Henry Gowan. You may know the name.’
‘I am—ha—a gentleman of means, currently living in Italy with my family, my staff, and—hum—my rather large household. I’m in London for a short while on matters related to—ha—my estate, and after hearing about this strange disappearance, I wanted to learn the details firsthand, since there is—ha hum—an English gentleman in Italy I will likely see when I return, who has been in close and daily contact with Monsieur Blandois. Mr. Henry Gowan. You might recognize the name.’
‘Never heard of it.’
"Never heard of that."
Mrs Clennam said it, and Mr Flintwinch echoed it.
Mrs. Clennam said it, and Mr. Flintwinch repeated it.
‘Wishing to—ha—make the narrative coherent and consecutive to him,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘may I ask—say, three questions?’
‘Wanting to—ha—make the story clear and consistent for him,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘can I ask—let's say, three questions?’
‘Thirty, if you choose.’
"Thirty, if that's what you want."
‘Have you known Monsieur Blandois long?’
‘Have you known Mr. Blandois for a long time?’
‘Not a twelvemonth. Mr Flintwinch here, will refer to the books and tell you when, and by whom at Paris he was introduced to us. If that,’ Mrs Clennam added, ‘should be any satisfaction to you. It is poor satisfaction to us.’
‘Not a year. Mr. Flintwinch here will look at the records and tell you when and by whom he was introduced to us in Paris. If that,’ Mrs. Clennam added, ‘is any comfort to you. It doesn’t bring us much comfort.’
‘Have you seen him often?’
‘Do you see him a lot?’
‘No. Twice. Once before, and—’
‘No. Twice. Once before, and—’
‘That once,’ suggested Mr Flintwinch.
"That once," suggested Mr. Flintwinch.
‘And that once.’
‘And that one time.’
‘Pray, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a growing fancy upon him as he recovered his importance, that he was in some superior way in the Commission of the Peace; ‘pray, madam, may I inquire, for the greater satisfaction of the gentleman whom I have the honour to—ha—retain, or protect or let me say to—hum—know—to know—Was Monsieur Blandois here on business on the night indicated in this present sheet?’
“Please, ma'am,” Mr. Dorrit said, feeling more important as he regained his sense of self, that he was somehow in a higher position, like a Justice of the Peace; “please, ma'am, may I ask, for the satisfaction of the gentleman I have the honor to—uh—retain, or protect, or let me say—uh—know—Was Monsieur Blandois here on business on the night mentioned in this document?”
‘On what he called business,’ returned Mrs Clennam.
‘On what he called business,’ replied Mrs. Clennam.
‘Is—ha—excuse me—is its nature to be communicated?’
‘Um—excuse me—is it meant to be communicated?’
‘No.’
‘Nope.’
It was evidently impracticable to pass the barrier of that reply.
It was clearly impossible to get past the barrier of that response.
‘The question has been asked before,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘and the answer has been, No. We don’t choose to publish our transactions, however unimportant, to all the town. We say, No.’
‘The question has been asked before,’ said Mrs. Clennam, ‘and the answer has been, No. We don’t choose to share our dealings, no matter how insignificant, with the whole town. We say, No.’
‘I mean, he took away no money with him, for example,’ said Mr Dorrit.
"I mean, he didn't take any money with him, for example," said Mr. Dorrit.
‘He took away none of ours, sir, and got none here.’
‘He didn’t take any of ours, sir, and he hasn’t gotten any here.’
‘I suppose,’ observed Mr Dorrit, glancing from Mrs Clennam to Mr Flintwinch, and from Mr Flintwinch to Mrs Clennam, ‘you have no way of accounting to yourself for this mystery?’
“I guess,” Mr. Dorrit said, looking from Mrs. Clennam to Mr. Flintwinch, and then from Mr. Flintwinch back to Mrs. Clennam, “you have no way of explaining this mystery to yourself?”
‘Why do you suppose so?’ rejoined Mrs Clennam.
‘Why do you think that is?’ replied Mrs. Clennam.
Disconcerted by the cold and hard inquiry, Mr Dorrit was unable to assign any reason for his supposing so.
Disconcerted by the cold and harsh question, Mr. Dorrit couldn’t come up with any reason for thinking that way.
‘I account for it, sir,’ she pursued after an awkward silence on Mr Dorrit’s part, ‘by having no doubt that he is travelling somewhere, or hiding somewhere.’
"I explain it, sir," she continued after an uncomfortable silence from Mr. Dorrit, "by being certain that he's either traveling somewhere or hiding out somewhere."
‘Do you know—ha—why he should hide anywhere?’
‘Do you know—ha—why he should be hiding anywhere?’
‘No.’
'No.'
It was exactly the same No as before, and put another barrier up.
It was exactly the same no as before, and it put up another barrier.
‘You asked me if I accounted for the disappearance to myself,’ Mrs Clennam sternly reminded him, ‘not if I accounted for it to you. I do not pretend to account for it to you, sir. I understand it to be no more my business to do that, than it is yours to require that.’
‘You asked me if I understood the disappearance for myself,’ Mrs. Clennam sternly reminded him, ‘not if I explained it to you. I don’t pretend to explain it to you, sir. I see it as no more my responsibility to do that than it is yours to demand it.’
Mr Dorrit answered with an apologetic bend of his head. As he stepped back, preparatory to saying he had no more to ask, he could not but observe how gloomily and fixedly she sat with her eyes fastened on the ground, and a certain air upon her of resolute waiting; also, how exactly the self-same expression was reflected in Mr Flintwinch, standing at a little distance from her chair, with his eyes also on the ground, and his right hand softly rubbing his chin.
Mr. Dorrit responded with a slight bow of his head. As he stepped back, getting ready to say he had no more questions, he couldn’t help but notice how gloomily and intensely she was sitting with her eyes glued to the ground, giving off a vibe of determined waiting; also, how the exact same expression was mirrored in Mr. Flintwinch, who stood a short distance from her chair, also looking at the ground, while gently rubbing his chin with his right hand.
At that moment, Mistress Affery (of course, the woman with the apron) dropped the candlestick she held, and cried out, ‘There! O good Lord! there it is again. Hark, Jeremiah! Now!’
At that moment, Mistress Affery (the woman with the apron, of course) dropped the candlestick she was holding and shouted, "There! Oh my God! There it is again. Listen, Jeremiah! Now!"
If there were any sound at all, it was so slight that she must have fallen into a confirmed habit of listening for sounds; but Mr Dorrit believed he did hear a something, like the falling of dry leaves. The woman’s terror, for a very short space, seemed to touch the three; and they all listened.
If there was any sound at all, it was so faint that she must have developed a habit of listening for noises; but Mr. Dorrit thought he heard something, like dry leaves falling. The woman's fear momentarily seemed to connect with the three of them, and they all listened.
Mr Flintwinch was the first to stir. ‘Affery, my woman,’ said he, sidling at her with his fists clenched, and his elbows quivering with impatience to shake her, ‘you are at your old tricks. You’ll be walking in your sleep next, my woman, and playing the whole round of your distempered antics. You must have some physic. When I have shown this gentleman out, I’ll make you up such a comfortable dose, my woman; such a comfortable dose!’
Mr. Flintwinch was the first to move. "Affery, my dear," he said, sidling over to her with his fists clenched and his elbows shaking with impatience to shake her, "you're up to your old tricks again. You'll be sleepwalking next, my dear, and acting out all your crazy antics. You need some medicine. After I show this gentleman out, I'll prepare you a nice dose, my dear; a really comforting dose!"
It did not appear altogether comfortable in expectation to Mistress Affery; but Jeremiah, without further reference to his healing medicine, took another candle from Mrs Clennam’s table, and said, ‘Now, sir; shall I light you down?’
It didn’t seem entirely comfortable for Mistress Affery; but Jeremiah, without mentioning his healing medicine again, took another candle from Mrs. Clennam’s table and said, “Now, sir, can I show you the way down?”
Mr Dorrit professed himself obliged, and went down. Mr Flintwinch shut him out, and chained him out, without a moment’s loss of time. He was again passed by the two men, one going out and the other coming in; got into the vehicle he had left waiting, and was driven away.
Mr. Dorrit expressed his gratitude and went downstairs. Mr. Flintwinch locked him out without wasting any time. He was again passed by the two men, one leaving and the other arriving; he climbed into the vehicle he had left waiting and was driven away.
Before he had gone far, the driver stopped to let him know that he had given his name, number, and address to the two men, on their joint requisition; and also the address at which he had taken Mr Dorrit up, the hour at which he had been called from his stand and the way by which he had come. This did not make the night’s adventure run any less hotly in Mr Dorrit’s mind, either when he sat down by his fire again, or when he went to bed. All night he haunted the dismal house, saw the two people resolutely waiting, heard the woman with her apron over her face cry out about the noise, and found the body of the missing Blandois, now buried in the cellar, and now bricked up in a wall.
Before he had gotten far, the driver stopped to inform him that he had given his name, number, and address to the two men, as they requested; he also shared the address where he picked up Mr. Dorrit, the time he was called from his stand, and the route he took. This did nothing to ease Mr. Dorrit’s mind about the night’s adventure, whether he was sitting by his fire again or going to bed. All night, he haunted the gloomy house, saw the two people stubbornly waiting, heard the woman with her apron over her face shout about the noise, and imagined the body of the missing Blandois, now buried in the cellar and now bricked up in a wall.
Original
CHAPTER 18. A Castle in the Air
Manifold are the cares of wealth and state. Mr Dorrit’s satisfaction in remembering that it had not been necessary for him to announce himself to Clennam and Co., or to make an allusion to his having had any knowledge of the intrusive person of that name, had been damped over-night, while it was still fresh, by a debate that arose within him whether or no he should take the Marshalsea in his way back, and look at the old gate. He had decided not to do so; and had astonished the coachman by being very fierce with him for proposing to go over London Bridge and recross the river by Waterloo Bridge—a course which would have taken him almost within sight of his old quarters. Still, for all that, the question had raised a conflict in his breast; and, for some odd reason or no reason, he was vaguely dissatisfied. Even at the Merdle dinner-table next day, he was so out of sorts about it that he continued at intervals to turn it over and over, in a manner frightfully inconsistent with the good society surrounding him. It made him hot to think what the Chief Butler’s opinion of him would have been, if that illustrious personage could have plumbed with that heavy eye of his the stream of his meditations.
Many are the worries that come with wealth and status. Mr. Dorrit's satisfaction in recalling that he didn't need to introduce himself to Clennam and Co. or mention that he knew the annoying person of that name had been dampened overnight, while it was still fresh, by an internal debate about whether he should stop by the Marshalsea on his way back and look at the old gate. He had decided against it and surprised the coachman by being quite stern about him suggesting going over London Bridge and crossing the river again by Waterloo Bridge—a route that would have taken him almost right by his old home. Still, despite that, the question created some inner turmoil for him, and for some strange reason, he felt vaguely dissatisfied. Even at the Merdle dinner table the next day, he was so out of sorts about it that he kept bringing it up in a way that was completely inappropriate for the high-class company around him. It frustrated him to think about what the Chief Butler's opinion of him would have been if that distinguished person could have perceived, with his heavy gaze, the stream of his thoughts.
The farewell banquet was of a gorgeous nature, and wound up his visit in a most brilliant manner. Fanny combined with the attractions of her youth and beauty, a certain weight of self-sustainment as if she had been married twenty years. He felt that he could leave her with a quiet mind to tread the paths of distinction, and wished—but without abatement of patronage, and without prejudice to the retiring virtues of his favourite child—that he had such another daughter.
The farewell banquet was stunning and ended his visit in an impressive way. Fanny brought together her youthful charm and beauty with a certain maturity, as if she had been married for twenty years. He felt he could leave her with peace of mind to pursue a path of success, and he wished—but without losing his support for her and without undermining the qualities of his beloved daughter—that he had another daughter like her.
‘My dear,’ he told her at parting, ‘our family looks to you to—ha—assert its dignity and—hum—maintain its importance. I know you will never disappoint it.’
‘My dear,’ he said to her as they parted, ‘our family looks to you to—um—assert its dignity and—uh—maintain its importance. I know you will never let us down.’
‘No, papa,’ said Fanny, ‘you may rely upon that, I think. My best love to dearest Amy, and I will write to her very soon.’
‘No, Dad,’ said Fanny, ‘you can count on that, I think. Send my love to dear Amy, and I’ll write to her really soon.’
‘Shall I convey any message to—ha—anybody else?’ asked Mr Dorrit, in an insinuating manner.
“Should I pass along a message to—uh—anyone else?” Mr. Dorrit asked, in a suggestive way.
‘Papa,’ said Fanny, before whom Mrs General instantly loomed, ‘no, I thank you. You are very kind, Pa, but I must beg to be excused. There is no other message to send, I thank you, dear papa, that it would be at all agreeable to you to take.’
‘Dad,’ said Fanny, as Mrs. General suddenly appeared, ‘no, thank you. You’re very kind, Dad, but I have to decline. There’s no other message to send, I appreciate it, dear Dad, but it wouldn’t be agreeable for you to take it.’
They parted in an outer drawing-room, where only Mr Sparkler waited on his lady, and dutifully bided his time for shaking hands. When Mr Sparkler was admitted to this closing audience, Mr Merdle came creeping in with not much more appearance of arms in his sleeves than if he had been the twin brother of Miss Biffin, and insisted on escorting Mr Dorrit down-stairs. All Mr Dorrit’s protestations being in vain, he enjoyed the honour of being accompanied to the hall-door by this distinguished man, who (as Mr Dorrit told him in shaking hands on the step) had really overwhelmed him with attentions and services during this memorable visit. Thus they parted; Mr Dorrit entering his carriage with a swelling breast, not at all sorry that his Courier, who had come to take leave in the lower regions, should have an opportunity of beholding the grandeur of his departure.
They said their goodbyes in an outer drawing room, where only Mr. Sparkler was waiting for his lady and patiently waited for the chance to shake hands. When Mr. Sparkler was let in for this final meeting, Mr. Merdle came in, looking like he barely had arms in his sleeves, almost like he could be Miss Biffin's twin, and insisted on escorting Mr. Dorrit downstairs. Despite all of Mr. Dorrit’s protests being useless, he had the honor of being walked to the hall door by this distinguished man, who (as Mr. Dorrit told him while shaking hands on the step) had truly overwhelmed him with attention and favors during this memorable visit. And so they parted; Mr. Dorrit got into his carriage with a proud chest, quite pleased that his Courier, who had come to say goodbye in the lower areas, had the chance to witness the grandeur of his departure.
The aforesaid grandeur was yet full upon Mr Dorrit when he alighted at his hotel. Helped out by the Courier and some half-dozen of the hotel servants, he was passing through the hall with a serene magnificence, when lo! a sight presented itself that struck him dumb and motionless. John Chivery, in his best clothes, with his tall hat under his arm, his ivory-handled cane genteelly embarrassing his deportment, and a bundle of cigars in his hand!
The mentioned grandeur was still very much evident as Mr. Dorrit got out at his hotel. Assisted by the Courier and about six hotel staff, he was walking through the hall with a calm magnificence when, suddenly, a sight appeared that left him speechless and frozen. John Chivery, dressed in his best clothes, holding his tall hat under his arm, his fancy cane awkwardly showcasing his posture, and a bundle of cigars in his hand!
‘Now, young man,’ said the porter. ‘This is the gentleman. This young man has persisted in waiting, sir, saying you would be glad to see him.’
‘Now, young man,’ said the porter. ‘This is the gentleman. This young man has insisted on waiting, sir, saying you would be happy to see him.’
Mr Dorrit glared on the young man, choked, and said, in the mildest of tones, ‘Ah! Young John! It is Young John, I think; is it not?’
Mr. Dorrit glared at the young man, choked, and said, in the softest tone, "Ah! Young John! I believe it's Young John, isn't it?"
‘Yes, sir,’ returned Young John.
“Sure thing, sir,” replied Young John.
‘I—ha—thought it was Young John!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘The young man may come up,’ turning to the attendants, as he passed on: ‘oh yes, he may come up. Let Young John follow. I will speak to him above.’
‘I—I thought it was Young John!’ Mr. Dorrit said. ‘The young man can come up,’ he told the attendants as he moved on. ‘Oh yes, he can come up. Let Young John follow. I’ll talk to him upstairs.’
Young John followed, smiling and much gratified. Mr Dorrit’s rooms were reached. Candles were lighted. The attendants withdrew.
Young John followed, smiling and feeling very pleased. They arrived at Mr. Dorrit's rooms. Candles were lit. The attendants left.
‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning round upon him and seizing him by the collar when they were safely alone. ‘What do you mean by this?’
‘Now, sir,’ Mr. Dorrit said, turning to him and grabbing him by the collar once they were alone. ‘What do you mean by this?’
Original
The amazement and horror depicted in the unfortunate John’s face—for he had rather expected to be embraced next—were of that powerfully expressive nature that Mr Dorrit withdrew his hand and merely glared at him.
The shock and dread on poor John’s face—since he was expecting to be welcomed next—were so intense that Mr. Dorrit pulled back his hand and just stared at him.
‘How dare you do this?’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘How do you presume to come here? How dare you insult me?’
‘How dare you do this?’ Mr. Dorrit said. ‘What makes you think you can come here? How dare you insult me?’
‘I insult you, sir?’ cried Young John. ‘Oh!’
‘I insult you, sir?’ exclaimed Young John. ‘Oh!’
‘Yes, sir,’ returned Mr Dorrit. ‘Insult me. Your coming here is an affront, an impertinence, an audacity. You are not wanted here. Who sent you here? What—ha—the Devil do you do here?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mr. Dorrit. ‘Go ahead, insult me. Your presence here is an insult, a rudeness, a bold move. You're not welcome here. Who sent you? What—what in the world are you doing here?’
‘I thought, sir,’ said Young John, with as pale and shocked a face as ever had been turned to Mr Dorrit’s in his life—even in his College life: ‘I thought, sir, you mightn’t object to have the goodness to accept a bundle—’
‘I thought, sir,’ said Young John, with a face as pale and shocked as ever had been turned to Mr. Dorrit’s in his life—even during his college days: ‘I thought, sir, you might not mind accepting a bundle—’
‘Damn your bundle, sir!’ cried Mr Dorrit, in irrepressible rage. ‘I—hum—don’t smoke.’
'Damn your bundle, sir!' shouted Mr. Dorrit, in uncontrollable anger. 'I—uh—don't smoke.'
‘I humbly beg your pardon, sir. You used to.’
‘I sincerely apologize, sir. You used to.’
‘Tell me that again,’ cried Mr Dorrit, quite beside himself, ‘and I’ll take the poker to you!’
"Say that again," yelled Mr. Dorrit, completely out of control, "and I'll hit you with the poker!"
John Chivery backed to the door.
John Chivery backed up to the door.
‘Stop, sir!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Stop! Sit down. Confound you sit down!’
‘Stop, sir!’ shouted Mr. Dorrit. ‘Stop! Sit down. Damn it, just sit down!’
John Chivery dropped into the chair nearest the door, and Mr Dorrit walked up and down the room; rapidly at first; then, more slowly. Once, he went to the window, and stood there with his forehead against the glass. All of a sudden, he turned and said:
John Chivery sat down in the chair closest to the door, while Mr. Dorrit paced around the room; at first quickly, and then more slowly. At one point, he went to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass. Suddenly, he turned and said:
‘What else did you come for, Sir?’
‘What else did you come for, sir?’
‘Nothing else in the world, sir. Oh dear me! Only to say, Sir, that I hoped you was well, and only to ask if Miss Amy was Well?’
‘Nothing else in the world, sir. Oh dear! I just wanted to say, sir, that I hoped you were well, and to ask if Miss Amy was okay?’
‘What’s that to you, sir?’ retorted Mr Dorrit.
‘What’s that to you, sir?’ Mr. Dorrit shot back.
‘It’s nothing to me, sir, by rights. I never thought of lessening the distance betwixt us, I am sure. I know it’s a liberty, sir, but I never thought you’d have taken it ill. Upon my word and honour, sir,’ said Young John, with emotion, ‘in my poor way, I am too proud to have come, I assure you, if I had thought so.’
“It doesn’t mean anything to me, sir, really. I never considered reducing the distance between us, I swear. I know it’s a bold move, sir, but I never thought you’d take it badly. Honestly, sir,” said Young John, filled with emotion, “in my own humble way, I’m too proud to have come if I had thought that.”
Mr Dorrit was ashamed. He went back to the window, and leaned his forehead against the glass for some time. When he turned, he had his handkerchief in his hand, and he had been wiping his eyes with it, and he looked tired and ill.
Mr. Dorrit felt ashamed. He went back to the window and rested his forehead against the glass for a while. When he turned around, he had his handkerchief in hand, having wiped his eyes with it, and he looked worn out and unwell.
‘Young John, I am very sorry to have been hasty with you, but—ha—some remembrances are not happy remembrances, and—hum—you shouldn’t have come.’
'Young John, I'm really sorry for being abrupt with you, but—well—some memories aren't happy ones, and—uh—you shouldn't have come.'
‘I feel that now, sir,’ returned John Chivery; ‘but I didn’t before, and Heaven knows I meant no harm, sir.’
'I feel that now, sir,' replied John Chivery; 'but I didn't before, and God knows I meant no harm, sir.'
‘No. No,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I am—hum—sure of that. Ha. Give me your hand, Young John, give me your hand.’
‘No. No,’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘I’m—um—sure of that. Ha. Give me your hand, Young John, give me your hand.’
Young John gave it; but Mr Dorrit had driven his heart out of it, and nothing could change his face now, from its white, shocked look.
Young John delivered it; but Mr. Dorrit had taken all the warmth from it, and nothing could change his face now from its pale, stunned expression.
‘There!’ said Mr Dorrit, slowly shaking hands with him. ‘Sit down again, Young John.’
‘There!’ said Mr. Dorrit, slowly shaking his hand. ‘Sit down again, Young John.’
‘Thank you, sir—but I’d rather stand.’
‘Thank you, sir—but I’d prefer to stand.’
Mr Dorrit sat down instead. After painfully holding his head a little while, he turned it to his visitor, and said, with an effort to be easy:
Mr. Dorrit sat down instead. After struggling to hold his head for a moment, he turned to his visitor and said, trying to appear relaxed:
‘And how is your father, Young John? How—ha—how are they all, Young John?’
‘How's your dad, Young John? How—ha—how's everyone, Young John?’
‘Thank you, sir, They’re all pretty well, sir. They’re not any ways complaining.’
'Thank you, sir. They’re all doing fine, sir. They’re not complaining at all.'
‘Hum. You are in your—ha—old business I see, John?’ said Mr Dorrit, with a glance at the offending bundle he had anathematised.
“Hmm. I see you're back in your—ha—old business, John?” Mr. Dorrit said, glancing at the troublesome bundle he had condemned.
‘Partly, sir. I am in my’—John hesitated a little—‘father’s business likewise.’
‘Partly, sir. I’m also involved in my’—John hesitated for a moment—‘father’s business.’
‘Oh indeed!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Do you—ha hum—go upon the ha—’
‘Oh definitely!’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘Do you—uh—go on the—’
‘Lock, sir? Yes, sir.’
"Lock, sir? Yes, sir."
‘Much to do, John?’
‘Got a lot to do, John?’
‘Yes, sir; we’re pretty heavy at present. I don’t know how it is, but we generally are pretty heavy.’
‘Yes, sir; we’re quite busy right now. I’m not sure why, but we usually are pretty busy.’
‘At this time of the year, Young John?’
‘At this time of year, Young John?’
‘Mostly at all times of the year, sir. I don’t know the time that makes much difference to us. I wish you good night, sir.’
‘Pretty much all year round, sir. I can't think of a time that really makes a difference for us. I wish you a good night, sir.’
‘Stay a moment, John—ha—stay a moment. Hum. Leave me the cigars, John, I—ha—beg.’
‘Hold on a second, John—ha—hold on a second. Um. Leave me the cigars, John, I—ha—ask you.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ John put them, with a trembling hand, on the table.
‘Of course, sir.’ John placed them, his hand shaking, on the table.
‘Stay a moment, Young John; stay another moment. It would be a—ha—a gratification to me to send a little—hum—Testimonial, by such a trusty messenger, to be divided among—ha hum—them—them—according to their wants. Would you object to take it, John?’
‘Stay a moment, Young John; just a little longer. It would be a—ha—a pleasure for me to send a small—um—Testimonial, by such a reliable messenger, to be shared among—ha um—them—them—based on their needs. Would you mind taking it, John?’
‘Not in any ways, sir. There’s many of them, I’m sure, that would be the better for it.’
‘Not at all, sir. I’m sure there are many of them who would benefit from it.’
‘Thank you, John. I—ha—I’ll write it, John.’
‘Thanks, John. I—uh—I’ll write it, John.’
His hand shook so that he was a long time writing it, and wrote it in a tremulous scrawl at last. It was a cheque for one hundred pounds. He folded it up, put it in Young John’s hand, and pressed the hand in his.
His hand shook so much that it took him a long time to write it, and he finally wrote it in an unsteady scrawl. It was a check for one hundred pounds. He folded it up, placed it in Young John’s hand, and squeezed his hand.
‘I hope you’ll—ha—overlook—hum—what has passed, John.’
‘I hope you’ll—ha—overlook—hum—what has happened, John.’
‘Don’t speak of it, sir, on any accounts. I don’t in any ways bear malice, I’m sure.’
‘Don’t mention it, sir, for any reason. I hold no grudges, I promise.’
But nothing while John was there could change John’s face to its natural colour and expression, or restore John’s natural manner.
But nothing while John was there could bring back the natural color and expression of John's face, or return John to his usual demeanor.
‘And, John,’ said Mr Dorrit, giving his hand a final pressure, and releasing it, ‘I hope we—ha—agree that we have spoken together in confidence; and that you will abstain, in going out, from saying anything to any one that might—hum—suggest that—ha—once I—’
‘And, John,’ said Mr. Dorrit, giving his hand one last squeeze and then letting it go, ‘I hope we—uh—agree that we’ve talked about this privately; and that you won’t, when you leave, mention anything to anyone that might—um—imply that—uh—once I—’
‘Oh! I assure you, sir,’ returned John Chivery, ‘in my poor humble way, sir, I’m too proud and honourable to do it, sir.’
‘Oh! I promise you, sir,’ replied John Chivery, ‘in my own simple way, sir, I’m too proud and honorable to do it, sir.’
Mr Dorrit was not too proud and honourable to listen at the door that he might ascertain for himself whether John really went straight out, or lingered to have any talk with any one. There was no doubt that he went direct out at the door, and away down the street with a quick step. After remaining alone for an hour, Mr Dorrit rang for the Courier, who found him with his chair on the hearth-rug, sitting with his back towards him and his face to the fire. ‘You can take that bundle of cigars to smoke on the journey, if you like,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a careless wave of his hand. ‘Ha—brought by—hum—little offering from—ha—son of old tenant of mine.’
Mr. Dorrit wasn't too proud or dignified to listen at the door to find out for himself whether John really went straight out or stayed to talk to anyone. There was no doubt that he went directly out the door and down the street quickly. After being alone for an hour, Mr. Dorrit rang for the Courier, who found him sitting in his chair on the hearth-rug, facing the fire with his back to him. “You can take that bundle of cigars to smoke on your journey if you want," Mr. Dorrit said with a casual wave of his hand. “Ha—brought by—um—a little gift from—ha—the son of an old tenant of mine.”
Next morning’s sun saw Mr Dorrit’s equipage upon the Dover road, where every red-jacketed postilion was the sign of a cruel house, established for the unmerciful plundering of travellers. The whole business of the human race, between London and Dover, being spoliation, Mr Dorrit was waylaid at Dartford, pillaged at Gravesend, rifled at Rochester, fleeced at Sittingbourne, and sacked at Canterbury. However, it being the Courier’s business to get him out of the hands of the banditti, the Courier brought him off at every stage; and so the red-jackets went gleaming merrily along the spring landscape, rising and falling to a regular measure, between Mr Dorrit in his snug corner and the next chalky rise in the dusty highway.
The next morning’s sun shone on Mr. Dorrit’s carriage as it traveled along the Dover road, where every red-jacketed coachman signaled a ruthless establishment, set up for the merciless plundering of travelers. The entire affair of humanity, between London and Dover, was nothing but exploitation. Mr. Dorrit was held up at Dartford, robbed at Gravesend, stripped at Rochester, taken advantage of at Sittingbourne, and looted at Canterbury. However, since it was the Courier’s job to get him away from the brigands, the Courier rescued him at every stop. So, the red-jackets gleamed cheerfully against the spring landscape, rising and falling in a steady rhythm, between Mr. Dorrit in his comfortable spot and the next chalky incline on the dusty road.
Another day’s sun saw him at Calais. And having now got the Channel between himself and John Chivery, he began to feel safe, and to find that the foreign air was lighter to breathe than the air of England.
Another day's sun found him in Calais. Now that he had the Channel separating him from John Chivery, he started to feel safe and realized that the air abroad was easier to breathe than the air in England.
On again by the heavy French roads for Paris. Having now quite recovered his equanimity, Mr Dorrit, in his snug corner, fell to castle-building as he rode along. It was evident that he had a very large castle in hand. All day long he was running towers up, taking towers down, adding a wing here, putting on a battlement there, looking to the walls, strengthening the defences, giving ornamental touches to the interior, making in all respects a superb castle of it. His preoccupied face so clearly denoted the pursuit in which he was engaged, that every cripple at the post-houses, not blind, who shoved his little battered tin-box in at the carriage window for Charity in the name of Heaven, Charity in the name of our Lady, Charity in the name of all the Saints, knew as well what work he was at, as their countryman Le Brun could have known it himself, though he had made that English traveller the subject of a special physiognomical treatise.
On the heavy French roads heading to Paris again. Now that Mr. Dorrit had fully regained his calm, he settled into his cozy spot and began daydreaming as he rode. It was clear he had quite a grand vision in mind. All day long, he was building towers, tearing down towers, adding a new section here, putting on a battlement there, checking the walls, reinforcing the defenses, and adding decorative touches to the inside, creating a magnificent castle in every way. His focused expression made it obvious what he was absorbed in, so every disabled person at the post houses, not blind, who pushed their battered donation box through the carriage window, asking for charity in the name of Heaven, in the name of our Lady, in the name of all the Saints, understood exactly what he was doing, just as well as their fellow countryman Le Brun could have known it himself, had he written a special study on that English traveler’s face.
Arrived at Paris, and resting there three days, Mr Dorrit strolled much about the streets alone, looking in at the shop-windows, and particularly the jewellers’ windows. Ultimately, he went into the most famous jeweller’s, and said he wanted to buy a little gift for a lady.
Arriving in Paris and resting there for three days, Mr. Dorrit wandered around the streets by himself, checking out the shop windows, especially the jeweler's displays. Eventually, he walked into the most renowned jeweler’s and mentioned that he wanted to buy a small gift for a lady.
It was a charming little woman to whom he said it—a sprightly little woman, dressed in perfect taste, who came out of a green velvet bower to attend upon him, from posting up some dainty little books of account which one could hardly suppose to be ruled for the entry of any articles more commercial than kisses, at a dainty little shining desk which looked in itself like a sweetmeat.
It was a delightful little woman he was talking to—a lively little woman, dressed impeccably, who emerged from a green velvet alcove to wait on him, after organizing some lovely little account books that seemed hardly meant for anything more commercial than recording kisses, at a charming little shiny desk that resembled a confection.
For example, then, said the little woman, what species of gift did Monsieur desire? A love-gift?
"For example, then," said the little woman, "what kind of gift did Monsieur want? A love gift?"
Mr Dorrit smiled, and said, Eh, well! Perhaps. What did he know? It was always possible; the sex being so charming. Would she show him some?
Mr. Dorrit smiled and said, "Well, maybe. What did he know? It's always a possibility; the charm of it all. Would she show him some?"
Most willingly, said the little woman. Flattered and enchanted to show him many. But pardon! To begin with, he would have the great goodness to observe that there were love-gifts, and there were nuptial gifts. For example, these ravishing ear-rings and this necklace so superb to correspond, were what one called a love-gift. These brooches and these rings, of a beauty so gracious and celestial, were what one called, with the permission of Monsieur, nuptial gifts.
Most happily, said the little woman. Flattered and thrilled to show him many. But wait! To start, he should kindly note that there were love-gifts and there were wedding gifts. For example, these stunning earrings and this beautiful necklace here were what people called a love-gift. These brooches and rings, which were so lovely and heavenly, were what some called, with the approval of Monsieur, wedding gifts.
Perhaps it would be a good arrangement, Mr Dorrit hinted, smiling, to purchase both, and to present the love-gift first, and to finish with the nuptial offering?
Perhaps it would be a good idea, Mr. Dorrit suggested with a smile, to buy both and present the love gift first, then wrap things up with the wedding gift?
Ah Heaven! said the little woman, laying the tips of the fingers of her two little hands against each other, that would be generous indeed, that would be a special gallantry! And without doubt the lady so crushed with gifts would find them irresistible.
Ah, Heaven! said the little woman, bringing the tips of her two small hands together, that would be really generous, that would be a unique kind of charm! And without a doubt, the lady overwhelmed with gifts would find them impossible to resist.
Mr Dorrit was not sure of that. But, for example, the sprightly little woman was very sure of it, she said. So Mr Dorrit bought a gift of each sort, and paid handsomely for it. As he strolled back to his hotel afterwards, he carried his head high: having plainly got up his castle now to a much loftier altitude than the two square towers of Notre Dame.
Mr. Dorrit wasn't so sure about that. But the lively little woman was completely certain, she said. So, Mr. Dorrit bought a gift in each category and paid well for them. As he walked back to his hotel afterward, he held his head high, having clearly raised his spirits to a much greater height than the two square towers of Notre Dame.
Building away with all his might, but reserving the plans of his castle exclusively for his own eye, Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles. Building on, building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling asleep, and leaving great blocks of building materials dangling in the air; waking again, to resume work and get them into their places. What time the Courier in the rumble, smoking Young John’s best cigars, left a little thread of thin light smoke behind—perhaps as he built a castle or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit’s money.
Building with all his strength, but keeping the plans for his castle entirely to himself, Mr. Dorrit hurried off to Marseilles. Building on, building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling asleep with large blocks of building materials hanging in the air; waking up to pick up where he left off and putting them in their proper places. When the Courier in the carriage, smoking Young John’s best cigars, left a thin trail of light smoke behind—maybe he was building a castle or two with leftover pieces of Mr. Dorrit’s money.
Not a fortified town that they passed in all their journey was as strong, not a Cathedral summit was as high, as Mr Dorrit’s castle. Neither the Saone nor the Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless building; nor was the Mediterranean deeper than its foundations; nor were the distant landscapes on the Cornice road, nor the hills and bay of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr Dorrit and his matchless castle were disembarked among the dirty white houses and dirtier felons of Civita Vecchia, and thence scrambled on to Rome as they could, through the filth that festered on the way.
Not a fortified town they passed on their journey was as strong, not a cathedral peak was as high, as Mr. Dorrit’s castle. Neither the Saone nor the Rhone flowed as swiftly as that unmatched building; nor was the Mediterranean deeper than its foundations; nor were the distant views along the Cornice road, or the hills and bay of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr. Dorrit and his incredible castle were disembarked among the grimy white houses and dirtier criminals of Civita Vecchia, and then made their way to Rome as best they could, through the filth that surrounded them.
CHAPTER 19. The Storming of the Castle in the Air
The sun had gone down full four hours, and it was later than most travellers would like it to be for finding themselves outside the walls of Rome, when Mr Dorrit’s carriage, still on its last wearisome stage, rattled over the solitary Campagna. The savage herdsmen and the fierce-looking peasants who had chequered the way while the light lasted, had all gone down with the sun, and left the wilderness blank. At some turns of the road, a pale flare on the horizon, like an exhalation from the ruin-sown land, showed that the city was yet far off; but this poor relief was rare and short-lived. The carriage dipped down again into a hollow of the black dry sea, and for a long time there was nothing visible save its petrified swell and the gloomy sky.
The sun had set for a full four hours, and it was later than most travelers would prefer to be outside the walls of Rome. Mr. Dorrit’s carriage, still on its final exhausting leg of the journey, rattled across the empty Campagna. The wild herdsmen and the fierce-looking peasants who had dotted the road while it was light had all disappeared with the sunset, leaving the wilderness desolate. At certain bends in the road, a faint glow on the horizon, like a breath from the ruined land, indicated that the city was still a long way off, but this brief glimpse of light was rare and momentary. The carriage dipped back down into a hollow of the dark, dry landscape, and for a long stretch, nothing was visible except its hardened curves and the grim sky.
Mr Dorrit, though he had his castle-building to engage his mind, could not be quite easy in that desolate place. He was far more curious, in every swerve of the carriage, and every cry of the postilions, than he had been since he quitted London. The valet on the box evidently quaked. The Courier in the rumble was not altogether comfortable in his mind. As often as Mr Dorrit let down the glass and looked back at him (which was very often), he saw him smoking John Chivery out, it is true, but still generally standing up the while and looking about him, like a man who had his suspicions, and kept upon his guard. Then would Mr Dorrit, pulling up the glass again, reflect that those postilions were cut-throat looking fellows, and that he would have done better to have slept at Civita Vecchia, and have started betimes in the morning. But, for all this, he worked at his castle in the intervals.
Mr. Dorrit, even though he was busy daydreaming, couldn't feel completely at ease in that lonely place. He was way more curious about every twist of the carriage and every shout from the drivers than he had been since leaving London. The valet up front clearly looked nervous. The courier in the back wasn't exactly at ease either. Whenever Mr. Dorrit rolled down the window to look back at him (which he did quite often), he saw him trying to smoke John Chivery out, but he was still mostly standing and looking around like someone who was suspicious and on alert. Then Mr. Dorrit, pulling the window back up, would think that those drivers looked pretty rough, and that he would have been better off staying in Civita Vecchia and leaving early in the morning. Still, despite all this, he kept working on his daydreams during the lulls.
And now, fragments of ruinous enclosure, yawning window-gap and crazy wall, deserted houses, leaking wells, broken water-tanks, spectral cypress-trees, patches of tangled vine, and the changing of the track to a long, irregular, disordered lane where everything was crumbling away, from the unsightly buildings to the jolting road—now, these objects showed that they were nearing Rome. And now, a sudden twist and stoppage of the carriage inspired Mr Dorrit with the mistrust that the brigand moment was come for twisting him into a ditch and robbing him; until, letting down the glass again and looking out, he perceived himself assailed by nothing worse than a funeral procession, which came mechanically chaunting by, with an indistinct show of dirty vestments, lurid torches, swinging censers, and a great cross borne before a priest. He was an ugly priest by torchlight; of a lowering aspect, with an overhanging brow; and as his eyes met those of Mr Dorrit, looking bareheaded out of the carriage, his lips, moving as they chaunted, seemed to threaten that important traveller; likewise the action of his hand, which was in fact his manner of returning the traveller’s salutation, seemed to come in aid of that menace. So thought Mr Dorrit, made fanciful by the weariness of building and travelling, as the priest drifted past him, and the procession straggled away, taking its dead along with it. Upon their so-different way went Mr Dorrit’s company too; and soon, with their coach load of luxuries from the two great capitals of Europe, they were (like the Goths reversed) beating at the gates of Rome.
And now, pieces of crumbling walls, empty window gaps, derelict houses, leaking wells, broken water tanks, ghostly cypress trees, patches of tangled vines, and the shift to a long, irregular, bumpy lane where everything was decaying—from the ugly buildings to the rough road—showed that they were getting closer to Rome. Suddenly, the carriage twisted and stopped, filling Mr. Dorrit with a suspicion that bandits were about to throw him into a ditch and rob him; but as he lowered the glass and looked out, he realized he was confronted by nothing worse than a funeral procession, which passed by chanting mechanically, with a vague display of dirty robes, flickering torches, swinging censers, and a large cross carried in front of a priest. The priest looked ugly in the torchlight, with a menacing demeanor and a heavy brow; and as his eyes met Mr. Dorrit’s, who was peering out bareheaded from the carriage, his lips, moving as they chanted, seemed to threaten the important traveler. Furthermore, his hand movements—intended as a way to return the traveler’s greeting—felt like they were reinforcing that threat. Mr. Dorrit thought this, fueled by the fatigue of traveling and building, as the priest moved past him and the procession slowly trailed away, carrying its dead. Meanwhile, Mr. Dorrit's group continued on their very different path; soon, with their load of luxuries from the two big capitals of Europe, they were (like a reversed version of the Goths) arriving at the gates of Rome.
Mr Dorrit was not expected by his own people that night. He had been; but they had given him up until to-morrow, not doubting that it was later than he would care, in those parts, to be out. Thus, when his equipage stopped at his own gate, no one but the porter appeared to receive him. Was Miss Dorrit from home? he asked. No. She was within. Good, said Mr Dorrit to the assembling servants; let them keep where they were; let them help to unload the carriage; he would find Miss Dorrit for himself.
Mr. Dorrit wasn't expected by his family that night. They had anticipated his arrival but figured he'd be back tomorrow, assuming it was too late for him to be out and about in that area. So, when his carriage pulled up to the gate, only the porter was there to greet him. "Is Miss Dorrit at home?" he asked. "No, she’s inside," came the reply. "Great," Mr. Dorrit told the gathered servants; they could stay where they were and help unload the carriage. He would go find Miss Dorrit himself.
So he went up his grand staircase, slowly, and tired, and looked into various chambers which were empty, until he saw a light in a small ante-room. It was a curtained nook, like a tent, within two other rooms; and it looked warm and bright in colour, as he approached it through the dark avenue they made.
So he slowly and wearily climbed the grand staircase and looked into various empty rooms until he noticed a light in a small anteroom. It was a curtained nook, like a tent, tucked between two other rooms; and it appeared warm and brightly colored as he made his way through the dark passage they formed.
There was a draped doorway, but no door; and as he stopped here, looking in unseen, he felt a pang. Surely not like jealousy? For why like jealousy? There was only his daughter and his brother there: he, with his chair drawn to the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the evening wood fire; she seated at a little table, busied with some embroidery work. Allowing for the great difference in the still-life of the picture, the figures were much the same as of old; his brother being sufficiently like himself to represent himself, for a moment, in the composition. So had he sat many a night, over a coal fire far away; so had she sat, devoted to him. Yet surely there was nothing to be jealous of in the old miserable poverty. Whence, then, the pang in his heart?
There was a draped doorway, but no door; and as he paused here, looking in unseen, he felt a sharp feeling. Surely it wasn’t jealousy? But why would it be jealousy? There were only his daughter and his brother there: he, with his chair pulled up to the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the evening wood fire; she sitting at a small table, focused on some embroidery. Even with the big difference in the scene, the figures were much the same as before; his brother was close enough to look like him, representing himself for a moment in the picture. He had sat like that many nights, over a coal fire far away; she had sat there, devoted to him. Yet surely there was nothing to be jealous about in the old miserable poverty. So where did the ache in his heart come from?
‘Do you know, uncle, I think you are growing young again?’
‘You know, uncle, I think you’re getting younger again?’
Her uncle shook his head and said, ‘Since when, my dear; since when?’
Her uncle shook his head and said, "Since when, my dear? Since when?"
‘I think,’ returned Little Dorrit, plying her needle, ‘that you have been growing younger for weeks past. So cheerful, uncle, and so ready, and so interested.’
‘I think,’ replied Little Dorrit, working on her sewing, ‘that you’ve been getting younger for weeks now. You’re so cheerful, uncle, and so willing, and so engaged.’
‘My dear child—all you.’
"My dear child—all yours."
‘All me, uncle!’
‘It’s all me, uncle!’
‘Yes, yes. You have done me a world of good. You have been so considerate of me, and so tender with me, and so delicate in trying to hide your attentions from me, that I—well, well, well! It’s treasured up, my darling, treasured up.’
‘Yes, yes. You’ve done so much for me. You’ve been so thoughtful, so gentle with me, and so careful in trying to keep your kindness from me, that I—well, well, well! It’s all saved in my heart, my darling, saved in my heart.’
‘There is nothing in it but your own fresh fancy, uncle,’ said Little Dorrit, cheerfully.
‘There’s nothing in it but your own fresh imagination, uncle,’ said Little Dorrit, cheerfully.
‘Well, well, well!’ murmured the old man. ‘Thank God!’
‘Well, well, well!’ murmured the old man. ‘Thank God!’
She paused for an instant in her work to look at him, and her look revived that former pain in her father’s breast; in his poor weak breast, so full of contradictions, vacillations, inconsistencies, the little peevish perplexities of this ignorant life, mists which the morning without a night only can clear away.
She stopped for a moment in her work to glance at him, and her gaze brought back that old pain in her father's heart; in his fragile heart, filled with contradictions, doubts, inconsistencies, and the small, irritating confusions of this clueless life, fog that only a morning without a night can clear away.
‘I have been freer with you, you see, my dove,’ said the old man, ‘since we have been alone. I say, alone, for I don’t count Mrs General; I don’t care for her; she has nothing to do with me. But I know Fanny was impatient of me. And I don’t wonder at it, or complain of it, for I am sensible that I must be in the way, though I try to keep out of it as well as I can. I know I am not fit company for our company. My brother William,’ said the old man admiringly, ‘is fit company for monarchs; but not so your uncle, my dear. Frederick Dorrit is no credit to William Dorrit, and he knows it quite well. Ah! Why, here’s your father, Amy! My dear William, welcome back! My beloved brother, I am rejoiced to see you!’
“I’ve been more open with you, you see, my dear,” said the old man, “now that we’re alone. I say alone, because I don’t count Mrs. General; I don’t care about her; she doesn’t matter to me. But I know Fanny was frustrated with me. And I don’t blame her for it, because I realize I must be in the way, even though I try to avoid it as best as I can. I know I’m not the right company for our group. My brother William,” said the old man admiringly, “is suitable company for kings; but not so your uncle, my dear. Frederick Dorrit doesn’t reflect well on William Dorrit, and he knows it all too well. Ah! Look, here’s your father, Amy! My dear William, welcome back! My beloved brother, I’m so glad to see you!”
(Turning his head in speaking, he had caught sight of him as he stood in the doorway.)
(Turning his head to speak, he saw him as he stood in the doorway.)
Little Dorrit with a cry of pleasure put her arms about her father’s neck, and kissed him again and again. Her father was a little impatient, and a little querulous. ‘I am glad to find you at last, Amy,’ he said. ‘Ha. Really I am glad to find—hum—any one to receive me at last. I appear to have been—ha—so little expected, that upon my word I began—ha hum—to think it might be right to offer an apology for—ha—taking the liberty of coming back at all.’
Little Dorrit, with a joyful cry, wrapped her arms around her father's neck and kissed him repeatedly. Her father felt a bit impatient and slightly whiny. "I'm really glad to see you at last, Amy," he said. "Ha. Honestly, I’m just glad to find—um—anyone to welcome me back. It seems like I’ve been—um—so little anticipated that I genuinely started to think it might be appropriate to apologize for—um—taking the liberty of coming back at all."
‘It was so late, my dear William,’ said his brother, ‘that we had given you up for to-night.’
"It was so late, my dear William," his brother said, "that we thought we wouldn't see you tonight."
‘I am stronger than you, dear Frederick,’ returned his brother with an elaboration of fraternity in which there was severity; ‘and I hope I can travel without detriment at—ha—any hour I choose.’
‘I’m stronger than you, dear Frederick,’ replied his brother with a hint of seriousness mixed with brotherly affection; ‘and I hope I can travel without any trouble at—ha—any time I want.’
‘Surely, surely,’ returned the other, with a misgiving that he had given offence. ‘Surely, William.’
‘Of course, of course,’ replied the other, feeling unsure that he had upset him. ‘Of course, William.’
‘Thank you, Amy,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, as she helped him to put off his wrappers. ‘I can do it without assistance. I—ha—need not trouble you, Amy. Could I have a morsel of bread and a glass of wine, or—hum—would it cause too much inconvenience?’
‘Thank you, Amy,’ continued Mr. Dorrit, as she helped him take off his wrappers. ‘I can manage it on my own. I—ha—don't want to bother you, Amy. Could I get a bit of bread and a glass of wine, or—um—would that be too much trouble?’
‘Dear father, you shall have supper in a very few minutes.’
‘Dear Dad, dinner will be ready in just a few minutes.’
‘Thank you, my love,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a reproachful frost upon him; ‘I—ha—am afraid I am causing inconvenience. Hum. Mrs General pretty well?’
‘Thank you, my love,’ said Mr. Dorrit, with a chilly reproach in his tone; ‘I—uh—am afraid I’m causing some trouble. Hm. How’s Mrs. General doing?’
‘Mrs General complained of a headache, and of being fatigued; and so, when we gave you up, she went to bed, dear.’
‘Mrs. General complained of a headache and feeling tired; so, after we left you, she went to bed, dear.’
Perhaps Mr Dorrit thought that Mrs General had done well in being overcome by the disappointment of his not arriving. At any rate, his face relaxed, and he said with obvious satisfaction, ‘Extremely sorry to hear that Mrs General is not well.’
Perhaps Mr. Dorrit thought that Mrs. General had handled the disappointment of his not showing up pretty well. Regardless, his expression softened, and he said with clear satisfaction, “I’m very sorry to hear that Mrs. General is unwell.”
During this short dialogue, his daughter had been observant of him, with something more than her usual interest. It would seem as though he had a changed or worn appearance in her eyes, and he perceived and resented it; for he said with renewed peevishness, when he had divested himself of his travelling-cloak, and had come to the fire:
During this brief conversation, his daughter had been watching him with more than her usual curiosity. It seemed to her that he looked different or more tired, and he noticed and didn't like it; because he said with a fresh sense of irritation, after he took off his travel cloak and joined the fire:
‘Amy, what are you looking at? What do you see in me that causes you to—ha—concentrate your solicitude on me in that—hum—very particular manner?’
‘Amy, what are you staring at? What do you see in me that makes you—ha—focus your concern on me in that—um—very specific way?’
‘I did not know it, father; I beg your pardon. It gladdens my eyes to see you again; that’s all.’
'I didn't know that, Dad; I'm really sorry. It makes me so happy to see you again; that's all.'
‘Don’t say that’s all, because—ha—that’s not all. You—hum—you think,’ said Mr Dorrit, with an accusatory emphasis, ‘that I am not looking well.’
‘Don’t say that’s all, because—ha—that’s not all. You—um—you think,’ said Mr. Dorrit, with an accusatory emphasis, ‘that I’m not looking well.’
‘I thought you looked a little tired, love.’
"I thought you looked a bit tired, sweetheart."
‘Then you are mistaken,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Ha, I am not tired. Ha, hum. I am very much fresher than I was when I went away.’
‘Then you’re wrong,’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘Ha, I am not tired. Ha, hum. I feel much more refreshed than I did when I left.’
He was so inclined to be angry that she said nothing more in her justification, but remained quietly beside him embracing his arm. As he stood thus, with his brother on the other side, he fell into a heavy doze, of not a minute’s duration, and awoke with a start.
He was so ready to be angry that she didn't say anything more to defend herself, but stayed quietly next to him, holding his arm. As he stood there, with his brother on the other side, he fell into a deep sleep, though it lasted less than a minute, and woke up suddenly.
‘Frederick,’ he said, turning to his brother: ‘I recommend you to go to bed immediately.’
‘Frederick,’ he said, turning to his brother, ‘I suggest you go to bed right now.’
‘No, William. I’ll wait and see you sup.’
‘No, William. I’ll wait to see you eat dinner.’
‘Frederick,’ he retorted, ‘I beg you to go to bed. I—ha—make it a personal request that you go to bed. You ought to have been in bed long ago. You are very feeble.’
‘Frederick,’ he replied, ‘I'm asking you to go to bed. I—uh—seriously request that you go to bed. You should have been in bed a while ago. You look really weak.’
‘Hah!’ said the old man, who had no wish but to please him. ‘Well, well, well! I dare say I am.’
‘Hah!’ said the old man, who only wanted to make him happy. ‘Well, well, well! I suppose I am.’
‘My dear Frederick,’ returned Mr Dorrit, with an astonishing superiority to his brother’s failing powers, ‘there can be no doubt of it. It is painful to me to see you so weak. Ha. It distresses me. Hum. I don’t find you looking at all well. You are not fit for this sort of thing. You should be more careful, you should be very careful.’
‘My dear Frederick,’ Mr. Dorrit replied, showing an incredible confidence in relation to his brother’s declining abilities, ‘there's no doubt about it. It hurts me to see you so weak. Ha. It bothers me. Hum. You don’t seem well at all. You’re not suited for this kind of thing. You need to take better care of yourself, you really should.’
‘Shall I go to bed?’ asked Frederick.
‘Should I go to bed?’ asked Frederick.
‘Dear Frederick,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘do, I adjure you! Good night, brother. I hope you will be stronger to-morrow. I am not at all pleased with your looks. Good night, dear fellow.’ After dismissing his brother in this gracious way, he fell into a doze again before the old man was well out of the room: and he would have stumbled forward upon the logs, but for his daughter’s restraining hold.
"Dear Frederick," Mr. Dorrit said, "please, I beg you! Good night, brother. I hope you feel better tomorrow. I'm really not happy with how you look. Good night, my friend." After sending off his brother in this kind way, he dozed off again before the old man had fully left the room; he would have fallen forward onto the logs if it hadn't been for his daughter's steadying grip.
‘Your uncle wanders very much, Amy,’ he said, when he was thus roused. ‘He is less—ha—coherent, and his conversation is more—hum—broken, than I have—ha, hum—ever known. Has he had any illness since I have been gone?’
‘Your uncle roams around a lot, Amy,’ he said, when he was finally awake. ‘He is less—uh—coherent, and his conversation is more—um—disjointed than I have—uh, um—ever seen. Has he had any illness since I’ve been away?’
‘No, father.’
‘No, Dad.’
‘You—ha—see a great change in him, Amy?’
‘You—ha—see a big change in him, Amy?’
‘I have not observed it, dear.’
"I haven't seen it, dear."
‘Greatly broken,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Greatly broken. My poor, affectionate, failing Frederick! Ha. Even taking into account what he was before, he is—hum—sadly broken!’
‘Very broken,’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘Very broken. My poor, loving, ailing Frederick! Ha. Even considering what he was like before, he is—um—sadly broken!’
His supper, which was brought to him there, and spread upon the little table where he had seen her working, diverted his attention. She sat at his side as in the days that were gone, for the first time since those days ended. They were alone, and she helped him to his meat and poured out his drink for him, as she had been used to do in the prison. All this happened now, for the first time since their accession to wealth. She was afraid to look at him much, after the offence he had taken; but she noticed two occasions in the course of his meal, when he all of a sudden looked at her, and looked about him, as if the association were so strong that he needed assurance from his sense of sight that they were not in the old prison-room. Both times, he put his hand to his head as if he missed his old black cap—though it had been ignominiously given away in the Marshalsea, and had never got free to that hour, but still hovered about the yards on the head of his successor.
His dinner, brought to him there and set on the small table where he had seen her working, distracted him. She sat beside him for the first time since those past days ended. They were alone, and she served him his food and poured his drink, just like she used to in prison. This was happening for the first time since they became wealthy. She was hesitant to look at him much after the upset he had experienced, but she noticed twice during his meal that he suddenly glanced at her and around the room, as if the memories were so strong that he needed to see with his own eyes that they weren't in the old prison cell. Both times, he touched his head as if he missed his old black cap—though it had been shamefully given away in the Marshalsea and had not been free since, still lingering around the yard on his successor's head.
He took very little supper, but was a long time over it, and often reverted to his brother’s declining state. Though he expressed the greatest pity for him, he was almost bitter upon him. He said that poor Frederick—ha hum—drivelled. There was no other word to express it; drivelled. Poor fellow! It was melancholy to reflect what Amy must have undergone from the excessive tediousness of his Society—wandering and babbling on, poor dear estimable creature, wandering and babbling on—if it had not been for the relief she had had in Mrs General. Extremely sorry, he then repeated with his former satisfaction, that that—ha—superior woman was poorly.
He barely ate any dinner, but took a long time to finish it, often thinking about his brother’s worsening condition. Although he showed a lot of sympathy for him, he was almost resentful. He said that poor Frederick—sigh—was just droning on. There really was no better way to say it; he was droning. Poor guy! It was sad to think about what Amy must have gone through dealing with his endless rambling—wandering and talking nonsense, poor dear, constantly going off track—if she hadn't had Mrs. General to help take the load off. He repeated, with his earlier satisfaction, how very sorry he was that that—sigh—remarkable woman was feeling unwell.
Little Dorrit, in her watchful love, would have remembered the lightest thing he said or did that night, though she had had no subsequent reason to recall that night. She always remembered that, when he looked about him under the strong influence of the old association, he tried to keep it out of her mind, and perhaps out of his own too, by immediately expatiating on the great riches and great company that had encompassed him in his absence, and on the lofty position he and his family had to sustain. Nor did she fail to recall that there were two under-currents, side by side, pervading all his discourse and all his manner; one showing her how well he had got on without her, and how independent he was of her; the other, in a fitful and unintelligible way almost complaining of her, as if it had been possible that she had neglected him while he was away.
Little Dorrit, in her watchful love, would have remembered the smallest thing he said or did that night, even though she had no reason to think about it afterward. She always remembered that when he looked around him, influenced by old memories, he tried to keep it from her mind, and maybe from his as well, by quickly going on about the great wealth and amazing people that had surrounded him while he was gone, and about the high status he and his family had to maintain. She also recalled that there were two underlying currents running through all his conversation and behavior; one showing her how well he had managed without her and how independent he was of her, the other, in a sporadic and confusing way, almost complaining about her, as if it were possible that she had neglected him during his absence.
His telling her of the glorious state that Mr Merdle kept, and of the court that bowed before him, naturally brought him to Mrs Merdle. So naturally indeed, that although there was an unusual want of sequence in the greater part of his remarks, he passed to her at once, and asked how she was.
His description of the impressive lifestyle that Mr. Merdle maintained and the court that respected him naturally led him to mention Mrs. Merdle. It was such a natural transition that, despite the lack of connection in most of his comments, he immediately turned to her and asked how she was doing.
‘She is very well. She is going away next week.’
‘She’s doing great. She’s leaving next week.’
‘Home?’ asked Mr Dorrit.
"Home?" Mr. Dorrit asked.
‘After a few weeks’ stay upon the road.’
‘After staying on the road for a few weeks.’
‘She will be a vast loss here,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘A vast—ha—acquisition at home. To Fanny, and to—hum—the rest of the—ha—great world.’
‘She will be a huge loss here,’ said Mr. Dorrit. ‘A huge—ha—gain at home. For Fanny, and for—um—the rest of the—ha—big world.’
Little Dorrit thought of the competition that was to be entered upon, and assented very softly.
Little Dorrit thought about the competition she was going to enter and nodded very softly.
‘Mrs Merdle is going to have a great farewell Assembly, dear, and a dinner before it. She has been expressing her anxiety that you should return in time. She has invited both you and me to her dinner.’
‘Mrs. Merdle is planning a big farewell assembly, dear, and a dinner beforehand. She’s been really worried that you’ll be back in time. She’s invited both you and me to her dinner.’
‘She is—ha—very kind. When is the day?’
‘She is—ha—really kind. When is the day?’
‘The day after to-morrow.’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘Write round in the morning, and say that I have returned, and shall—hum—be delighted.’
‘Write to everyone in the morning, and let them know that I’m back, and I’ll—um—be thrilled.’
‘May I walk with you up the stairs to your room, dear?’
‘Can I walk with you up the stairs to your room, dear?’
‘No!’ he answered, looking angrily round; for he was moving away, as if forgetful of leave-taking. ‘You may not, Amy. I want no help. I am your father, not your infirm uncle!’ He checked himself, as abruptly as he had broken into this reply, and said, ‘You have not kissed me, Amy. Good night, my dear! We must marry—ha—we must marry you, now.’ With that he went, more slowly and more tired, up the staircase to his rooms, and, almost as soon as he got there, dismissed his valet. His next care was to look about him for his Paris purchases, and, after opening their cases and carefully surveying them, to put them away under lock and key. After that, what with dozing and what with castle-building, he lost himself for a long time, so that there was a touch of morning on the eastward rim of the desolate Campagna when he crept to bed.
‘No!’ he replied, looking around angrily, as he started to leave, seeming to forget to say goodbye. ‘You can’t, Amy. I don’t need any help. I’m your father, not your sick uncle!’ He suddenly paused, as abruptly as he had spoken, and said, ‘You didn’t kiss me, Amy. Good night, my dear! We have to marry—ha—we have to marry you now.’ With that, he walked slowly and wearily up the stairs to his rooms, and almost as soon as he arrived, he sent his valet away. His next task was to look for his purchases from Paris, and after opening their cases and examining them carefully, he secured them away under lock and key. After that, between dozing off and daydreaming, he lost track of time, so that there was a hint of morning on the eastern edge of the desolate Campagna when he finally crawled into bed.
Mrs General sent up her compliments in good time next day, and hoped he had rested well after this fatiguing journey. He sent down his compliments, and begged to inform Mrs General that he had rested very well indeed, and was in high condition. Nevertheless, he did not come forth from his own rooms until late in the afternoon; and, although he then caused himself to be magnificently arrayed for a drive with Mrs General and his daughter, his appearance was scarcely up to his description of himself.
Mrs. General sent her regards the next day and hoped he had rested well after the exhausting journey. He replied with his compliments and wanted Mrs. General to know that he had indeed rested very well and was feeling great. However, he didn't leave his rooms until late in the afternoon, and even though he dressed magnificently for a drive with Mrs. General and his daughter, he didn't quite match his own description of himself.
As the family had no visitors that day, its four members dined alone together. He conducted Mrs General to the seat at his right hand with immense ceremony; and Little Dorrit could not but notice as she followed with her uncle, both that he was again elaborately dressed, and that his manner towards Mrs General was very particular. The perfect formation of that accomplished lady’s surface rendered it difficult to displace an atom of its genteel glaze, but Little Dorrit thought she descried a slight thaw of triumph in a corner of her frosty eye.
As the family had no visitors that day, the four of them had dinner together alone. He led Mrs. General to the seat on his right with great formality, and Little Dorrit couldn’t help but notice as she walked in with her uncle that he was once again dressed to the nines and that his behavior towards Mrs. General was very specific. The flawless appearance of that sophisticated lady made it hard to disturb even a speck of her polished exterior, but Little Dorrit thought she caught a hint of triumphant warmth in the corner of her icy eye.
Notwithstanding what may be called in these pages the Pruney and Prismatic nature of the family banquet, Mr Dorrit several times fell asleep while it was in progress. His fits of dozing were as sudden as they had been overnight, and were as short and profound. When the first of these slumberings seized him, Mrs General looked almost amazed: but, on each recurrence of the symptoms, she told her polite beads, Papa, Potatoes, Poultry, Prunes, and Prism; and, by dint of going through that infallible performance very slowly, appeared to finish her rosary at about the same time as Mr Dorrit started from his sleep.
Despite what might be referred to in this text as the Pruney and Prismatic nature of the family dinner, Mr. Dorrit fell asleep several times during it. His dozing off was as sudden as it had been the night before, and it was just as brief and deep. When the first wave of sleep hit him, Mrs. General looked almost shocked; but each time he nodded off again, she calmly recited her polite mantra: Papa, Potatoes, Poultry, Prunes, and Prism. By methodically going through that reliable routine at a slow pace, she seemed to finish her prayer just as Mr. Dorrit woke up from his nap.
He was again painfully aware of a somnolent tendency in Frederick (which had no existence out of his own imagination), and after dinner, when Frederick had withdrawn, privately apologised to Mrs General for the poor man. ‘The most estimable and affectionate of brothers,’ he said, ‘but—ha, hum—broken up altogether. Unhappily, declining fast.’
He was once again painfully aware of a sleepy vibe from Frederick (which only existed in his own mind), and after dinner, when Frederick left, he privately apologized to Mrs. General for the poor guy. "The most admirable and caring of brothers," he said, "but—wow—completely falling apart. Unfortunately, declining rapidly."
‘Mr Frederick, sir,’ quoth Mrs General, ‘is habitually absent and drooping, but let us hope it is not so bad as that.’
‘Mr. Frederick, sir,’ said Mrs. General, ‘is usually absent and withdrawn, but let's hope it's not as bad as that.’
Mr Dorrit, however, was determined not to let him off. ‘Fast declining, madam. A wreck. A ruin. Mouldering away before our eyes. Hum. Good Frederick!’
Mr. Dorrit, however, was determined not to let him off. “Rapidly declining, ma’am. A mess. A disaster. Falling apart right before our eyes. Hm. Good Frederick!”
‘You left Mrs Sparkler quite well and happy, I trust?’ said Mrs General, after heaving a cool sigh for Frederick.
‘You left Mrs. Sparkler feeling good and happy, I hope?’ said Mrs. General, after letting out a cool sigh for Frederick.
‘Surrounded,’ replied Mr Dorrit, ‘by—ha—all that can charm the taste, and—hum—elevate the mind. Happy, my dear madam, in a—hum—husband.’
"‘Surrounded,’ replied Mr. Dorrit, ‘by—ha—all the things that can please the taste, and—hum—uplift the mind. Happy, my dear madam, in a—hum—husband.’"
Mrs General was a little fluttered; seeming delicately to put the word away with her gloves, as if there were no knowing what it might lead to.
Mrs. General was a bit flustered; she seemed to carefully tuck the word away with her gloves, as if there was no telling what it might lead to.
‘Fanny,’ Mr Dorrit continued. ‘Fanny, Mrs General, has high qualities. Ha. Ambition—hum—purpose, consciousness of—ha—position, determination to support that position—ha, hum—grace, beauty, and native nobility.’
‘Fanny,’ Mr. Dorrit continued. ‘Fanny, Mrs. General has great qualities. Ha. Ambition—um—purpose, awareness of—ha—her status, determination to maintain that status—ha, um—grace, beauty, and inherent nobility.’
‘No doubt,’ said Mrs General (with a little extra stiffness).
‘No doubt,’ said Mrs. General (with a bit more stiffness).
‘Combined with these qualities, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘Fanny has—ha—manifested one blemish which has made me—hum—made me uneasy, and—ha—I must add, angry; but which I trust may now be considered at an end, even as to herself, and which is undoubtedly at an end as to—ha—others.’
“Along with these qualities, ma’am,” said Mr. Dorrit, “Fanny has—uh—shown one flaw that has made me—umm—made me uneasy and—uh—I must say, angry; but I hope this can now be seen as over, even for her, and it is definitely over as far as—uh—others are concerned.”
‘To what, Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, with her gloves again somewhat excited, ‘can you allude? I am at a loss to—’
‘To what, Mr. Dorrit,’ replied Mrs. General, with her gloves slightly agitated again, ‘are you referring? I’m confused about—’
‘Do not say that, my dear madam,’ interrupted Mr Dorrit.
“Don’t say that, my dear madam,” interrupted Mr. Dorrit.
Mrs General’s voice, as it died away, pronounced the words, ‘at a loss to imagine.’
Mrs. General's voice, as it faded away, said the words, 'at a loss to imagine.'
After which Mr Dorrit was seized with a doze for about a minute, out of which he sprang with spasmodic nimbleness.
After that, Mr. Dorrit dozed off for about a minute and then suddenly sprang up with a jolt.
‘I refer, Mrs General, to that—ha—strong spirit of opposition, or—hum—I might say—ha—jealousy in Fanny, which has occasionally risen against the—ha—sense I entertain of—hum—the claims of—ha—the lady with whom I have now the honour of communing.’
‘I’m referring, Mrs. General, to that—uh—strong feeling of opposition, or—well—I could say—uh—jealousy in Fanny, which has sometimes come up against the—uh—belief I have about the—um—claims of the lady I’m currently talking to.’
‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, ‘is ever but too obliging, ever but too appreciative. If there have been moments when I have imagined that Miss Dorrit has indeed resented the favourable opinion Mr Dorrit has formed of my services, I have found, in that only too high opinion, my consolation and recompense.’
‘Mr. Dorrit,’ replied Mrs. General, ‘is always so accommodating and so appreciative. If there have been times when I thought that Miss Dorrit actually resented the positive view Mr. Dorrit has of my services, I have found my comfort and reward in that very high opinion.’
‘Opinion of your services, madam?’ said Mr Dorrit.
“What's your opinion of our services, ma'am?” Mr. Dorrit asked.
‘Of,’ Mrs General repeated, in an elegantly impressive manner, ‘my services.’
‘Of,’ Mrs. General repeated, in a strikingly elegant way, ‘my services.’
‘Of your services alone, dear madam?’ said Mr Dorrit.
‘Is it just your services, dear madam?’ said Mr. Dorrit.
‘I presume,’ retorted Mrs General, in her former impressive manner, ‘of my services alone. For, to what else,’ said Mrs General, with a slightly interrogative action of her gloves, ‘could I impute—’
“I assume,” Mrs. General replied, in her usual authoritative way, “that it’s my services alone. For, what else,” Mrs. General said, slightly raising her gloves in question, “could I attribute—”
‘To—ha—yourself, Mrs General. Ha, hum. To yourself and your merits,’ was Mr Dorrit’s rejoinder.
‘To—you—yourself, Mrs. General. Ha, um. To yourself and your accomplishments,’ was Mr. Dorrit’s response.
‘Mr Dorrit will pardon me,’ said Mrs General, ‘if I remark that this is not a time or place for the pursuit of the present conversation. Mr Dorrit will excuse me if I remind him that Miss Dorrit is in the adjoining room, and is visible to myself while I utter her name. Mr Dorrit will forgive me if I observe that I am agitated, and that I find there are moments when weaknesses I supposed myself to have subdued, return with redoubled power. Mr Dorrit will allow me to withdraw.’
“Mr. Dorrit, please excuse me,” said Mrs. General, “if I point out that this isn’t the right time or place for this conversation. Mr. Dorrit will understand if I remind him that Miss Dorrit is in the next room and can see me as I mention her name. Mr. Dorrit will forgive me if I say that I’m feeling anxious and that there are moments when weaknesses I thought I had overcome come back even stronger. Mr. Dorrit will allow me to leave.”
‘Hum. Perhaps we may resume this—ha—interesting conversation,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘at another time; unless it should be, what I hope it is not—hum—in any way disagreeable to—ah—Mrs General.’
‘Um. Maybe we can continue this—uh—interesting conversation,’ said Mr. Dorrit, ‘some other time; unless it should be, what I hope it isn’t—um—in any way uncomfortable for—uh—Mrs. General.’
‘Mr Dorrit,’ said Mrs General, casting down her eyes as she rose with a bend, ‘must ever claim my homage and obedience.’
‘Mr. Dorrit,’ said Mrs. General, looking down as she stood with a bow, ‘will always deserve my respect and obedience.’
Mrs General then took herself off in a stately way, and not with that amount of trepidation upon her which might have been expected in a less remarkable woman. Mr Dorrit, who had conducted his part of the dialogue with a certain majestic and admiring condescension—much as some people may be seen to conduct themselves in Church, and to perform their part in the service—appeared, on the whole, very well satisfied with himself and with Mrs General too. On the return of that lady to tea, she had touched herself up with a little powder and pomatum, and was not without moral enchantment likewise: the latter showing itself in much sweet patronage of manner towards Miss Dorrit, and in an air of as tender interest in Mr Dorrit as was consistent with rigid propriety. At the close of the evening, when she rose to retire, Mr Dorrit took her by the hand as if he were going to lead her out into the Piazza of the people to walk a minuet by moonlight, and with great solemnity conducted her to the room door, where he raised her knuckles to his lips. Having parted from her with what may be conjectured to have been a rather bony kiss of a cosmetic flavour, he gave his daughter his blessing, graciously. And having thus hinted that there was something remarkable in the wind, he again went to bed.
Mrs. General then left in a dignified manner, not showing the nervousness one might expect from someone less distinguished. Mr. Dorrit, who had engaged in the conversation with a kind of regal and admiring superiority—similar to how some people behave in church while participating in the service—seemed very pleased with himself and with Mrs. General too. When she returned for tea, she had refreshed her look with a bit of powder and hair product, and she also radiated a certain moral charm: this was evident in her sweetly patronizing attitude towards Miss Dorrit and her air of measured interest in Mr. Dorrit, all while maintaining strict decorum. At the end of the evening, when she stood to leave, Mr. Dorrit took her hand as if he were about to lead her out into the public square to dance a minuet under the moonlight, and with great seriousness, he escorted her to the door, where he kissed her knuckles. After parting with what can be assumed was a rather bony kiss with a hint of cosmetics, he graciously blessed his daughter. And having subtly suggested that something notable was about to happen, he went back to bed.
He remained in the seclusion of his own chamber next morning; but, early in the afternoon, sent down his best compliments to Mrs General, by Mr Tinkler, and begged she would accompany Miss Dorrit on an airing without him. His daughter was dressed for Mrs Merdle’s dinner before he appeared. He then presented himself in a refulgent condition as to his attire, but looking indefinably shrunken and old. However, as he was plainly determined to be angry with her if she so much as asked him how he was, she only ventured to kiss his cheek, before accompanying him to Mrs Merdle’s with an anxious heart.
He stayed in the privacy of his room the next morning, but early in the afternoon, he sent his best regards to Mrs. General through Mr. Tinkler and asked her to take Miss Dorrit out for a drive without him. By the time he showed up, his daughter was already dressed for Mrs. Merdle’s dinner. He made his entrance looking very dapper, but he seemed strangely smaller and older. However, since it was clear he was ready to get angry if she even asked how he was doing, she only dared to kiss his cheek before heading to Mrs. Merdle’s with a heavy heart.
The distance that they had to go was very short, but he was at his building work again before the carriage had half traversed it. Mrs Merdle received him with great distinction; the bosom was in admirable preservation, and on the best terms with itself; the dinner was very choice; and the company was very select.
The distance they needed to cover was quite short, but he was back at his construction job before the carriage had even gone halfway. Mrs. Merdle welcomed him with great elegance; her figure was in excellent shape and she was in good spirits; the dinner was exquisite; and the company was very exclusive.
It was principally English; saving that it comprised the usual French Count and the usual Italian Marchese—decorative social milestones, always to be found in certain places, and varying very little in appearance. The table was long, and the dinner was long; and Little Dorrit, overshadowed by a large pair of black whiskers and a large white cravat, lost sight of her father altogether, until a servant put a scrap of paper in her hand, with a whispered request from Mrs Merdle that she would read it directly. Mrs Merdle had written on it in pencil, ‘Pray come and speak to Mr Dorrit, I doubt if he is well.’
It was mainly English; except it included the typical French Count and the usual Italian Marchese—decorative social figures that you could always find in certain places, looking very much the same. The table was long, and the dinner lasted a while; and Little Dorrit, overshadowed by a big pair of black whiskers and a large white cravat, completely lost sight of her father, until a servant handed her a note with a whispered request from Mrs. Merdle to read it right away. Mrs. Merdle had written in pencil, ‘Please come and speak to Mr. Dorrit, I’m worried about his health.’
She was hurrying to him, unobserved, when he got up out of his chair, and leaning over the table called to her, supposing her to be still in her place:
She was rushing to him, unnoticed, when he stood up from his chair and, leaning over the table, called out to her, thinking she was still in her seat:
‘Amy, Amy, my child!’
‘Amy, Amy, my kid!’
The action was so unusual, to say nothing of his strange eager appearance and strange eager voice, that it instantaneously caused a profound silence.
The action was so unusual, not to mention his odd eager look and strange eager voice, that it immediately created a deep silence.
‘Amy, my dear,’ he repeated. ‘Will you go and see if Bob is on the lock?’
‘Amy, my dear,’ he said again. ‘Can you go check if Bob is at the lock?’
She was at his side, and touching him, but he still perversely supposed her to be in her seat, and called out, still leaning over the table, ‘Amy, Amy. I don’t feel quite myself. Ha. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I particularly wish to see Bob. Ha. Of all the turnkeys, he’s as much my friend as yours. See if Bob is in the lodge, and beg him to come to me.’
She was right next to him, touching him, but he stubbornly thought she was still in her seat and called out, still leaning over the table, "Amy, Amy. I don’t feel quite like myself. Ha. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I really want to see Bob. Ha. Of all the guards, he’s as much my friend as yours. Check if Bob is in the lodge and ask him to come to me."
All the guests were now in consternation, and everybody rose.
All the guests were now in shock, and everyone stood up.
‘Dear father, I am not there; I am here, by you.’
‘Dear dad, I’m not there; I’m here, with you.’
‘Oh! You are here, Amy! Good. Hum. Good. Ha. Call Bob. If he has been relieved, and is not on the lock, tell Mrs Bangham to go and fetch him.’
‘Oh! You’re here, Amy! Great. Um. Good. Ha. Call Bob. If he’s been relieved and isn’t on the lock, tell Mrs. Bangham to go and get him.’
She was gently trying to get him away; but he resisted, and would not go.
She was softly trying to get him to leave, but he resisted and wouldn’t go.
‘I tell you, child,’ he said petulantly, ‘I can’t be got up the narrow stairs without Bob. Ha. Send for Bob. Hum. Send for Bob—best of all the turnkeys—send for Bob!’
“I’m telling you, kid,” he said grumpily, “I can’t get up the narrow stairs without Bob. Ha. Call for Bob. Hmph. Call for Bob—the best of all the turnkeys—call for Bob!”
He looked confusedly about him, and, becoming conscious of the number of faces by which he was surrounded, addressed them:
He looked around, feeling confused, and, realizing how many faces were around him, spoke to them:
Original
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the duty—ha—devolves upon me of—hum—welcoming you to the Marshalsea! Welcome to the Marshalsea! The space is—ha—limited—limited—the parade might be wider; but you will find it apparently grow larger after a time—a time, ladies and gentlemen—and the air is, all things considered, very good. It blows over the—ha—Surrey hills. Blows over the Surrey hills. This is the Snuggery. Hum. Supported by a small subscription of the—ha—Collegiate body. In return for which—hot water—general kitchen—and little domestic advantages. Those who are habituated to the—ha—Marshalsea, are pleased to call me its father. I am accustomed to be complimented by strangers as the—ha—Father of the Marshalsea. Certainly, if years of residence may establish a claim to so—ha—honourable a title, I may accept the—hum—conferred distinction. My child, ladies and gentlemen. My daughter. Born here!’
"Hello, everyone. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to the Marshalsea! Welcome to the Marshalsea! The space is a bit tight—the parade might be bigger; but you'll find it seems to expand after a while—and the air is quite pleasant, all things considered. It comes from the Surrey hills. This is the Snuggery. It's supported by a small contribution from the College. In exchange for which, you get hot water, a general kitchen, and a few domestic perks. Those who are regulars at the Marshalsea happily call me its father. I've often been complimented by strangers as the Father of the Marshalsea. Certainly, if years of living here qualify someone for such a respectable title, I can accept the honor. My child, everyone. My daughter. Born right here!"
She was not ashamed of it, or ashamed of him. She was pale and frightened; but she had no other care than to soothe him and get him away, for his own dear sake. She was between him and the wondering faces, turned round upon his breast with her own face raised to his. He held her clasped in his left arm, and between whiles her low voice was heard tenderly imploring him to go away with her.
She wasn’t ashamed of it, or ashamed of him. She looked pale and scared; but all she cared about was comforting him and getting him out of there, for his own good. She stood between him and the curious faces, turned toward his chest with her own face lifted to his. He held her tightly in his left arm, and every now and then, her soft voice could be heard gently urging him to leave with her.
‘Born here,’ he repeated, shedding tears. ‘Bred here. Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter. Child of an unfortunate father, but—ha—always a gentleman. Poor, no doubt, but—hum—proud. Always proud. It has become a—hum—not infrequent custom for my—ha—personal admirers—personal admirers solely—to be pleased to express their desire to acknowledge my semi-official position here, by offering—ha—little tributes, which usually take the form of—ha—voluntary recognitions of my humble endeavours to—hum—to uphold a Tone here—a Tone—I beg it to be understood that I do not consider myself compromised. Ha. Not compromised. Ha. Not a beggar. No; I repudiate the title! At the same time far be it from me to—hum—to put upon the fine feelings by which my partial friends are actuated, the slight of scrupling to admit that those offerings are—hum—highly acceptable. On the contrary, they are most acceptable. In my child’s name, if not in my own, I make the admission in the fullest manner, at the same time reserving—ha—shall I say my personal dignity? Ladies and gentlemen, God bless you all!’
“‘Born here,’ he repeated, shedding tears. ‘Raised here. Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter. Child of an unfortunate father, but—ha—always a gentleman. Poor, no doubt, but—hum—proud. Always proud. It has become a—hum—not uncommon practice for my—ha—personal admirers—personal admirers only—to express their desire to acknowledge my semi-official position here by offering—ha—small tributes, which usually come in the form of—ha—voluntary recognitions of my humble efforts to—hum—uphold a Tone here—a Tone—I want to make it clear that I don’t consider myself compromised. Ha. Not compromised. Ha. Not a beggar. No; I refuse the title! At the same time, it’s far from me to—hum—offend the fine feelings that my loyal friends are guided by, so I won’t hesitate to admit that those offerings are—hum—very welcome. On the contrary, they are quite welcome. In my child’s name, if not in my own, I make this admission fully, while still reserving—ha—shall I say my personal dignity? Ladies and gentlemen, God bless you all!’”
By this time, the exceeding mortification undergone by the Bosom had occasioned the withdrawal of the greater part of the company into other rooms. The few who had lingered thus long followed the rest, and Little Dorrit and her father were left to the servants and themselves. Dearest and most precious to her, he would come with her now, would he not? He replied to her fervid entreaties, that he would never be able to get up the narrow stairs without Bob; where was Bob, would nobody fetch Bob? Under pretence of looking for Bob, she got him out against the stream of gay company now pouring in for the evening assembly, and got him into a coach that had just set down its load, and got him home.
At this point, the intense embarrassment experienced by the Bosom had caused most of the guests to retreat to other rooms. The few who had stayed that long eventually followed the rest, leaving Little Dorrit and her father with only the servants and themselves. He was the dearest and most precious person to her; he would come with her now, wouldn't he? He responded to her urgent pleas by saying he couldn't possibly make it up the narrow stairs without Bob; where was Bob, couldn't someone go find Bob? Pretending to look for Bob, she managed to lead him against the flow of the lively guests now arriving for the evening gathering, got him into a coach that had just dropped off its passengers, and took him home.
The broad stairs of his Roman palace were contracted in his failing sight to the narrow stairs of his London prison; and he would suffer no one but her to touch him, his brother excepted. They got him up to his room without help, and laid him down on his bed. And from that hour his poor maimed spirit, only remembering the place where it had broken its wings, cancelled the dream through which it had since groped, and knew of nothing beyond the Marshalsea. When he heard footsteps in the street, he took them for the old weary tread in the yards. When the hour came for locking up, he supposed all strangers to be excluded for the night. When the time for opening came again, he was so anxious to see Bob, that they were fain to patch up a narrative how that Bob—many a year dead then, gentle turnkey—had taken cold, but hoped to be out to-morrow, or the next day, or the next at furthest.
The grand staircase of his Roman palace had shrunk in his failing vision to the narrow steps of his London prison; and he would let no one touch him except her and his brother. They managed to get him up to his room without assistance and laid him down on his bed. From that moment, his poor, damaged spirit, only recalling the place where it had once soared, erased the dream he had been struggling through and recognized nothing beyond the Marshalsea. When he heard footsteps in the street, he mistook them for the old, weary sounds in the yards. When the time came for locking up, he assumed all strangers were shut out for the night. When it was time to open again, he was so eager to see Bob that they had to make up a story, saying that Bob—who had been dead for many years, the kind turnkey—had caught a cold but hoped to be out tomorrow, or the next day, or at the latest, the day after that.
He fell away into a weakness so extreme that he could not raise his hand. But he still protected his brother according to his long usage; and would say with some complacency, fifty times a day, when he saw him standing by his bed, ‘My good Frederick, sit down. You are very feeble indeed.’
He fell into such a weakness that he couldn’t lift his hand. But he still looked out for his brother as he always had, and would say with a bit of satisfaction, fifty times a day, when he saw him standing by his bed, “My good Frederick, sit down. You really are very weak.”
They tried him with Mrs General, but he had not the faintest knowledge of her. Some injurious suspicion lodged itself in his brain, that she wanted to supplant Mrs Bangham, and that she was given to drinking. He charged her with it in no measured terms; and was so urgent with his daughter to go round to the Marshal and entreat him to turn her out, that she was never reproduced after the first failure.
They introduced him to Mrs. General, but he didn't know her at all. A damaging suspicion settled in his mind that she was trying to replace Mrs. Bangham and that she had a drinking problem. He confronted her about it bluntly and pressed his daughter to go to the Marshal and ask him to get rid of her, so she was never brought up again after the first attempt.
Saving that he once asked ‘if Tip had gone outside?’ the remembrance of his two children not present seemed to have departed from him. But the child who had done so much for him and had been so poorly repaid, was never out of his mind. Not that he spared her, or was fearful of her being spent by watching and fatigue; he was not more troubled on that score than he had usually been. No; he loved her in his old way. They were in the jail again, and she tended him, and he had constant need of her, and could not turn without her; and he even told her, sometimes, that he was content to have undergone a great deal for her sake. As to her, she bent over his bed with her quiet face against his, and would have laid down her own life to restore him.
Except for asking, ‘Has Tip gone outside?’ the thought of his two absent children seemed to have faded from his mind. But the child who had done so much for him and had been so poorly rewarded was always on his mind. Not that he worried about her or feared she would be worn out from caring for him; he wasn’t more concerned about that than usual. No, he loved her in his own way. They were back in the jail, and she took care of him while he constantly relied on her and couldn’t move without her. He even told her sometimes that he was glad to have gone through so much for her sake. As for her, she leaned over his bed with her calm face next to his and would have given her own life to bring him back to health.
When he had been sinking in this painless way for two or three days, she observed him to be troubled by the ticking of his watch—a pompous gold watch that made as great a to-do about its going as if nothing else went but itself and Time. She suffered it to run down; but he was still uneasy, and showed that was not what he wanted. At length he roused himself to explain that he wanted money to be raised on this watch. He was quite pleased when she pretended to take it away for the purpose, and afterwards had a relish for his little tastes of wine and jelly, that he had not had before.
After days of drifting in this painless way, she noticed that the ticking of his watch bothered him—a fancy gold watch that made a big deal about working, as if nothing mattered but itself and time. She let it wind down, but he still seemed uneasy and made it clear that wasn't what he wanted. Finally, he gathered the energy to explain that he wanted to raise some money by pawning the watch. He was quite happy when she pretended to take it away for that purpose, and afterwards he enjoyed his little tastes of wine and jelly, which he hadn't appreciated before.
He soon made it plain that this was so; for, in another day or two he sent off his sleeve-buttons and finger-rings. He had an amazing satisfaction in entrusting her with these errands, and appeared to consider it equivalent to making the most methodical and provident arrangements. After his trinkets, or such of them as he had been able to see about him, were gone, his clothes engaged his attention; and it is as likely as not that he was kept alive for some days by the satisfaction of sending them, piece by piece, to an imaginary pawnbroker’s.
He soon made it clear that this was true; for, in a day or two, he sent off his cufflinks and rings. He found great satisfaction in giving her these tasks and seemed to think it was just like making careful and responsible plans. After he sent off his jewelry, or what he could find around him, his clothes became his focus; and it’s quite possible that he stayed motivated for several days just from the satisfaction of sending them, piece by piece, to an imaginary pawn shop.
Thus for ten days Little Dorrit bent over his pillow, laying her cheek against his. Sometimes she was so worn out that for a few minutes they would slumber together. Then she would awake; to recollect with fast-flowing silent tears what it was that touched her face, and to see, stealing over the cherished face upon the pillow, a deeper shadow than the shadow of the Marshalsea Wall.
Thus for ten days, Little Dorrit leaned over his pillow, resting her cheek against his. Sometimes she was so exhausted that for a few minutes they would doze together. Then she would wake up, remembering with quick, silent tears what it was that brushed her face, and see a deeper shadow than the shadow of the Marshalsea Wall creeping over the beloved face on the pillow.
Quietly, quietly, all the lines of the plan of the great Castle melted one after another. Quietly, quietly, the ruled and cross-ruled countenance on which they were traced, became fair and blank. Quietly, quietly, the reflected marks of the prison bars and of the zig-zag iron on the wall-top, faded away. Quietly, quietly, the face subsided into a far younger likeness of her own than she had ever seen under the grey hair, and sank to rest.
Quietly, quietly, all the outlines of the grand Castle’s blueprint disappeared one after another. Quietly, quietly, the lined and crisscrossed face where they were drawn became smooth and blank. Quietly, quietly, the faded impressions of the prison bars and the jagged iron at the top of the wall vanished. Quietly, quietly, the face transformed into a much younger version of herself than she had ever seen beneath the grey hair, and settled into rest.
At first her uncle was stark distracted. ‘O my brother! O William, William! You to go before me; you to go alone; you to go, and I to remain! You, so far superior, so distinguished, so noble; I, a poor useless creature fit for nothing, and whom no one would have missed!’
At first, her uncle was completely upset. ‘Oh my brother! Oh William, William! You get to go ahead of me; you go alone; you leave, and I stay here! You, who are so much better, so distinguished, so noble; I, a useless person who is good for nothing, and whom no one would even notice if I disappeared!’
It did her, for the time, the good of having him to think of and to succour.
It was good for her, for the moment, to have him to think about and help.
‘Uncle, dear uncle, spare yourself, spare me!’
‘Uncle, dear uncle, please spare yourself, spare me!’
The old man was not deaf to the last words. When he did begin to restrain himself, it was that he might spare her. He had no care for himself; but, with all the remaining power of the honest heart, stunned so long and now awaking to be broken, he honoured and blessed her.
The old man was not deaf to the last words. When he finally started to hold back, it was to spare her feelings. He didn’t care about himself; but with all the remaining strength of his honest heart, which had been stunned for so long and was now awakening only to be shattered, he honored and blessed her.
‘O God,’ he cried, before they left the room, with his wrinkled hands clasped over her. ‘Thou seest this daughter of my dear dead brother! All that I have looked upon, with my half-blind and sinful eyes, Thou hast discerned clearly, brightly. Not a hair of her head shall be harmed before Thee. Thou wilt uphold her here to her last hour. And I know Thou wilt reward her hereafter!’
‘Oh God,’ he cried, before they left the room, with his wrinkled hands clasped over her. ‘You see this daughter of my beloved deceased brother! Everything I have seen, with my half-blind and sinful eyes, You have perceived clearly and brightly. Not a hair on her head will be harmed in Your sight. You will support her here until her last hour. And I know You will reward her afterward!’
They remained in a dim room near, until it was almost midnight, quiet and sad together. At times his grief would seek relief in a burst like that in which it had found its earliest expression; but, besides that his little strength would soon have been unequal to such strains, he never failed to recall her words, and to reproach himself and calm himself. The only utterance with which he indulged his sorrow, was the frequent exclamation that his brother was gone, alone; that they had been together in the outset of their lives, that they had fallen into misfortune together, that they had kept together through their many years of poverty, that they had remained together to that day; and that his brother was gone alone, alone!
They stayed in a dim room nearby until it was almost midnight, quietly and sadly together. Sometimes his grief would erupt unexpectedly, just like it had in the beginning; but aside from the fact that his little strength couldn’t handle such outbursts for long, he always remembered her words, and reproached himself while trying to calm down. The only way he expressed his sorrow was by frequently saying that his brother was gone, alone; that they had been together at the start of their lives, that they had fallen into hard times together, that they had stuck together through their years of poverty, and that they had stayed together until that day; yet now his brother was gone, alone, alone!
They parted, heavy and sorrowful. She would not consent to leave him anywhere but in his own room, and she saw him lie down in his clothes upon his bed, and covered him with her own hands. Then she sank upon her own bed, and fell into a deep sleep: the sleep of exhaustion and rest, though not of complete release from a pervading consciousness of affliction. Sleep, good Little Dorrit. Sleep through the night!
They said their goodbyes, feeling sad and burdened. She wouldn’t agree to leave him anywhere except his own room, and she watched him lie down in his clothes on the bed, covering him with her own hands. Then she collapsed onto her own bed and fell into a deep sleep: a sleep of total exhaustion and peace, but not completely free from a lingering awareness of pain. Sleep well, dear Little Dorrit. Sleep through the night!
It was a moonlight night; but the moon rose late, being long past the full. When it was high in the peaceful firmament, it shone through half-closed lattice blinds into the solemn room where the stumblings and wanderings of a life had so lately ended. Two quiet figures were within the room; two figures, equally still and impassive, equally removed by an untraversable distance from the teeming earth and all that it contains, though soon to lie in it.
It was a moonlit night, but the moon rose late, well past its full phase. When it was high in the calm sky, it shone through half-closed window blinds into the quiet room where the struggles and wandering of a life had just come to an end. Two silent figures were in the room; two figures, equally still and emotionless, equally distant from the busy world and everything in it, even though they would soon rest in it.
One figure reposed upon the bed. The other, kneeling on the floor, drooped over it; the arms easily and peacefully resting on the coverlet; the face bowed down, so that the lips touched the hand over which with its last breath it had bent. The two brothers were before their Father; far beyond the twilight judgment of this world; high above its mists and obscurities.
One figure lay on the bed. The other, kneeling on the floor, leaned over it; their arms comfortably resting on the blanket; their face bowed down, so that their lips touched the hand over which it had bent with its last breath. The two brothers were before their Father; far beyond the twilight judgment of this world; high above its mists and uncertainties.
Original
CHAPTER 20. Introduces the next
The passengers were landing from the packet on the pier at Calais. A low-lying place and a low-spirited place Calais was, with the tide ebbing out towards low water-mark. There had been no more water on the bar than had sufficed to float the packet in; and now the bar itself, with a shallow break of sea over it, looked like a lazy marine monster just risen to the surface, whose form was indistinctly shown as it lay asleep. The meagre lighthouse all in white, haunting the seaboard as if it were the ghost of an edifice that had once had colour and rotundity, dropped melancholy tears after its late buffeting by the waves. The long rows of gaunt black piles, slimy and wet and weather-worn, with funeral garlands of seaweed twisted about them by the late tide, might have represented an unsightly marine cemetery. Every wave-dashed, storm-beaten object, was so low and so little, under the broad grey sky, in the noise of the wind and sea, and before the curling lines of surf, making at it ferociously, that the wonder was there was any Calais left, and that its low gates and low wall and low roofs and low ditches and low sand-hills and low ramparts and flat streets, had not yielded long ago to the undermining and besieging sea, like the fortifications children make on the sea-shore.
The passengers were getting off the boat at the pier in Calais. Calais was a flat and dreary place, with the tide going out toward low water. There wasn't enough water on the bar to do more than float the boat, and now the bar itself, with a light swell breaking over it, looked like a lazy sea creature just coming to the surface, its form vaguely visible as it rested. The meager lighthouse, all white and haunting the coast like a ghost of a building that had once had color and shape, seemed to shed sad tears after being battered by the waves. The long rows of thin, black piles, slimy and wet and worn by the weather, with funeral wreaths of seaweed twisted around them by the recent tide, could have passed for a grim seaside cemetery. Every wave-splashed, storm-tossed object seemed small and insignificant under the wide gray sky, amidst the noise of the wind and sea, and in the face of the fierce crashing surf, making one wonder how Calais still stood, and how its low gates, low walls, low roofs, low ditches, low sand hills, low ramparts, and flat streets hadn’t long ago given in to the relentless and surrounding sea, like the sandcastles children build on the beach.
After slipping among oozy piles and planks, stumbling up wet steps and encountering many salt difficulties, the passengers entered on their comfortless peregrination along the pier; where all the French vagabonds and English outlaws in the town (half the population) attended to prevent their recovery from bewilderment. After being minutely inspected by all the English, and claimed and reclaimed and counter-claimed as prizes by all the French in a hand-to-hand scuffle three quarters of a mile long, they were at last free to enter the streets, and to make off in their various directions, hotly pursued.
After navigating through muddy piles and wooden planks, stumbling up slippery steps and facing numerous salt challenges, the passengers began their uncomfortable journey along the pier, where all the French drifters and English outlaws in town (roughly half the population) gathered to keep them from finding their bearings. After being thoroughly inspected by everyone English, and claimed and reclaimed and counter-claimed as prizes by all the French in a brawl that stretched three-quarters of a mile, they were finally free to enter the streets and scatter in different directions, hotly pursued.
Clennam, harassed by more anxieties than one, was among this devoted band. Having rescued the most defenceless of his compatriots from situations of great extremity, he now went his way alone, or as nearly alone as he could be, with a native gentleman in a suit of grease and a cap of the same material, giving chase at a distance of some fifty yards, and continually calling after him, ‘Hi! Ice-say! You! Seer! Ice-say! Nice Oatel!’
Clennam, overwhelmed by multiple worries, was part of this loyal group. After saving the most vulnerable of his fellow countrymen from dire situations, he was now going on his way alone, or as close to alone as possible, while a local man in a greasy suit and matching cap pursued him from about fifty yards away, constantly shouting, "Hey! You! Wait! Nice Oatel!"
Even this hospitable person, however, was left behind at last, and Clennam pursued his way, unmolested. There was a tranquil air in the town after the turbulence of the Channel and the beach, and its dulness in that comparison was agreeable. He met new groups of his countrymen, who had all a straggling air of having at one time overblown themselves, like certain uncomfortable kinds of flowers, and of being now mere weeds. They had all an air, too, of lounging out a limited round, day after day, which strongly reminded him of the Marshalsea. But, taking no further note of them than was sufficient to give birth to the reflection, he sought out a certain street and number which he kept in his mind.
Even this welcoming person eventually fell behind, and Clennam continued on his way, undisturbed. The town had a peaceful vibe after the chaos of the Channel and the beach, and its dullness was refreshing in contrast. He encountered new groups of his fellow countrymen, who all seemed like they had once been more vibrant but now resembled tired weeds. They also had the vibe of casually going through the same routine, day after day, which reminded him strongly of the Marshalsea. However, he paid them no more attention than necessary to trigger his thoughts, as he searched for a specific street and number that he had in mind.
‘So Pancks said,’ he murmured to himself, as he stopped before a dull house answering to the address. ‘I suppose his information to be correct and his discovery, among Mr Casby’s loose papers, indisputable; but, without it, I should hardly have supposed this to be a likely place.’
‘So Pancks said,’ he murmured to himself, as he paused in front of a plain house that matched the address. ‘I assume his info is accurate and his finding among Mr. Casby’s messy papers is undeniable; but, without that, I wouldn’t have thought this was a probable place.’
A dead sort of house, with a dead wall over the way and a dead gateway at the side, where a pendant bell-handle produced two dead tinkles, and a knocker produced a dead, flat, surface-tapping, that seemed not to have depth enough in it to penetrate even the cracked door. However, the door jarred open on a dead sort of spring; and he closed it behind him as he entered a dull yard, soon brought to a close by another dead wall, where an attempt had been made to train some creeping shrubs, which were dead; and to make a little fountain in a grotto, which was dry; and to decorate that with a little statue, which was gone.
A lifeless house, with a lifeless wall across the way and a lifeless gateway on the side, where a bell handle gave off two weak chimes, and a knocker made a shallow, flat sound that seemed too flat to even reach the cracked door. Nevertheless, the door creaked open on a weary spring; he shut it behind him as he stepped into a dull yard, quickly ending at another lifeless wall, where someone had tried to grow some vine-like plants, which were lifeless; and to create a little fountain in a grotto, which was dry; and to embellish that with a small statue, which was missing.
The entry to the house was on the left, and it was garnished as the outer gateway was, with two printed bills in French and English, announcing Furnished Apartments to let, with immediate possession. A strong cheerful peasant woman, all stocking, petticoat, white cap, and ear-ring, stood here in a dark doorway, and said with a pleasant show of teeth, ‘Ice-say! Seer! Who?’
The entrance to the house was on the left, and it was decorated like the outer gate, with two printed signs in French and English, announcing Furnished Apartments available for rent, ready for immediate move-in. A strong, cheerful peasant woman, dressed in stockings, a petticoat, a white cap, and an earring, stood in a dark doorway and said with a friendly smile, ‘Excuse me! Sir! Who?’
Clennam, replying in French, said the English lady; he wished to see the English lady. ‘Enter then and ascend, if you please,’ returned the peasant woman, in French likewise. He did both, and followed her up a dark bare staircase to a back room on the first-floor. Hence, there was a gloomy view of the yard that was dull, and of the shrubs that were dead, and of the fountain that was dry, and of the pedestal of the statue that was gone.
Clennam, responding in French, said he wanted to see the English lady. "Come in and go upstairs, if you like," the peasant woman replied in French as well. He did so and followed her up a dark, empty staircase to a back room on the first floor. From there, the view was bleak, looking out over a dull yard, dead shrubs, a dry fountain, and the missing pedestal of a statue.
‘Monsieur Blandois,’ said Clennam.
'Mr. Blandois,' said Clennam.
‘With pleasure, Monsieur.’
"Gladly, Sir."
Thereupon the woman withdrew and left him to look at the room. It was the pattern of room always to be found in such a house. Cool, dull, and dark. Waxed floor very slippery. A room not large enough to skate in; nor adapted to the easy pursuit of any other occupation. Red and white curtained windows, little straw mat, little round table with a tumultuous assemblage of legs underneath, clumsy rush-bottomed chairs, two great red velvet arm-chairs affording plenty of space to be uncomfortable in, bureau, chimney-glass in several pieces pretending to be in one piece, pair of gaudy vases of very artificial flowers; between them a Greek warrior with his helmet off, sacrificing a clock to the Genius of France.
Then the woman left, allowing him to take in the room. It was the kind of room always found in a house like this: cool, dull, and dark. The waxed floor was very slippery. It wasn’t big enough to skate in, nor was it suited for comfortably doing anything else. The windows were dressed with red and white curtains, there was a small straw mat, a little round table with a chaotic mix of legs underneath, clumsy rush-bottomed chairs, and two large red velvet armchairs that provided plenty of space to feel uncomfortable. There was a bureau, a broken mirror trying to look whole, and a pair of gaudy vases filled with very fake flowers; between them stood a Greek warrior with his helmet off, offering a clock to the Genius of France.
After some pause, a door of communication with another room was opened, and a lady entered. She manifested great surprise on seeing Clennam, and her glance went round the room in search of some one else.
After a moment, a door to another room opened, and a woman came in. She looked very surprised to see Clennam, and her eyes scanned the room looking for someone else.
‘Pardon me, Miss Wade. I am alone.’
‘Excuse me, Miss Wade. I'm alone.’
‘It was not your name that was brought to me.’
‘It wasn't your name that came to me.’
‘No; I know that. Excuse me. I have already had experience that my name does not predispose you to an interview; and I ventured to mention the name of one I am in search of.’
'No; I get that. Sorry. I've already experienced that my name doesn't make you more likely to want to meet with me; and I took the chance to mention the name of someone I'm looking for.'
‘Pray,’ she returned, motioning him to a chair so coldly that he remained standing, ‘what name was it that you gave?’
‘Please,’ she replied, gesturing to a chair so coldly that he stayed standing, ‘what name did you say?’
‘I mentioned the name of Blandois.’
“I brought up the name Blandois.”
‘Blandois?’
‘Blandois?’
‘A name you are acquainted with.’
‘A name you recognize.’
‘It is strange,’ she said, frowning, ‘that you should still press an undesired interest in me and my acquaintances, in me and my affairs, Mr Clennam. I don’t know what you mean.’
“It’s odd,” she said, frowning, “that you continue to show an unwanted interest in me and my friends, in me and my life, Mr. Clennam. I don’t understand what you mean.”
‘Pardon me. You know the name?’
‘Excuse me. Do you know the name?’
‘What can you have to do with the name? What can I have to do with the name? What can you have to do with my knowing or not knowing any name? I know many names and I have forgotten many more. This may be in the one class, or it may be in the other, or I may never have heard it. I am acquainted with no reason for examining myself, or for being examined, about it.’
‘What does the name have to do with you? What does it have to do with me? What does it matter whether I know any name or not? I know a lot of names and I’ve forgotten many more. It could fall into one category or the other, or I might have never heard it at all. I don’t see any reason to question myself, or to be questioned, about it.’
‘If you will allow me,’ said Clennam, ‘I will tell you my reason for pressing the subject. I admit that I do press it, and I must beg you to forgive me if I do so, very earnestly. The reason is all mine, I do not insinuate that it is in any way yours.’
‘If you don’t mind,’ Clennam said, ‘I’d like to share my reason for bringing this up. I know I’m being persistent, and I sincerely hope you can forgive me for that. The reason is entirely my own; I’m not suggesting it has anything to do with you.’
‘Well, sir,’ she returned, repeating a little less haughtily than before her former invitation to him to be seated: to which he now deferred, as she seated herself. ‘I am at least glad to know that this is not another bondswoman of some friend of yours, who is bereft of free choice, and whom I have spirited away. I will hear your reason, if you please.’
‘Well, sir,’ she replied, her tone a bit less proud than before, inviting him to take a seat again: which he accepted as she settled down. ‘At least I’m glad to know that this isn’t another servant from some friend of yours, who has no choice and whom I’ve taken away. I’d like to hear your reasoning, if you don’t mind.’
‘First, to identify the person of whom we speak,’ said Clennam, ‘let me observe that it is the person you met in London some time back. You will remember meeting him near the river—in the Adelphi!’
‘First, to identify the person we're talking about,’ said Clennam, ‘let me point out that it's the person you met in London a while ago. You’ll remember running into him by the river—in the Adelphi!’
‘You mix yourself most unaccountably with my business,’ she replied, looking full at him with stern displeasure. ‘How do you know that?’
‘You’re getting way too involved in my business,’ she shot back, looking him in the eye with a serious look. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I entreat you not to take it ill. By mere accident.’
'I ask you not to take it the wrong way. It was just a coincidence.'
‘What accident?’
"What accident?"
‘Solely the accident of coming upon you in the street and seeing the meeting.’
‘Just the chance encounter of running into you on the street and witnessing the meeting.’
‘Do you speak of yourself, or of some one else?’
'Are you talking about yourself, or someone else?'
‘Of myself. I saw it.’
"About myself. I saw it."
‘To be sure it was in the open street,’ she observed, after a few moments of less and less angry reflection. ‘Fifty people might have seen it. It would have signified nothing if they had.’
"Sure, it happened in the open street," she noted after a few moments of calming down. "Fifty people could have seen it. It wouldn’t have meant anything if they did."
‘Nor do I make my having seen it of any moment, nor (otherwise than as an explanation of my coming here) do I connect my visit with it or the favour that I have to ask.’
‘I'm not making a big deal out of having seen it, nor do I link my visit to it or the favor I need to ask, except as an explanation for why I’m here.’
‘Oh! You have to ask a favour! It occurred to me,’ and the handsome face looked bitterly at him, ‘that your manner was softened, Mr Clennam.’
‘Oh! You need to ask for a favor! It just hit me,’ and the attractive face looked at him with a bitter expression, ‘that your attitude seemed gentler, Mr. Clennam.’
He was content to protest against this by a slight action without contesting it in words. He then referred to Blandois’ disappearance, of which it was probable she had heard? However probable it was to him, she had heard of no such thing. Let him look round him (she said) and judge for himself what general intelligence was likely to reach the ears of a woman who had been shut up there while it was rife, devouring her own heart. When she had uttered this denial, which he believed to be true, she asked him what he meant by disappearance? That led to his narrating the circumstances in detail, and expressing something of his anxiety to discover what had really become of the man, and to repel the dark suspicions that clouded about his mother’s house. She heard him with evident surprise, and with more marks of suppressed interest than he had seen in her; still they did not overcome her distant, proud, and self-secluded manner. When he had finished, she said nothing but these words:
He was fine with showing his protest through a small action instead of arguing it verbally. He then brought up Blandois' disappearance, which he thought she might have heard about. However likely that seemed to him, she hadn’t heard anything. "Let him look around and see for himself what kind of news might reach a woman who had been locked away while it was all happening, consuming her own heart,” she said. After making this denial, which he believed was true, she asked him what he meant by disappearance. This prompted him to describe the details of the situation and share his concern about finding out what really happened to the man and to dispel the dark suspicions surrounding his mother's house. She listened with clear surprise and more signs of suppressed interest than he had noticed before; still, those feelings didn’t diminish her distant, proud, and aloof demeanor. When he finished, she said nothing except these words:
‘You have not yet told me, sir, what I have to do with it, or what the favour is? Will you be so good as come to that?’
‘You haven't told me yet, sir, what I need to do with it, or what the favor is? Could you please get to that?’
‘I assume,’ said Arthur, persevering, in his endeavour to soften her scornful demeanour, ‘that being in communication—may I say, confidential communication?—with this person—’
‘I assume,’ said Arthur, persisting in his effort to soften her scornful attitude, ‘that being in contact—can I say, confidential contact?—with this person—’
‘You may say, of course, whatever you like,’ she remarked; ‘but I do not subscribe to your assumptions, Mr Clennam, or to any one’s.’
"You can say whatever you want," she said, "but I don't agree with your assumptions, Mr. Clennam, or anyone else's."
‘—that being, at least in personal communication with him,’ said Clennam, changing the form of his position in the hope of making it unobjectionable, ‘you can tell me something of his antecedents, pursuits, habits, usual place of residence. Can give me some little clue by which to seek him out in the likeliest manner, and either produce him, or establish what has become of him. This is the favour I ask, and I ask it in a distress of mind for which I hope you will feel some consideration. If you should have any reason for imposing conditions upon me, I will respect it without asking what it is.’
‘—that being, at least in personal communication with him,’ said Clennam, adjusting his approach in hopes of making it more acceptable, ‘you can tell me something about his background, activities, habits, and usual place of residence. You could provide me with a little clue to help me find him in the most likely way, and either bring him to me or help me understand what has happened to him. This is the favor I’m asking for, and I’m asking it in a state of mind that I hope you’ll consider. If you have any reason to set conditions for me, I will respect it without questioning what it is.’
‘You chanced to see me in the street with the man,’ she observed, after being, to his mortification, evidently more occupied with her own reflections on the matter than with his appeal. ‘Then you knew the man before?’
‘You happened to see me in the street with the guy,’ she said, seeming more focused on her own thoughts about it than on his request, much to his embarrassment. ‘So you knew the guy already?’
‘Not before; afterwards. I never saw him before, but I saw him again on this very night of his disappearance. In my mother’s room, in fact. I left him there. You will read in this paper all that is known of him.’
'Not before; afterwards. I never saw him before, but I saw him again on this very night of his disappearance. In my mother’s room, actually. I left him there. You will read in this paper everything that is known about him.'
He handed her one of the printed bills, which she read with a steady and attentive face.
He gave her one of the printed bills, which she read with a calm and focused expression.
‘This is more than I knew of him,’ she said, giving it back. Clennam’s looks expressed his heavy disappointment, perhaps his incredulity; for she added in the same unsympathetic tone: ‘You don’t believe it. Still, it is so. As to personal communication: it seems that there was personal communication between him and your mother. And yet you say you believe her declaration that she knows no more of him!’
‘This is more than I knew about him,’ she said, handing it back. Clennam's expression showed his deep disappointment, maybe even disbelief; because she continued in the same unsympathetic tone: ‘You don’t believe it. But it's true. As for personal communication: it seems there was some communication between him and your mother. And still, you say you believe her claim that she knows nothing more about him!’
A sufficiently expressive hint of suspicion was conveyed in these words, and in the smile by which they were accompanied, to bring the blood into Clennam’s cheeks.
A clear hint of suspicion came through in these words, and in the smile that went along with them, enough to flush Clennam's cheeks.
‘Come, sir,’ she said, with a cruel pleasure in repeating the stab, ‘I will be as open with you as you can desire. I will confess that if I cared for my credit (which I do not), or had a good name to preserve (which I have not, for I am utterly indifferent to its being considered good or bad), I should regard myself as heavily compromised by having had anything to do with this fellow. Yet he never passed in at my door—never sat in colloquy with me until midnight.’
‘Come on, sir,’ she said, taking a cruel delight in repeating the jab, ‘I’ll be as honest with you as you want. I admit that if I cared about my reputation (which I don’t), or had a good name to protect (which I don’t, because I’m completely indifferent to whether it’s seen as good or bad), I would see myself as seriously compromised for having anything to do with this guy. But he never came through my door—never talked with me until midnight.’
She took her revenge for her old grudge in thus turning his subject against him. Hers was not the nature to spare him, and she had no compunction.
She got her revenge for her old grudge by turning his topic against him. She wasn’t the kind of person to hold back, and she felt no guilt.
‘That he is a low, mercenary wretch; that I first saw him prowling about Italy (where I was, not long ago), and that I hired him there, as the suitable instrument of a purpose I happened to have; I have no objection to tell you. In short, it was worth my while, for my own pleasure—the gratification of a strong feeling—to pay a spy who would fetch and carry for money. I paid this creature. And I dare say that if I had wanted to make such a bargain, and if I could have paid him enough, and if he could have done it in the dark, free from all risk, he would have taken any life with as little scruple as he took my money. That, at least, is my opinion of him; and I see it is not very far removed from yours. Your mother’s opinion of him, I am to assume (following your example of assuming this and that), was vastly different.’
‘He’s a deceitful, greedy guy; I first saw him lurking around Italy (where I was not long ago), and I hired him there for a specific purpose I needed to fulfill. I’m willing to admit that it was worth my while, for my own satisfaction—the satisfaction of a strong feeling—to pay a spy who would run errands for cash. I paid this guy. And I bet that if I had wanted to strike such a deal, and if I could have paid him enough, and if he could have done it without any risk, he would have taken any life with as little hesitation as he took my money. That’s my opinion of him, and I see it’s not too different from yours. I assume your mother’s opinion of him, following your lead in making such assumptions, was very different.’
‘My mother, let me remind you,’ said Clennam, ‘was first brought into communication with him in the unlucky course of business.’
‘My mother, just to remind you,’ said Clennam, ‘first got in touch with him during some bad business dealings.’
‘It appears to have been an unlucky course of business that last brought her into communication with him,’ returned Miss Wade; ‘and business hours on that occasion were late.’
‘It seems like that last interaction with him was due to some bad luck in her work,’ replied Miss Wade; ‘and the business hours that day were quite late.’
‘You imply,’ said Arthur, smarting under these cool-handed thrusts, of which he had deeply felt the force already, ‘that there was something—’
‘You’re suggesting,’ said Arthur, stung by these calm but piercing remarks, the impact of which he had already felt deeply, ‘that there was something—’
‘Mr Clennam,’ she composedly interrupted, ‘recollect that I do not speak by implication about the man. He is, I say again without disguise, a low mercenary wretch. I suppose such a creature goes where there is occasion for him. If I had not had occasion for him, you would not have seen him and me together.’
‘Mr. Clennam,’ she calmly interrupted, ‘remember that I’m not implying anything about the man. He is, I’ll repeat without hesitation, a low mercenary scoundrel. I assume someone like him goes where he’s needed. If I hadn't needed him, you wouldn't have seen the two of us together.’
Wrung by her persistence in keeping that dark side of the case before him, of which there was a half-hidden shadow in his own breast, Clennam was silent.
Squeezed by her insistence on bringing up the dark aspect of the case, which he knew was lurking in his own heart, Clennam stayed quiet.
‘I have spoken of him as still living,’ she added, ‘but he may have been put out of the way for anything I know. For anything I care, also. I have no further occasion for him.’
‘I talked about him as if he’s still alive,’ she added, ‘but he might have been taken care of for all I know. Frankly, I don’t care either. I have no reason to think of him anymore.’
With a heavy sigh and a despondent air, Arthur Clennam slowly rose. She did not rise also, but said, having looked at him in the meanwhile with a fixed look of suspicion, and lips angrily compressed:
With a deep sigh and a gloomy vibe, Arthur Clennam slowly got up. She didn’t get up too, but said, having stared at him with a suspicious gaze and tightly pressed lips:
‘He was the chosen associate of your dear friend, Mr Gowan, was he not? Why don’t you ask your dear friend to help you?’
‘He was Mr. Gowan's chosen associate, wasn’t he? Why don’t you ask your dear friend for help?’
The denial that he was a dear friend rose to Arthur’s lips; but he repressed it, remembering his old struggles and resolutions, and said:
The denial that he was a close friend almost escaped Arthur's lips; but he held it back, recalling his past struggles and commitments, and said:
‘Further than that he has never seen Blandois since Blandois set out for England, Mr Gowan knows nothing additional about him. He was a chance acquaintance, made abroad.’
‘Other than that, Mr. Gowan hasn’t seen Blandois since he left for England, and he doesn’t know anything else about him. They met by chance while traveling.’
‘A chance acquaintance made abroad!’ she repeated. ‘Yes. Your dear friend has need to divert himself with all the acquaintances he can make, seeing what a wife he has. I hate his wife, sir.’
“A random encounter while traveling!” she repeated. “Yes. Your dear friend needs to keep himself entertained with all the people he can meet, considering the wife he has. I can’t stand his wife, sir.”
The anger with which she said it, the more remarkable for being so much under her restraint, fixed Clennam’s attention, and kept him on the spot. It flashed out of her dark eyes as they regarded him, quivered in her nostrils, and fired the very breath she exhaled; but her face was otherwise composed into a disdainful serenity; and her attitude was as calmly and haughtily graceful as if she had been in a mood of complete indifference.
The anger with which she spoke, even more striking because she was controlling it so well, caught Clennam’s attention and held him there. It shone from her dark eyes as she looked at him, trembled in her nostrils, and ignited the very breath she let out; yet her face was otherwise arranged into a dismissive calmness, and her posture was as gracefully and haughtily composed as if she were completely indifferent.
‘All I will say is, Miss Wade,’ he remarked, ‘that you can have received no provocation to a feeling in which I believe you have no sharer.’
“All I’ll say is, Miss Wade,” he said, “is that you couldn’t have received any reason to feel something that I believe you don’t share with anyone else.”
‘You may ask your dear friend, if you choose,’ she returned, ‘for his opinion upon that subject.’
‘You can ask your dear friend, if you want,’ she replied, ‘for his opinion on that topic.’
‘I am scarcely on those intimate terms with my dear friend,’ said Arthur, in spite of his resolutions, ‘that would render my approaching the subject very probable, Miss Wade.’
‘I’m hardly close enough with my dear friend,’ said Arthur, despite his intentions, ‘to make bringing up the subject likely, Miss Wade.’
‘I hate him,’ she returned. ‘Worse than his wife, because I was once dupe enough, and false enough to myself, almost to love him. You have seen me, sir, only on common-place occasions, when I dare say you have thought me a common-place woman, a little more self-willed than the generality. You don’t know what I mean by hating, if you know me no better than that; you can’t know, without knowing with what care I have studied myself and people about me. For this reason I have for some time inclined to tell you what my life has been—not to propitiate your opinion, for I set no value on it; but that you may comprehend, when you think of your dear friend and his dear wife, what I mean by hating. Shall I give you something I have written and put by for your perusal, or shall I hold my hand?’
"I hate him," she replied. "Even more than his wife, because I was once foolish enough, and dishonest enough with myself, to almost love him. You've seen me, sir, only in ordinary situations, when I'm sure you've thought of me as just another ordinary woman, perhaps a bit more headstrong than most. You can't understand what I mean by hating if you know me no better than that; you can't know without realizing how carefully I have studied myself and the people around me. For this reason, I've been inclined for some time to share with you what my life has been—not to win your approval, since I don't care about that; but so you can understand, when you think of your dear friend and his dear wife, what I mean by hating. Should I share something I've written and set aside for you, or should I keep it to myself?"
Arthur begged her to give it to him. She went to the bureau, unlocked it, and took from an inner drawer a few folded sheets of paper. Without any conciliation of him, scarcely addressing him, rather speaking as if she were speaking to her own looking-glass for the justification of her own stubbornness, she said, as she gave them to him:
Arthur begged her to hand it over to him. She walked over to the desk, unlocked it, and pulled out a few folded sheets of paper from an inner drawer. Without any kindness towards him, barely acknowledging him, more like she was talking to her own reflection to justify her stubbornness, she said, as she handed them to him:
‘Now you may know what I mean by hating! No more of that. Sir, whether you find me temporarily and cheaply lodging in an empty London house, or in a Calais apartment, you find Harriet with me. You may like to see her before you leave. Harriet, come in!’ She called Harriet again. The second call produced Harriet, once Tattycoram.
‘Now you understand what I mean by hating! That’s enough of that. Sir, whether you find me temporarily and cheaply staying in an empty London house, or in an apartment in Calais, you'll find Harriet with me. You might want to see her before you leave. Harriet, come in!’ She called for Harriet again. The second call brought in Harriet, who was once Tattycoram.
‘Here is Mr Clennam,’ said Miss Wade; ‘not come for you; he has given you up,—I suppose you have, by this time?’
‘Here is Mr. Clennam,’ said Miss Wade; ‘not here for you; he has given you up,—I guess you have, by now?’
‘Having no authority, or influence—yes,’ assented Clennam.
"Without any authority or influence—yes," agreed Clennam.
‘Not come in search of you, you see; but still seeking some one. He wants that Blandois man.’
‘Not here looking for you, you know; but still searching for someone. He wants that Blandois guy.’
‘With whom I saw you in the Strand in London,’ hinted Arthur.
"Who I saw you with in the Strand in London," hinted Arthur.
‘If you know anything of him, Harriet, except that he came from Venice—which we all know—tell it to Mr Clennam freely.’
‘If you know anything about him, Harriet, other than that he came from Venice—which we all know—feel free to share it with Mr. Clennam.’
‘I know nothing more about him,’ said the girl.
‘I don’t know anything else about him,’ said the girl.
‘Are you satisfied?’ Miss Wade inquired of Arthur.
“Are you satisfied?” Miss Wade asked Arthur.
He had no reason to disbelieve them; the girl’s manner being so natural as to be almost convincing, if he had had any previous doubts. He replied, ‘I must seek for intelligence elsewhere.’
He had no reason to doubt them; the girl's behavior felt so genuine that it was almost convincing, even if he had had any prior doubts. He replied, "I need to look for answers elsewhere."
He was not going in the same breath; but he had risen before the girl entered, and she evidently thought he was. She looked quickly at him, and said:
He wasn't going to say it right away; but he had gotten up before the girl walked in, and she clearly thought he was. She glanced at him quickly and said:
‘Are they well, sir?’
"Are they doing well, sir?"
‘Who?’
'Who?'
She stopped herself in saying what would have been ‘all of them;’ glanced at Miss Wade; and said ‘Mr and Mrs Meagles.’
She caught herself before saying ‘all of them;’ looked at Miss Wade; and said ‘Mr and Mrs Meagles.’
‘They were, when I last heard of them. They are not at home. By the way, let me ask you. Is it true that you were seen there?’
‘They were, when I last heard from them. They aren't home. By the way, let me ask you. Is it true that you were seen there?’
‘Where? Where does any one say I was seen?’ returned the girl, sullenly casting down her eyes.
‘Where? Where does anyone say I was seen?’ the girl replied, sullenly looking down.
‘Looking in at the garden gate of the cottage.’
‘Looking in at the garden gate of the cottage.’
‘No,’ said Miss Wade. ‘She has never been near it.’
‘No,’ said Miss Wade. ‘She has never been close to it.’
‘You are wrong, then,’ said the girl. ‘I went down there the last time we were in London. I went one afternoon when you left me alone. And I did look in.’
'You're wrong, then,' said the girl. 'I went down there the last time we were in London. I went one afternoon when you left me by myself. And I did take a look.'
‘You poor-spirited girl,’ returned Miss Wade with infinite contempt; ‘does all our companionship, do all our conversations, do all your old complainings, tell for so little as that?’
“You poor-spirited girl,” Miss Wade replied with complete disdain; “does all our time together, do all our talks, do all your old complaints, count for so little as that?”
‘There was no harm in looking in at the gate for an instant,’ said the girl. ‘I saw by the windows that the family were not there.’
‘There’s no harm in taking a quick look at the gate,’ said the girl. ‘I could tell from the windows that the family wasn’t home.’
‘Why should you go near the place?’
‘Why would you go near that place?’
‘Because I wanted to see it. Because I felt that I should like to look at it again.’
‘Because I wanted to see it. Because I felt that I would like to look at it again.’
As each of the two handsome faces looked at the other, Clennam felt how each of the two natures must be constantly tearing the other to pieces.
As each of the two attractive faces looked at each other, Clennam sensed how each of their personalities must be constantly ripping the other apart.
‘Oh!’ said Miss Wade, coldly subduing and removing her glance; ‘if you had any desire to see the place where you led the life from which I rescued you because you had found out what it was, that is another thing. But is that your truth to me? Is that your fidelity to me? Is that the common cause I make with you? You are not worth the confidence I have placed in you. You are not worth the favour I have shown you. You are no higher than a spaniel, and had better go back to the people who did worse than whip you.’
"’Oh!’ said Miss Wade, coldly looking away; ‘if you wanted to see the place where you lived the life I saved you from because you realized how bad it was, that's a different story. But is that your honesty with me? Is that your loyalty to me? Is that the shared struggle I have with you? You don't deserve the trust I've given you. You don't deserve the kindness I've shown you. You're no better than a spaniel, and you might as well go back to the people who treated you even worse than that.’”
‘If you speak so of them with any one else by to hear, you’ll provoke me to take their part,’ said the girl.
"If you talk about them like that with anyone around to hear, you'll make me want to defend them," said the girl.
‘Go back to them,’ Miss Wade retorted. ‘Go back to them.’
‘Go back to them,’ Miss Wade shot back. ‘Go back to them.’
‘You know very well,’ retorted Harriet in her turn, ‘that I won’t go back to them. You know very well that I have thrown them off, and never can, never shall, never will, go back to them. Let them alone, then, Miss Wade.’
‘You know very well,’ Harriet shot back, ‘that I’m not going back to them. You know I’ve completely cut ties, and I can never, never will, go back to them. Just leave them alone, then, Miss Wade.’
‘You prefer their plenty to your less fat living here,’ she rejoined. ‘You exalt them, and slight me. What else should I have expected? I ought to have known it.’
‘You prefer their abundance to your less comfortable life here,’ she replied. ‘You praise them and overlook me. What else could I have expected? I should have known that.’
‘It’s not so,’ said the girl, flushing high, ‘and you don’t say what you mean. I know what you mean. You are reproaching me, underhanded, with having nobody but you to look to. And because I have nobody but you to look to, you think you are to make me do, or not do, everything you please, and are to put any affront upon me. You are as bad as they were, every bit. But I will not be quite tamed, and made submissive. I will say again that I went to look at the house, because I had often thought that I should like to see it once more. I will ask again how they are, because I once liked them and at times thought they were kind to me.’
“It’s not true,” the girl said, blushing deeply. “You’re not saying what you actually mean. I know what you’re implying. You’re subtly blaming me for having nobody to rely on but you. And since I have no one else, you think you can make me do whatever you want and insult me however you like. You’re just as bad as they were, every bit. But I won’t be completely tamed or made submissive. I’ll say again that I went to see the house because I often thought it would be nice to see it one more time. I’ll ask again how they’re doing because I once liked them and sometimes thought they were kind to me.”
Hereupon Clennam said that he was sure they would still receive her kindly, if she should ever desire to return.
Here, Clennam said he was sure they would still welcome her warmly if she ever wanted to come back.
‘Never!’ said the girl passionately. ‘I shall never do that. Nobody knows that better than Miss Wade, though she taunts me because she has made me her dependent. And I know I am so; and I know she is overjoyed when she can bring it to my mind.’
‘Never!’ said the girl passionately. ‘I will never do that. No one knows that better than Miss Wade, even though she mocks me because she has made me reliant on her. And I know I am reliant, and I know she delights in reminding me of it.’
‘A good pretence!’ said Miss Wade, with no less anger, haughtiness, and bitterness; ‘but too threadbare to cover what I plainly see in this. My poverty will not bear competition with their money. Better go back at once, better go back at once, and have done with it!’
‘A good act!’ said Miss Wade, just as angry, proud, and bitter; ‘but it's too worn out to hide what I can clearly see in this. My lack of money can't compete with their wealth. It’s better to just go back now, better to just go back now, and be done with it!’
Arthur Clennam looked at them, standing a little distance asunder in the dull confined room, each proudly cherishing her own anger; each, with a fixed determination, torturing her own breast, and torturing the other’s. He said a word or two of leave-taking; but Miss Wade barely inclined her head, and Harriet, with the assumed humiliation of an abject dependent and serf (but not without defiance for all that), made as if she were too low to notice or to be noticed.
Arthur Clennam looked at them, standing a bit apart in the dull, cramped room, each one proudly holding onto her own anger; both, with a determined resolve, hurting themselves and each other. He said a word or two of goodbye; but Miss Wade barely nodded, and Harriet, pretending to be the humiliated dependent and servant (but still defiantly so), acted as if she were too insignificant to acknowledge or be acknowledged.
He came down the dark winding stairs into the yard with an increased sense upon him of the gloom of the wall that was dead, and of the shrubs that were dead, and of the fountain that was dry, and of the statue that was gone. Pondering much on what he had seen and heard in that house, as well as on the failure of all his efforts to trace the suspicious character who was lost, he returned to London and to England by the packet that had taken him over. On the way he unfolded the sheets of paper, and read in them what is reproduced in the next chapter.
He came down the dark, winding stairs into the yard, feeling even more aware of the gloomy, lifeless wall, the dead shrubs, the dry fountain, and the missing statue. He thought a lot about what he had seen and heard in that house, along with his unsuccessful attempts to find the mysterious person who had vanished. He returned to London and England on the same boat that had brought him over. On the way back, he opened the sheets of paper and read what is included in the next chapter.
CHAPTER 21. The History of a Self-Tormentor
I have the misfortune of not being a fool. From a very early age I have detected what those about me thought they hid from me. If I could have been habitually imposed upon, instead of habitually discerning the truth, I might have lived as smoothly as most fools do.
I have the unfortunate luck of not being ignorant. From a young age, I could see what those around me thought they were hiding. If I could have been regularly deceived, instead of consistently seeing the truth, I might have lived as effortlessly as most people do.
My childhood was passed with a grandmother; that is to say, with a lady who represented that relative to me, and who took that title on herself. She had no claim to it, but I—being to that extent a little fool—had no suspicion of her. She had some children of her own family in her house, and some children of other people. All girls; ten in number, including me. We all lived together and were educated together.
My childhood was spent with my grandmother; that is to say, with a woman who filled that role for me and took on that title herself. She had no real claim to it, but I—being a bit naive—had no doubts about her. She had some of her own kids living with her, along with some kids from other families. All girls; there were ten of us, including me. We all lived together and were educated together.
I must have been about twelve years old when I began to see how determinedly those girls patronised me. I was told I was an orphan. There was no other orphan among us; and I perceived (here was the first disadvantage of not being a fool) that they conciliated me in an insolent pity, and in a sense of superiority. I did not set this down as a discovery, rashly. I tried them often. I could hardly make them quarrel with me. When I succeeded with any of them, they were sure to come after an hour or two, and begin a reconciliation. I tried them over and over again, and I never knew them wait for me to begin. They were always forgiving me, in their vanity and condescension. Little images of grown people!
I must have been about twelve when I started to notice how those girls looked down on me. I was told I was an orphan. There were no other orphans among us, and I realized (this was the first downside of not being naive) that they treated me with a mix of arrogant pity and a sense of superiority. I didn't take this as a revelation lightly. I tested them often. I could barely get them to fight with me. When I did manage to get into a quarrel with any of them, they would definitely come back after an hour or two to make up. I tried this over and over again, and they never waited for me to initiate the reconciliation. They were always the ones forgiving me, in their vanity and condescension. Like little versions of adults!
One of them was my chosen friend. I loved that stupid mite in a passionate way that she could no more deserve than I can remember without feeling ashamed of, though I was but a child. She had what they called an amiable temper, an affectionate temper. She could distribute, and did distribute pretty looks and smiles to every one among them. I believe there was not a soul in the place, except myself, who knew that she did it purposely to wound and gall me!
One of them was my best friend. I loved that silly little thing in a passionate way that she didn't deserve any more than I can remember without feeling embarrassed, even though I was just a kid. She had what people called a friendly nature, a loving nature. She could give out, and did give out, pretty looks and smiles to everyone around her. I honestly believe there wasn't a single person there, except me, who knew that she did it intentionally to hurt and annoy me!
Nevertheless, I so loved that unworthy girl that my life was made stormy by my fondness for her. I was constantly lectured and disgraced for what was called ‘trying her;’ in other words charging her with her little perfidy and throwing her into tears by showing her that I read her heart. However, I loved her faithfully; and one time I went home with her for the holidays.
Nevertheless, I loved that unworthy girl so much that my life became chaotic because of my affection for her. I was constantly scolded and embarrassed for what was referred to as 'testing her'; in other words, I would accuse her of her little betrayals and make her cry by showing her that I could see right through her. Still, I loved her faithfully, and on one occasion, I went home with her for the holidays.
She was worse at home than she had been at school. She had a crowd of cousins and acquaintances, and we had dances at her house, and went out to dances at other houses, and, both at home and out, she tormented my love beyond endurance. Her plan was, to make them all fond of her—and so drive me wild with jealousy. To be familiar and endearing with them all—and so make me mad with envying them. When we were left alone in our bedroom at night, I would reproach her with my perfect knowledge of her baseness; and then she would cry and cry and say I was cruel, and then I would hold her in my arms till morning: loving her as much as ever, and often feeling as if, rather than suffer so, I could so hold her in my arms and plunge to the bottom of a river—where I would still hold her after we were both dead.
She was even worse at home than she had been at school. She had a bunch of cousins and friends, and we had dances at her house, and went to dances at other places, and both at home and out, she drove me crazy with jealousy. Her plan was to make everyone love her—and make me go wild with envy. She acted familiar and sweet with them all—and made me mad wishing I could be like them. When we were alone in our bedroom at night, I would confront her with my complete awareness of her deceit; then she would cry and say I was being cruel, and I would hold her in my arms until morning: loving her just as much as ever, often feeling like I could just hold her like that and jump into a river—where I would still hold her even after we were both gone.
It came to an end, and I was relieved. In the family there was an aunt who was not fond of me. I doubt if any of the family liked me much; but I never wanted them to like me, being altogether bound up in the one girl. The aunt was a young woman, and she had a serious way with her eyes of watching me. She was an audacious woman, and openly looked compassionately at me. After one of the nights that I have spoken of, I came down into a greenhouse before breakfast. Charlotte (the name of my false young friend) had gone down before me, and I heard this aunt speaking to her about me as I entered. I stopped where I was, among the leaves, and listened.
It finally ended, and I felt a sense of relief. In the family, there was an aunt who didn’t really like me. I doubt any of them were particularly fond of me, but I never wanted their approval; I was completely focused on one girl. The aunt was a young woman, and she had this serious way of watching me with her eyes. She was bold and looked at me with a mix of compassion. After one of those nights I mentioned, I went down to a greenhouse before breakfast. Charlotte (the name of my deceitful young friend) had gone down ahead of me, and as I entered, I heard the aunt talking to her about me. I stopped where I was, among the leaves, and listened.
The aunt said, ‘Charlotte, Miss Wade is wearing you to death, and this must not continue.’ I repeat the very words I heard.
The aunt said, "Charlotte, Miss Wade is wearing you out, and this can't go on." I'm just repeating exactly what I heard.
Now, what did she answer? Did she say, ‘It is I who am wearing her to death, I who am keeping her on a rack and am the executioner, yet she tells me every night that she loves me devotedly, though she knows what I make her undergo?’ No; my first memorable experience was true to what I knew her to be, and to all my experience. She began sobbing and weeping (to secure the aunt’s sympathy to herself), and said, ‘Dear aunt, she has an unhappy temper; other girls at school, besides I, try hard to make it better; we all try hard.’
Now, what did she say in response? Did she say, ‘I’m the one pushing her to her breaking point, I’m the one torturing her, yet she tells me every night that she loves me deeply, even though she knows what I put her through?’ No; my first significant experience reflected who she really was and all that I had witnessed. She started crying and sobbing (to gain the aunt’s sympathy), and said, ‘Dear aunt, she has a tough temperament; other girls at school, besides me, do their best to help her; we all try really hard.’
Upon that the aunt fondled her, as if she had said something noble instead of despicable and false, and kept up the infamous pretence by replying, ‘But there are reasonable limits, my dear love, to everything, and I see that this poor miserable girl causes you more constant and useless distress than even so good an effort justifies.’
Upon that, the aunt hugged her, as if she had said something admirable instead of shameful and untrue, and maintained the terrible pretense by replying, 'But there are reasonable limits, my dear, to everything, and I see that this poor, miserable girl brings you more constant and pointless distress than even such a good effort justifies.'
The poor miserable girl came out of her concealment, as you may be prepared to hear, and said, ‘Send me home.’ I never said another word to either of them, or to any of them, but ‘Send me home, or I will walk home alone, night and day!’ When I got home, I told my supposed grandmother that, unless I was sent away to finish my education somewhere else before that girl came back, or before any one of them came back, I would burn my sight away by throwing myself into the fire, rather than I would endure to look at their plotting faces.
The poor, miserable girl came out of hiding, as you might expect, and said, ‘Send me home.’ I didn’t say another word to either of them, but just kept saying, ‘Send me home, or I’ll walk home by myself, night and day!’ When I got home, I told my supposed grandmother that if I wasn’t sent away to finish my education somewhere else before that girl came back, or before any of them returned, I would burn my eyes out by throwing myself into the fire, instead of having to look at their scheming faces.
I went among young women next, and I found them no better. Fair words and fair pretences; but I penetrated below those assertions of themselves and depreciations of me, and they were no better. Before I left them, I learned that I had no grandmother and no recognised relation. I carried the light of that information both into my past and into my future. It showed me many new occasions on which people triumphed over me, when they made a pretence of treating me with consideration, or doing me a service.
I then spent time with young women, and I discovered they were no different. They had nice words and good appearances, but I saw through their claims about themselves and their belittling of me, and they were still no better. Before I left, I found out that I had no grandmother or any acknowledged relatives. I took that knowledge with me as I reflected on my past and looked ahead to my future. It revealed many new instances where people had taken advantage of me while pretending to show me kindness or doing me a favor.
A man of business had a small property in trust for me. I was to be a governess; I became a governess; and went into the family of a poor nobleman, where there were two daughters—little children, but the parents wished them to grow up, if possible, under one instructress. The mother was young and pretty. From the first, she made a show of behaving to me with great delicacy. I kept my resentment to myself; but I knew very well that it was her way of petting the knowledge that she was my Mistress, and might have behaved differently to her servant if it had been her fancy.
A businessman held a small property in trust for me. I was meant to be a governess; I became a governess and joined the family of a poor nobleman, who had two daughters—little kids, but the parents wanted them to grow up, if possible, under one teacher. The mother was young and attractive. From the start, she acted as if she was treating me with great care. I kept my anger to myself, but I knew very well that it was just her way of acknowledging that she was my superior, and she could have treated her servant differently if she had wanted to.
I say I did not resent it, nor did I; but I showed her, by not gratifying her, that I understood her. When she pressed me to take wine, I took water. If there happened to be anything choice at table, she always sent it to me: but I always declined it, and ate of the rejected dishes. These disappointments of her patronage were a sharp retort, and made me feel independent.
I say I didn’t resent it, and I really didn’t; but I showed her that I understood her by not giving in to her. When she urged me to drink wine, I chose water instead. Whenever there was something special at the table, she always sent it my way, but I always turned it down and ate from the leftover dishes. These rejections of her generosity were a strong comeback and made me feel independent.
I liked the children. They were timid, but on the whole disposed to attach themselves to me. There was a nurse, however, in the house, a rosy-faced woman always making an obtrusive pretence of being gay and good-humoured, who had nursed them both, and who had secured their affections before I saw them. I could almost have settled down to my fate but for this woman. Her artful devices for keeping herself before the children in constant competition with me, might have blinded many in my place; but I saw through them from the first. On the pretext of arranging my rooms and waiting on me and taking care of my wardrobe (all of which she did busily), she was never absent. The most crafty of her many subtleties was her feint of seeking to make the children fonder of me. She would lead them to me and coax them to me. ‘Come to good Miss Wade, come to dear Miss Wade, come to pretty Miss Wade. She loves you very much. Miss Wade is a clever lady, who has read heaps of books, and can tell you far better and more interesting stories than I know. Come and hear Miss Wade!’ How could I engage their attentions, when my heart was burning against these ignorant designs? How could I wonder, when I saw their innocent faces shrinking away, and their arms twining round her neck, instead of mine? Then she would look up at me, shaking their curls from her face, and say, ‘They’ll come round soon, Miss Wade; they’re very simple and loving, ma’am; don’t be at all cast down about it, ma’am’—exulting over me!
I liked the kids. They were shy, but overall they seemed to warm up to me. However, there was a nurse in the house, a rosy-faced woman who always put on a show of being cheerful and friendly. She had cared for both of them and had won their affection before I had the chance to meet them. I could almost have accepted my situation if it weren't for her. Her sneaky tactics to keep herself in constant competition with me might have fooled others, but I saw right through them from the start. Under the guise of organizing my rooms, helping me, and managing my wardrobe (which she did with great enthusiasm), she was always around. The cleverest of her many tricks was pretending to make the kids like me more. She would lead them to me and encourage them to come closer. “Come to good Miss Wade, come to dear Miss Wade, come to pretty Miss Wade. She loves you very much. Miss Wade is a smart lady who has read tons of books and can tell you way better and more interesting stories than I know. Come and listen to Miss Wade!” How could I capture their attention when my heart was burning against these manipulative tactics? How could I not feel disheartened when I saw their innocent faces pulling away and their arms wrapping around her neck instead of mine? Then she would look up at me, shaking their curls from her face, and say, “They’ll warm up to you soon, Miss Wade; they’re very simple and loving, ma’am; don’t feel down about it, ma’am”—gloating over me!
There was another thing the woman did. At times, when she saw that she had safely plunged me into a black despondent brooding by these means, she would call the attention of the children to it, and would show them the difference between herself and me. ‘Hush! Poor Miss Wade is not well. Don’t make a noise, my dears, her head aches. Come and comfort her. Come and ask her if she is better; come and ask her to lie down. I hope you have nothing on your mind, ma’am. Don’t take on, ma’am, and be sorry!’
There was one more thing the woman did. Sometimes, when she realized she had successfully dragged me into a deep, dark sadness, she would get the kids' attention and point out the difference between us. "Hush! Poor Miss Wade isn’t feeling well. Keep it down, my dears; her head hurts. Come and comfort her. Ask her if she's feeling any better; ask her to lie down. I hope you’re not worried about anything, ma’am. Don’t distress yourself, ma’am, and don’t feel sad!"
It became intolerable. Her ladyship, my Mistress, coming in one day when I was alone, and at the height of feeling that I could support it no longer, I told her I must go. I could not bear the presence of that woman Dawes.
It became unbearable. My lady, my Mistress, came in one day while I was alone, and at the peak of feeling like I couldn't handle it anymore, I told her I had to leave. I couldn't stand being around that woman Dawes.
‘Miss Wade! Poor Dawes is devoted to you; would do anything for you!’
‘Miss Wade! Poor Dawes is really devoted to you; would do anything for you!’
I knew beforehand she would say so; I was quite prepared for it; I only answered, it was not for me to contradict my Mistress; I must go.
I knew she would say that; I was totally ready for it; I just replied that it wasn't for me to argue with my Mistress; I had to go.
‘I hope, Miss Wade,’ she returned, instantly assuming the tone of superiority she had always so thinly concealed, ‘that nothing I have ever said or done since we have been together, has justified your use of that disagreeable word, “Mistress.” It must have been wholly inadvertent on my part. Pray tell me what it is.’
‘I hope, Miss Wade,’ she replied, immediately adopting the tone of superiority she had always tried to hide, ‘that nothing I’ve ever said or done since we’ve been together has justified your use of that unpleasant word, “Mistress.” It must have been completely unintentional on my part. Please tell me what it is.’
I replied that I had no complaint to make, either of my Mistress or to my Mistress; but I must go.
I replied that I had no complaints about my Mistress or to my Mistress; but I had to leave.
She hesitated a moment, and then sat down beside me, and laid her hand on mine. As if that honour would obliterate any remembrance!
She paused for a moment, then sat down next to me and placed her hand on mine. As if that gesture could erase any memory!
‘Miss Wade, I fear you are unhappy, through causes over which I have no influence.’
‘Miss Wade, I'm afraid you're unhappy because of things I can't control.’
I smiled, thinking of the experience the word awakened, and said, ‘I have an unhappy temper, I suppose.’
I smiled, recalling the memories the word brought to mind, and said, ‘I guess I have a bad temper.’
‘I did not say that.’
"I didn't say that."
‘It is an easy way of accounting for anything,’ said I.
“It's an easy way to keep track of anything,” I said.
‘It may be; but I did not say so. What I wish to approach is something very different. My husband and I have exchanged some remarks upon the subject, when we have observed with pain that you have not been easy with us.’
‘It might be; but I never said that. What I want to discuss is something entirely different. My husband and I have had some conversations about this, as we've noticed with concern that you haven't felt comfortable with us.’
‘Easy? Oh! You are such great people, my lady,’ said I.
"Easy? Oh! You are such wonderful people, my lady," I said.
‘I am unfortunate in using a word which may convey a meaning—and evidently does—quite opposite to my intention.’ (She had not expected my reply, and it shamed her.) ‘I only mean, not happy with us. It is a difficult topic to enter on; but, from one young woman to another, perhaps—in short, we have been apprehensive that you may allow some family circumstances of which no one can be more innocent than yourself, to prey upon your spirits. If so, let us entreat you not to make them a cause of grief. My husband himself, as is well known, formerly had a very dear sister who was not in law his sister, but who was universally beloved and respected—’
‘I’m sorry for using a word that might suggest something completely different from what I mean.’ (She hadn’t expected my response, and it embarrassed her.) ‘What I really mean is that you seem unhappy with us. It’s a tough subject to bring up, but, woman to woman, perhaps—in short, we’ve been worried that you might let some family issues, of which you are completely innocent, weigh on your mind. If that’s the case, please don’t let them cause you any sadness. My husband, as many know, used to have a very beloved sister who, legally, wasn’t his sister, but who everyone loved and respected—’
I saw directly that they had taken me in for the sake of the dead woman, whoever she was, and to have that boast of me and advantage of me; I saw, in the nurse’s knowledge of it, an encouragement to goad me as she had done; and I saw, in the children’s shrinking away, a vague impression, that I was not like other people. I left that house that night.
I realized right away that they had brought me in because of the deceased woman, whoever she was, and to use me for their own gain; I noticed, in the nurse's awareness of this, a push to provoke me as she had done; and I sensed, in the way the children recoiled, an unclear feeling that I was different from others. I left that house that night.
After one or two short and very similar experiences, which are not to the present purpose, I entered another family where I had but one pupil: a girl of fifteen, who was the only daughter. The parents here were elderly people: people of station, and rich. A nephew whom they had brought up was a frequent visitor at the house, among many other visitors; and he began to pay me attention. I was resolute in repulsing him; for I had determined when I went there, that no one should pity me or condescend to me. But he wrote me a letter. It led to our being engaged to be married.
After a couple of brief and very similar experiences, which aren't relevant now, I joined another family where I had only one student: a fifteen-year-old girl, who was their only daughter. The parents were older, well-off, and of high social standing. A nephew they had raised often visited the house, along with many other guests, and he started paying attention to me. I was determined to push him away because I had decided when I arrived that I wouldn’t let anyone pity me or look down on me. But then he wrote me a letter, which led to us getting engaged.
He was a year younger than I, and young-looking even when that allowance was made. He was on absence from India, where he had a post that was soon to grow into a very good one. In six months we were to be married, and were to go to India. I was to stay in the house, and was to be married from the house. Nobody objected to any part of the plan.
He was a year younger than me and looked even younger when you considered that. He was on leave from India, where he had a job that was set to become really good soon. In six months, we were getting married and heading to India. I was going to stay in the house and get married from there. Nobody had any objections to any part of the plan.
I cannot avoid saying he admired me; but, if I could, I would. Vanity has nothing to do with the declaration, for his admiration worried me. He took no pains to hide it; and caused me to feel among the rich people as if he had bought me for my looks, and made a show of his purchase to justify himself. They appraised me in their own minds, I saw, and were curious to ascertain what my full value was. I resolved that they should not know. I was immovable and silent before them; and would have suffered any one of them to kill me sooner than I would have laid myself out to bespeak their approval.
I can't help but say he admired me; but if I could, I would. Vanity has nothing to do with this, as his admiration made me uneasy. He didn’t try to hide it, and it made me feel like among the wealthy, he had purchased me for my looks and was showing off his purchase to justify himself. I could tell they were sizing me up and curious to figure out my worth. I decided they wouldn't find out. I stayed stoic and silent in front of them; I would rather let any one of them kill me than put myself out there to win their approval.
He told me I did not do myself justice. I told him I did, and it was because I did and meant to do so to the last, that I would not stoop to propitiate any of them. He was concerned and even shocked, when I added that I wished he would not parade his attachment before them; but he said he would sacrifice even the honest impulses of his affection to my peace.
He told me I wasn't showing my true self. I replied that I was, and it was precisely because I was and intended to do so until the end that I wouldn’t lower myself to please any of them. He looked worried and even shocked when I mentioned that I hoped he wouldn't flaunt his feelings in front of them; but he said he would set aside even his genuine feelings for my peace.
Under that pretence he began to retort upon me. By the hour together, he would keep at a distance from me, talking to any one rather than to me. I have sat alone and unnoticed, half an evening, while he conversed with his young cousin, my pupil. I have seen all the while, in people’s eyes, that they thought the two looked nearer on an equality than he and I. I have sat, divining their thoughts, until I have felt that his young appearance made me ridiculous, and have raged against myself for ever loving him.
Under that pretense, he started to snap back at me. For hours, he kept his distance, chatting with anyone but me. I sat alone and ignored for half an evening while he talked to his young cousin, my student. I could see in people’s eyes that they thought the two of them were more equal than he and I were. I sat there, figuring out their thoughts, until I felt that his youthful looks made me look silly and I got angry with myself for ever loving him.
For I did love him once. Undeserving as he was, and little as he thought of all these agonies that it cost me—agonies which should have made him wholly and gratefully mine to his life’s end—I loved him. I bore with his cousin’s praising him to my face, and with her pretending to think that it pleased me, but full well knowing that it rankled in my breast; for his sake. While I have sat in his presence recalling all my slights and wrongs, and deliberating whether I should not fly from the house at once and never see him again—I have loved him.
For I did love him once. Unworthy as he was, and despite how little he valued all the pain it caused me—pain that should have made him entirely and gratefully mine for life—I loved him. I endured his cousin praising him to my face and her pretending that it made me happy, all while I knew it hurt deep down; all for him. While I sat in his presence, remembering all my slights and wrongs, and contemplating whether I should just leave the house right then and never see him again—I loved him.
His aunt (my Mistress you will please to remember) deliberately, wilfully, added to my trials and vexations. It was her delight to expatiate on the style in which we were to live in India, and on the establishment we should keep, and the company we should entertain when he got his advancement. My pride rose against this barefaced way of pointing out the contrast my married life was to present to my then dependent and inferior position. I suppressed my indignation; but I showed her that her intention was not lost upon me, and I repaid her annoyance by affecting humility. What she described would surely be a great deal too much honour for me, I would tell her. I was afraid I might not be able to support so great a change. Think of a mere governess, her daughter’s governess, coming to that high distinction! It made her uneasy, and made them all uneasy, when I answered in this way. They knew that I fully understood her.
His aunt (please remember, my Mistress) purposely added to my hardships and frustrations. She loved to talk about the lifestyle we’d have in India, the kind of home we’d maintain, and the guests we’d host once he got promoted. My pride rebelled against her blatant way of highlighting how different my future married life would be compared to my then dependent and lower status. I held back my anger, but I made it clear that I saw through her intentions, and I responded to her irritation by pretending to be humble. I would tell her that what she described would be way too much honor for me. I worried that I might not be able to handle such a huge change. Just think of a mere governess, the governess of her daughter, coming into such high status! It made her uneasy, and it made them all uneasy when I responded this way. They knew I completely understood her.
It was at the time when my troubles were at their highest, and when I was most incensed against my lover for his ingratitude in caring as little as he did for the innumerable distresses and mortifications I underwent on his account, that your dear friend, Mr Gowan, appeared at the house. He had been intimate there for a long time, but had been abroad. He understood the state of things at a glance, and he understood me.
It was during the peak of my struggles, when I was angriest at my lover for his lack of gratitude, for being so indifferent to the countless hardships and humiliations I endured because of him, that your good friend, Mr. Gowan, showed up at the house. He had been close to us for a long time but had been overseas. He grasped the situation immediately, and he understood me.
He was the first person I had ever seen in my life who had understood me. He was not in the house three times before I knew that he accompanied every movement of my mind. In his coldly easy way with all of them, and with me, and with the whole subject, I saw it clearly. In his light protestations of admiration of my future husband, in his enthusiasm regarding our engagement and our prospects, in his hopeful congratulations on our future wealth and his despondent references to his own poverty—all equally hollow, and jesting, and full of mockery—I saw it clearly. He made me feel more and more resentful, and more and more contemptible, by always presenting to me everything that surrounded me with some new hateful light upon it, while he pretended to exhibit it in its best aspect for my admiration and his own. He was like the dressed-up Death in the Dutch series; whatever figure he took upon his arm, whether it was youth or age, beauty or ugliness, whether he danced with it, sang with it, played with it, or prayed with it, he made it ghastly.
He was the first person I had ever met who really understood me. He hadn't even been in the house three times before I realized he was in sync with every thought I had. His casual indifference towards everyone, including me, and the entire situation made it clear. His faint compliments about my future husband, his excitement about our engagement and our future, his enthusiastic congratulations on our financial prospects, and his gloomy comments about his own poverty—all of it felt empty, sarcastic, and mocking. I felt more resentful and more contemptible as he kept casting everything around me in a new, disgusting light, all while pretending to show it in a way that I should admire, or so he could admire it himself. He was like the dressed-up Death in the Dutch paintings; no matter whom he took by the arm—whether young or old, beautiful or ugly, dancing, singing, playing, or praying with them—he made it all seem horrifying.
You will understand, then, that when your dear friend complimented me, he really condoled with me; that when he soothed me under my vexations, he laid bare every smarting wound I had; that when he declared my ‘faithful swain’ to be ‘the most loving young fellow in the world, with the tenderest heart that ever beat,’ he touched my old misgiving that I was made ridiculous. These were not great services, you may say. They were acceptable to me, because they echoed my own mind, and confirmed my own knowledge. I soon began to like the society of your dear friend better than any other.
You can see, then, that when your dear friend complimented me, he was really expressing sympathy; that when he comforted me during my troubles, he exposed every painful wound I had; that when he called my 'faithful partner' 'the most loving young guy in the world, with the kindest heart ever,' he hit on my old fear that I looked foolish. You might say these weren't huge favors. Still, they meant a lot to me because they reflected my own thoughts and reinforced my own understanding. I quickly started to enjoy your dear friend’s company more than anyone else's.
When I perceived (which I did, almost as soon) that jealousy was growing out of this, I liked this society still better. Had I not been subject to jealousy, and were the endurances to be all mine? No. Let him know what it was! I was delighted that he should know it; I was delighted that he should feel keenly, and I hoped he did. More than that. He was tame in comparison with Mr Gowan, who knew how to address me on equal terms, and how to anatomise the wretched people around us.
When I realized (which I did, almost immediately) that jealousy was growing out of this, I liked this group even more. If I hadn’t been feeling jealous, would all the hardships fall on me? No. Let him see what it was! I was thrilled that he should know it; I was glad that he should feel it deeply, and I hoped he did. Even more than that. He seemed tame compared to Mr. Gowan, who knew how to talk to me as an equal and how to analyze the miserable people around us.
This went on, until the aunt, my Mistress, took it upon herself to speak to me. It was scarcely worth alluding to; she knew I meant nothing; but she suggested from herself, knowing it was only necessary to suggest, that it might be better if I were a little less companionable with Mr Gowan.
This continued until my aunt, my Mistress, decided to talk to me. It was hardly worth mentioning; she understood I meant no harm, but she hinted, knowing it was just a suggestion, that it might be better if I were a bit less friendly with Mr. Gowan.
I asked her how she could answer for what I meant? She could always answer, she replied, for my meaning nothing wrong. I thanked her, but said I would prefer to answer for myself and to myself. Her other servants would probably be grateful for good characters, but I wanted none.
I asked her how she could speak for my intentions. She replied that she could always explain my meaning, and it was nothing bad. I thanked her, but said I would rather speak for myself and to myself. Her other servants might appreciate a good reputation, but I wanted none.
Other conversation followed, and induced me to ask her how she knew that it was only necessary for her to make a suggestion to me, to have it obeyed? Did she presume on my birth, or on my hire? I was not bought, body and soul. She seemed to think that her distinguished nephew had gone into a slave-market and purchased a wife.
Other conversation followed, which led me to ask her how she knew that just making a suggestion to me was enough for me to follow it. Did she think it was because of my background or my job? I wasn’t for sale, body and soul. She seemed to believe that her esteemed nephew had gone to a slave market and bought himself a wife.
It would probably have come, sooner or later, to the end to which it did come, but she brought it to its issue at once. She told me, with assumed commiseration, that I had an unhappy temper. On this repetition of the old wicked injury, I withheld no longer, but exposed to her all I had known of her and seen in her, and all I had undergone within myself since I had occupied the despicable position of being engaged to her nephew. I told her that Mr Gowan was the only relief I had had in my degradation; that I had borne it too long, and that I shook it off too late; but that I would see none of them more. And I never did.
It was probably inevitable that things would end the way they did, but she made it happen immediately. She told me, pretending to be sympathetic, that I had a bad temper. After hearing that same hurtful comment again, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I shared everything I knew and saw about her, as well as everything I had dealt with inside myself since I had the shameful situation of being engaged to her nephew. I told her that Mr. Gowan was the only comfort I had in my misery; that I had put up with it for too long and that I finally let it go too late, but that I wouldn’t see any of them again. And I never did.
Your dear friend followed me to my retreat, and was very droll on the severance of the connection; though he was sorry, too, for the excellent people (in their way the best he had ever met), and deplored the necessity of breaking mere house-flies on the wheel. He protested before long, and far more truly than I then supposed, that he was not worth acceptance by a woman of such endowments, and such power of character; but—well, well—!
Your dear friend followed me to my retreat and was quite humorous about ending the relationship; he felt sorry, too, for the wonderful people (the best he's ever met in their own way) and lamented the need to crush mere house-flies underfoot. He soon insisted—much more sincerely than I realized at the time—that he wasn't worthy of being accepted by a woman with such gifts and strength of character; but—well, well—!
Your dear friend amused me and amused himself as long as it suited his inclinations; and then reminded me that we were both people of the world, that we both understood mankind, that we both knew there was no such thing as romance, that we were both prepared for going different ways to seek our fortunes like people of sense, and that we both foresaw that whenever we encountered one another again we should meet as the best friends on earth. So he said, and I did not contradict him.
Your good friend entertained both himself and me as long as it fit his mood; then he pointed out that we were both worldly people, that we understood human nature, that we knew romance was a myth, that we were ready to go our separate ways to pursue our fortunes like sensible people, and that we both expected that whenever we ran into each other again, we would greet each other as the best of friends. That's what he said, and I didn't disagree.
It was not very long before I found that he was courting his present wife, and that she had been taken away to be out of his reach. I hated her then, quite as much as I hate her now; and naturally, therefore, could desire nothing better than that she should marry him. But I was restlessly curious to look at her—so curious that I felt it to be one of the few sources of entertainment left to me. I travelled a little: travelled until I found myself in her society, and in yours. Your dear friend, I think, was not known to you then, and had not given you any of those signal marks of his friendship which he has bestowed upon you.
It wasn’t long before I realized he was pursuing his current wife, and that she had been taken away to be out of his reach. I hated her then just as much as I do now; naturally, I could wish for nothing better than for her to marry him. But I was restlessly curious to see her—so curious that I felt it was one of the few sources of entertainment I had left. I traveled a bit: traveled until I found myself in her company, and in yours. Your dear friend, I believe, wasn’t known to you then and hadn’t shown you any of those unmistakable signs of his friendship that he has since given you.
In that company I found a girl, in various circumstances of whose position there was a singular likeness to my own, and in whose character I was interested and pleased to see much of the rising against swollen patronage and selfishness, calling themselves kindness, protection, benevolence, and other fine names, which I have described as inherent in my nature. I often heard it said, too, that she had ‘an unhappy temper.’ Well understanding what was meant by the convenient phrase, and wanting a companion with a knowledge of what I knew, I thought I would try to release the girl from her bondage and sense of injustice. I have no occasion to relate that I succeeded.
In that company, I met a girl who had a unique resemblance to my own situation, and I was intrigued and pleased to see her resist the inflated arrogance and selfishness that masked themselves as kindness, protection, benevolence, and other noble terms that I have noted as part of my nature. I often heard people say she had ‘an unhappy temper.’ Understanding very well what that phrase really meant and hoping to find a companion who shared my insights, I decided to help her break free from her constraints and feelings of injustice. I don’t need to mention that I was successful.
We have been together ever since, sharing my small means.
We’ve been together ever since, sharing my limited resources.
CHAPTER 22. Who passes by this Road so late?
Arthur Clennam had made his unavailing expedition to Calais in the midst of a great pressure of business. A certain barbaric Power with valuable possessions on the map of the world, had occasion for the services of one or two engineers, quick in invention and determined in execution: practical men, who could make the men and means their ingenuity perceived to be wanted out of the best materials they could find at hand; and who were as bold and fertile in the adaptation of such materials to their purpose, as in the conception of their purpose itself. This Power, being a barbaric one, had no idea of stowing away a great national object in a Circumlocution Office, as strong wine is hidden from the light in a cellar until its fire and youth are gone, and the labourers who worked in the vineyard and pressed the grapes are dust. With characteristic ignorance, it acted on the most decided and energetic notions of How to do it; and never showed the least respect for, or gave any quarter to, the great political science, How not to do it. Indeed it had a barbarous way of striking the latter art and mystery dead, in the person of any enlightened subject who practised it.
Arthur Clennam had made his unsuccessful trip to Calais in the middle of a heavy workload. A certain uncivilized Power, which had valuable possessions around the world, needed the help of one or two engineers who were inventive and focused on getting things done: practical people who could create what they realized was needed from the best materials available; and who were as bold and resourceful in using those materials for their goals as they were in coming up with those goals in the first place. This Power, being uncivilized, had no idea of stowing away a major national objective in a bureaucracy, like strong wine hidden from the light in a cellar until its fire and youth were gone, and the workers who toiled in the vineyard and pressed the grapes had turned to dust. Showing typical ignorance, it acted on the most determined and forceful ideas of how to get things done, while completely disregarding, and giving no quarter to, the complex political principle of how not to do things. In fact, it had a brutal way of silencing that principle when any informed person tried to apply it.
Accordingly, the men who were wanted were sought out and found; which was in itself a most uncivilised and irregular way of proceeding. Being found, they were treated with great confidence and honour (which again showed dense political ignorance), and were invited to come at once and do what they had to do. In short, they were regarded as men who meant to do it, engaging with other men who meant it to be done.
The men who were being looked for were tracked down and located; this was, in itself, a very uncivilized and unconventional way to go about things. Once found, they were treated with a lot of trust and respect (which again demonstrated a lack of political understanding), and they were invited to come right away and take care of what needed to be done. In short, they were seen as individuals ready to act, working alongside others who were also committed to getting it done.
Daniel Doyce was one of the chosen. There was no foreseeing at that time whether he would be absent months or years. The preparations for his departure, and the conscientious arrangement for him of all the details and results of their joint business, had necessitated labour within a short compass of time, which had occupied Clennam day and night. He had slipped across the water in his first leisure, and had slipped as quickly back again for his farewell interview with Doyce.
Daniel Doyce was one of the chosen ones. At that time, it was impossible to predict whether he would be gone for months or years. The preparations for his departure and the careful organization of all the details and outcomes of their shared business had required a lot of hard work in a short amount of time, keeping Clennam busy day and night. He had crossed the water during his first free moment and quickly returned for his farewell meeting with Doyce.
Him Arthur now showed, with pains and care, the state of their gains and losses, responsibilities and prospects. Daniel went through it all in his patient manner, and admired it all exceedingly. He audited the accounts, as if they were a far more ingenious piece of mechanism than he had ever constructed, and afterwards stood looking at them, weighing his hat over his head by the brims, as if he were absorbed in the contemplation of some wonderful engine.
Arthur carefully laid out the details of their profits and losses, responsibilities, and future prospects. Daniel patiently reviewed everything and was truly impressed. He examined the accounts as if they were a more complex piece of machinery than anything he had ever built, and afterward, he stood there, holding his hat by the brims, as if he were deep in thought about some amazing device.
‘It’s all beautiful, Clennam, in its regularity and order. Nothing can be plainer. Nothing can be better.’
“It’s all beautiful, Clennam, in its regularity and order. Nothing could be simpler. Nothing could be better.”
‘I am glad you approve, Doyce. Now, as to the management of your capital while you are away, and as to the conversion of so much of it as the business may need from time to time—’ His partner stopped him.
‘I’m glad you’re on board, Doyce. Now, regarding how to manage your capital while you’re away, and how to convert some of it as the business may need from time to time—’ His partner interrupted him.
‘As to that, and as to everything else of that kind, all rests with you. You will continue in all such matters to act for both of us, as you have done hitherto, and to lighten my mind of a load it is much relieved from.’
‘Regarding that and everything similar, it all depends on you. You will keep handling all these matters for both of us, just as you have done so far, and take a weight off my mind that I feel much lighter without.’
‘Though, as I often tell you,’ returned Clennam, ‘you unreasonably depreciate your business qualities.’
“Even though, as I often say,” Clennam replied, “you unfairly underestimate your skills in business.”
‘Perhaps so,’ said Doyce, smiling. ‘And perhaps not. Anyhow, I have a calling that I have studied more than such matters, and that I am better fitted for. I have perfect confidence in my partner, and I am satisfied that he will do what is best. If I have a prejudice connected with money and money figures,’ continued Doyce, laying that plastic workman’s thumb of his on the lapel of his partner’s coat, ‘it is against speculating. I don’t think I have any other. I dare say I entertain that prejudice, only because I have never given my mind fully to the subject.’
“Maybe so,” Doyce said with a smile. “And maybe not. Either way, I have a vocation that I’ve focused on more than these issues, and that I’m better suited for. I have complete confidence in my partner, and I’m sure he will do what’s right. If I have any bias regarding money and financial matters,” Doyce continued, placing his skilled worker’s thumb on the lapel of his partner's coat, “it’s against speculation. I don’t believe I have any other. I suppose I have that bias simply because I’ve never fully engaged with the topic.”
‘But you shouldn’t call it a prejudice,’ said Clennam. ‘My dear Doyce, it is the soundest sense.’
‘But you shouldn’t call it a prejudice,’ Clennam said. ‘My dear Doyce, it’s the most sensible thing.’
‘I am glad you think so,’ returned Doyce, with his grey eye looking kind and bright.
“I’m glad you think so,” Doyce replied, his grey eye looking kind and bright.
‘It so happens,’ said Clennam, ‘that just now, not half an hour before you came down, I was saying the same thing to Pancks, who looked in here. We both agreed that to travel out of safe investments is one of the most dangerous, as it is one of the most common, of those follies which often deserve the name of vices.’
“It just so happens,” Clennam said, “that not even half an hour before you arrived, I was saying the same thing to Pancks, who came by. We both agreed that moving away from secure investments is one of the most dangerous, as well as one of the most common, follies that often deserve to be called vices.”
‘Pancks?’ said Doyce, tilting up his hat at the back, and nodding with an air of confidence. ‘Aye, aye, aye! That’s a cautious fellow.’
‘Pancks?’ said Doyce, tilting his hat back and nodding with a confident air. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah! That’s a careful guy.’
‘He is a very cautious fellow indeed,’ returned Arthur. ‘Quite a specimen of caution.’
‘He is really a very careful guy,’ replied Arthur. ‘Definitely a true example of caution.’
They both appeared to derive a larger amount of satisfaction from the cautious character of Mr Pancks, than was quite intelligible, judged by the surface of their conversation.
They both seemed to get a greater sense of satisfaction from Mr. Pancks' cautious nature than could be understood just by what they were saying.
‘And now,’ said Daniel, looking at his watch, ‘as time and tide wait for no man, my trusty partner, and as I am ready for starting, bag and baggage, at the gate below, let me say a last word. I want you to grant a request of mine.’
‘And now,’ said Daniel, checking his watch, ‘since time and tide wait for no one, my reliable partner, and since I’m all set to go, bag and baggage, at the gate below, let me say one last thing. I need you to do me a favor.’
‘Any request you can make—Except,’ Clennam was quick with his exception, for his partner’s face was quick in suggesting it, ‘except that I will abandon your invention.’
‘Any request you can make—Except,’ Clennam quickly added his exception since his partner’s expression clearly indicated it, ‘except that I will abandon your invention.’
‘That’s the request, and you know it is,’ said Doyce.
‘That’s the request, and you know it is,’ Doyce said.
‘I say, No, then. I say positively, No. Now that I have begun, I will have some definite reason, some responsible statement, something in the nature of a real answer, from those people.’
‘I’m saying no, definitely no. Now that I’ve started this, I want a clear reason, a solid statement, something that resembles a real answer, from those people.’
‘You will not,’ returned Doyce, shaking his head. ‘Take my word for it, you never will.’
‘You won’t,’ replied Doyce, shaking his head. ‘Trust me, you never will.’
‘At least, I’ll try,’ said Clennam. ‘It will do me no harm to try.’
“At least, I’ll give it a shot,” Clennam said. “It won’t hurt me to try.”
‘I am not certain of that,’ rejoined Doyce, laying his hand persuasively on his shoulder. ‘It has done me harm, my friend. It has aged me, tired me, vexed me, disappointed me. It does no man any good to have his patience worn out, and to think himself ill-used. I fancy, even already, that unavailing attendance on delays and evasions has made you something less elastic than you used to be.’
"I’m not so sure about that," Doyce replied, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It’s done me harm, my friend. It's aged me, worn me out, frustrated me, and let me down. No one benefits from having their patience stretched thin and feeling mistreated. I can already sense that waiting around for delays and runarounds has made you a bit less resilient than you once were."
‘Private anxieties may have done that for the moment,’ said Clennam, ‘but not official harrying. Not yet. I am not hurt yet.’
“Private worries might have caused that for now,” Clennam said, “but not official pressure. Not yet. I’m not hurt yet.”
‘Then you won’t grant my request?’
'So, you won't grant my request?'
‘Decidedly, No,’ said Clennam. ‘I should be ashamed if I submitted to be so soon driven out of the field, where a much older and a much more sensitively interested man contended with fortitude so long.’
'Definitely not,' said Clennam. 'I would be embarrassed if I let myself be pushed out of the field so quickly, while a much older man who is far more personally invested has stood his ground for so long.'
As there was no moving him, Daniel Doyce returned the grasp of his hand, and, casting a farewell look round the counting-house, went down-stairs with him. Doyce was to go to Southampton to join the small staff of his fellow-travellers; and a coach was at the gate, well furnished and packed, and ready to take him there. The workmen were at the gate to see him off, and were mightily proud of him. ‘Good luck to you, Mr Doyce!’ said one of the number. ‘Wherever you go, they’ll find as they’ve got a man among ‘em, a man as knows his tools and as his tools knows, a man as is willing and a man as is able, and if that’s not a man, where is a man!’ This oration from a gruff volunteer in the back-ground, not previously suspected of any powers in that way, was received with three loud cheers; and the speaker became a distinguished character for ever afterwards. In the midst of the three loud cheers, Daniel gave them all a hearty ‘Good Bye, Men!’ and the coach disappeared from sight, as if the concussion of the air had blown it out of Bleeding Heart Yard.
As there was no moving him, Daniel Doyce shook his hand and, taking a last look around the office, went downstairs with him. Doyce was heading to Southampton to join his fellow travelers, and a coach was waiting at the gate, fully packed and ready to take him there. The workers gathered at the gate to see him off, beaming with pride. "Good luck, Mr. Doyce!" called out one of them. "Wherever you go, they'll see they've got a real man on their hands—a guy who knows his tools and whose tools know him, someone who's willing and able, and if that’s not a man, what is?" This speech from a previously unnoticed guy in the back was met with three loud cheers, and he became a local legend from that day on. Amid the cheers, Daniel shouted a heartfelt, "Goodbye, Men!" and the coach vanished from view as if the rush of air had blown it out of Bleeding Heart Yard.
Mr Baptist, as a grateful little fellow in a position of trust, was among the workmen, and had done as much towards the cheering as a mere foreigner could. In truth, no men on earth can cheer like Englishmen, who do so rally one another’s blood and spirit when they cheer in earnest, that the stir is like the rush of their whole history, with all its standards waving at once, from Saxon Alfred’s downwards. Mr Baptist had been in a manner whirled away before the onset, and was taking his breath in quite a scared condition when Clennam beckoned him to follow up-stairs, and return the books and papers to their places.
Mr. Baptist, being a thankful young man in a position of trust, was among the workers and had contributed as much to the cheering as a foreigner could. In fact, no one cheers like the English, who truly invigorate one another when they cheer wholeheartedly, making the excitement feel like the rush of their entire history, with all its banners waving at once, from Saxon Alfred's time onward. Mr. Baptist had been somewhat swept away before the commotion began and was trying to catch his breath in quite a shaken state when Clennam signaled for him to come upstairs and put the books and papers back in their places.
In the lull consequent on the departure—in that first vacuity which ensues on every separation, foreshadowing the great separation that is always overhanging all mankind—Arthur stood at his desk, looking dreamily out at a gleam of sun. But his liberated attention soon reverted to the theme that was foremost in his thoughts, and began, for the hundredth time, to dwell upon every circumstance that had impressed itself upon his mind on the mysterious night when he had seen the man at his mother’s. Again the man jostled him in the crooked street, again he followed the man and lost him, again he came upon the man in the court-yard looking at the house, again he followed the man and stood beside him on the door-steps.
In the quiet that followed the departure—in that first emptiness that comes with every goodbye, hinting at the bigger separation that always looms over humanity—Arthur stood at his desk, gazing dreamily out at a ray of sunlight. But soon, his wandering thoughts returned to the main thing on his mind, and he began, for the hundredth time, to replay every detail that had stuck with him from the mysterious night when he had seen the man at his mother's. Once again, the man bumped into him in the narrow street, once again he followed the man and lost track of him, once again he found the man in the courtyard looking at the house, and once again, he followed the man and stood next to him on the doorstep.
‘Who passes by this road so late?
‘Who’s walking down this road so late?
Compagnon de la Majolaine;
Majolaine companion;
Who passes by this road so late?
Who’s walking down this road so late?
Always gay!’
Always happy!
It was not the first time, by many, that he had recalled the song of the child’s game, of which the fellow had hummed this verse while they stood side by side; but he was so unconscious of having repeated it audibly, that he started to hear the next verse.
It wasn't the first time, by a long shot, that he had remembered the song from the child's game, which his friend had hummed while they stood next to each other; but he was so unaware that he had said it out loud that he began to hear the next verse.
‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower,
‘Of all the king’s knights, it’s the best,
Compagnon de la Majolaine;
Companion of the Majolaine;
Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower,
Of all the king’s knights, he is the best.
Always gay!’
Always fabulous!
Cavalletto had deferentially suggested the words and tune, supposing him to have stopped short for want of more.
Cavalletto had respectfully suggested the words and melody, thinking he had paused due to a lack of more ideas.
‘Ah! You know the song, Cavalletto?’
‘Ah! Do you know the song, Cavalletto?’
‘By Bacchus, yes, sir! They all know it in France. I have heard it many times, sung by the little children. The last time when it I have heard,’ said Mr Baptist, formerly Cavalletto, who usually went back to his native construction of sentences when his memory went near home, ‘is from a sweet little voice. A little voice, very pretty, very innocent. Altro!’
“By Bacchus, yes, sir! Everyone in France knows it. I've heard it many times, sung by little kids. The last time I heard it,” said Mr. Baptist, formerly Cavalletto, who often slipped back into his native way of speaking when his memory got close to home, “was from a sweet little voice. A little voice, very pretty, very innocent. Altro!”
‘The last time I heard it,’ returned Arthur, ‘was in a voice quite the reverse of pretty, and quite the reverse of innocent.’ He said it more to himself than to his companion, and added to himself, repeating the man’s next words. ‘Death of my life, sir, it’s my character to be impatient!’
‘The last time I heard it,’ Arthur replied, ‘it was in a voice that was anything but pretty and definitely not innocent.’ He said it more to himself than to his companion and added quietly, repeating the man’s next words, ‘For goodness’ sake, sir, I can’t help but be impatient!’
‘EH!’ cried Cavalletto, astounded, and with all his colour gone in a moment.
"Whoa!" shouted Cavalletto, shocked, and all the color drained from his face in an instant.
‘What is the matter?’
"What’s wrong?"
‘Sir! You know where I have heard that song the last time?’
‘Sir! Do you know where I heard that song the last time?’
With his rapid native action, his hands made the outline of a high hook nose, pushed his eyes near together, dishevelled his hair, puffed out his upper lip to represent a thick moustache, and threw the heavy end of an ideal cloak over his shoulder. While doing this, with a swiftness incredible to one who has not watched an Italian peasant, he indicated a very remarkable and sinister smile. The whole change passed over him like a flash of light, and he stood in the same instant, pale and astonished, before his patron.
With quick, natural movements, his hands shaped a high hook nose, squished his eyes together, messed up his hair, puffed out his upper lip to mimic a thick mustache, and tossed the heavy end of an imaginary cloak over his shoulder. As he did this, with a speed unimaginable to anyone who hasn’t seen an Italian peasant in action, he showed a striking and eerie smile. The entire transformation happened in an instant, and he stood there, pale and shocked, in front of his patron.
‘In the name of Fate and wonder,’ said Clennam, ‘what do you mean? Do you know a man of the name of Blandois?’
‘In the name of Fate and wonder,’ said Clennam, ‘what do you mean? Do you know a guy named Blandois?’
‘No!’ said Mr Baptist, shaking his head.
‘No!’ said Mr. Baptist, shaking his head.
‘You have just now described a man who was by when you heard that song; have you not?’
‘You just described a guy who was there when you heard that song; right?’
‘Yes!’ said Mr Baptist, nodding fifty times.
‘Yes!’ said Mr. Baptist, nodding vigorously.
‘And was he not called Blandois?’
'Wasn't he called Blandois?'
‘No!’ said Mr Baptist. ‘Altro, Altro, Altro, Altro!’ He could not reject the name sufficiently, with his head and his right forefinger going at once.
‘No!’ said Mr. Baptist. ‘Altro, Altro, Altro, Altro!’ He couldn’t dismiss the name strongly enough, shaking his head and waving his right index finger at the same time.
‘Stay!’ cried Clennam, spreading out the handbill on his desk. ‘Was this the man? You can understand what I read aloud?’
‘Stay!’ cried Clennam, spreading out the handbill on his desk. ‘Was this the guy? Can you understand what I just read out loud?’
‘Altogether. Perfectly.’
“Totally. Perfect.”
‘But look at it, too. Come here and look over me, while I read.’
‘But check it out, too. Come here and take a look at me while I read.’
Mr Baptist approached, followed every word with his quick eyes, saw and heard it all out with the greatest impatience, then clapped his two hands flat upon the bill as if he had fiercely caught some noxious creature, and cried, looking eagerly at Clennam, ‘It is the man! Behold him!’
Mr. Baptist came over, tracking every word with his sharp eyes, absorbing everything with intense impatience, then slapped his hands down flat onto the bill as if he had just captured some filthy creature, and exclaimed, looking eagerly at Clennam, "It's the guy! Look at him!"
‘This is of far greater moment to me’ said Clennam, in great agitation, ‘than you can imagine. Tell me where you knew the man.’
"This matters much more to me," Clennam said, clearly upset, "than you can imagine. Tell me where you met the man."
Mr Baptist, releasing the paper very slowly and with much discomfiture, and drawing himself back two or three paces, and making as though he dusted his hands, returned, very much against his will:
Mr. Baptist, slowly letting go of the paper with visible discomfort, stepped back two or three paces and pretended to dust off his hands, returned, very reluctantly:
‘At Marsiglia—Marseilles.’
'In Marseille—Marseille.'
‘What was he?’
‘Who was he?’
‘A prisoner, and—Altro! I believe yes!—an,’ Mr Baptist crept closer again to whisper it, ‘Assassin!’
‘A prisoner, and—wait! I really believe yes!—an,’ Mr. Baptist inched closer again to whisper it, ‘Assassin!’
Clennam fell back as if the word had struck him a blow: so terrible did it make his mother’s communication with the man appear. Cavalletto dropped on one knee, and implored him, with a redundancy of gesticulation, to hear what had brought himself into such foul company.
Clennam stepped back as if the word had hit him hard: it made his mother’s connection with the man seem so awful. Cavalletto dropped to one knee and pleaded with him, using a lot of gestures, to listen to what had led him into such bad company.
He told with perfect truth how it had come of a little contraband trading, and how he had in time been released from prison, and how he had gone away from those antecedents. How, at the house of entertainment called the Break of Day at Chalons on the Saone, he had been awakened in his bed at night by the same assassin, then assuming the name of Lagnier, though his name had formerly been Rigaud; how the assassin had proposed that they should join their fortunes together; how he held the assassin in such dread and aversion that he had fled from him at daylight, and how he had ever since been haunted by the fear of seeing the assassin again and being claimed by him as an acquaintance. When he had related this, with an emphasis and poise on the word, ‘assassin,’ peculiarly belonging to his own language, and which did not serve to render it less terrible to Clennam, he suddenly sprang to his feet, pounced upon the bill again, and with a vehemence that would have been absolute madness in any man of Northern origin, cried ‘Behold the same assassin! Here he is!’
He shared honestly how it all started with a bit of illegal trading, how he eventually got released from prison, and how he moved on from that past. He recounted being woken up in his bed at night at a place called the Break of Day in Chalons on the Saone by the same assassin, who was then going by the name Lagnier, though his original name was Rigaud. The assassin suggested they team up, but he was so terrified and repulsed by him that he fled at dawn, and ever since, he's been haunted by the fear of running into the assassin again and being recognized as someone he knew. After telling this story, putting special emphasis on the word ‘assassin’ in a way unique to his language that only added to its terror for Clennam, he suddenly jumped to his feet, pointed at the bill again, and with a passion that would have seemed completely mad for any man from the North, shouted, ‘Look, there’s the same assassin! Here he is!’
In his passionate raptures, he at first forgot the fact that he had lately seen the assassin in London. On his remembering it, it suggested hope to Clennam that the recognition might be of later date than the night of the visit at his mother’s; but Cavalletto was too exact and clear about time and place, to leave any opening for doubt that it had preceded that occasion.
In his intense excitement, he initially forgot that he had recently seen the assassin in London. When he remembered, it gave Clennam hope that the recognition might have happened after the night he visited his mother; but Cavalletto was too precise and clear about when and where it happened to leave any room for doubt that it had occurred before that visit.
‘Listen,’ said Arthur, very seriously. ‘This man, as we have read here, has wholly disappeared.’
‘Listen,’ Arthur said, very seriously. ‘This guy, as we've read here, has completely vanished.’
‘Of it I am well content!’ said Cavalletto, raising his eyes piously. ‘A thousand thanks to Heaven! Accursed assassin!’
‘I'm really pleased with it!’ said Cavalletto, looking up devoutly. ‘A thousand thanks to Heaven! Cursed assassin!’
‘Not so,’ returned Clennam; ‘for until something more is heard of him, I can never know an hour’s peace.’
‘Not really,’ replied Clennam; ‘because until I hear more about him, I can never have a moment's peace.’
‘Enough, Benefactor; that is quite another thing. A million of excuses!’
‘Enough, Benefactor; that's a whole different story. A million excuses!’
‘Now, Cavalletto,’ said Clennam, gently turning him by the arm, so that they looked into each other’s eyes. ‘I am certain that for the little I have been able to do for you, you are the most sincerely grateful of men.’
‘Now, Cavalletto,’ Clennam said, gently turning him by the arm so they looked into each other’s eyes. ‘I’m sure that for the little I’ve been able to do for you, you are the most genuinely grateful person.’
‘I swear it!’ cried the other.
"I swear it!" the other shouted.
‘I know it. If you could find this man, or discover what has become of him, or gain any later intelligence whatever of him, you would render me a service above any other service I could receive in the world, and would make me (with far greater reason) as grateful to you as you are to me.’
‘I know it. If you could locate this man, find out what happened to him, or get any updates about him, you would be doing me a favor greater than any other I could ask for in the world, and I would be (even more justifiably) as thankful to you as you are to me.’
‘I know not where to look,’ cried the little man, kissing Arthur’s hand in a transport. ‘I know not where to begin. I know not where to go. But, courage! Enough! It matters not! I go, in this instant of time!’
‘I don’t know where to look,’ cried the little man, kissing Arthur’s hand in joy. ‘I don’t know where to start. I don’t know where to go. But, courage! Enough! It doesn’t matter! I’m going, at this very moment!’
‘Not a word to any one but me, Cavalletto.’
‘Don’t say a word to anyone but me, Cavalletto.’
‘Al-tro!’ cried Cavalletto. And was gone with great speed.
‘Hey!’ shouted Cavalletto. And he disappeared in a flash.
CHAPTER 23. Mistress Affery makes a Conditional Promise,
respecting her Dreams
honoring her dreams
Left alone, with the expressive looks and gestures of Mr Baptist, otherwise Giovanni Baptista Cavalletto, vividly before him, Clennam entered on a weary day. It was in vain that he tried to control his attention by directing it to any business occupation or train of thought; it rode at anchor by the haunting topic, and would hold to no other idea. As though a criminal should be chained in a stationary boat on a deep clear river, condemned, whatever countless leagues of water flowed past him, always to see the body of the fellow-creature he had drowned lying at the bottom, immovable, and unchangeable, except as the eddies made it broad or long, now expanding, now contracting its terrible lineaments; so Arthur, below the shifting current of transparent thoughts and fancies which were gone and succeeded by others as soon as come, saw, steady and dark, and not to be stirred from its place, the one subject that he endeavoured with all his might to rid himself of, and that he could not fly from.
Left alone, with the expressive looks and gestures of Mr. Baptist, otherwise known as Giovanni Baptista Cavalletto, vividly in his mind, Clennam faced a long, exhausting day. He tried in vain to keep his attention occupied with work or other thoughts; it remained anchored to the troubling topic, refusing to shift to anything else. It was as if a criminal were chained to a stationary boat on a clear, deep river, condemned to always see the body of the person they had drowned lying at the bottom—still and unchanging, except for the way the water swirled around it, sometimes making it seem broader or longer, now expanding, now contracting its horrific features. So, Arthur, beneath the shifting current of his transparent thoughts and fleeting fancies, which replaced themselves as soon as they appeared, saw, steady and dark, the one subject he desperately tried to escape but couldn’t avoid.
The assurance he now had, that Blandois, whatever his right name, was one of the worst of characters, greatly augmented the burden of his anxieties. Though the disappearance should be accounted for to-morrow, the fact that his mother had been in communication with such a man, would remain unalterable. That the communication had been of a secret kind, and that she had been submissive to him and afraid of him, he hoped might be known to no one beyond himself; yet, knowing it, how could he separate it from his old vague fears, and how believe that there was nothing evil in such relations?
The certainty he now felt that Blandois, whatever his real name was, was one of the worst people around, only added to his worries. Even though they would figure out the disappearance tomorrow, the fact that his mother had been in contact with such a man would remain unchanged. He hoped that no one else would ever know that their communication had been secret, and that she had been submissive and afraid of him. But knowing it himself, how could he separate this from his old, vague fears, and how could he believe that there was nothing wrong with such a connection?
Her resolution not to enter on the question with him, and his knowledge of her indomitable character, enhanced his sense of helplessness. It was like the oppression of a dream to believe that shame and exposure were impending over her and his father’s memory, and to be shut out, as by a brazen wall, from the possibility of coming to their aid. The purpose he had brought home to his native country, and had ever since kept in view, was, with her greatest determination, defeated by his mother herself, at the time of all others when he feared that it pressed most. His advice, energy, activity, money, credit, all his resources whatsoever, were all made useless. If she had been possessed of the old fabled influence, and had turned those who looked upon her into stone, she could not have rendered him more completely powerless (so it seemed to him in his distress of mind) than she did, when she turned her unyielding face to his in her gloomy room.
Her decision not to engage with him on the topic, combined with his awareness of her strong-willed nature, deepened his feeling of helplessness. It felt suffocating, like a nightmare, to think that shame and exposure were looming over her and his father's memory, and to be completely shut out, as if by an impenetrable wall, from the chance to help them. The goal he had brought back to his home country, which he had always kept in sight, was crushed by his own mother at the very moment he feared it mattered most. His advice, energy, action, money, reputation—all his resources—were rendered useless. If she had possessed the ancient mythical power to turn those who looked at her into stone, she could not have made him feel more utterly powerless (so it seemed to him in his troubled mind) than she did when she faced him with her stubborn demeanor in her dark room.
But the light of that day’s discovery, shining on these considerations, roused him to take a more decided course of action. Confident in the rectitude of his purpose, and impelled by a sense of overhanging danger closing in around, he resolved, if his mother would still admit of no approach, to make a desperate appeal to Affery. If she could be brought to become communicative, and to do what lay in her to break the spell of secrecy that enshrouded the house, he might shake off the paralysis of which every hour that passed over his head made him more acutely sensible. This was the result of his day’s anxiety, and this was the decision he put in practice when the day closed in.
But the realization of that day’s discovery, shining a light on these thoughts, pushed him to take more decisive action. Confident in the rightness of his intentions and feeling a sense of looming danger closing in around him, he decided that if his mother still refused to engage, he would make a bold appeal to Affery. If he could get her to open up and do what she could to lift the veil of secrecy surrounding the house, he might be able to break free from the paralysis that each passing hour made him more acutely aware of. This was the outcome of his day’s worry, and this was the decision he acted on as the day came to an end.
His first disappointment, on arriving at the house, was to find the door open, and Mr Flintwinch smoking a pipe on the steps. If circumstances had been commonly favourable, Mistress Affery would have opened the door to his knock. Circumstances being uncommonly unfavourable, the door stood open, and Mr Flintwinch was smoking his pipe on the steps.
His first disappointment upon arriving at the house was finding the door open, with Mr. Flintwinch sitting on the steps smoking a pipe. If things had been normal, Mistress Affery would have answered the door when he knocked. But since things were quite the opposite, the door was open, and Mr. Flintwinch was there smoking his pipe on the steps.
‘Good evening,’ said Arthur.
"Good evening," Arthur said.
‘Good evening,’ said Mr Flintwinch.
"Good evening," said Mr. Flintwinch.
The smoke came crookedly out of Mr Flintwinch’s mouth, as if it circulated through the whole of his wry figure and came back by his wry throat, before coming forth to mingle with the smoke from the crooked chimneys and the mists from the crooked river.
The smoke came out of Mr. Flintwinch's mouth in a twisted way, as if it circulated through his entire crooked frame and came back up his crooked throat, before mixing with the smoke from the crooked chimneys and the mists from the winding river.
‘Have you any news?’ said Arthur.
"Do you have any news?" Arthur asked.
‘We have no news,’ said Jeremiah.
‘We don't have any news,’ said Jeremiah.
‘I mean of the foreign man,’ Arthur explained.
‘I mean the foreign guy,’ Arthur explained.
‘I mean of the foreign man,’ said Jeremiah.
‘I mean the foreign guy,’ said Jeremiah.
He looked so grim, as he stood askew, with the knot of his cravat under his ear, that the thought passed into Clennam’s mind, and not for the first time by many, could Flintwinch for a purpose of his own have got rid of Blandois? Could it have been his secret, and his safety, that were at issue? He was small and bent, and perhaps not actively strong; yet he was as tough as an old yew-tree, and as crusty as an old jackdaw. Such a man, coming behind a much younger and more vigorous man, and having the will to put an end to him and no relenting, might do it pretty surely in that solitary place at a late hour.
He looked so serious as he stood slightly off-balance, with his tie knot under his ear, that the thought crossed Clennam's mind, not for the first time, could Flintwinch have gotten rid of Blandois for his own purposes? Could it have been his own secret and safety that were at stake? He was short and hunched, and maybe not physically strong; still, he was as tough as an old yew tree and as grumpy as a weathered jackdaw. A man like that, coming up behind a much younger and stronger man, with the determination to take him out and no mercy, could certainly pull it off in that empty place late at night.
While, in the morbid condition of his thoughts, these thoughts drifted over the main one that was always in Clennam’s mind, Mr Flintwinch, regarding the opposite house over the gateway with his neck twisted and one eye shut up, stood smoking with a vicious expression upon him; more as if he were trying to bite off the stem of his pipe, than as if he were enjoying it. Yet he was enjoying it in his own way.
While lost in his gloomy thoughts, which often wandered away from the main concern that constantly occupied Clennam’s mind, Mr. Flintwinch, with his neck twisted and one eye closed, stood smoking with a threatening look on his face; it was as if he were trying to bite off the end of his pipe rather than actually enjoying it. Still, he was enjoying it in his own way.
‘You’ll be able to take my likeness, the next time you call, Arthur, I should think,’ said Mr Flintwinch, drily, as he stooped to knock the ashes out.
‘You’ll be able to take my picture the next time you call, Arthur, I guess,’ said Mr. Flintwinch, dryly, as he bent down to knock the ashes out.
Rather conscious and confused, Arthur asked his pardon, if he had stared at him unpolitely. ‘But my mind runs so much upon this matter,’ he said, ‘that I lose myself.’
Somewhat aware and puzzled, Arthur apologized if he had been staring at him rudely. ‘But I’m so caught up in this issue,’ he said, ‘that I get lost in my thoughts.’
‘Hah! Yet I don’t see,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, quite at his leisure, ‘why it should trouble you, Arthur.’
‘Hah! I still don't see,’ replied Mr. Flintwinch, quite unbothered, ‘why it should concern you, Arthur.’
‘No?’
'Not really?'
‘No,’ said Mr Flintwinch, very shortly and decidedly: much as if he were of the canine race, and snapped at Arthur’s hand.
‘No,’ said Mr. Flintwinch, very curtly and firmly: almost as if he were a dog, snapping at Arthur’s hand.
‘Is it nothing to see those placards about? Is it nothing to me to see my mother’s name and residence hawked up and down in such an association?’
‘Is it nothing to see those signs around? Is it nothing to me to see my mother’s name and address being advertised like that?’
‘I don’t see,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, scraping his horny cheek, ‘that it need signify much to you. But I’ll tell you what I do see, Arthur,’ glancing up at the windows; ‘I see the light of fire and candle in your mother’s room!’
"I don’t see," replied Mr. Flintwinch, scratching his rough cheek, "that it should matter much to you. But I'll tell you what I do see, Arthur," looking up at the windows, "I see the glow of firelight and candles in your mother's room!"
‘And what has that to do with it?’
‘And what does that have to do with it?’
‘Why, sir, I read by it,’ said Mr Flintwinch, screwing himself at him, ‘that if it’s advisable (as the proverb says it is) to let sleeping dogs lie, it’s just as advisable, perhaps, to let missing dogs lie. Let ‘em be. They generally turn up soon enough.’
‘Why, sir, I read by it,’ said Mr. Flintwinch, fixing his gaze on him, ‘that if it’s wise (as the saying goes) to let sleeping dogs lie, it’s just as wise, maybe, to let missing dogs lie. Let them be. They usually show up soon enough.’
Mr Flintwinch turned short round when he had made this remark, and went into the dark hall. Clennam stood there, following him with his eyes, as he dipped for a light in the phosphorus-box in the little room at the side, got one after three or four dips, and lighted the dim lamp against the wall. All the while, Clennam was pursuing the probabilities—rather as if they were being shown to him by an invisible hand than as if he himself were conjuring them up—of Mr Flintwinch’s ways and means of doing that darker deed, and removing its traces by any of the black avenues of shadow that lay around them.
Mr. Flintwinch quickly turned around after making his comment and walked into the dark hall. Clennam stood there, watching him as he reached for a light in the phosphorus box in the small room to the side. After three or four tries, he finally got one and lit the dim lamp on the wall. Meanwhile, Clennam was contemplating the possibilities—almost as if they were being revealed to him by an invisible force rather than being conjured up by his own mind—of Mr. Flintwinch’s methods for carrying out that darker act and covering it up through any of the shadowy paths that surrounded them.
‘Now, sir,’ said the testy Jeremiah; ‘will it be agreeable to walk up-stairs?’
‘Now, sir,’ said the irritable Jeremiah; ‘would it be okay to walk upstairs?’
‘My mother is alone, I suppose?’
‘I guess my mom is by herself?’
‘Not alone,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Mr Casby and his daughter are with her. They came in while I was smoking, and I stayed behind to have my smoke out.’
‘Not alone,’ said Mr. Flintwinch. ‘Mr. Casby and his daughter are with her. They came in while I was smoking, and I stayed behind to finish my smoke.’
This was the second disappointment. Arthur made no remark upon it, and repaired to his mother’s room, where Mr Casby and Flora had been taking tea, anchovy paste, and hot buttered toast. The relics of those delicacies were not yet removed, either from the table or from the scorched countenance of Affery, who, with the kitchen toasting-fork still in her hand, looked like a sort of allegorical personage; except that she had a considerable advantage over the general run of such personages in point of significant emblematical purpose.
This was the second disappointment. Arthur said nothing about it and went to his mother’s room, where Mr. Casby and Flora had been having tea, anchovy paste, and hot buttered toast. The remnants of those treats hadn’t been cleared away yet, either from the table or from Affery’s scorched face, who, with the kitchen toasting fork still in her hand, looked like some sort of symbolic figure; except she had a big advantage over most of those figures in terms of meaningful symbolic purpose.
Flora had spread her bonnet and shawl upon the bed, with a care indicative of an intention to stay some time. Mr Casby, too, was beaming near the hob, with his benevolent knobs shining as if the warm butter of the toast were exuding through the patriarchal skull, and with his face as ruddy as if the colouring matter of the anchovy paste were mantling in the patriarchal visage. Seeing this, as he exchanged the usual salutations, Clennam decided to speak to his mother without postponement.
Flora had laid her bonnet and shawl on the bed, showing she planned to stay for a while. Mr. Casby was also smiling next to the fireplace, his friendly features glowing as if the warm butter from the toast was oozing out of his wise old head, and his face was as red as if the color from the anchovy paste was shining on him. Noticing this as they exchanged the usual greetings, Clennam made up his mind to talk to his mother right away.
It had long been customary, as she never changed her room, for those who had anything to say to her apart, to wheel her to her desk; where she sat, usually with the back of her chair turned towards the rest of the room, and the person who talked with her seated in a corner, on a stool which was always set in that place for that purpose. Except that it was long since the mother and son had spoken together without the intervention of a third person, it was an ordinary matter of course within the experience of visitors for Mrs Clennam to be asked, with a word of apology for the interruption, if she could be spoken with on a matter of business, and, on her replying in the affirmative, to be wheeled into the position described.
It had long been the norm, since she never changed her room, for anyone who wanted to talk to her privately to wheel her to her desk. She would sit there, usually with the back of her chair facing the rest of the room, while the person talking to her took a seat on a stool that was always placed in that spot for that purpose. Except for the fact that it had been a long time since the mother and son had talked without a third person present, it was routine for visitors to ask Mrs. Clennam, with an apology for the interruption, if they could speak with her about a business matter. When she responded affirmatively, she would be wheeled into the position described.
Therefore, when Arthur now made such an apology, and such a request, and moved her to her desk and seated himself on the stool, Mrs Finching merely began to talk louder and faster, as a delicate hint that she could overhear nothing, and Mr Casby stroked his long white locks with sleepy calmness.
Therefore, when Arthur apologized and made his request, then took a seat on the stool next to her desk, Mrs. Finching just started to speak louder and faster, subtly indicating that she couldn't hear anything, while Mr. Casby calmly stroked his long white hair, seemingly unfazed.
‘Mother, I have heard something to-day which I feel persuaded you don’t know, and which I think you should know, of the antecedents of that man I saw here.’
‘Mom, I heard something today that I’m pretty sure you don’t know, and I think you should know about the background of that guy I saw here.’
‘I know nothing of the antecedents of the man you saw here, Arthur.’
‘I don’t know anything about the background of the man you saw here, Arthur.’
She spoke aloud. He had lowered his own voice; but she rejected that advance towards confidence as she rejected every other, and spoke in her usual key and in her usual stern voice.
She spoke out loud. He had softened his tone; but she brushed off that move towards intimacy just like she did with every other attempt, and spoke in her usual tone and with her usual stern voice.
‘I have received it on no circuitous information; it has come to me direct.’
‘I got this information straight, without any roundabout details; it’s come to me directly.’
She asked him, exactly as before, if he were there to tell her what it was?
She asked him, just like before, if he was there to tell her what it was?
‘I thought it right that you should know it.’
'I thought it was important for you to know that.'
‘And what is it?’
'What is it?'
‘He has been a prisoner in a French gaol.’
‘He has been a prisoner in a French jail.’
She answered with composure, ‘I should think that very likely.’
She replied calmly, "I would say that's quite likely."
‘But in a gaol for criminals, mother. On an accusation of murder.’
‘But in a jail for criminals, mom. On a charge of murder.’
She started at the word, and her looks expressed her natural horror. Yet she still spoke aloud, when she demanded:—
She flinched at the word, her expression reflecting her genuine fear. Still, she spoke out loud as she asked:—
‘Who told you so?’
"Who said that?"
‘A man who was his fellow-prisoner.’
‘A man who was his fellow prisoner.’
‘That man’s antecedents, I suppose, were not known to you, before he told you?’
‘You didn't know that man's background, I assume, before he told you?’
‘No.’
‘Nope.’
‘Though the man himself was?’
‘Though the man himself was?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yeah.’
‘My case and Flintwinch’s, in respect of this other man! I dare say the resemblance is not so exact, though, as that your informant became known to you through a letter from a correspondent with whom he had deposited money? How does that part of the parallel stand?’
‘My situation and Flintwinch’s, regarding this other man! I bet the similarity isn’t as close, though, as the fact that your source became known to you through a letter from a contact with whom he had put money? How does that aspect of the comparison hold up?’
Arthur had no choice but to say that his informant had not become known to him through the agency of any such credentials, or indeed of any credentials at all. Mrs Clennam’s attentive frown expanded by degrees into a severe look of triumph, and she retorted with emphasis, ‘Take care how you judge others, then. I say to you, Arthur, for your good, take care how you judge!’
Arthur had no choice but to say that he didn't know his informant through any kind of credentials, or actually any credentials at all. Mrs. Clennam's focused frown gradually turned into a serious look of triumph, and she replied emphatically, "Be careful how you judge others, then. I'm telling you, Arthur, for your own good, be careful how you judge!"
Her emphasis had been derived from her eyes quite as much as from the stress she laid upon her words. She continued to look at him; and if, when he entered the house, he had had any latent hope of prevailing in the least with her, she now looked it out of his heart.
Her emphasis came from her eyes just as much as from the weight of her words. She kept looking at him; and if, when he walked into the house, he had any hidden hope of convincing her at all, she now completely took that hope away.
‘Mother, shall I do nothing to assist you?’
‘Mom, should I not do anything to help you?’
‘Nothing.’
'Nothing.'
‘Will you entrust me with no confidence, no charge, no explanation? Will you take no counsel with me? Will you not let me come near you?’
‘Will you not trust me at all, without any confidence, responsibility, or explanation? Will you not seek my advice? Will you not allow me to come close to you?’
‘How can you ask me? You separated yourself from my affairs. It was not my act; it was yours. How can you consistently ask me such a question? You know that you left me to Flintwinch, and that he occupies your place.’
‘How can you ask me? You separated yourself from my life. It wasn’t my choice; it was yours. How can you keep asking me this question? You know that you left me with Flintwinch, and he’s taken your place.’
Glancing at Jeremiah, Clennam saw in his very gaiters that his attention was closely directed to them, though he stood leaning against the wall scraping his jaw, and pretended to listen to Flora as she held forth in a most distracting manner on a chaos of subjects, in which mackerel, and Mr F.‘s Aunt in a swing, had become entangled with cockchafers and the wine trade.
Glancing at Jeremiah, Clennam noticed from his posture that he was definitely focused on them, even though he was leaning against the wall, scratching his jaw, and pretending to listen to Flora as she talked in a very distracting way about a mix of topics, where mackerel and Mr. F.'s Aunt on a swing were tangled up with cockchafers and the wine trade.
‘A prisoner, in a French gaol, on an accusation of murder,’ repeated Mrs Clennam, steadily going over what her son had said. ‘That is all you know of him from the fellow-prisoner?’
‘A prisoner, in a French jail, accused of murder,’ repeated Mrs. Clennam, firmly recalling what her son had said. ‘Is that all you know about him from the other prisoner?’
‘In substance, all.’
"Basically, everything."
‘And was the fellow-prisoner his accomplice and a murderer, too? But, of course, he gives a better account of himself than of his friend; it is needless to ask. This will supply the rest of them here with something new to talk about. Casby, Arthur tells me—’
‘And was the fellow prisoner his accomplice and also a murderer? But of course, he presents himself in a better light than his friend; that’s obvious. This will give everyone else here something new to gossip about. Casby, Arthur tells me—’
‘Stay, mother! Stay, stay!’ He interrupted her hastily, for it had not entered his imagination that she would openly proclaim what he had told her.
‘Wait, Mom! Wait, wait!’ He interrupted her quickly, because it hadn’t occurred to him that she would openly share what he had told her.
‘What now?’ she said with displeasure. ‘What more?’
‘What now?’ she said with frustration. ‘What else?’
‘I beg you to excuse me, Mr Casby—and you, too, Mrs Finching—for one other moment with my mother—’
‘I kindly ask for your forgiveness, Mr. Casby—and you as well, Mrs. Finching—for just one more moment with my mom—’
He had laid his hand upon her chair, or she would otherwise have wheeled it round with the touch of her foot upon the ground. They were still face to face. She looked at him, as he ran over the possibilities of some result he had not intended, and could not foresee, being influenced by Cavalletto’s disclosure becoming a matter of notoriety, and hurriedly arrived at the conclusion that it had best not be talked about; though perhaps he was guided by no more distinct reason than that he had taken it for granted that his mother would reserve it to herself and her partner.
He had placed his hand on her chair, or she would have just spun it around with her foot on the ground. They were still looking at each other. She gazed at him as he considered the consequences of an unexpected outcome that he hadn’t intended and couldn't predict, influenced by Cavalletto’s revelation becoming well-known. He quickly concluded that it was better left unspoken; although, perhaps his reasoning was less clear than the assumption that his mother would keep it to herself and her partner.
‘What now?’ she said again, impatiently. ‘What is it?’
‘What now?’ she said again, impatient. ‘What is it?’
‘I did not mean, mother, that you should repeat what I have communicated. I think you had better not repeat it.’
‘I didn’t mean for you to repeat what I told you, Mom. I think it’s better if you don’t share it.’
‘Do you make that a condition with me?’
‘Are you making that a condition with me?’
‘Well! Yes.’
"Of course! Yes."
‘Observe, then! It is you who make this a secret,’ said she, holding up her hand, ‘and not I. It is you, Arthur, who bring here doubts and suspicions and entreaties for explanations, and it is you, Arthur, who bring secrets here. What is it to me, do you think, where the man has been, or what he has been? What can it be to me? The whole world may know it, if they care to know it; it is nothing to me. Now, let me go.’
"Look! You're the one making this a secret," she said, raising her hand. "It's you, Arthur, who brings doubts and suspicions and asks for explanations, and it's you, Arthur, who brings secrets here. What does it matter to me where the man has been or what he has done? What difference does it make to me? The whole world can know if they want to; it's nothing to me. Now, let me go."
He yielded to her imperious but elated look, and turned her chair back to the place from which he had wheeled it. In doing so he saw elation in the face of Mr Flintwinch, which most assuredly was not inspired by Flora. This turning of his intelligence and of his whole attempt and design against himself, did even more than his mother’s fixedness and firmness to convince him that his efforts with her were idle. Nothing remained but the appeal to his old friend Affery.
He gave in to her commanding yet happy expression and turned her chair back to where he had moved it from. In doing so, he noticed the excitement on Mr. Flintwinch's face, which definitely wasn't because of Flora. This realization about his own intentions and efforts turned against him, more than his mother's resolve and determination, convinced him that trying with her was pointless. All that was left was to reach out to his old friend Affery.
But even to get the very doubtful and preliminary stage of making the appeal, seemed one of the least promising of human undertakings. She was so completely under the thrall of the two clever ones, was so systematically kept in sight by one or other of them, and was so afraid to go about the house besides, that every opportunity of speaking to her alone appeared to be forestalled. Over and above that, Mistress Affery, by some means (it was not very difficult to guess, through the sharp arguments of her liege lord), had acquired such a lively conviction of the hazard of saying anything under any circumstances, that she had remained all this time in a corner guarding herself from approach with that symbolical instrument of hers; so that, when a word or two had been addressed to her by Flora, or even by the bottle-green patriarch himself, she had warded off conversation with the toasting-fork like a dumb woman.
But even reaching the very uncertain and initial stage of making the appeal felt like one of the least promising human efforts. She was so completely under the control of the two clever ones, was so constantly kept in view by one or the other of them, and was so afraid to move around the house that every chance to talk to her privately seemed to be blocked. On top of that, Mistress Affery, for some reason (it was easy to guess, thanks to the persuasive arguments of her husband), had developed such a strong belief in the dangers of saying anything at all that she had spent all this time huddled in a corner, protecting herself from anyone approaching with that symbolic tool of hers. So, when Flora or even the bottle-green patriarch himself tried to talk to her, she deflected the conversation with the toasting fork like a mute.
After several abortive attempts to get Affery to look at him while she cleared the table and washed the tea-service, Arthur thought of an expedient which Flora might originate. To whom he therefore whispered, ‘Could you say you would like to go through the house?’
After several unsuccessful tries to get Affery to look at him while she cleared the table and washed the tea set, Arthur came up with an idea that Flora might suggest. So, he quietly asked her, "Could you say you’d like to check out the house?"
Now, poor Flora, being always in fluctuating expectation of the time when Clennam would renew his boyhood and be madly in love with her again, received the whisper with the utmost delight; not only as rendered precious by its mysterious character, but as preparing the way for a tender interview in which he would declare the state of his affections. She immediately began to work out the hint.
Now, poor Flora, always hoping for the moment when Clennam would return to his youthful self and fall madly in love with her again, received the whisper with absolute delight; not only because of its mysterious nature but also because it set the stage for a heartfelt conversation where he would confess his feelings. She immediately started to figure out the hint.
‘Ah dear me the poor old room,’ said Flora, glancing round, ‘looks just as ever Mrs Clennam I am touched to see except for being smokier which was to be expected with time and which we must all expect and reconcile ourselves to being whether we like it or not as I am sure I have had to do myself if not exactly smokier dreadfully stouter which is the same or worse, to think of the days when papa used to bring me here the least of girls a perfect mass of chilblains to be stuck upon a chair with my feet on the rails and stare at Arthur—pray excuse me—Mr Clennam—the least of boys in the frightfullest of frills and jackets ere yet Mr F. appeared a misty shadow on the horizon paying attentions like the well-known spectre of some place in Germany beginning with a B is a moral lesson inculcating that all the paths in life are similar to the paths down in the North of England where they get the coals and make the iron and things gravelled with ashes!’
“Oh dear, the poor old room,” said Flora, looking around, “looks just the same as ever. Mrs. Clennam, I’m glad to see it, except it’s a bit smokier, which was to be expected over time, and we all have to accept that, whether we like it or not, just as I have had to do myself. If not exactly smokier, then definitely heavier, which is just as bad or worse. It's strange to think of the days when Dad used to bring me here as a little girl, a complete mess of chilblains, sitting on a chair with my feet on the rails and staring at Arthur—excuse me—Mr. Clennam, the smallest of boys in the most ridiculous frills and jackets, before Mr. F. showed up like a misty shadow on the horizon, making advances like the famous ghost from some place in Germany that starts with a B. It's a moral lesson illustrating that all paths in life are similar to those in the North of England, where they get the coal and make iron, and are covered with ashes!”
Having paid the tribute of a sigh to the instability of human existence, Flora hurried on with her purpose.
Having let out a sigh for the unpredictability of human life, Flora quickly moved on to what she needed to do.
‘Not that at any time,’ she proceeded, ‘its worst enemy could have said it was a cheerful house for that it was never made to be but always highly impressive, fond memory recalls an occasion in youth ere yet the judgment was mature when Arthur—confirmed habit—Mr Clennam—took me down into an unused kitchen eminent for mouldiness and proposed to secrete me there for life and feed me on what he could hide from his meals when he was not at home for the holidays and on dry bread in disgrace which at that halcyon period too frequently occurred, would it be inconvenient or asking too much to beg to be permitted to revive those scenes and walk through the house?’
“Not that at any time,” she continued, “its worst enemy could have said it was a cheerful house, since it was never meant to be, but always very impressive. I fondly remember an occasion from my youth, before I had matured enough to judge, when Arthur—true to his usual habit—Mr. Clennam—took me down into an unused kitchen, renowned for its dampness, and suggested that he would hide me there for life. He planned to feed me on whatever he could sneak away from his meals when he wasn’t home for the holidays, along with dry bread during the times I was in trouble, which happened all too often during that blissful time. Would it be too much to ask to be allowed to relive those moments and walk through the house again?”
Mrs Clennam, who responded with a constrained grace to Mrs Finching’s good nature in being there at all, though her visit (before Arthur’s unexpected arrival) was undoubtedly an act of pure good nature and no self-gratification, intimated that all the house was open to her. Flora rose and looked to Arthur for his escort. ‘Certainly,’ said he, aloud; ‘and Affery will light us, I dare say.’
Mrs. Clennam, who reacted with a stiff politeness to Mrs. Finching's kindness in being there at all, even though her visit (before Arthur's unexpected arrival) was clearly just a simple act of kindness without any self-interest, suggested that the whole house was open to her. Flora stood up and looked to Arthur for his escort. "Of course," he replied aloud; "and I’m sure Affery will show us the way."
Affery was excusing herself with ‘Don’t ask nothing of me, Arthur!’ when Mr Flintwinch stopped her with ‘Why not? Affery, what’s the matter with you, woman? Why not, jade!’ Thus expostulated with, she came unwillingly out of her corner, resigned the toasting-fork into one of her husband’s hands, and took the candlestick he offered from the other.
Affery was saying, "Don’t ask anything of me, Arthur!" when Mr. Flintwinch interrupted her, "Why not? Affery, what’s wrong with you? Why not, you fool!" After being confronted like this, she reluctantly came out of her corner, handed the toasting fork to her husband, and took the candlestick he offered with his other hand.
‘Go before, you fool!’ said Jeremiah. ‘Are you going up, or down, Mrs Finching?’
‘Go ahead, you idiot!’ said Jeremiah. ‘Are you going up or down, Mrs. Finching?’
Flora answered, ‘Down.’
Flora replied, “Down.”
‘Then go before, and down, you Affery,’ said Jeremiah. ‘And do it properly, or I’ll come rolling down the banisters, and tumbling over you!’
‘Then go ahead, Affery,’ said Jeremiah. ‘And do it right, or I’ll come sliding down the banisters and crashing into you!’
Affery headed the exploring party; Jeremiah closed it. He had no intention of leaving them. Clennam looking back, and seeing him following three stairs behind, in the coolest and most methodical manner exclaimed in a low voice, ‘Is there no getting rid of him!’ Flora reassured his mind by replying promptly, ‘Why though not exactly proper Arthur and a thing I couldn’t think of before a younger man or a stranger still I don’t mind him if you so particularly wish it and provided you’ll have the goodness not to take me too tight.’
Affery was in charge of the exploring group, and Jeremiah brought up the rear. He had no plans of leaving them behind. Clennam glanced back and saw him following just three steps behind in the calmest and most organized way, and he whispered, “Is there no way to get rid of him?” Flora quickly reassured him, saying, “Well, it may not be exactly proper, Arthur, and it's something I wouldn’t think of in front of a younger man or a complete stranger, but I don’t mind him if that’s what you really want, as long as you promise not to hold me too tightly.”
Original
Wanting the heart to explain that this was not at all what he meant, Arthur extended his supporting arm round Flora’s figure. ‘Oh my goodness me,’ said she. ‘You are very obedient indeed really and it’s extremely honourable and gentlemanly in you I am sure but still at the same time if you would like to be a little tighter than that I shouldn’t consider it intruding.’
Wanting to clarify that this wasn’t at all what he meant, Arthur wrapped his arm around Flora's waist. “Oh my goodness,” she said. “You’re really very considerate, and it’s truly honorable and chivalrous of you, I’m sure. But at the same time, if you’d like to hold me a little tighter, I wouldn’t mind at all.”
In this preposterous attitude, unspeakably at variance with his anxious mind, Clennam descended to the basement of the house; finding that wherever it became darker than elsewhere, Flora became heavier, and that when the house was lightest she was too. Returning from the dismal kitchen regions, which were as dreary as they could be, Mistress Affery passed with the light into his father’s old room, and then into the old dining-room; always passing on before like a phantom that was not to be overtaken, and neither turning nor answering when he whispered, ‘Affery! I want to speak to you!’
In this absurd mindset, completely at odds with his worried thoughts, Clennam headed down to the basement of the house. He noticed that wherever it was darker, Flora felt heavier, and when the house was brighter, she felt lighter too. After coming back from the gloomy kitchen, which was as dreary as it could get, Mistress Affery passed through the light into his father's old room, and then into the old dining room; always leading the way like a ghost that could not be caught, and not turning or responding when he quietly called out, “Affery! I want to talk to you!”
In the dining-room, a sentimental desire came over Flora to look into the dragon closet which had so often swallowed Arthur in the days of his boyhood—not improbably because, as a very dark closet, it was a likely place to be heavy in. Arthur, fast subsiding into despair, had opened it, when a knock was heard at the outer door.
In the dining room, Flora felt a nostalgic urge to check the dragon closet, which had often consumed Arthur during his childhood—probably because, being a very dark closet, it seemed like a heavy place to hide. Arthur, sinking further into despair, had just opened it when a knock was heard at the front door.
Mistress Affery, with a suppressed cry, threw her apron over her head.
Mistress Affery, stifling a gasp, threw her apron over her head.
‘What? You want another dose!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘You shall have it, my woman, you shall have a good one! Oh! You shall have a sneezer, you shall have a teaser!’
‘What? You want another dose!’ said Mr. Flintwinch. ‘You’ll get it, my woman, you’ll get a good one! Oh! You’ll have a sneezer, you’ll have a teaser!’
‘In the meantime is anybody going to the door?’ said Arthur.
"In the meantime, is anyone going to get the door?" Arthur said.
‘In the meantime, I am going to the door, sir,’ returned the old man so savagely, as to render it clear that in a choice of difficulties he felt he must go, though he would have preferred not to go. ‘Stay here the while, all! Affery, my woman, move an inch, or speak a word in your foolishness, and I’ll treble your dose!’
‘In the meantime, I am going to the door, sir,’ said the old man angrily, making it clear that he felt he had to go despite wanting to stay. ‘Everyone stay here for a bit! Affery, my dear, if you move even a little or say a word with your nonsense, I’ll triple your dose!’
The moment he was gone, Arthur released Mrs Finching: with some difficulty, by reason of that lady misunderstanding his intentions, and making arrangements with a view to tightening instead of slackening.
The moment he left, Arthur let go of Mrs. Finching: it was a bit challenging because she misunderstood what he meant and was trying to tighten her grip instead of loosen it.
‘Affery, speak to me now!’
"Affery, talk to me now!"
‘Don’t touch me, Arthur!’ she cried, shrinking from him. ‘Don’t come near me. He’ll see you. Jeremiah will. Don’t.’
‘Don’t touch me, Arthur!’ she yelled, backing away from him. ‘Stay away from me. He’ll see you. Jeremiah will. Don’t.’
‘He can’t see me,’ returned Arthur, suiting the action to the word, ‘if I blow the candle out.’
‘He can’t see me,’ Arthur said, doing exactly that, ‘if I blow the candle out.’
‘He’ll hear you,’ cried Affery.
“He’ll hear you,” shouted Affery.
‘He can’t hear me,’ returned Arthur, suiting the action to the words again, ‘if I draw you into this black closet, and speak here. Why do you hide your face?’
‘He can’t hear me,’ Arthur replied, doing exactly what he said again, ‘if I pull you into this dark closet and talk here. Why are you hiding your face?’
‘Because I am afraid of seeing something.’
‘Because I'm scared of seeing something.’
‘You can’t be afraid of seeing anything in this darkness, Affery.’
‘You can’t be scared of seeing anything in this darkness, Affery.’
‘Yes I am. Much more than if it was light.’
‘Yes, I am. A lot more than if it were light.’
‘Why are you afraid?’
‘Why are you scared?’
‘Because the house is full of mysteries and secrets; because it’s full of whisperings and counsellings; because it’s full of noises. There never was such a house for noises. I shall die of ‘em, if Jeremiah don’t strangle me first. As I expect he will.’
‘Because the house is full of mysteries and secrets; because it’s full of whisperings and discussions; because it’s full of sounds. There’s never been a house with so much noise. I’m going to die from it, if Jeremiah doesn’t strangle me first. And I think he will.’
‘I have never heard any noises here, worth speaking of.’
‘I have never heard any noises here that are worth mentioning.’
‘Ah! But you would, though, if you lived in the house, and was obliged to go about it as I am,’ said Affery; ‘and you’d feel that they was so well worth speaking of, that you’d feel you was nigh bursting through not being allowed to speak of ‘em. Here’s Jeremiah! You’ll get me killed.’
‘Oh! But you would if you lived in the house and had to deal with it like I do,’ said Affery; ‘and you’d realize they’re so worth talking about that you’d feel like you’re about to explode from not being able to talk about them. Here comes Jeremiah! You’re going to get me in trouble!’
‘My good Affery, I solemnly declare to you that I can see the light of the open door on the pavement of the hall, and so could you if you would uncover your face and look.’
‘My good Affery, I seriously tell you that I can see the light from the open door on the floor of the hall, and you could too if you uncovered your face and looked.’
‘I durstn’t do it,’ said Affery, ‘I durstn’t never, Arthur. I’m always blind-folded when Jeremiah an’t a looking, and sometimes even when he is.’
"I can't do it," said Affery, "I can never do it, Arthur. I'm always blindfolded when Jeremiah isn't watching, and sometimes even when he is."
‘He cannot shut the door without my seeing him,’ said Arthur. ‘You are as safe with me as if he was fifty miles away.’
“He can't close the door without me seeing him,” Arthur said. “You're just as safe with me as if he were fifty miles away.”
(‘I wish he was!’ cried Affery.)
(‘I wish he were!’ cried Affery.)
‘Affery, I want to know what is amiss here; I want some light thrown on the secrets of this house.’
‘Affery, I want to know what’s wrong here; I need some clarity on the secrets of this house.’
‘I tell you, Arthur,’ she interrupted, ‘noises is the secrets, rustlings and stealings about, tremblings, treads overhead and treads underneath.’
“I’m telling you, Arthur,” she interrupted, “the noises are the secrets—rustling sounds and stealing movements, tremors, footsteps above and footsteps below.”
‘But those are not all the secrets.’
‘But those aren't the only secrets.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Affery. ‘Don’t ask me no more. Your old sweetheart an’t far off, and she’s a blabber.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Affery. ‘Don’t ask me anymore. Your old sweetheart isn’t far away, and she’s a chatterbox.’
His old sweetheart, being in fact so near at hand that she was then reclining against him in a flutter, a very substantial angle of forty-five degrees, here interposed to assure Mistress Affery with greater earnestness than directness of asseveration, that what she heard should go no further, but should be kept inviolate, ‘if on no other account on Arthur’s—sensible of intruding in being too familiar Doyce and Clennam’s.’
His old sweetheart was so close that she was leaning against him at a considerable angle of forty-five degrees, and she interrupted to assure Mistress Affery, with more seriousness than straightforwardness, that what she heard should not be repeated and should be kept secret, "if for no other reason than Arthur’s—aware of being too familiar with Doyce and Clennam."
‘I make an imploring appeal to you, Affery, to you, one of the few agreeable early remembrances I have, for my mother’s sake, for your husband’s sake, for my own, for all our sakes. I am sure you can tell me something connected with the coming here of this man, if you will.’
‘I earnestly ask you, Affery, one of the few pleasant early memories I have, for my mother’s sake, for your husband’s sake, for my own, for all of us. I’m sure you can share something related to this man’s arrival, if you’re willing.’
‘Why, then I’ll tell you, Arthur,’ returned Affery—‘Jeremiah’s coming!’
‘Well, I’ll tell you, Arthur,’ Affery replied, ‘Jeremiah’s coming!’
‘No, indeed he is not. The door is open, and he is standing outside, talking.’
‘No, he’s definitely not. The door is open, and he’s standing outside, talking.’
‘I’ll tell you then,’ said Affery, after listening, ‘that the first time he ever come he heard the noises his own self. “What’s that?” he said to me. “I don’t know what it is,” I says to him, catching hold of him, “but I have heard it over and over again.” While I says it, he stands a looking at me, all of a shake, he do.’
"I’ll tell you then," Affery said after listening, "that the first time he ever came, he heard the noises himself. "What’s that?" he asked me. "I don’t know what it is," I told him, grabbing his arm, "but I’ve heard it over and over again." While I was saying this, he stood there looking at me, all shaken up."
‘Has he been here often?’
‘Has he visited often?’
‘Only that night, and the last night.’
‘Only that night, and the final night.’
‘What did you see of him on the last night, after I was gone?’
‘What did you see of him on the last night, after I left?’
‘Them two clever ones had him all alone to themselves. Jeremiah come a dancing at me sideways, after I had let you out (he always comes a dancing at me sideways when he’s going to hurt me), and he said to me, “Now, Affery,” he said, “I am a coming behind you, my woman, and a going to run you up.” So he took and squeezed the back of my neck in his hand, till it made me open my mouth, and then he pushed me before him to bed, squeezing all the way. That’s what he calls running me up, he do. Oh, he’s a wicked one!’
'Those two clever ones had him all to themselves. Jeremiah came dancing at me sideways after I let you out (he always dances at me sideways when he’s about to hurt me), and he said to me, “Now, Affery,” he said, “I’m coming behind you, my woman, and I’m going to run you up.” So he took my neck in his hand and squeezed it until my mouth opened, and then he pushed me to bed, squeezing the whole way. That’s what he calls running me up. Oh, he’s a wicked one!'
‘And did you hear or see no more, Affery?’
‘And did you hear or see anything else, Affery?’
‘Don’t I tell you I was sent to bed, Arthur! Here he is!’
‘Didn’t I say I was sent to bed, Arthur! Here he is!’
‘I assure you he is still at the door. Those whisperings and counsellings, Affery, that you have spoken of. What are they?’
‘I promise you he’s still at the door. Those whispers and discussions, Affery, that you mentioned. What are they?’
‘How should I know? Don’t ask me nothing about ‘em, Arthur. Get away!’
‘How should I know? Don’t ask me anything about them, Arthur. Just leave me alone!’
‘But my dear Affery; unless I can gain some insight into these hidden things, in spite of your husband and in spite of my mother, ruin will come of it.’
‘But my dear Affery; unless I can understand these hidden things, despite your husband and despite my mother, it will lead to ruin.’
‘Don’t ask me nothing,’ repeated Affery. ‘I have been in a dream for ever so long. Go away, go away!’
‘Don’t ask me anything,’ Affery repeated. ‘I’ve been in a dream for so long. Just go away, go away!’
‘You said that before,’ returned Arthur. ‘You used the same expression that night, at the door, when I asked you what was going on here. What do you mean by being in a dream?’
‘You said that before,’ Arthur replied. ‘You used the same phrase that night, at the door, when I asked you what was happening here. What do you mean by being in a dream?’
‘I an’t a going to tell you. Get away! I shouldn’t tell you, if you was by yourself; much less with your old sweetheart here.’
'I’m not going to tell you. Go away! I shouldn't tell you, even if you were on your own; definitely not with your old sweetheart here.'
It was equally vain for Arthur to entreat, and for Flora to protest. Affery, who had been trembling and struggling the whole time, turned a deaf ear to all adjuration, and was bent on forcing herself out of the closet.
It was just as pointless for Arthur to plead, as it was for Flora to argue. Affery, who had been shaking and fighting the whole time, ignored all the pleas and was determined to push herself out of the closet.
‘I’d sooner scream to Jeremiah than say another word! I’ll call out to him, Arthur, if you don’t give over speaking to me. Now here’s the very last word I’ll say afore I call to him—If ever you begin to get the better of them two clever ones your own self (you ought to it, as I told you when you first come home, for you haven’t been a living here long years, to be made afeared of your life as I have), then do you get the better of ‘em afore my face; and then do you say to me, Affery tell your dreams! Maybe, then I’ll tell ‘em!’
"I’d rather scream for Jeremiah than say another word! I’ll call out to him, Arthur, if you don’t stop talking to me. Now here’s the last thing I’ll say before I call him—If you ever start to get the upper hand over those two clever ones yourself (you should, as I told you when you first came home, because you haven’t been living here long enough to be scared for your life like I am), then you get the better of them in front of me; and then you say to me, Affery, tell your dreams! Maybe then I’ll tell them!"
The shutting of the door stopped Arthur from replying. They glided into the places where Jeremiah had left them; and Clennam, stepping forward as that old gentleman returned, informed him that he had accidentally extinguished the candle. Mr Flintwinch looked on as he re-lighted it at the lamp in the hall, and preserved a profound taciturnity respecting the person who had been holding him in conversation. Perhaps his irascibility demanded compensation for some tediousness that the visitor had expended on him; however that was, he took such umbrage at seeing his wife with her apron over her head, that he charged at her, and taking her veiled nose between his thumb and finger, appeared to throw the whole screw-power of his person into the wring he gave it.
The closing of the door prevented Arthur from responding. They moved into the spots where Jeremiah had left them; and Clennam, stepping forward as the old gentleman returned, told him that he had accidentally blown out the candle. Mr. Flintwinch watched as he relit it at the lamp in the hall, maintaining a deep silence about the person who had been talking to him. Perhaps his irritability required compensation for some boredom that the visitor had inflicted on him; regardless, he was so bothered by seeing his wife with her apron over her head that he charged at her, taking her veiled nose between his thumb and finger, and seemed to put all his strength into the twist he gave it.
Flora, now permanently heavy, did not release Arthur from the survey of the house, until it had extended even to his old garret bedchamber. His thoughts were otherwise occupied than with the tour of inspection; yet he took particular notice at the time, as he afterwards had occasion to remember, of the airlessness and closeness of the house; that they left the track of their footsteps in the dust on the upper floors; and that there was a resistance to the opening of one room door, which occasioned Affery to cry out that somebody was hiding inside, and to continue to believe so, though somebody was sought and not discovered. When they at last returned to his mother’s room, they found her shading her face with her muffled hand, and talking in a low voice to the Patriarch as he stood before the fire, whose blue eyes, polished head, and silken locks, turning towards them as they came in, imparted an inestimable value and inexhaustible love of his species to his remark:
Flora, now permanently heavy, didn’t let Arthur off the hook from checking out the house until it even included his old attic bedroom. His mind was elsewhere during the inspection, but he took particular note at the time, as he would later remember, of how stuffy and closed-in the house felt; how their footsteps left a mark in the dust on the upper floors; and that one door refused to open easily, which made Affery exclaim that someone was hiding inside, a belief she held onto even though they searched and found no one. When they finally returned to his mother’s room, they found her shielding her face with her covered hand, speaking in a low voice to the Patriarch, who was standing by the fire. His blue eyes, shiny head, and silky hair turned toward them as they entered, adding an immeasurable worth and endless love for his kind to his comment:
‘So you have been seeing the premises, seeing the premises—premises— seeing the premises!’
‘So you have been looking at the premises, looking at the premises—premises—looking at the premises!’
It was not in itself a jewel of benevolence or wisdom, yet he made it an exemplar of both that one would have liked to have a copy of.
It wasn't a gem of kindness or intelligence on its own, but he turned it into a model of both that anyone would have wanted a copy of.
CHAPTER 24. The Evening of a Long Day
That illustrious man and great national ornament, Mr Merdle, continued his shining course. It began to be widely understood that one who had done society the admirable service of making so much money out of it, could not be suffered to remain a commoner. A baronetcy was spoken of with confidence; a peerage was frequently mentioned. Rumour had it that Mr Merdle had set his golden face against a baronetcy; that he had plainly intimated to Lord Decimus that a baronetcy was not enough for him; that he had said, ‘No—a Peerage, or plain Merdle.’ This was reported to have plunged Lord Decimus as nigh to his noble chin in a slough of doubts as so lofty a person could be sunk. For the Barnacles, as a group of themselves in creation, had an idea that such distinctions belonged to them; and that when a soldier, sailor, or lawyer became ennobled, they let him in, as it were, by an act of condescension, at the family door, and immediately shut it again. Not only (said Rumour) had the troubled Decimus his own hereditary part in this impression, but he also knew of several Barnacle claims already on the file, which came into collision with that of the master spirit. Right or wrong, Rumour was very busy; and Lord Decimus, while he was, or was supposed to be, in stately excogitation of the difficulty, lent her some countenance by taking, on several public occasions, one of those elephantine trots of his through a jungle of overgrown sentences, waving Mr Merdle about on his trunk as Gigantic Enterprise, The Wealth of England, Elasticity, Credit, Capital, Prosperity, and all manner of blessings.
The distinguished Mr. Merdle, a true national treasure, continued his impressive rise. It started to become clear that someone who had benefited society by generating so much wealth could not simply be accepted as an ordinary citizen. There was talk of a baronetcy with assurance, and peerage was frequently brought up. Rumor had it that Mr. Merdle had firmly rejected a baronetcy, indicating to Lord Decimus that it wasn't sufficient for him; he reportedly stated, ‘No—a Peerage, or just Merdle.’ This news supposedly left Lord Decimus mired in doubts, which was quite unusual for someone of his status. The Barnacles, as a self-identified elite, believed such honors were their prerogative; they felt that when a soldier, sailor, or lawyer received an honor, it was as if they were graciously allowed to step through their family door, only for it to be shut immediately afterward. According to Rumor, Lord Decimus not only shared a hereditary belief in this notion but also was aware of several Barnacle claims that would clash with the ambitions of the dominant figure. Right or wrong, Rumor was actively circulating; and while Lord Decimus was, or was thought to be, deeply pondering the situation, he inadvertently supported the gossip by occasionally taking one of his ponderous walks through a maze of convoluted statements, waving Mr. Merdle around like a symbol of Gigantic Enterprise, The Wealth of England, Elasticity, Credit, Capital, Prosperity, and various other advantages.
So quietly did the mowing of the old scythe go on, that fully three months had passed unnoticed since the two English brothers had been laid in one tomb in the strangers’ cemetery at Rome. Mr and Mrs Sparkler were established in their own house: a little mansion, rather of the Tite Barnacle class, quite a triumph of inconvenience, with a perpetual smell in it of the day before yesterday’s soup and coach-horses, but extremely dear, as being exactly in the centre of the habitable globe. In this enviable abode (and envied it really was by many people), Mrs Sparkler had intended to proceed at once to the demolition of the Bosom, when active hostilities had been suspended by the arrival of the Courier with his tidings of death. Mrs Sparkler, who was not unfeeling, had received them with a violent burst of grief, which had lasted twelve hours; after which, she had arisen to see about her mourning, and to take every precaution that could ensure its being as becoming as Mrs Merdle’s. A gloom was then cast over more than one distinguished family (according to the politest sources of intelligence), and the Courier went back again.
So quietly did the mowing of the old scythe continue that a full three months passed unnoticed since the two English brothers were laid to rest in the same grave in the foreign cemetery in Rome. Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler had settled into their own home: a small mansion of the Tite Barnacle kind, a perfect example of inconvenience, with a constant smell of yesterday's soup and coach horses, but extremely expensive, as it was located right in the center of the civilized world. In this enviable home (and it truly was envied by many), Mrs. Sparkler had planned to immediately begin the demolition of the Bosom when active conflicts were interrupted by the Courier's arrival with news of death. Mrs. Sparkler, who wasn’t heartless, had reacted with an intense burst of grief that lasted twelve hours; after which, she got up to arrange her mourning attire, making sure that it would be as stylish as Mrs. Merdle’s. This somber news then cast a shadow over more than one notable family (according to the most polite sources), and the Courier departed once more.
Mr and Mrs Sparkler had been dining alone, with their gloom cast over them, and Mrs Sparkler reclined on a drawing-room sofa. It was a hot summer Sunday evening. The residence in the centre of the habitable globe, at all times stuffed and close as if it had an incurable cold in its head, was that evening particularly stifling. The bells of the churches had done their worst in the way of clanging among the unmelodious echoes of the streets, and the lighted windows of the churches had ceased to be yellow in the grey dusk, and had died out opaque black. Mrs Sparkler, lying on her sofa, looking through an open window at the opposite side of a narrow street over boxes of mignonette and flowers, was tired of the view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at another window where her husband stood in the balcony, was tired of that view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at herself in her mourning, was even tired of that view: though, naturally, not so tired of that as of the other two.
Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler had been eating dinner alone, with a feeling of gloom hanging over them, and Mrs. Sparkler was lounging on a couch in the living room. It was a hot summer Sunday evening. Their home, located in the center of the world, was always cramped and stuffy, almost like it had a persistent cold, but that evening it felt especially suffocating. The church bells had been ringing loudly, creating an unmelodious echo in the streets, and the lighted windows of the churches had faded from yellow to an opaque black in the dimming light. Mrs. Sparkler, reclining on the couch and gazing through an open window at the other side of the narrow street filled with boxes of mignonette and flowers, was bored with the view. Mrs. Sparkler, looking at her husband who stood on the balcony, was tired of that view too. Mrs. Sparkler, glancing at her reflection in her mourning attire, was even more tired of that view, though, of course, not as much as the other two.
‘It’s like lying in a well,’ said Mrs Sparkler, changing her position fretfully. ‘Dear me, Edmund, if you have anything to say, why don’t you say it?’
“It’s like lying in a well,” Mrs. Sparkler said, shifting in her seat impatiently. “Goodness, Edmund, if you have something to say, why don’t you just say it?”
Mr Sparkler might have replied with ingenuousness, ‘My life, I have nothing to say.’ But, as the repartee did not occur to him, he contented himself with coming in from the balcony and standing at the side of his wife’s couch.
Mr. Sparkler might have honestly replied, "My life, I have nothing to say." But since that clever comeback didn’t come to him, he settled for coming in from the balcony and standing next to his wife’s couch.
‘Good gracious, Edmund!’ said Mrs Sparkler more fretfully still, ‘you are absolutely putting mignonette up your nose! Pray don’t!’
“Good heavens, Edmund!” Mrs. Sparkler said more irritably, “You are seriously sticking mignonette up your nose! Please don’t!”
Mr Sparkler, in absence of mind—perhaps in a more literal absence of mind than is usually understood by the phrase—had smelt so hard at a sprig in his hand as to be on the verge of the offence in question. He smiled, said, ‘I ask your pardon, my dear,’ and threw it out of window.
Mr. Sparkler, lost in thought—maybe even more lost than the phrase usually implies—had sniffed so intensely at a sprig he was holding that he was almost committing the offense being discussed. He smiled, said, "I’m sorry, my dear," and tossed it out the window.
‘You make my head ache by remaining in that position, Edmund,’ said Mrs Sparkler, raising her eyes to him after another minute; ‘you look so aggravatingly large by this light. Do sit down.’
‘You give me a headache by staying in that position, Edmund,’ said Mrs. Sparkler, looking up at him after another minute; ‘you look really annoyingly large in this light. Please sit down.’
‘Certainly, my dear,’ said Mr Sparkler, and took a chair on the same spot.
“Of course, my dear,” said Mr. Sparkler, and sat down in the same spot.
‘If I didn’t know that the longest day was past,’ said Fanny, yawning in a dreary manner, ‘I should have felt certain this was the longest day. I never did experience such a day.’
‘If I didn’t know that the longest day was behind us,’ said Fanny, yawning in a bored way, ‘I would be convinced this was the longest day. I’ve never had such a day.’
‘Is that your fan, my love?’ asked Mr Sparkler, picking up one and presenting it.
‘Is that your fan, my love?’ Mr. Sparkler asked, picking one up and offering it.
‘Edmund,’ returned his wife, more wearily yet, ‘don’t ask weak questions, I entreat you not. Whose can it be but mine?’
‘Edmund,’ his wife replied, more tiredly, ‘please don’t ask weak questions. I really beg you not to. Whose can it be but mine?’
‘Yes, I thought it was yours,’ said Mr Sparkler.
'Yeah, I thought it was yours,' said Mr. Sparkler.
‘Then you shouldn’t ask,’ retorted Fanny. After a little while she turned on her sofa and exclaimed, ‘Dear me, dear me, there never was such a long day as this!’ After another little while, she got up slowly, walked about, and came back again.
“Then you shouldn’t ask,” Fanny shot back. After a bit, she turned on her sofa and said, “Goodness, there has never been such a long day as this!” After a little more time, she got up slowly, walked around, and came back again.
‘My dear,’ said Mr Sparkler, flashing with an original conception, ‘I think you must have got the fidgets.’
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Sparkler, bursting with a new idea, ‘I think you must be feeling restless.’
‘Oh, Fidgets!’ repeated Mrs Sparkler. ‘Don’t.’
‘Oh, Fidgets!’ Mrs. Sparkler said again. ‘Don’t.’
‘My adorable girl,’ urged Mr Sparkler, ‘try your aromatic vinegar. I have often seen my mother try it, and it seemingly refreshed her.
‘My sweet girl,’ urged Mr. Sparkler, ‘give your aromatic vinegar a try. I’ve often watched my mother use it, and it seemed to refresh her.’
And she is, as I believe you are aware, a remarkably fine woman, with no non—’
And she is, as I believe you know, a truly remarkable woman, with no—
‘Good Gracious!’ exclaimed Fanny, starting up again. ‘It’s beyond all patience! This is the most wearisome day that ever did dawn upon the world, I am certain.’
“Good Gracious!” Fanny exclaimed, sitting up again. “This is just too much! This is the most exhausting day that has ever dawned upon the world, I’m sure.”
Mr Sparkler looked meekly after her as she lounged about the room, and he appeared to be a little frightened. When she had tossed a few trifles about, and had looked down into the darkening street out of all the three windows, she returned to her sofa, and threw herself among its pillows.
Mr. Sparkler watched her quietly as she relaxed in the room, and he seemed a bit scared. After she had scattered a few things around and peeked down at the darkening street from all three windows, she came back to her sofa and flopped down into its pillows.
‘Now Edmund, come here! Come a little nearer, because I want to be able to touch you with my fan, that I may impress you very much with what I am going to say. That will do. Quite close enough. Oh, you do look so big!’
‘Now Edmund, come here! Come a little closer, because I want to be able to touch you with my fan, so I can really emphasize what I'm about to say. That's good. Close enough. Oh, you really look so big!’
Mr Sparkler apologised for the circumstance, pleaded that he couldn’t help it, and said that ‘our fellows,’ without more particularly indicating whose fellows, used to call him by the name of Quinbus Flestrin, Junior, or the Young Man Mountain.
Mr. Sparkler apologized for the situation, explained that it was out of his control, and mentioned that "our guys," without really specifying who, would call him by the name Quinbus Flestrin, Junior, or the Young Man Mountain.
‘You ought to have told me so before,’ Fanny complained.
"You should have told me that earlier," Fanny complained.
‘My dear,’ returned Mr Sparkler, rather gratified, ‘I didn’t know It would interest you, or I would have made a point of telling you.’
‘My dear,’ replied Mr. Sparkler, feeling quite pleased, ‘I didn’t realize it would interest you, or I would have made sure to tell you.’
‘There! For goodness sake, don’t talk,’ said Fanny; ‘I want to talk, myself. Edmund, we must not be alone any more. I must take such precautions as will prevent my being ever again reduced to the state of dreadful depression in which I am this evening.’
‘There! For goodness' sake, don’t talk,’ Fanny said; ‘I want to talk myself. Edmund, we can't be alone anymore. I need to take steps to make sure I’m never in this horrible state of depression again like I am this evening.’
‘My dear,’ answered Mr Sparkler; ‘being as you are well known to be, a remarkably fine woman with no—’
‘My dear,’ answered Mr. Sparkler; ‘since you are well known to be a remarkably fine woman with no—’
‘Oh, good GRACIOUS!’ cried Fanny.
“Oh my gosh!” cried Fanny.
Mr Sparkler was so discomposed by the energy of this exclamation, accompanied with a flouncing up from the sofa and a flouncing down again, that a minute or two elapsed before he felt himself equal to saying in explanation:
Mr. Sparkler was so rattled by the intensity of this exclamation, along with the dramatic getting up from the sofa and then sitting back down, that it took him a minute or two to feel ready to explain himself:
‘I mean, my dear, that everybody knows you are calculated to shine in society.’
"I mean, my dear, that everyone knows you are meant to shine in society."
‘Calculated to shine in society,’ retorted Fanny with great irritability; ‘yes, indeed! And then what happens? I no sooner recover, in a visiting point of view, the shock of poor dear papa’s death, and my poor uncle’s—though I do not disguise from myself that the last was a happy release, for, if you are not presentable you had much better die—’
‘Designed to impress everyone,’ Fanny shot back irritably; ‘yes, exactly! And then what happens? I barely start to get over the shock of my dear father’s death and my poor uncle’s—though I can't hide from myself that the latter was a welcome relief, because if you’re not fit to be seen, you might as well just die—’
‘You are not referring to me, my love, I hope?’ Mr Sparkler humbly interrupted.
‘You’re not talking about me, are you, my love?’ Mr. Sparkler humbly interrupted.
‘Edmund, Edmund, you would wear out a Saint. Am I not expressly speaking of my poor uncle?’
‘Edmund, Edmund, you would exhaust a Saint. Am I not specifically talking about my poor uncle?’
‘You looked with so much expression at myself, my dear girl,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘that I felt a little uncomfortable. Thank you, my love.’
"You looked at me with so much expression, my dear girl," said Mr. Sparkler, "that I felt a bit uncomfortable. Thank you, my love."
‘Now you have put me out,’ observed Fanny with a resigned toss of her fan, ‘and I had better go to bed.’
‘Now you’ve got me all worked up,’ Fanny said with a resigned flick of her fan, ‘and I should probably head to bed.’
‘Don’t do that, my love,’ urged Mr Sparkler. ‘Take time.’
‘Don’t do that, babe,’ Mr. Sparkler urged. ‘Take it easy.’
Fanny took a good deal of time: lying back with her eyes shut, and her eyebrows raised with a hopeless expression as if she had utterly given up all terrestrial affairs. At length, without the slightest notice, she opened her eyes again, and recommenced in a short, sharp manner:
Fanny spent a lot of time lying back with her eyes closed, her eyebrows raised in a hopeless way as if she had completely given up on everything around her. Finally, without any warning, she opened her eyes again and started talking again in a brief, sharp tone:
‘What happens then, I ask! What happens? Why, I find myself at the very period when I might shine most in society, and should most like for very momentous reasons to shine in society—I find myself in a situation which to a certain extent disqualifies me for going into society. It’s too bad, really!’
‘What happens then, I ask! What happens? Well, I find myself at the exact time when I could really stand out in society, and I have very significant reasons for wanting to shine in society—I find myself in a situation that somewhat disqualifies me from being part of it. It’s just too bad, honestly!’
‘My dear,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘I don’t think it need keep you at home.’
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Sparkler. ‘I don’t think it should keep you from going out.’
‘Edmund, you ridiculous creature,’ returned Fanny, with great indignation; ‘do you suppose that a woman in the bloom of youth and not wholly devoid of personal attractions, can put herself, at such a time, in competition as to figure with a woman in every other way her inferior? If you do suppose such a thing, your folly is boundless.’
‘Edmund, you ridiculous person,’ Fanny replied, clearly upset; ‘do you really think that a young woman who has some charm can compete with someone who is inferior to her in every other way? If you believe that, your foolishness knows no limits.’
Mr Sparkler submitted that he had thought ‘it might be got over.’
Mr. Sparkler said that he had thought "it might be handled."
‘Got over!’ repeated Fanny, with immeasurable scorn.
“Got over!” Fanny repeated, filled with total disdain.
‘For a time,’ Mr Sparkler submitted.
‘For a while,’ Mr. Sparkler said.
Honouring the last feeble suggestion with no notice, Mrs Sparkler declared with bitterness that it really was too bad, and that positively it was enough to make one wish one was dead!
Honoring the last weak suggestion without any attention, Mrs. Sparkler bitterly declared that it was truly unfortunate and that it really was enough to make someone wish they were dead!
‘However,’ she said, when she had in some measure recovered from her sense of personal ill-usage; ‘provoking as it is, and cruel as it seems, I suppose it must be submitted to.’
‘However,’ she said, after she had somewhat recovered from her feeling of being wronged; ‘as frustrating as it is, and as harsh as it seems, I guess I have to accept it.’
‘Especially as it was to be expected,’ said Mr Sparkler.
"Especially since it was to be expected," said Mr. Sparkler.
‘Edmund,’ returned his wife, ‘if you have nothing more becoming to do than to attempt to insult the woman who has honoured you with her hand, when she finds herself in adversity, I think you had better go to bed!’
‘Edmund,’ his wife replied, ‘if you have nothing better to do than to try to insult the woman who has honored you with her hand while she’s facing tough times, I think you should just go to bed!’
Mr Sparkler was much afflicted by the charge, and offered a most tender and earnest apology. His apology was accepted; but Mrs Sparkler requested him to go round to the other side of the sofa and sit in the window-curtain, to tone himself down.
Mr. Sparkler was really upset by the accusation and gave a very sincere and heartfelt apology. She accepted his apology, but Mrs. Sparkler asked him to move to the other side of the sofa and sit in the window curtain to calm himself down.
‘Now, Edmund,’ she said, stretching out her fan, and touching him with it at arm’s length, ‘what I was going to say to you when you began as usual to prose and worry, is, that I shall guard against our being alone any more, and that when circumstances prevent my going out to my own satisfaction, I must arrange to have some people or other always here; for I really cannot, and will not, have another such day as this has been.’
‘Now, Edmund,’ she said, extending her fan and lightly tapping him with it from a distance, ‘what I wanted to say before you started your usual rambling and fussing is that I’m going to make sure we don’t end up alone together again. And when things get in the way of me going out as I’d like, I need to make arrangements to always have someone around; because I honestly can’t, and won’t, go through another day like this one.’
Mr Sparkler’s sentiments as to the plan were, in brief, that it had no nonsense about it. He added, ‘And besides, you know it’s likely that you’ll soon have your sister—’
Mr. Sparkler's thoughts on the plan were simple: it was straightforward and practical. He added, "And besides, you know it's likely that you'll soon have your sister—"
‘Dearest Amy, yes!’ cried Mrs Sparkler with a sigh of affection. ‘Darling little thing! Not, however, that Amy would do here alone.’
‘Dearest Amy, yes!’ cried Mrs. Sparkler with a sigh of affection. ‘Such a darling little thing! But, of course, Amy wouldn’t be doing this alone.’
Mr Sparkler was going to say ‘No?’ interrogatively, but he saw his danger and said it assentingly, ‘No, Oh dear no; she wouldn’t do here alone.’
Mr. Sparkler was about to say ‘No?’ in a questioning way, but he realized he was in trouble and said it in agreement instead, ‘No, oh dear no; she wouldn’t be here alone.’
‘No, Edmund. For not only are the virtues of the precious child of that still character that they require a contrast—require life and movement around them to bring them out in their right colours and make one love them of all things; but she will require to be roused, on more accounts than one.’
‘No, Edmund. Not only do the virtues of that precious child need a contrast—they need life and movement around them to show their true colors and make us love them above all else; but she will also need to be awakened for more reasons than one.’
‘That’s it,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘Roused.’
‘That’s it,’ Mr. Sparkler said. ‘Awakened.’
‘Pray don’t, Edmund! Your habit of interrupting without having the least thing in the world to say, distracts one. You must be broken of it. Speaking of Amy;—my poor little pet was devotedly attached to poor papa, and no doubt will have lamented his loss exceedingly, and grieved very much. I have done so myself. I have felt it dreadfully. But Amy will no doubt have felt it even more, from having been on the spot the whole time, and having been with poor dear papa at the last; which I unhappily was not.’
“Please don’t, Edmund! Your habit of interrupting without anything useful to say is really distracting. You need to change that. Speaking of Amy—my poor little pet was so attached to dad, and I’m sure she’s been heartbroken over his loss and is grieving a lot. I know I have. I’ve felt it terribly. But Amy has probably felt it even more since she was there with him the whole time and was with dear dad at the end, which I unfortunately wasn’t.”
Here Fanny stopped to weep, and to say, ‘Dear, dear, beloved papa! How truly gentlemanly he was! What a contrast to poor uncle!’
Here Fanny stopped to cry, and to say, ‘Dear, dear, beloved dad! How truly gentlemanly he was! What a contrast to poor uncle!’
‘From the effects of that trying time,’ she pursued, ‘my good little Mouse will have to be roused. Also, from the effects of this long attendance upon Edward in his illness; an attendance which is not yet over, which may even go on for some time longer, and which in the meanwhile unsettles us all by keeping poor dear papa’s affairs from being wound up. Fortunately, however, the papers with his agents here being all sealed up and locked up, as he left them when he providentially came to England, the affairs are in that state of order that they can wait until my brother Edward recovers his health in Sicily, sufficiently to come over, and administer, or execute, or whatever it may be that will have to be done.’
“From the impact of that difficult time,” she continued, “my good little Mouse will need to be awakened. Also, from the effects of this long care for Edward during his illness; care that isn’t over yet, that might even last a while longer, and that meanwhile unsettles us all by keeping poor dear papa’s affairs from being resolved. Fortunately, though, the papers with his agents here are all sealed and locked up, just as he left them when he luckily came to England, so everything is organized enough to wait until my brother Edward recovers his health in Sicily, enough to come over and handle whatever needs to be done.”
‘He couldn’t have a better nurse to bring him round,’ Mr Sparkler made bold to opine.
‘He couldn’t have a better nurse to help him recover,’ Mr. Sparkler confidently remarked.
‘For a wonder, I can agree with you,’ returned his wife, languidly turning her eyelids a little in his direction (she held forth, in general, as if to the drawing-room furniture), ‘and can adopt your words. He couldn’t have a better nurse to bring him round. There are times when my dear child is a little wearing to an active mind; but, as a nurse, she is Perfection. Best of Amys!’
"For once, I can agree with you," his wife said, lazily turning her eyes slightly in his direction (usually, she spoke as if to the furniture in the drawing-room), "and I can go along with what you said. He couldn’t have a better nurse to help him recover. There are moments when my dear child can be a bit exhausting for an active mind; but as a nurse, she is perfect. Best of Amys!"
Mr Sparkler, growing rash on his late success, observed that Edward had had, biggodd, a long bout of it, my dear girl.
Mr. Sparkler, riding high on his recent success, remarked that Edward had, oh my goodness, a long spell of it, my dear girl.
‘If Bout, Edmund,’ returned Mrs Sparkler, ‘is the slang term for indisposition, he has. If it is not, I am unable to give an opinion on the barbarous language you address to Edward’s sister. That he contracted Malaria Fever somewhere, either by travelling day and night to Rome, where, after all, he arrived too late to see poor dear papa before his death—or under some other unwholesome circumstances—is indubitable, if that is what you mean. Likewise that his extremely careless life has made him a very bad subject for it indeed.’
‘If “Bout, Edmund” is the slang term for being unwell, then he has. If it’s not, I can't comment on the awful language you’re using with Edward’s sister. It's clear that he caught Malaria Fever somewhere, either from traveling day and night to Rome, where he arrived too late to see poor dear dad before he died—or from some other unhealthy situation. What you mean is definitely true. Also, it’s true that his extremely reckless lifestyle has made him a really bad case for it.’
Mr Sparkler considered it a parallel case to that of some of our fellows in the West Indies with Yellow Jack. Mrs Sparkler closed her eyes again, and refused to have any consciousness of our fellows of the West Indies, or of Yellow Jack.
Mr. Sparkler thought it was similar to what some of our friends in the West Indies went through with Yellow Jack. Mrs. Sparkler shut her eyes again and refused to acknowledge our friends in the West Indies or Yellow Jack.
‘So, Amy,’ she pursued, when she reopened her eyelids, ‘will require to be roused from the effects of many tedious and anxious weeks. And lastly, she will require to be roused from a low tendency which I know very well to be at the bottom of her heart. Don’t ask me what it is, Edmund, because I must decline to tell you.’
‘So, Amy,’ she continued, when she opened her eyes again, ‘needs to be awakened from the exhaustion of many long and stressful weeks. And finally, she needs to be lifted from a lingering sadness that I know very well is deep in her heart. Don’t ask me what it is, Edmund, because I can’t tell you.’
‘I am not going to, my dear,’ said Mr Sparkler.
‘I’m not going to, my dear,’ said Mr. Sparkler.
‘I shall thus have much improvement to effect in my sweet child,’ Mrs Sparkler continued, ‘and cannot have her near me too soon. Amiable and dear little Twoshoes! As to the settlement of poor papa’s affairs, my interest in that is not very selfish. Papa behaved very generously to me when I was married, and I have little or nothing to expect. Provided he had made no will that can come into force, leaving a legacy to Mrs General, I am contented. Dear papa, dear papa.’
‘I have a lot of improvement to make in my sweet child,’ Mrs. Sparkler continued, ‘and I can’t have her around me soon enough. Such a lovely and sweet little Twoshoes! As for settling poor papa’s affairs, I’m not being very selfish about it. Papa was very generous to me when I got married, and I don’t have much to expect now. As long as he hasn’t made a will that would take effect, leaving something to Mrs. General, I’m okay with it. Dear papa, dear papa.’
She wept again, but Mrs General was the best of restoratives. The name soon stimulated her to dry her eyes and say:
She cried again, but Mrs. General was the best pick-me-up. Just hearing the name quickly encouraged her to wipe her tears and say:
‘It is a highly encouraging circumstance in Edward’s illness, I am thankful to think, and gives one the greatest confidence in his sense not being impaired, or his proper spirit weakened—down to the time of poor dear papa’s death at all events—that he paid off Mrs General instantly, and sent her out of the house. I applaud him for it. I could forgive him a great deal for doing, with such promptitude, so exactly what I would have done myself!’
‘It is a very encouraging thing about Edward's illness, I'm grateful to say, and it gives me a lot of confidence that his mind isn’t affected or his spirit weakened—at least not until poor dear dad passed away—that he immediately paid off Mrs. General and sent her out of the house. I admire him for that. I could forgive him a lot for acting so quickly and doing exactly what I would have done myself!’
Mrs Sparkler was in the full glow of her gratification, when a double knock was heard at the door. A very odd knock. Low, as if to avoid making a noise and attracting attention. Long, as if the person knocking were preoccupied in mind, and forgot to leave off.
Mrs. Sparkler was basking in her happiness when a double knock echoed at the door. It was a very strange knock. Quiet, as if to avoid making a sound and drawing attention. Long, as if the person knocking was lost in thought and forgot to stop.
‘Halloa!’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Hey!’ said Mr. Sparkler. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Not Amy and Edward without notice and without a carriage!’ said Mrs Sparkler. ‘Look out.’
‘Not Amy and Edward showing up without a heads-up and without a ride!’ said Mrs. Sparkler. ‘Watch out.’
The room was dark, but the street was lighter, because of its lamps. Mr Sparkler’s head peeping over the balcony looked so very bulky and heavy that it seemed on the point of overbalancing him and flattening the unknown below.
The room was dark, but the street was brighter because of its lights. Mr. Sparkler's head peeking over the balcony looked so bulky and heavy that it seemed like it might tip him over and crush whatever was below.
‘It’s one fellow,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘I can’t see who—stop though!’
‘It’s one guy,’ said Mr. Sparkler. ‘I can’t tell who—wait a second!’
On this second thought he went out into the balcony again and had another look. He came back as the door was opened, and announced that he believed he had identified ‘his governor’s tile.’ He was not mistaken, for his governor, with his tile in his hand, was introduced immediately afterwards.
On second thought, he went back out to the balcony for another look. He returned just as the door opened and announced that he thought he had spotted 'his governor's tile.' He was right, because his governor, holding the tile, was introduced shortly after.
‘Candles!’ said Mrs Sparkler, with a word of excuse for the darkness.
‘Candles!’ said Mrs. Sparkler, offering an apology for the darkness.
‘It’s light enough for me,’ said Mr Merdle.
‘It’s light enough for me,’ said Mr. Merdle.
When the candles were brought in, Mr Merdle was discovered standing behind the door, picking his lips. ‘I thought I’d give you a call,’ he said. ‘I am rather particularly occupied just now; and, as I happened to be out for a stroll, I thought I’d give you a call.’
When the candles were brought in, Mr. Merdle was found standing behind the door, picking his lips. "I thought I’d check in," he said. "I'm quite busy at the moment, and since I was out for a walk, I thought I’d give you a call."
As he was in dinner dress, Fanny asked him where he had been dining?
As he was dressed for dinner, Fanny asked him where he had been eating?
‘Well,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I haven’t been dining anywhere, particularly.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Merdle, ‘I haven’t been dining anywhere special.’
‘Of course you have dined?’ said Fanny.
“Of course you’ve eaten?” Fanny said.
‘Why—no, I haven’t exactly dined,’ said Mr Merdle.
‘Why—no, I haven't really had dinner,’ said Mr. Merdle.
He had passed his hand over his yellow forehead and considered, as if he were not sure about it. Something to eat was proposed. ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I don’t feel inclined for it. I was to have dined out along with Mrs Merdle. But as I didn’t feel inclined for dinner, I let Mrs Merdle go by herself just as we were getting into the carriage, and thought I’d take a stroll instead.’
He ran his hand over his yellow forehead and thought about it, as if he wasn’t sure. Someone suggested getting something to eat. ‘No, thanks,’ said Mr. Merdle, ‘I’m not really in the mood for that. I was supposed to have dinner out with Mrs. Merdle. But since I didn’t feel like going to dinner, I let Mrs. Merdle go alone just as we were getting into the carriage, and I decided to take a walk instead.’
Would he have tea or coffee? ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Merdle. ‘I looked in at the Club, and got a bottle of wine.’
Would he like tea or coffee? "No, thanks," Mr. Merdle said. "I stopped by the Club and grabbed a bottle of wine."
At this period of his visit, Mr Merdle took the chair which Edmund Sparkler had offered him, and which he had hitherto been pushing slowly about before him, like a dull man with a pair of skates on for the first time, who could not make up his mind to start. He now put his hat upon another chair beside him, and, looking down into it as if it were some twenty feet deep, said again: ‘You see I thought I’d give you a call.’
At this point in his visit, Mr. Merdle sat in the chair that Edmund Sparkler had offered him, which he had been slowly pushing around like someone who’s never skated before and can’t decide to start. He placed his hat on another chair next to him and looked into it, as if it were twenty feet deep, and said again, "You see, I thought I’d give you a call."
‘Flattering to us,’ said Fanny, ‘for you are not a calling man.’
“Flattering to us,” Fanny said, “because you’re not someone who pursues a career.”
‘No—no,’ returned Mr Merdle, who was by this time taking himself into custody under both coat-sleeves. ‘No, I am not a calling man.’
‘No—no,’ replied Mr. Merdle, who was by this time securing both coat-sleeves. ‘No, I am not a man of profession.’
‘You have too much to do for that,’ said Fanny. ‘Having so much to do, Mr Merdle, loss of appetite is a serious thing with you, and you must have it seen to. You must not be ill.’
‘You have too much to do for that,’ Fanny said. ‘With everything on your plate, Mr. Merdle, not eating is a serious issue for you, and you need to get it checked out. You can't afford to be sick.’
‘Oh! I am very well,’ replied Mr Merdle, after deliberating about it. ‘I am as well as I usually am. I am well enough. I am as well as I want to be.’
“Oh! I’m doing just fine,” replied Mr. Merdle, after thinking it over. “I’m as good as I usually am. I’m fine enough. I’m as well as I want to be.”
The master-mind of the age, true to its characteristic of being at all times a mind that had as little as possible to say for itself and great difficulty in saying it, became mute again. Mrs Sparkler began to wonder how long the master-mind meant to stay.
The genius of the era, true to its nature of being a mind that always had very little to express and struggled to express it, fell silent once more. Mrs. Sparkler started to wonder how long the genius intended to remain.
‘I was speaking of poor papa when you came in, sir.’
‘I was talking about poor dad when you walked in, sir.’
‘Aye! Quite a coincidence,’ said Mr Merdle.
"Aye! What a coincidence," said Mr. Merdle.
Fanny did not see that; but felt it incumbent on her to continue talking. ‘I was saying,’ she pursued, ‘that my brother’s illness has occasioned a delay in examining and arranging papa’s property.’
Fanny didn’t realize that; she felt it was her duty to keep talking. "I was saying," she continued, "that my brother’s illness has caused a delay in reviewing and organizing Dad’s estate."
‘Yes,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘yes. There has been a delay.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Merdle; ‘yes. There’s been a delay.’
‘Not that it is of consequence,’ said Fanny.
‘Not that it matters,’ said Fanny.
‘Not,’ assented Mr Merdle, after having examined the cornice of all that part of the room which was within his range: ‘not that it is of any consequence.’
‘Not,’ agreed Mr. Merdle, after looking at the cornice throughout the part of the room he could see: ‘not that it matters.’
‘My only anxiety is,’ said Fanny, ‘that Mrs General should not get anything.’
‘My only worry is,’ said Fanny, ‘that Mrs. General shouldn’t get anything.’
‘She won’t get anything,’ said Mr Merdle.
‘She won’t get anything,’ Mr. Merdle said.
Fanny was delighted to hear him express the opinion. Mr Merdle, after taking another gaze into the depths of his hat as if he thought he saw something at the bottom, rubbed his hair and slowly appended to his last remark the confirmatory words, ‘Oh dear no. No. Not she. Not likely.’
Fanny was thrilled to hear him share that opinion. Mr. Merdle, after looking into the depths of his hat as if he believed he saw something at the bottom, rubbed his hair and slowly added to his last comment the confirming words, ‘Oh no. Not her. Not a chance.’
As the topic seemed exhausted, and Mr Merdle too, Fanny inquired if he were going to take up Mrs Merdle and the carriage in his way home?
Since the topic appeared to be discussed enough and Mr. Merdle seemed tired too, Fanny asked if he was planning to pick up Mrs. Merdle and the carriage on his way home.
‘No,’ he answered; ‘I shall go by the shortest way, and leave Mrs Merdle to—’ here he looked all over the palms of both his hands as if he were telling his own fortune—‘to take care of herself. I dare say she’ll manage to do it.’
‘No,’ he replied; ‘I’ll take the quickest route, and leave Mrs. Merdle to—’ here he looked at the palms of both his hands as if he were reading his own fortune—‘take care of herself. I’m sure she’ll figure it out.’
‘Probably,’ said Fanny.
"Probably," Fanny said.
There was then a long silence; during which, Mrs Sparkler, lying back on her sofa again, shut her eyes and raised her eyebrows in her former retirement from mundane affairs.
There was a long silence; during this time, Mrs. Sparkler, lying back on her sofa again, shut her eyes and raised her eyebrows, retreating once more from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.
‘But, however,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I am equally detaining you and myself. I thought I’d give you a call, you know.’
‘But, anyway,’ said Mr. Merdle, ‘I’m just holding both you and myself here. I thought I’d give you a call, you know.’
‘Charmed, I am sure,’ said Fanny.
‘I'm sure you’re charming,’ said Fanny.
‘So I am off,’ added Mr Merdle, getting up. ‘Could you lend me a penknife?’
‘So I'm leaving,’ Mr. Merdle said as he stood up. ‘Could you lend me a penknife?’
Original
It was an odd thing, Fanny smilingly observed, for her who could seldom prevail upon herself even to write a letter, to lend to a man of such vast business as Mr Merdle. ‘Isn’t it?’ Mr Merdle acquiesced; ‘but I want one; and I know you have got several little wedding keepsakes about, with scissors and tweezers and such things in them. You shall have it back to-morrow.’
It was a strange thing, Fanny noted with a smile, for her, who could rarely bring herself to even write a letter, to lend something to a man as busy as Mr. Merdle. “Isn’t it?” Mr. Merdle agreed; “but I need one, and I know you have a few little wedding keepsakes around, with scissors and tweezers and stuff in them. You’ll get it back tomorrow.”
‘Edmund,’ said Mrs Sparkler, ‘open (now, very carefully, I beg and beseech, for you are so very awkward) the mother of pearl box on my little table there, and give Mr Merdle the mother of pearl penknife.’
‘Edmund,’ said Mrs. Sparkler, ‘please open the mother-of-pearl box on my little table there, but do it very carefully, I beg you, because you can be so clumsy. Then hand Mr. Merdle the mother-of-pearl penknife.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘but if you have got one with a darker handle, I think I should prefer one with a darker handle.’
“Thank you,” Mr. Merdle said, “but if you have one with a darker handle, I would prefer one with a darker handle.”
‘Tortoise-shell?’
‘Tortoiseshell?’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘yes. I think I should prefer tortoise-shell.’
‘Thank you,’ Mr. Merdle said; ‘yes. I think I’d prefer tortoise-shell.’
Edmund accordingly received instructions to open the tortoise-shell box, and give Mr Merdle the tortoise-shell knife. On his doing so, his wife said to the master-spirit graciously:
Edmund was told to open the tortoise-shell box and give Mr. Merdle the tortoise-shell knife. When he did this, his wife said to the master-spirit politely:
‘I will forgive you, if you ink it.’
‘I will forgive you if you sign it.’
‘I’ll undertake not to ink it,’ said Mr Merdle.
‘I promise not to sign it,’ said Mr. Merdle.
The illustrious visitor then put out his coat-cuff, and for a moment entombed Mrs Sparkler’s hand: wrist, bracelet, and all. Where his own hand had shrunk to, was not made manifest, but it was as remote from Mrs Sparkler’s sense of touch as if he had been a highly meritorious Chelsea Veteran or Greenwich Pensioner.
The famous visitor then extended his coat cuff, and for a moment enveloped Mrs. Sparkler’s hand: wrist, bracelet, and all. Where his own hand had gone was unclear, but it felt as far away from Mrs. Sparkler’s sense of touch as if he had been a distinguished Chelsea Veteran or a Greenwich Pensioner.
Thoroughly convinced, as he went out of the room, that it was the longest day that ever did come to an end at last, and that there never was a woman, not wholly devoid of personal attractions, so worn out by idiotic and lumpish people, Fanny passed into the balcony for a breath of air. Waters of vexation filled her eyes; and they had the effect of making the famous Mr Merdle, in going down the street, appear to leap, and waltz, and gyrate, as if he were possessed of several Devils.
Fully convinced, as he left the room, that it was the longest day ever to finally come to an end, and that there had never been a woman, not completely lacking in charm, so drained by foolish and clumsy people, Fanny stepped onto the balcony for some fresh air. Tears of frustration filled her eyes; and they made the famous Mr. Merdle, walking down the street, seem to leap, dance, and twirl as if he were possessed by several devils.
CHAPTER 25. The Chief Butler Resigns the Seals of Office
The dinner-party was at the great Physician’s. Bar was there, and in full force. Ferdinand Barnacle was there, and in his most engaging state. Few ways of life were hidden from Physician, and he was oftener in its darkest places than even Bishop. There were brilliant ladies about London who perfectly doted on him, my dear, as the most charming creature and the most delightful person, who would have been shocked to find themselves so close to him if they could have known on what sights those thoughtful eyes of his had rested within an hour or two, and near to whose beds, and under what roofs, his composed figure had stood. But Physician was a composed man, who performed neither on his own trumpet, nor on the trumpets of other people. Many wonderful things did he see and hear, and much irreconcilable moral contradiction did he pass his life among; yet his equality of compassion was no more disturbed than the Divine Master’s of all healing was. He went, like the rain, among the just and unjust, doing all the good he could, and neither proclaiming it in the synagogues nor at the corner of streets.
The dinner party was at the great Physician’s house. Bar was there, and in full force. Ferdinand Barnacle was there, and in his most charming mood. The Physician had a broad understanding of life, often venturing into its darker corners more than even the Bishop. There were glamorous women in London who absolutely adored him, seeing him as the most delightful and charming person. They would have been appalled to know how close they were to him if they had realized what sights his thoughtful eyes had rested on a couple of hours earlier, near whose beds, and under what roofs, his calm figure had stood. But the Physician was a composed man who did not boast about his accomplishments or those of others. He witnessed many incredible things and encountered numerous moral contradictions throughout his life; yet his compassion remained as steady as that of the Divine Healer. He moved through the world, like rain, among the just and unjust, doing as much good as he could, without announcing it in churches or shouting it on street corners.
As no man of large experience of humanity, however quietly carried it may be, can fail to be invested with an interest peculiar to the possession of such knowledge, Physician was an attractive man. Even the daintier gentlemen and ladies who had no idea of his secret, and who would have been startled out of more wits than they had, by the monstrous impropriety of his proposing to them ‘Come and see what I see!’ confessed his attraction. Where he was, something real was. And half a grain of reality, like the smallest portion of some other scarce natural productions, will flavour an enormous quantity of diluent.
As no person with a deep understanding of humanity, no matter how subtly it may be expressed, can lack a unique interest that comes from such knowledge, the Physician was an appealing man. Even the more refined gentlemen and ladies who had no clue about his secret, and who would have been utterly taken aback by the outrageousness of him saying ‘Come and see what I see!’ admitted his charm. Wherever he was, there was something genuine happening. And just a small bit of reality, like the tiniest amount of some other rare natural resources, can enhance a huge quantity of filler.
It came to pass, therefore, that Physician’s little dinners always presented people in their least conventional lights. The guests said to themselves, whether they were conscious of it or no, ‘Here is a man who really has an acquaintance with us as we are, who is admitted to some of us every day with our wigs and paint off, who hears the wanderings of our minds, and sees the undisguised expression of our faces, when both are past our control; we may as well make an approach to reality with him, for the man has got the better of us and is too strong for us.’ Therefore, Physician’s guests came out so surprisingly at his round table that they were almost natural.
So it happened that Physician's little dinners always showed people in their most unconventional ways. The guests found themselves thinking, whether they realized it or not, 'Here's a guy who really knows us as we are, who sees some of us every day without our wigs and makeup, who hears our unfiltered thoughts and sees the true expressions on our faces, especially when we can’t control them; we might as well be real with him, because he has the upper hand and is too much for us.' As a result, Physician's guests ended up being surprisingly genuine at his round table.
Bar’s knowledge of that agglomeration of jurymen which is called humanity was as sharp as a razor; yet a razor is not a generally convenient instrument, and Physician’s plain bright scalpel, though far less keen, was adaptable to far wider purposes. Bar knew all about the gullibility and knavery of people; but Physician could have given him a better insight into their tendernesses and affections, in one week of his rounds, than Westminster Hall and all the circuits put together, in threescore years and ten. Bar always had a suspicion of this, and perhaps was glad to encourage it (for, if the world were really a great Law Court, one would think that the last day of Term could not too soon arrive); and so he liked and respected Physician quite as much as any other kind of man did.
Bar's understanding of that group of jurymen known as humanity was as sharp as a razor; however, a razor isn't typically a practical tool, while Physician's simple, bright scalpel, though not as sharp, was versatile for much broader purposes. Bar was fully aware of people's gullibility and deceit; yet, Physician could have provided him with a deeper understanding of their kindness and emotions in just one week of his rounds than Westminster Hall and all the circuits combined could in seventy years. Bar always suspected this and maybe even enjoyed it (because if the world really were a huge Law Court, one would think that the last day of Term couldn't come quickly enough); and so he liked and respected Physician just as much as anyone else did.
Mr Merdle’s default left a Banquo’s chair at the table; but, if he had been there, he would have merely made the difference of Banquo in it, and consequently he was no loss. Bar, who picked up all sorts of odds and ends about Westminster Hall, much as a raven would have done if he had passed as much of his time there, had been picking up a great many straws lately and tossing them about, to try which way the Merdle wind blew. He now had a little talk on the subject with Mrs Merdle herself; sidling up to that lady, of course, with his double eye-glass and his jury droop.
Mr. Merdle’s bankruptcy left an empty seat at the table; but if he had been there, he would have been just as inconsequential as Banquo, so his absence wasn't a real loss. Bar, who gathered all sorts of bits and pieces around Westminster Hall like a raven would if it spent as much time there, had been collecting a lot of information lately and tossing it around to see which way the Merdle winds were blowing. He was now having a brief conversation about it with Mrs. Merdle herself, of course, approaching her with his double eyeglass and his sagging posture.
‘A certain bird,’ said Bar; and he looked as if it could have been no other bird than a magpie; ‘has been whispering among us lawyers lately, that there is to be an addition to the titled personages of this realm.’
‘A certain bird,’ said Bar; and he looked like it could only be a magpie; ‘has been whispering among us lawyers lately, that there’s going to be an addition to the titled people of this realm.’
‘Really?’ said Mrs Merdle.
‘Seriously?’ said Mrs Merdle.
‘Yes,’ said Bar. ‘Has not the bird been whispering in very different ears from ours—in lovely ears?’ He looked expressively at Mrs Merdle’s nearest ear-ring.
‘Yeah,’ said Bar. ‘Hasn't the bird been whispering in very different ears than ours—in beautiful ears?’ He glanced meaningfully at Mrs. Merdle’s nearest earring.
‘Do you mean mine?’ asked Mrs Merdle.
"Do you mean mine?" asked Mrs. Merdle.
‘When I say lovely,’ said Bar, ‘I always mean you.’
‘When I say lovely,’ Bar said, ‘I always mean you.’
‘You never mean anything, I think,’ returned Mrs Merdle (not displeased).
‘You never mean anything, I think,’ Mrs. Merdle replied (not displeased).
‘Oh, cruelly unjust!’ said Bar. ‘But, the bird.’
‘Oh, how unfair!’ said Bar. ‘But, the bird.’
‘I am the last person in the world to hear news,’ observed Mrs Merdle, carelessly arranging her stronghold. ‘Who is it?’
‘I’m the last person in the world to hear news,’ Mrs. Merdle remarked, casually organizing her stronghold. ‘Who is it?’
‘What an admirable witness you would make!’ said Bar. ‘No jury (unless we could empanel one of blind men) could resist you, if you were ever so bad a one; but you would be such a good one!’
‘What an amazing witness you’d be!’ said Bar. ‘No jury (unless we could gather a bunch of blind men) could resist you, even if you were a terrible person; but you’d be such a great one!’
‘Why, you ridiculous man?’ asked Mrs Merdle, laughing.
“Why, you silly man?” asked Mrs. Merdle, laughing.
Bar waved his double eye-glass three or four times between himself and the Bosom, as a rallying answer, and inquired in his most insinuating accents:
Bar waved his binoculars three or four times between himself and the Bosom, as a response to gather attention, and asked in his most charming voice:
‘What am I to call the most elegant, accomplished and charming of women, a few weeks, or it may be a few days, hence?’
‘What should I call the most elegant, accomplished, and charming woman in a few weeks, or maybe just a few days?’
‘Didn’t your bird tell you what to call her?’ answered Mrs Merdle. ‘Do ask it to-morrow, and tell me the next time you see me what it says.’
“Didn’t your bird tell you what to call her?” Mrs. Merdle replied. “Please ask it tomorrow, and let me know what it says next time you see me.”
This led to further passages of similar pleasantry between the two; but Bar, with all his sharpness, got nothing out of them. Physician, on the other hand, taking Mrs Merdle down to her carriage and attending on her as she put on her cloak, inquired into the symptoms with his usual calm directness.
This resulted in more light-hearted exchanges between the two; however, Bar, despite his cleverness, gained nothing from them. The Physician, on the other hand, helped Mrs. Merdle to her carriage and assisted her as she put on her cloak, inquiring about her symptoms with his usual calm and straightforward approach.
‘May I ask,’ he said, ‘is this true about Merdle?’
“Can I ask,” he said, “is this true about Merdle?”
‘My dear doctor,’ she returned, ‘you ask me the very question that I was half disposed to ask you.’
‘My dear doctor,’ she replied, ‘you’re asking me the exact question that I was just about to ask you.’
‘To ask me! Why me?’
"Why me? Why ask me?"
‘Upon my honour, I think Mr Merdle reposes greater confidence in you than in any one.’
"Honestly, I believe Mr. Merdle has more faith in you than in anyone else."
‘On the contrary, he tells me absolutely nothing, even professionally. You have heard the talk, of course?’
‘On the contrary, he tells me nothing at all, not even about work. You’ve heard the gossip, right?’
‘Of course I have. But you know what Mr Merdle is; you know how taciturn and reserved he is. I assure you I have no idea what foundation for it there may be. I should like it to be true; why should I deny that to you? You would know better, if I did!’
"Of course I have. But you know what Mr. Merdle is like; you know how quiet and reserved he is. I assure you I have no idea what basis there may be for it. I'd like it to be true; why should I deny that to you? You'd know better if I did!"
‘Just so,’ said Physician.
“Exactly,” said Physician.
‘But whether it is all true, or partly true, or entirely false, I am wholly unable to say. It is a most provoking situation, a most absurd situation; but you know Mr Merdle, and are not surprised.’
‘But whether it’s all true, partly true, or completely false, I really can’t say. It’s a really frustrating situation, a totally absurd situation; but you know Mr. Merdle, so you’re not surprised.’
Physician was not surprised, handed her into her carriage, and bade her Good Night. He stood for a moment at his own hall door, looking sedately at the elegant equipage as it rattled away. On his return up-stairs, the rest of the guests soon dispersed, and he was left alone. Being a great reader of all kinds of literature (and never at all apologetic for that weakness), he sat down comfortably to read.
The doctor wasn't surprised; he helped her into her carriage and wished her goodnight. He paused for a moment at his front door, watching the stylish carriage as it clattered away. When he went back upstairs, the other guests quickly left, and he was left by himself. A big fan of all types of literature (and never feeling sorry for that), he settled in to enjoy some reading.
The clock upon his study table pointed to a few minutes short of twelve, when his attention was called to it by a ringing at the door bell. A man of plain habits, he had sent his servants to bed and must needs go down to open the door. He went down, and there found a man without hat or coat, whose shirt sleeves were rolled up tight to his shoulders. For a moment, he thought the man had been fighting: the rather, as he was much agitated and out of breath. A second look, however, showed him that the man was particularly clean, and not otherwise discomposed as to his dress than as it answered this description.
The clock on his study table read a few minutes before midnight when he was distracted by the doorbell ringing. A man of simple habits, he had sent his servants to bed and had to go down to answer the door. When he reached the door, he found a man without a hat or coat, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his shoulders. For a moment, he thought the man had been in a fight, especially since he seemed very agitated and out of breath. However, a second glance revealed that the man was quite clean and his clothing was only disheveled as described.
‘I come from the warm-baths, sir, round in the neighbouring street.’
‘I come from the hot springs, sir, down the street.’
‘And what is the matter at the warm-baths?’
‘And what's going on at the hot springs?’
‘Would you please to come directly, sir. We found that, lying on the table.’
‘Could you please come over here directly, sir? We found that lying on the table.’
He put into the physician’s hand a scrap of paper. Physician looked at it, and read his own name and address written in pencil; nothing more. He looked closer at the writing, looked at the man, took his hat from its peg, put the key of his door in his pocket, and they hurried away together.
He handed the doctor a piece of paper. The doctor looked at it and saw his name and address written in pencil; nothing else. He examined the writing more closely, glanced at the man, took his hat off the hook, pocketed his door key, and they quickly left together.
When they came to the warm-baths, all the other people belonging to that establishment were looking out for them at the door, and running up and down the passages. ‘Request everybody else to keep back, if you please,’ said the physician aloud to the master; ‘and do you take me straight to the place, my friend,’ to the messenger.
When they arrived at the warm baths, everyone else at the establishment was watching for them at the door and running up and down the hallways. "Please ask everyone else to step back," the physician said loudly to the master; "and you, take me directly to the place, my friend," he said to the messenger.
The messenger hurried before him, along a grove of little rooms, and turning into one at the end of the grove, looked round the door. Physician was close upon him, and looked round the door too.
The messenger rushed ahead of him, through a row of small rooms, and when he reached one at the end, he peeked around the door. The physician was right behind him and also glanced around the door.
There was a bath in that corner, from which the water had been hastily drained off. Lying in it, as in a grave or sarcophagus, with a hurried drapery of sheet and blanket thrown across it, was the body of a heavily-made man, with an obtuse head, and coarse, mean, common features. A sky-light had been opened to release the steam with which the room had been filled; but it hung, condensed into water-drops, heavily upon the walls, and heavily upon the face and figure in the bath. The room was still hot, and the marble of the bath still warm; but the face and figure were clammy to the touch. The white marble at the bottom of the bath was veined with a dreadful red. On the ledge at the side, were an empty laudanum-bottle and a tortoise-shell handled penknife—soiled, but not with ink.
There was a bathtub in that corner, from which the water had been quickly drained. Lying in it, like in a grave or coffin, with a hastily thrown sheet and blanket draped over, was the body of a heavyset man, with a blunt head and rough, ordinary features. A skylight had been opened to let out the steam that filled the room; however, it clung to the walls in the form of water droplets, settling heavily on the face and body in the tub. The room was still hot, and the marble of the bathtub remained warm, but the body felt clammy to the touch. The white marble at the bottom of the tub was marked with a disturbing red. On the ledge beside it, there was an empty laudanum bottle and a tortoise-shell handled penknife—stained, but not with ink.
‘Separation of jugular vein—death rapid—been dead at least half an hour.’ This echo of the physician’s words ran through the passages and little rooms, and through the house while he was yet straightening himself from having bent down to reach to the bottom of the bath, and while he was yet dabbling his hands in water; redly veining it as the marble was veined, before it mingled into one tint.
‘Cutting the jugular vein—death is quick—it’s been at least half an hour since he died.’ This echo of the doctor’s words echoed through the halls and small rooms of the house while he was still straightening up from bending down to the bottom of the tub, and while he was still splashing his hands in the water; staining it red like the marbled surface before it blended into one color.
He turned his eyes to the dress upon the sofa, and to the watch, money, and pocket-book on the table. A folded note half buckled up in the pocket-book, and half protruding from it, caught his observant glance. He looked at it, touched it, pulled it a little further out from among the leaves, said quietly, ‘This is addressed to me,’ and opened and read it.
He shifted his gaze to the dress on the sofa, and to the watch, money, and wallet on the table. A folded note, half tucked into the wallet and half sticking out, caught his attention. He looked at it, touched it, pulled it a little further out from among the pages, said quietly, ‘This is addressed to me,’ and opened it to read.
There were no directions for him to give. The people of the house knew what to do; the proper authorities were soon brought; and they took an equable business-like possession of the deceased, and of what had been his property, with no greater disturbance of manner or countenance than usually attends the winding-up of a clock. Physician was glad to walk out into the night air—was even glad, in spite of his great experience, to sit down upon a door-step for a little while: feeling sick and faint.
There were no instructions for him to provide. The people in the house knew what to do; the right authorities were contacted quickly, and they took a calm, professional approach to handling the deceased and his belongings, with no more disturbance in their demeanor than what typically happens when a clock is being wound up. The physician was relieved to step outside into the night air—he was even happy, despite his extensive experience, to sit down on a doorstep for a bit, feeling weak and nauseous.
Bar was a near neighbour of his, and, when he came to the house, he saw a light in the room where he knew his friend often sat late getting up his work. As the light was never there when Bar was not, it gave him assurance that Bar was not yet in bed. In fact, this busy bee had a verdict to get to-morrow, against evidence, and was improving the shining hours in setting snares for the gentlemen of the jury.
Bar lived close by, and when he arrived at the house, he noticed a light on in the room where he knew his friend often worked late. Since the light was never on unless Bar was there, it assured him that Bar hadn't gone to bed yet. In fact, this busy bee had a verdict to prepare for tomorrow, despite the evidence, and was using the late hours to set traps for the members of the jury.
Physician’s knock astonished Bar; but, as he immediately suspected that somebody had come to tell him that somebody else was robbing him, or otherwise trying to get the better of him, he came down promptly and softly. He had been clearing his head with a lotion of cold water, as a good preparative to providing hot water for the heads of the jury, and had been reading with the neck of his shirt thrown wide open that he might the more freely choke the opposite witnesses. In consequence, he came down, looking rather wild. Seeing Physician, the least expected of men, he looked wilder and said, ‘What’s the matter?’
The knock from the doctor surprised Bar; however, he quickly guessed that someone had come to inform him that someone else was stealing from him or trying to outsmart him, so he came down quietly and promptly. He had been freshening up with cold water, a good way to prepare for giving hot water to the jury, and he had been reading with his shirt collar wide open so he could easily challenge the opposing witnesses. As a result, he came down looking pretty disheveled. When he saw the doctor, the last person he expected, he looked even more startled and asked, "What’s going on?"
‘You asked me once what Merdle’s complaint was.’
'You once asked me what Merdle's issue was.'
‘Extraordinary answer! I know I did.’
‘Amazing response! I know I did.’
‘I told you I had not found out.’
‘I told you I haven't figured it out yet.’
‘Yes. I know you did.’
"Yeah. I know you did."
‘I have found it out.’
"I've figured it out."
‘My God!’ said Bar, starting back, and clapping his hand upon the other’s breast. ‘And so have I! I see it in your face.’
‘My God!’ said Bar, stepping back and putting his hand on the other’s chest. ‘And I have too! I can see it in your face.’
They went into the nearest room, where Physician gave him the letter to read. He read it through half-a-dozen times. There was not much in it as to quantity; but it made a great demand on his close and continuous attention. He could not sufficiently give utterance to his regret that he had not himself found a clue to this. The smallest clue, he said, would have made him master of the case, and what a case it would have been to have got to the bottom of!
They went into the nearest room, where the doctor handed him the letter to read. He read it six times. There wasn't much in it, but it really demanded his full and constant focus. He couldn't express enough how sorry he was that he hadn't discovered a clue to this himself. He said even the smallest clue would have made him in control of the situation, and what a situation it would have been to resolve!
Physician had engaged to break the intelligence in Harley Street. Bar could not at once return to his inveiglements of the most enlightened and remarkable jury he had ever seen in that box, with whom, he could tell his learned friend, no shallow sophistry would go down, and no unhappily abused professional tact and skill prevail (this was the way he meant to begin with them); so he said he would go too, and would loiter to and fro near the house while his friend was inside. They walked there, the better to recover self-possession in the air; and the wings of day were fluttering the night when Physician knocked at the door.
The doctor had arranged to break the news in Harley Street. Bar couldn't immediately return to his manipulations of the most insightful and extraordinary jury he had ever seen in that box. He knew he needed to tell his knowledgeable colleague that no shallow tricks would work on them, and no poorly used professional skill would succeed (this was how he planned to start with them). So he decided to go as well and would hang around near the house while his friend was inside. They walked there, hoping to regain their composure in the fresh air, and it was twilight when the doctor knocked on the door.
A footman of rainbow hues, in the public eye, was sitting up for his master—that is to say, was fast asleep in the kitchen over a couple of candles and a newspaper, demonstrating the great accumulation of mathematical odds against the probabilities of a house being set on fire by accident When this serving man was roused, Physician had still to await the rousing of the Chief Butler. At last that noble creature came into the dining-room in a flannel gown and list shoes; but with his cravat on, and a Chief Butler all over. It was morning now. Physician had opened the shutters of one window while waiting, that he might see the light.
A colorful footman, in the spotlight, was up waiting for his master—that is to say, he was fast asleep in the kitchen, surrounded by a couple of candles and a newspaper, showcasing how unlikely it was for a house to catch fire by accident. When this servant was finally awakened, the Physician still had to wait for the Chief Butler to come around. Eventually, that distinguished figure entered the dining room wearing a flannel gown and slippers; still, he was fully dressed with his cravat on, looking every bit the Chief Butler. It was morning now. The Physician had opened the shutters of one window while waiting, eager to see the light.
‘Mrs Merdle’s maid must be called, and told to get Mrs Merdle up, and prepare her as gently as she can to see me. I have dreadful news to break to her.’
‘Mrs. Merdle’s maid needs to be called and instructed to wake Mrs. Merdle up and prepare her as gently as possible to see me. I have terrible news to share with her.’
Thus Physician to the Chief Butler. The latter, who had a candle in his hand, called his man to take it away. Then he approached the window with dignity; looking on at Physician’s news exactly as he had looked on at the dinners in that very room.
Thus, the doctor to the Chief Butler. The Butler, holding a candle, called his man to take it away. Then he approached the window with a sense of dignity, observing the doctor's news just as he had watched the dinners in that very room.
‘Mr Merdle is dead.’
"Mr. Merdle has died."
‘I should wish,’ said the Chief Butler, ‘to give a month’s notice.’
"I would like to give a month's notice," said the Chief Butler.
‘Mr Merdle has destroyed himself.’
"Mr. Merdle has ruined himself."
‘Sir,’ said the Chief Butler, ‘that is very unpleasant to the feelings of one in my position, as calculated to awaken prejudice; and I should wish to leave immediately.’
“Sir,” said the Chief Butler, “that is very uncomfortable for someone in my position, as it’s likely to stir up bias; and I would like to leave right away.”
‘If you are not shocked, are you not surprised, man?’ demanded the Physician, warmly.
‘If you’re not shocked, aren’t you surprised, man?’ the Physician asked eagerly.
The Chief Butler, erect and calm, replied in these memorable words. ‘Sir, Mr Merdle never was the gentleman, and no ungentlemanly act on Mr Merdle’s part would surprise me. Is there anybody else I can send to you, or any other directions I can give before I leave, respecting what you would wish to be done?’
The Chief Butler stood tall and composed, responding with these notable words. "Sir, Mr. Merdle was never a gentleman, and any ungracious act from him wouldn’t shock me. Is there anyone else I can send to you, or any other instructions I can provide before I leave regarding what you would like to have done?"
When Physician, after discharging himself of his trust up-stairs, rejoined Bar in the street, he said no more of his interview with Mrs Merdle than that he had not yet told her all, but that what he had told her she had borne pretty well. Bar had devoted his leisure in the street to the construction of a most ingenious man-trap for catching the whole of his jury at a blow; having got that matter settled in his mind, it was lucid on the late catastrophe, and they walked home slowly, discussing it in every bearing. Before parting at the Physician’s door, they both looked up at the sunny morning sky, into which the smoke of a few early fires and the breath and voices of a few early stirrers were peacefully rising, and then looked round upon the immense city, and said, if all those hundreds and thousands of beggared people who were yet asleep could only know, as they two spoke, the ruin that impended over them, what a fearful cry against one miserable soul would go up to Heaven!
When the Physician finished his duties upstairs and rejoined Bar on the street, he mentioned nothing about his meeting with Mrs. Merdle except that he hadn't told her everything yet, but what he had shared, she had taken fairly well. Bar had spent his time in the street brainstorming a clever plan to trap all of his jury at once; after settling that in his mind, he reflected on the recent disaster, and they walked home slowly, discussing it from every angle. Before parting at the Physician's door, they both looked up at the sunny morning sky, where the smoke from a few early fires and the sounds of a few early risers were gently rising, and then looked around at the vast city. They remarked that if all those hundreds and thousands of impoverished people still asleep could understand, as they spoke, the destruction that loomed over them, what a terrible cry would ascend to Heaven for one wretched soul!
The report that the great man was dead, got about with astonishing rapidity. At first, he was dead of all the diseases that ever were known, and of several bran-new maladies invented with the speed of Light to meet the demand of the occasion. He had concealed a dropsy from infancy, he had inherited a large estate of water on the chest from his grandfather, he had had an operation performed upon him every morning of his life for eighteen years, he had been subject to the explosion of important veins in his body after the manner of fireworks, he had had something the matter with his lungs, he had had something the matter with his heart, he had had something the matter with his brain. Five hundred people who sat down to breakfast entirely uninformed on the whole subject, believed before they had done breakfast, that they privately and personally knew Physician to have said to Mr Merdle, ‘You must expect to go out, some day, like the snuff of a candle;’ and that they knew Mr Merdle to have said to Physician, ‘A man can die but once.’ By about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, something the matter with the brain, became the favourite theory against the field; and by twelve the something had been distinctly ascertained to be ‘Pressure.’
The news that the great man was dead spread incredibly fast. At first, he seemed to have died from every illness known to man, along with a few brand-new diseases made up at lightning speed to fit the situation. He had hidden a fluid buildup since childhood, inherited a significant amount of fluid on the chest from his grandfather, underwent a surgery every single morning for eighteen years, suffered from the bursting of major veins in his body like fireworks, had issues with his lungs, faced problems with his heart, and had something wrong with his brain. Five hundred people who sat down to breakfast completely unaware of the whole situation believed, before they even finished eating, that they personally heard the doctor tell Mr. Merdle, ‘You should expect to go out one day like the snuff of a candle;’ and that they knew Mr. Merdle told the doctor, ‘A man can die but once.’ By around eleven o’clock in the morning, a brain issue became the leading theory on the matter; and by noon, it was confirmed that the issue was ‘Pressure.’
Pressure was so entirely satisfactory to the public mind, and seemed to make everybody so comfortable, that it might have lasted all day but for Bar’s having taken the real state of the case into Court at half-past nine. This led to its beginning to be currently whispered all over London by about one, that Mr Merdle had killed himself. Pressure, however, so far from being overthrown by the discovery, became a greater favourite than ever. There was a general moralising upon Pressure, in every street. All the people who had tried to make money and had not been able to do it, said, There you were! You no sooner began to devote yourself to the pursuit of wealth than you got Pressure. The idle people improved the occasion in a similar manner. See, said they, what you brought yourself to by work, work, work! You persisted in working, you overdid it. Pressure came on, and you were done for! This consideration was very potent in many quarters, but nowhere more so than among the young clerks and partners who had never been in the slightest danger of overdoing it. These, one and all, declared, quite piously, that they hoped they would never forget the warning as long as they lived, and that their conduct might be so regulated as to keep off Pressure, and preserve them, a comfort to their friends, for many years.
Pressure was so completely satisfying to the public that it made everyone feel so at ease that it could have gone on all day if Bar hadn't taken the real situation to court at half-past nine. By around one o'clock, it began to spread through London that Mr. Merdle had killed himself. However, instead of being diminished by this news, Pressure became more popular than ever. People in every street were philosophizing about Pressure. Everyone who had tried to make money without success said, "There you go! The moment you start focusing on wealth, you get Pressure." Those who were idle took the opportunity to comment similarly. "Look," they said, "what hard work did for you! You insisted on working nonstop, and you pushed too hard. Pressure came on, and that was the end of you!" This idea resonated strongly in many circles, especially among young clerks and partners who had never faced any real risk of overdoing it. These individuals, without exception, declared quite earnestly that they hoped to always remember the lesson as long as they lived and that their behavior might be adjusted to avoid Pressure, keeping them a source of comfort for their friends for many years.
But, at about the time of High ‘Change, Pressure began to wane, and appalling whispers to circulate, east, west, north, and south. At first they were faint, and went no further than a doubt whether Mr Merdle’s wealth would be found to be as vast as had been supposed; whether there might not be a temporary difficulty in ‘realising’ it; whether there might not even be a temporary suspension (say a month or so), on the part of the wonderful Bank. As the whispers became louder, which they did from that time every minute, they became more threatening. He had sprung from nothing, by no natural growth or process that any one could account for; he had been, after all, a low, ignorant fellow; he had been a down-looking man, and no one had ever been able to catch his eye; he had been taken up by all sorts of people in quite an unaccountable manner; he had never had any money of his own, his ventures had been utterly reckless, and his expenditure had been most enormous. In steady progression, as the day declined, the talk rose in sound and purpose. He had left a letter at the Baths addressed to his physician, and his physician had got the letter, and the letter would be produced at the Inquest on the morrow, and it would fall like a thunderbolt upon the multitude he had deluded. Numbers of men in every profession and trade would be blighted by his insolvency; old people who had been in easy circumstances all their lives would have no place of repentance for their trust in him but the workhouse; legions of women and children would have their whole future desolated by the hand of this mighty scoundrel. Every partaker of his magnificent feasts would be seen to have been a sharer in the plunder of innumerable homes; every servile worshipper of riches who had helped to set him on his pedestal, would have done better to worship the Devil point-blank. So, the talk, lashed louder and higher by confirmation on confirmation, and by edition after edition of the evening papers, swelled into such a roar when night came, as might have brought one to believe that a solitary watcher on the gallery above the Dome of St Paul’s would have perceived the night air to be laden with a heavy muttering of the name of Merdle, coupled with every form of execration.
But around the time of the stock exchange opening, the pressure started to ease, and shocking rumors began to spread everywhere—east, west, north, and south. At first, they were just faint doubts about whether Mr. Merdle’s wealth was really as immense as everyone thought; whether there might not be some temporary trouble in accessing it; or even if there could be a short suspension (say a month or so) from the amazing Bank. As the whispers grew louder every minute, they became more alarming. He had come from nowhere, with no natural rise that anyone could explain; he had been, after all, a lowly, ignorant man; he had always looked down, and nobody could ever catch his eye; he had been embraced by all sorts of people in a completely unexplainable way; he had never had any money of his own, his ventures were totally reckless, and his spending had been enormous. As the day went on, the talk got louder and more determined. He had left a letter at the Baths addressed to his doctor, and his doctor had received the letter, which would be revealed at the inquest the next day, hitting the crowd he had deceived like a thunderbolt. Many men in every profession and trade would suffer because of his bankruptcy; elderly people who had lived comfortably their entire lives would have no place to turn for forgiveness for trusting him but the workhouse; countless women and children would see their entire future ruined by this colossal fraud. Every attendee of his lavish banquets would be seen as partakers in the theft of countless homes; every bootlicker of wealth who had helped put him on a pedestal would have been better off worshiping the Devil directly. So, the talk, whipped up louder and louder by confirmation upon confirmation and by multiple editions of the evening papers, grew into such a roar when night fell, it seemed like anyone watching from above the Dome of St. Paul’s would have felt the night air thick with a heavy murmur of Merdle's name, mixed with every kind of curse.
For by that time it was known that the late Mr Merdle’s complaint had been simply Forgery and Robbery. He, the uncouth object of such wide-spread adulation, the sitter at great men’s feasts, the roc’s egg of great ladies’ assemblies, the subduer of exclusiveness, the leveller of pride, the patron of patrons, the bargain-driver with a Minister for Lordships of the Circumlocution Office, the recipient of more acknowledgment within some ten or fifteen years, at most, than had been bestowed in England upon all peaceful public benefactors, and upon all the leaders of all the Arts and Sciences, with all their works to testify for them, during two centuries at least—he, the shining wonder, the new constellation to be followed by the wise men bringing gifts, until it stopped over a certain carrion at the bottom of a bath and disappeared—was simply the greatest Forger and the greatest Thief that ever cheated the gallows.
By that time, it was clear that the late Mr. Merdle's issue had been nothing but Forgery and Robbery. He, the awkward figure who received such widespread praise, the guest at grand feasts of influential figures, the star attraction at elite gatherings of women, the challenger of exclusivity, the equalizer of pride, the supporter of supporters, the negotiator with a Minister for titles at the Circumlocution Office, the one who received more recognition in just ten or fifteen years than all peaceful public benefactors and all the leaders of the Arts and Sciences had received in England over the past two centuries—he, the brilliant marvel, the new star that wise men came to follow with gifts, until it stopped above a certain corpse at the bottom of a bath and vanished—was simply the greatest Forger and the greatest Thief to ever escape the gallows.
CHAPTER 26. Reaping the Whirlwind
With a precursory sound of hurried breath and hurried feet, Mr Pancks rushed into Arthur Clennam’s Counting-house. The Inquest was over, the letter was public, the Bank was broken, the other model structures of straw had taken fire and were turned to smoke. The admired piratical ship had blown up, in the midst of a vast fleet of ships of all rates, and boats of all sizes; and on the deep was nothing but ruin; nothing but burning hulls, bursting magazines, great guns self-exploded tearing friends and neighbours to pieces, drowning men clinging to unseaworthy spars and going down every minute, spent swimmers, floating dead, and sharks.
With a quick sound of heavy breathing and rushed footsteps, Mr. Pancks burst into Arthur Clennam’s office. The inquest was done, the letter was public, the bank was in ruins, and the other fragile structures had caught fire and turned to smoke. The once-admired pirate ship had exploded amid a huge fleet of ships of every size and type; all that remained in the deep was destruction—burning hulls, exploding munitions, cannons firing off on their own, tearing friends and neighbors apart, drowning men clinging to broken pieces of wood and going under every minute, exhausted swimmers, floating corpses, and sharks.
The usual diligence and order of the Counting-house at the Works were overthrown. Unopened letters and unsorted papers lay strewn about the desk. In the midst of these tokens of prostrated energy and dismissed hope, the master of the Counting-house stood idle in his usual place, with his arms crossed on the desk, and his head bowed down upon them.
The usual attentiveness and organization of the office at the Works were shattered. Unopened letters and disorganized papers were scattered across the desk. In the middle of this mess, which symbolized lost energy and abandoned hope, the manager of the office stood still in his usual spot, with his arms crossed on the desk and his head resting on them.
Mr Pancks rushed in and saw him, and stood still. In another minute, Mr Pancks’s arms were on the desk, and Mr Pancks’s head was bowed down upon them; and for some time they remained in these attitudes, idle and silent, with the width of the little room between them.
Mr. Pancks rushed in and saw him, then froze. In a moment, Mr. Pancks's arms were on the desk, and his head was bowed down on them; they stayed like that for a while, doing nothing and silent, with the small space of the room separating them.
Mr Pancks was the first to lift up his head and speak.
Mr. Pancks was the first to raise his head and speak.
‘I persuaded you to it, Mr Clennam. I know it. Say what you will. You can’t say more to me than I say to myself. You can’t say more than I deserve.’
‘I convinced you to do it, Mr. Clennam. I know that. Say whatever you want. You can’t say anything to me that I don’t already say to myself. You can’t say anything more than I deserve.’
‘O, Pancks, Pancks!’ returned Clennam, ‘don’t speak of deserving. What do I myself deserve!’
‘Oh, Pancks, Pancks!’ Clennam replied, ‘don't talk about deserving. What do I even deserve!’
‘Better luck,’ said Pancks.
"Good luck," said Pancks.
‘I,’ pursued Clennam, without attending to him, ‘who have ruined my partner! Pancks, Pancks, I have ruined Doyce! The honest, self-helpful, indefatigable old man who has worked his way all through his life; the man who has contended against so much disappointment, and who has brought out of it such a good and hopeful nature; the man I have felt so much for, and meant to be so true and useful to; I have ruined him—brought him to shame and disgrace—ruined him, ruined him!’
“I,” continued Clennam, ignoring him, “who have destroyed my partner! Pancks, Pancks, I have ruined Doyce! The honest, hardworking, tireless old man who has persevered his entire life; the man who has faced so much disappointment and has emerged with such a good and optimistic spirit; the man I have cared so deeply for, and intended to be so loyal and helpful to; I have ruined him—brought him to shame and disgrace—ruined him, ruined him!”
The agony into which the reflection wrought his mind was so distressing to see, that Mr Pancks took hold of himself by the hair of his head, and tore it in desperation at the spectacle.
The pain that the reflection caused in his mind was so hard to watch that Mr. Pancks grabbed his own hair and pulled it out in frustration at the sight.
‘Reproach me!’ cried Pancks. ‘Reproach me, sir, or I’ll do myself an injury. Say,—You fool, you villain. Say,—Ass, how could you do it; Beast, what did you mean by it! Catch hold of me somewhere. Say something abusive to me!’ All the time, Mr Pancks was tearing at his tough hair in a most pitiless and cruel manner.
“Reproach me!” shouted Pancks. “Reproach me, sir, or I’ll hurt myself. Say—You fool, you jerk. Say—Idiot, how could you do that; what were you thinking, you moron! Grab me anywhere. Say something insulting to me!” The whole time, Mr. Pancks was pulling at his thick hair in a truly harsh and brutal way.
‘If you had never yielded to this fatal mania, Pancks,’ said Clennam, more in commiseration than retaliation, ‘it would have been how much better for you, and how much better for me!’
‘If you had never given in to this terrible obsession, Pancks,’ said Clennam, more out of sympathy than anger, ‘it would have been so much better for you, and so much better for me!’
‘At me again, sir!’ cried Pancks, grinding his teeth in remorse. ‘At me again!’
‘Back at me again, sir!’ shouted Pancks, grinding his teeth in regret. ‘Back at me again!’
‘If you had never gone into those accursed calculations, and brought out your results with such abominable clearness,’ groaned Clennam, ‘it would have been how much better for you, Pancks, and how much better for me!’
‘If you had never gotten involved in those cursed calculations, and presented your results with such terrible clarity,’ groaned Clennam, ‘it would have been so much better for you, Pancks, and so much better for me!’
‘At me again, sir!’ exclaimed Pancks, loosening his hold of his hair; ‘at me again, and again!’
‘At me again, sir!’ shouted Pancks, letting go of his hair; ‘at me again, and again!’
Clennam, however, finding him already beginning to be pacified, had said all he wanted to say, and more. He wrung his hand, only adding, ‘Blind leaders of the blind, Pancks! Blind leaders of the blind! But Doyce, Doyce, Doyce; my injured partner!’ That brought his head down on the desk once more.
Clennam, however, seeing that he was starting to calm down, had said everything he needed to say, and even more. He squeezed his hand, only adding, ‘Blind leaders of the blind, Pancks! Blind leaders of the blind! But Doyce, Doyce, Doyce; my wronged partner!’ That made his head drop onto the desk again.
Their former attitudes and their former silence were once more first encroached upon by Pancks.
Their old attitudes and their previous silence were once again first challenged by Pancks.
‘Not been to bed, sir, since it began to get about. Been high and low, on the chance of finding some hope of saving any cinders from the fire. All in vain. All gone. All vanished.’
"‘Haven't been to bed, sir, since it all started. I've searched high and low, hoping to find a way to save any ashes from the fire. All in vain. Everything's gone. All vanished.’"
‘I know it,’ returned Clennam, ‘too well.’
"I know it," Clennam replied, "all too well."
Mr Pancks filled up a pause with a groan that came out of the very depths of his soul.
Mr. Pancks broke the silence with a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
‘Only yesterday, Pancks,’ said Arthur; ‘only yesterday, Monday, I had the fixed intention of selling, realising, and making an end of it.’
‘Just yesterday, Pancks,’ said Arthur; ‘just yesterday, Monday, I was set on selling, cashing in, and putting an end to it.’
‘I can’t say as much for myself, sir,’ returned Pancks. ‘Though it’s wonderful how many people I’ve heard of, who were going to realise yesterday, of all days in the three hundred and sixty-five, if it hadn’t been too late!’
“I can’t say the same for myself, sir,” Pancks replied. “Though it’s amazing how many people I’ve heard about who were supposed to realize it yesterday, of all days in the year, if it hadn’t been too late!”
His steam-like breathings, usually droll in their effect, were more tragic than so many groans: while from head to foot, he was in that begrimed, besmeared, neglected state, that he might have been an authentic portrait of Misfortune which could scarcely be discerned through its want of cleaning.
His labored breaths, usually amusing in their effect, felt more tragic than a bunch of groans: from head to toe, he was in such a dirty, stained, and neglected condition that he could have been a true portrait of Misfortune, barely distinguishable through the layers of grime.
‘Mr Clennam, had you laid out—everything?’ He got over the break before the last word, and also brought out the last word itself with great difficulty.
‘Mr. Clennam, did you sort out—everything?’ He got through the pause before the last word, and also managed to say the last word itself with a lot of effort.
‘Everything.’
"All of it."
Mr Pancks took hold of his tough hair again, and gave it such a wrench that he pulled out several prongs of it. After looking at these with an eye of wild hatred, he put them in his pocket.
Mr. Pancks grabbed his tough hair again and yanked it so hard that he pulled out several strands. After looking at them with a fierce glare, he stuffed them in his pocket.
‘My course,’ said Clennam, brushing away some tears that had been silently dropping down his face, ‘must be taken at once. What wretched amends I can make must be made. I must clear my unfortunate partner’s reputation. I must retain nothing for myself. I must resign to our creditors the power of management I have so much abused, and I must work out as much of my fault—or crime—as is susceptible of being worked out in the rest of my days.’
‘My path,’ said Clennam, wiping away some tears that had been silently streaming down his face, ‘needs to be taken immediately. The little I can do to make things right has to be done. I have to clear my unfortunate partner’s name. I won’t hold on to anything for myself. I must give our creditors back the control I’ve misused, and I have to work off as much of my fault—or wrongdoing—as I can for the rest of my life.’
‘Is it impossible, sir, to tide over the present?’
‘Is it impossible, sir, to get through the present?’
‘Out of the question. Nothing can be tided over now, Pancks. The sooner the business can pass out of my hands, the better for it. There are engagements to be met, this week, which would bring the catastrophe before many days were over, even if I would postpone it for a single day by going on for that space, secretly knowing what I know. All last night I thought of what I would do; what remains is to do it.’
“Not happening. There's no way to get through this now, Pancks. The quicker I can get rid of this business, the better. I have deadlines coming up this week that would lead to disaster in just a few days, even if I tried to delay things for a day while knowing what I do. I spent all night thinking about my next steps; now I just need to take action.”
‘Not entirely of yourself?’ said Pancks, whose face was as damp as if his steam were turning into water as fast as he dismally blew it off. ‘Have some legal help.’
‘Not entirely yourself?’ said Pancks, whose face was as wet as if his steam was turning into water as fast as he gloomily blew it off. ‘Get some legal help.’
‘Perhaps I had better.’
"Maybe I should."
‘Have Rugg.’
"Get Rugg."
‘There is not much to do. He will do it as well as another.’
'There's not much to it. He'll handle it just as well as anyone else would.'
‘Shall I fetch Rugg, Mr Clennam?’
‘Should I get Rugg, Mr. Clennam?’
‘If you could spare the time, I should be much obliged to you.’
“If you could take the time, I would really appreciate it.”
Mr Pancks put on his hat that moment, and steamed away to Pentonville. While he was gone Arthur never raised his head from the desk, but remained in that one position.
Mr. Pancks put on his hat at that moment and headed off to Pentonville. While he was gone, Arthur never lifted his head from the desk and stayed in that same position.
Mr Pancks brought his friend and professional adviser, Mr Rugg, back with him. Mr Rugg had had such ample experience, on the road, of Mr Pancks’s being at that present in an irrational state of mind, that he opened his professional mediation by requesting that gentleman to take himself out of the way. Mr Pancks, crushed and submissive, obeyed.
Mr. Pancks brought his friend and advisor, Mr. Rugg, back with him. Mr. Rugg had enough experience with Mr. Pancks being in an irrational state of mind that he started his professional mediation by asking Mr. Pancks to step aside. Mr. Pancks, feeling defeated and compliant, complied.
‘He is not unlike what my daughter was, sir, when we began the Breach of Promise action of Rugg and Bawkins, in which she was Plaintiff,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘He takes too strong and direct an interest in the case. His feelings are worked upon. There is no getting on, in our profession, with feelings worked upon, sir.’
‘He’s kind of like what my daughter was, sir, when we started the Breach of Promise lawsuit against Rugg and Bawkins, where she was the Plaintiff,’ said Mr. Rugg. ‘He’s too invested in the case. His emotions are being manipulated. You can’t make progress in our profession with manipulated feelings, sir.’
As he pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat, he saw, in a side glance or two, that a great change had come over his client.
As he took off his gloves and put them in his hat, he noticed, in a couple of side glances, that a big change had come over his client.
‘I am sorry to perceive, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘that you have been allowing your own feelings to be worked upon. Now, pray don’t, pray don’t. These losses are much to be deplored, sir, but we must look ‘em in the face.’
"I’m sorry to see this, sir," said Mr. Rugg, "that you’ve been letting your emotions get to you. Please, don’t do that. These losses are certainly unfortunate, sir, but we have to confront them directly."
‘If the money I have sacrificed had been all my own, Mr Rugg,’ sighed Mr Clennam, ‘I should have cared far less.’
‘If the money I've given up had been all mine, Mr. Rugg,’ sighed Mr. Clennam, ‘I wouldn't have cared nearly as much.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ said Mr Rugg, rubbing his hands with a cheerful air. ‘You surprise me. That’s singular, sir. I have generally found, in my experience, that it’s their own money people are most particular about. I have seen people get rid of a good deal of other people’s money, and bear it very well: very well indeed.’
“Really, sir?” said Mr. Rugg, happily rubbing his hands together. “You surprise me. That’s unusual, sir. In my experience, people are usually most concerned about their own money. I’ve seen individuals spend a lot of other people’s money and handle it quite well—very well, indeed.”
With these comforting remarks, Mr Rugg seated himself on an office-stool at the desk and proceeded to business.
With these reassuring comments, Mr. Rugg took a seat on an office stool at the desk and got down to work.
‘Now, Mr Clennam, by your leave, let us go into the matter. Let us see the state of the case. The question is simple. The question is the usual plain, straightforward, common-sense question. What can we do for ourself? What can we do for ourself?’
‘Now, Mr. Clennam, if you don’t mind, let’s get into the matter. Let’s look at the situation. The question is simple. It’s the usual plain, straightforward, common-sense question. What can we do for ourselves? What can we do for ourselves?’
‘This is not the question with me, Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur. ‘You mistake it in the beginning. It is, what can I do for my partner, how can I best make reparation to him?’
‘That’s not the issue for me, Mr. Rugg,’ Arthur said. ‘You’ve misunderstood it from the start. The real question is, what can I do for my partner, how can I best make things right for him?’
‘I am afraid, sir, do you know,’ argued Mr Rugg persuasively, ‘that you are still allowing your feeling to be worked upon. I don’t like the term “reparation,” sir, except as a lever in the hands of counsel. Will you excuse my saying that I feel it my duty to offer you the caution, that you really must not allow your feelings to be worked upon?’
"I’m afraid, sir, do you know," Mr. Rugg argued convincingly, "that you’re still letting your emotions influence you. I really don’t like the word 'reparation,' sir, except as a tool for lawyers. May I be honest and say that I feel it’s my responsibility to warn you that you really mustn't let your feelings control you?"
‘Mr Rugg,’ said Clennam, nerving himself to go through with what he had resolved upon, and surprising that gentleman by appearing, in his despondency, to have a settled determination of purpose; ‘you give me the impression that you will not be much disposed to adopt the course I have made up my mind to take. If your disapproval of it should render you unwilling to discharge such business as it necessitates, I am sorry for it, and must seek other aid. But I will represent to you at once, that to argue against it with me is useless.’
“Mr. Rugg,” Clennam said, gathering his resolve to follow through with his decision and surprising that gentleman by appearing, despite his gloom, to have a clear determination; “you give me the feeling that you’re not really inclined to support the course I’ve decided to take. If your disapproval makes you unwilling to handle the tasks that come with it, I regret that and will have to look for help elsewhere. But I want to make it clear right now that arguing about it with me is pointless.”
‘Good, sir,’ answered Mr Rugg, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Good, sir. Since the business is to be done by some hands, let it be done by mine. Such was my principle in the case of Rugg and Bawkins. Such is my principle in most cases.’
‘Sure, sir,’ replied Mr. Rugg, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Sure, sir. Since the work needs to be done by someone, let it be done by me. That was my approach with Rugg and Bawkins. That’s my approach in most situations.’
Clennam then proceeded to state to Mr Rugg his fixed resolution. He told Mr Rugg that his partner was a man of great simplicity and integrity, and that in all he meant to do, he was guided above all things by a knowledge of his partner’s character, and a respect for his feelings. He explained that his partner was then absent on an enterprise of importance, and that it particularly behoved himself publicly to accept the blame of what he had rashly done, and publicly to exonerate his partner from all participation in the responsibility of it, lest the successful conduct of that enterprise should be endangered by the slightest suspicion wrongly attaching to his partner’s honour and credit in another country. He told Mr Rugg that to clear his partner morally, to the fullest extent, and publicly and unreservedly to declare that he, Arthur Clennam, of that Firm, had of his own sole act, and even expressly against his partner’s caution, embarked its resources in the swindles that had lately perished, was the only real atonement within his power; was a better atonement to the particular man than it would be to many men; and was therefore the atonement he had first to make. With this view, his intention was to print a declaration to the foregoing effect, which he had already drawn up; and, besides circulating it among all who had dealings with the House, to advertise it in the public papers. Concurrently with this measure (the description of which cost Mr Rugg innumerable wry faces and great uneasiness in his limbs), he would address a letter to all the creditors, exonerating his partner in a solemn manner, informing them of the stoppage of the House until their pleasure could be known and his partner communicated with, and humbly submitting himself to their direction. If, through their consideration for his partner’s innocence, the affairs could ever be got into such train as that the business could be profitably resumed, and its present downfall overcome, then his own share in it should revert to his partner, as the only reparation he could make to him in money value for the distress and loss he had unhappily brought upon him, and he himself, at as small a salary as he could live upon, would ask to be allowed to serve the business as a faithful clerk.
Clennam then went on to express his firm decision to Mr. Rugg. He told Mr. Rugg that his partner was a person of great honesty and integrity, and that whatever he intended to do was primarily guided by an understanding of his partner's character and a respect for his feelings. He explained that his partner was currently away on an important mission, and it was particularly important for him to publicly take the blame for his own rash actions and publicly clear his partner of any responsibility, so that the successful outcome of that mission wouldn’t be jeopardized by even the slightest suspicion regarding his partner's honor and reputation in another country. Clennam told Mr. Rugg that it was crucial to fully absolve his partner in a moral sense, and to publicly and completely declare that he, Arthur Clennam, of that Firm, had on his own initiative, and even against his partner's warnings, put the firm's resources into the recent failed schemes. This was the only real way to make amends he could offer; it was a better way to amend things for that specific man than for many others; and therefore, it was the first step he needed to take. With this in mind, he planned to publish a statement to this effect, which he had already drafted; and in addition to sharing it with everyone who had dealings with the House, he would advertise it in the newspapers. Alongside this action (which made Mr. Rugg grimace and fidget uncomfortably), he would send a letter to all the creditors, solemnly exonerating his partner, informing them about the halt in the House until they could reach a decision and his partner could be contacted, and humbly submitting himself to their guidance. If, through their consideration of his partner's innocence, the situation could ever be organized in such a way that the business could be profitably restarted and recover from its current failure, then his own share in it would revert to his partner, as the only compensation he could give him in monetary terms for the distress and loss he had unfortunately caused. He would then ask to serve the business as a faithful clerk, earning as little as he could live on.
Though Mr Rugg saw plainly there was no preventing this from being done, still the wryness of his face and the uneasiness of his limbs so sorely required the propitiation of a Protest, that he made one. ‘I offer no objection, sir,’ said he, ‘I argue no point with you. I will carry out your views, sir; but, under protest.’ Mr Rugg then stated, not without prolixity, the heads of his protest. These were, in effect, because the whole town, or he might say the whole country, was in the first madness of the late discovery, and the resentment against the victims would be very strong: those who had not been deluded being certain to wax exceedingly wroth with them for not having been as wise as they were: and those who had been deluded being certain to find excuses and reasons for themselves, of which they were equally certain to see that other sufferers were wholly devoid: not to mention the great probability of every individual sufferer persuading himself, to his violent indignation, that but for the example of all the other sufferers he never would have put himself in the way of suffering. Because such a declaration as Clennam’s, made at such a time, would certainly draw down upon him a storm of animosity, rendering it impossible to calculate on forbearance in the creditors, or on unanimity among them; and exposing him a solitary target to a straggling cross-fire, which might bring him down from half-a-dozen quarters at once.
Though Mr. Rugg clearly saw that there was no stopping this from happening, the grimace on his face and the tension in his body desperately needed him to make a protest, so he did. “I have no objection, sir,” he said, “I’m not arguing with you. I’ll go along with your plans, sir; but I do so under protest.” Mr. Rugg then elaborated, not without some length, on the reasons for his protest. Essentially, he pointed out that the whole town, or perhaps even the entire country, was caught up in the frenzy of the recent discovery, and the anger toward the victims would be intense. Those who hadn’t been fooled were sure to become very upset with the victims for not being as clever as they were, while those who had been fooled would definitely come up with excuses for themselves, being equally sure that the other victims didn't have any. Not to mention the strong likelihood that each suffering individual would convince themselves, in their outrage, that if it hadn’t been for the example of all the other victims, they would never have ended up in such a predicament. Because a statement like Clennam’s, made at such a moment, would surely unleash a wave of hostility toward him, making it impossible to expect patience from the creditors or unity among them; and leaving him as a lone target exposed to random crossfire, which could bring him down from several directions at once.
To all this Clennam merely replied that, granting the whole protest, nothing in it lessened the force, or could lessen the force, of the voluntary and public exoneration of his partner. He therefore, once and for all, requested Mr Rugg’s immediate aid in getting the business despatched. Upon that, Mr Rugg fell to work; and Arthur, retaining no property to himself but his clothes and books, and a little loose money, placed his small private banker’s-account with the papers of the business.
To all of this, Clennam simply responded that even if he accepted the entire protest, it didn’t change the impact, nor could it change the impact, of his partner's voluntary and public exoneration. Therefore, he firmly asked Mr. Rugg for his immediate help in getting the business sorted out. With that, Mr. Rugg got to work; and Arthur, keeping only his clothes, books, and some cash, added his small personal bank account to the business papers.
The disclosure was made, and the storm raged fearfully. Thousands of people were wildly staring about for somebody alive to heap reproaches on; and this notable case, courting publicity, set the living somebody so much wanted, on a scaffold. When people who had nothing to do with the case were so sensible of its flagrancy, people who lost money by it could scarcely be expected to deal mildly with it. Letters of reproach and invective showered in from the creditors; and Mr Rugg, who sat upon the high stool every day and read them all, informed his client within a week that he feared there were writs out.
The news got out, and chaos erupted. Thousands of people were frantically looking for someone to blame; this high-profile case turned the very person they were seeking into a public target. With everyone acknowledging how outrageous the situation was, those who suffered losses weren't likely to take it lightly. Angry letters flooded in from the creditors, and Mr. Rugg, who sat on his high stool every day and read them all, informed his client within a week that he believed there were legal actions pending.
‘I must take the consequences of what I have done,’ said Clennam. ‘The writs will find me here.’
"I have to face the consequences of what I’ve done," Clennam said. "The lawsuits will catch up with me here."
On the very next morning, as he was turning in Bleeding Heart Yard by Mrs Plornish’s corner, Mrs Plornish stood at the door waiting for him, and mysteriously besought him to step into Happy Cottage. There he found Mr Rugg.
On the very next morning, as he was turning into Bleeding Heart Yard by Mrs. Plornish’s corner, Mrs. Plornish stood at the door waiting for him and mysteriously asked him to step into Happy Cottage. There he found Mr. Rugg.
‘I thought I’d wait for you here. I wouldn’t go on to the Counting-house this morning if I was you, sir.’
‘I thought I’d wait for you here. I wouldn’t head to the Counting-house this morning if I were you, sir.’
‘Why not, Mr Rugg?’
"Why not, Mr. Rugg?"
‘There are as many as five out, to my knowledge.’
'As far as I know, there are up to five out.'
‘It cannot be too soon over,’ said Clennam. ‘Let them take me at once.’
“It can’t be too soon,” said Clennam. “Let them take me right away.”
‘Yes, but,’ said Mr Rugg, getting between him and the door, ‘hear reason, hear reason. They’ll take you soon enough, Mr Clennam, I don’t doubt; but, hear reason. It almost always happens, in these cases, that some insignificant matter pushes itself in front and makes much of itself. Now, I find there’s a little one out—a mere Palace Court jurisdiction—and I have reason to believe that a caption may be made upon that. I wouldn’t be taken upon that.’
‘Yes, but,’ said Mr. Rugg, stepping in front of him and blocking the door, ‘let’s be sensible, let’s be sensible. They’ll get you soon enough, Mr. Clennam, I have no doubt about that; but, let’s be sensible. It almost always happens in these situations that some minor issue comes up and makes a big deal out of itself. Now, I see there’s a small matter at play—a simple Palace Court jurisdiction—and I have reason to believe that a warrant could be issued for that. I wouldn’t let myself get caught up in that.’
‘Why not?’ asked Clennam.
“Why not?” Clennam asked.
‘I’d be taken on a full-grown one, sir,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘It’s as well to keep up appearances. As your professional adviser, I should prefer your being taken on a writ from one of the Superior Courts, if you have no objection to do me that favour. It looks better.’
"I'd be hired on a full-grown one, sir," said Mr. Rugg. "It's important to maintain appearances. As your professional adviser, I would prefer if you could be hired on a writ from one of the Superior Courts, if you don't mind doing me that favor. It looks better."
‘Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur, in his dejection, ‘my only wish is, that it should be over. I will go on, and take my chance.’
‘Mr. Rugg,’ Arthur said, feeling down, ‘all I want is for this to be over. I’ll keep going and take my chances.’
‘Another word of reason, sir!’ cried Mr Rugg. ‘Now, this is reason. The other may be taste; but this is reason. If you should be taken on a little one, sir, you would go to the Marshalsea. Now, you know what the Marshalsea is. Very close. Excessively confined. Whereas in the King’s Bench—’ Mr Rugg waved his right hand freely, as expressing abundance of space.
‘One more sensible word, sir!’ shouted Mr. Rugg. ‘Now, this is sensible. The other might be opinion; but this is sensible. If you get caught with a minor offense, sir, you’ll end up in the Marshalsea. Now, you know what the Marshalsea is like. Very cramped. Extremely restrictive. But in the King’s Bench—’ Mr. Rugg waved his right hand freely, as if to show plenty of space.
‘I would rather,’ said Clennam, ‘be taken to the Marshalsea than to any other prison.’
'I would rather,' said Clennam, 'be taken to the Marshalsea than to any other prison.'
‘Do you say so indeed, sir?’ returned Mr Rugg. ‘Then this is taste, too, and we may be walking.’
‘Is that what you really think, sir?’ replied Mr. Rugg. ‘Well, then this is what good taste looks like, and we might as well take a walk.’
He was a little offended at first, but he soon overlooked it. They walked through the Yard to the other end. The Bleeding Hearts were more interested in Arthur since his reverses than formerly; now regarding him as one who was true to the place and had taken up his freedom. Many of them came out to look after him, and to observe to one another, with great unctuousness, that he was ‘pulled down by it.’ Mrs Plornish and her father stood at the top of the steps at their own end, much depressed and shaking their heads.
He felt a bit offended at first, but he quickly got over it. They walked through the Yard to the other end. The Bleeding Hearts were more interested in Arthur since his setbacks than they had been before; they now saw him as someone who was loyal to the place and had embraced his freedom. Many of them came out to check on him and wittily remarked to one another, with a lot of false sympathy, that he was ‘pulled down by it.’ Mrs. Plornish and her father stood at the top of the steps at their end, looking very downcast and shaking their heads.
There was nobody visibly in waiting when Arthur and Mr Rugg arrived at the Counting-house. But an elderly member of the Jewish persuasion, preserved in rum, followed them close, and looked in at the glass before Mr Rugg had opened one of the day’s letters. ‘Oh!’ said Mr Rugg, looking up. ‘How do you do? Step in—Mr Clennam, I think this is the gentleman I was mentioning.’
There was no one visibly waiting when Arthur and Mr. Rugg arrived at the Counting-house. But an elderly Jewish man, preserved in rum, followed them closely and peered through the glass before Mr. Rugg had opened any of the day's letters. “Oh!” said Mr. Rugg, looking up. “How do you do? Come in—Mr. Clennam, I think this is the gentleman I mentioned.”
This gentleman explained the object of his visit to be ‘a tyfling madder ob bithznithz,’ and executed his legal function.
This guy explained that the purpose of his visit was 'a tyfling madder ob bithznithz,' and carried out his legal duty.
‘Shall I accompany you, Mr Clennam?’ asked Mr Rugg politely, rubbing his hands.
“Should I walk with you, Mr. Clennam?” Mr. Rugg asked politely, rubbing his hands.
‘I would rather go alone, thank you. Be so good as send me my clothes.’ Mr Rugg in a light airy way replied in the affirmative, and shook hands with him. He and his attendant then went down-stairs, got into the first conveyance they found, and drove to the old gates.
‘I’d rather go by myself, thanks. Please send me my clothes.’ Mr. Rugg casually agreed and shook his hand. He and his companion then went downstairs, got into the first vehicle they found, and drove to the old gates.
‘Where I little thought, Heaven forgive me,’ said Clennam to himself, ‘that I should ever enter thus!’
‘Where I never imagined, Heaven forgive me,’ said Clennam to himself, ‘that I would ever enter like this!’
Mr Chivery was on the Lock, and Young John was in the Lodge: either newly released from it, or waiting to take his own spell of duty. Both were more astonished on seeing who the prisoner was, than one might have thought turnkeys would have been. The elder Mr Chivery shook hands with him in a shame-faced kind of way, and said, ‘I don’t call to mind, sir, as I was ever less glad to see you.’ The younger Mr Chivery, more distant, did not shake hands with him at all; he stood looking at him in a state of indecision so observable that it even came within the observation of Clennam with his heavy eyes and heavy heart. Presently afterwards, Young John disappeared into the jail.
Mr. Chivery was at the Lock, and Young John was in the Lodge: either just released from it or waiting to take his turn on duty. Both were more surprised to see who the prisoner was than one might expect guards to be. The older Mr. Chivery shook hands with him in a somewhat embarrassed way and said, "I can't say, sir, that I’ve ever been less glad to see you." The younger Mr. Chivery, more aloof, didn’t shake hands at all; he stood there looking at him in such a noticeable state of uncertainty that even Clennam, with his heavy eyes and heavy heart, could see it. Soon after, Young John went into the jail.
As Clennam knew enough of the place to know that he was required to remain in the Lodge a certain time, he took a seat in a corner, and feigned to be occupied with the perusal of letters from his pocket. They did not so engross his attention, but that he saw, with gratitude, how the elder Mr Chivery kept the Lodge clear of prisoners; how he signed to some, with his keys, not to come in, how he nudged others with his elbows to go out, and how he made his misery as easy to him as he could.
As Clennam was familiar enough with the place to know that he had to stay in the Lodge for a certain amount of time, he took a seat in a corner and pretended to be reading letters from his pocket. They didn’t occupy his focus completely, but he noticed, with gratitude, how the older Mr. Chivery kept the Lodge free of prisoners; how he signaled to some not to enter with his keys, how he nudged others with his elbows to leave, and how he tried to make his own hardship a bit more bearable.
Arthur was sitting with his eyes fixed on the floor, recalling the past, brooding over the present, and not attending to either, when he felt himself touched upon the shoulder. It was by Young John; and he said, ‘You can come now.’
Arthur was sitting with his eyes on the floor, lost in thought about the past, worried about the present, and ignoring both, when he felt someone tap his shoulder. It was Young John, and he said, “You can come now.”
He got up and followed Young John. When they had gone a step or two within the inner iron-gate, Young John turned and said to him:
He got up and followed Young John. When they had taken a step or two through the inner iron gate, Young John turned and said to him:
‘You want a room. I have got you one.’
‘You want a room. I’ve got one for you.’
‘I thank you heartily.’
‘Thank you so much.’
Young John turned again, and took him in at the old doorway, up the old staircase, into the old room. Arthur stretched out his hand. Young John looked at it, looked at him—sternly—swelled, choked, and said:
Young John turned again and brought him in through the old doorway, up the worn staircase, into the familiar room. Arthur reached out his hand. Young John looked at it, then at him—sternly—squared his shoulders, choked up, and said:
‘I don’t know as I can. No, I find I can’t. But I thought you’d like the room, and here it is for you.’
'I don’t think I can. No, I realize I can’t. But I thought you’d like the room, and here it is for you.'
Surprise at this inconsistent behaviour yielded when he was gone (he went away directly) to the feelings which the empty room awakened in Clennam’s wounded breast, and to the crowding associations with the one good and gentle creature who had sanctified it. Her absence in his altered fortunes made it, and him in it, so very desolate and so much in need of such a face of love and truth, that he turned against the wall to weep, sobbing out, as his heart relieved itself, ‘O my Little Dorrit!’
Surprised by this inconsistent behavior, he quickly left, which brought forth the feelings stirred by the empty room in Clennam’s aching heart, along with the overwhelming memories of the one kind and gentle person who had made it special. Her absence in his changed circumstances made the room, and him within it, feel incredibly lonely and in desperate need of love and truth. He turned to the wall and cried, letting his heart pour out, "O my Little Dorrit!"
CHAPTER 27. The Pupil of the Marshalsea
The day was sunny, and the Marshalsea, with the hot noon striking upon it, was unwontedly quiet. Arthur Clennam dropped into a solitary arm-chair, itself as faded as any debtor in the jail, and yielded himself to his thoughts.
The day was sunny, and the Marshalsea, with the hot noon beating down on it, was unusually quiet. Arthur Clennam sank into a lonely armchair, just as worn out as any debtor in the prison, and let himself get lost in his thoughts.
In the unnatural peace of having gone through the dreaded arrest, and got there,—the first change of feeling which the prison most commonly induced, and from which dangerous resting-place so many men had slipped down to the depths of degradation and disgrace by so many ways,—he could think of some passages in his life, almost as if he were removed from them into another state of existence. Taking into account where he was, the interest that had first brought him there when he had been free to keep away, and the gentle presence that was equally inseparable from the walls and bars about him and from the impalpable remembrances of his later life which no walls or bars could imprison, it was not remarkable that everything his memory turned upon should bring him round again to Little Dorrit. Yet it was remarkable to him; not because of the fact itself, but because of the reminder it brought with it, how much the dear little creature had influenced his better resolutions.
In the strange calm after going through the feared arrest and getting there—the first shift in feelings that prison usually triggered, from which so many men had slipped down to shame and despair in countless ways—he could reflect on certain moments in his life as if he were detached from them, almost like he was in another existence. Considering where he was, the interest that had first drawn him there when he had been free to stay away, and the gentle presence that was inseparable from both the walls and bars around him and the intangible memories of his recent life that no walls or bars could contain, it wasn't surprising that everything his mind focused on led him back to Little Dorrit. Yet it was surprising to him, not because of the fact itself, but because of the reminder it sparked, how much that dear little person had shaped his better intentions.
None of us clearly know to whom or to what we are indebted in this wise, until some marked stop in the whirling wheel of life brings the right perception with it. It comes with sickness, it comes with sorrow, it comes with the loss of the dearly loved, it is one of the most frequent uses of adversity. It came to Clennam in his adversity, strongly and tenderly. ‘When I first gathered myself together,’ he thought, ‘and set something like purpose before my jaded eyes, whom had I before me, toiling on, for a good object’s sake, without encouragement, without notice, against ignoble obstacles that would have turned an army of received heroes and heroines? One weak girl! When I tried to conquer my misplaced love, and to be generous to the man who was more fortunate than I, though he should never know it or repay me with a gracious word, in whom had I watched patience, self-denial, self-subdual, charitable construction, the noblest generosity of the affections? In the same poor girl! If I, a man, with a man’s advantages and means and energies, had slighted the whisper in my heart, that if my father had erred, it was my first duty to conceal the fault and to repair it, what youthful figure with tender feet going almost bare on the damp ground, with spare hands ever working, with its slight shape but half protected from the sharp weather, would have stood before me to put me to shame? Little Dorrit’s.’ So always as he sat alone in the faded chair, thinking. Always, Little Dorrit. Until it seemed to him as if he met the reward of having wandered away from her, and suffered anything to pass between him and his remembrance of her virtues.
None of us really know to whom or what we owe our gratitude until something significant interrupts the nonstop flow of life and brings clarity. It often shows up with illness, sadness, or the loss of someone we love; it's one of the most common benefits of hardship. For Clennam, it arrived during his struggles, with both strength and tenderness. ‘When I finally gathered my thoughts,’ he reflected, ‘and started to focus on something like a goal, who did I see working tirelessly, without support, without recognition, against disgraceful obstacles that would have defeated an army of celebrated heroes and heroines? One fragile girl! When I tried to overcome my unrequited love and be gracious to the man who was luckier than me, even if he would never know or repay my kindness with a simple word, in whom did I witness patience, self-denial, humility, charitable understanding, and the highest generosity of heart? In the same poor girl! If I, a man, with all the advantages, resources, and energy that come with being male, had ignored the voice inside me that said my first responsibility was to hide my father's mistake and make it right, which youthful figure with tender feet almost bare on the wet ground, with frail hands constantly at work, with a slight frame only partially shielded from the cold, would have stood before me to shame me? Little Dorrit’s.’ So, as he sat alone in the worn-out chair, lost in thought, it was always Little Dorrit. Until it felt to him like he was being punished for having drifted away from her and allowing anything to come between him and his memory of her virtues.
His door was opened, and the head of the elder Chivery was put in a very little way, without being turned towards him.
His door was opened, and the head of the elder Chivery peeked in a bit, without facing him.
‘I am off the Lock, Mr Clennam, and going out. Can I do anything for you?’
‘I’m leaving the Lock, Mr. Clennam, and heading out. Can I do anything for you?’
‘Many thanks. Nothing.’
"Thanks a lot. Nothing."
‘You’ll excuse me opening the door,’ said Mr Chivery; ‘but I couldn’t make you hear.’
‘You'll excuse me for opening the door,’ said Mr. Chivery; ‘but I couldn't get you to hear me.’
‘Did you knock?’ ‘Half-a-dozen times.’
“Did you knock?” “Six times.”
Rousing himself, Clennam observed that the prison had awakened from its noontide doze, that the inmates were loitering about the shady yard, and that it was late in the afternoon. He had been thinking for hours.
Rousing himself, Clennam noticed that the prison had woken up from its midday nap, that the inmates were hanging around the cool yard, and that it was late in the afternoon. He had been thinking for hours.
‘Your things is come,’ said Mr Chivery, ‘and my son is going to carry ‘em up. I should have sent ‘em up but for his wishing to carry ‘em himself. Indeed he would have ‘em himself, and so I couldn’t send ‘em up. Mr Clennam, could I say a word to you?’
‘Your things have arrived,’ said Mr. Chivery, ‘and my son is going to carry them up. I would have sent them up myself, but he wanted to carry them himself. In fact, he insisted on carrying them himself, so I couldn’t send them up. Mr. Clennam, can I speak to you for a moment?’
‘Pray come in,’ said Arthur; for Mr Chivery’s head was still put in at the door a very little way, and Mr Chivery had but one ear upon him, instead of both eyes. This was native delicacy in Mr Chivery—true politeness; though his exterior had very much of a turnkey about it, and not the least of a gentleman.
"Please come in," said Arthur, as Mr. Chivery's head was barely poking through the door, and he could only hear Arthur with one ear instead of seeing him with both eyes. This was Mr. Chivery's natural shyness—genuine politeness; even though he looked more like a jailer than a gentleman.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr Chivery, without advancing; ‘it’s no odds me coming in. Mr Clennam, don’t you take no notice of my son (if you’ll be so good) in case you find him cut up anyways difficult. My son has a ‘art, and my son’s ‘art is in the right place. Me and his mother knows where to find it, and we find it sitiwated correct.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Chivery, without stepping forward; ‘it doesn’t matter for me to come in. Mr. Clennam, please don’t pay any attention to my son (if you wouldn’t mind) in case you find him upset in any way. My son has a good heart, and my son’s heart is in the right place. His mother and I know where to find it, and we find it situated properly.’
With this mysterious speech, Mr Chivery took his ear away and shut the door. He might have been gone ten minutes, when his son succeeded him.
With that mysterious comment, Mr. Chivery took his ear away and closed the door. He could have been gone for about ten minutes when his son came in after him.
‘Here’s your portmanteau,’ he said to Arthur, putting it carefully down.
‘Here’s your suitcase,’ he said to Arthur, setting it down gently.
‘It’s very kind of you. I am ashamed that you should have the trouble.’
“Thank you so much. I feel bad that you have to go through all this trouble.”
He was gone before it came to that; but soon returned, saying exactly as before, ‘Here’s your black box:’ which he also put down with care.
He was gone before it got to that; but he soon came back, saying just like before, ‘Here’s your black box:’ which he also placed down carefully.
‘I am very sensible of this attention. I hope we may shake hands now, Mr John.’
‘I really appreciate this attention. I hope we can shake hands now, Mr. John.’
Young John, however, drew back, turning his right wrist in a socket made of his left thumb and middle-finger and said as he had said at first, ‘I don’t know as I can. No; I find I can’t!’ He then stood regarding the prisoner sternly, though with a swelling humour in his eyes that looked like pity.
Young John, however, pulled back, twisting his right wrist into a grip made by his left thumb and middle finger and said, just like he had before, ‘I don’t think I can. No; I realize I can’t!’ He then stood there, looking at the prisoner seriously, though there was a flicker of humor in his eyes that resembled pity.
‘Why are you angry with me,’ said Clennam, ‘and yet so ready to do me these kind services? There must be some mistake between us. If I have done anything to occasion it I am sorry.’
"Why are you mad at me," Clennam said, "yet still so willing to help me out? There must be some misunderstanding between us. If I've done something to cause this, I'm truly sorry."
‘No mistake, sir,’ returned John, turning the wrist backwards and forwards in the socket, for which it was rather tight. ‘No mistake, sir, in the feelings with which my eyes behold you at the present moment! If I was at all fairly equal to your weight, Mr Clennam—which I am not; and if you weren’t under a cloud—which you are; and if it wasn’t against all rules of the Marshalsea—which it is; those feelings are such, that they would stimulate me, more to having it out with you in a Round on the present spot than to anything else I could name.’
“No mistake, sir,” John replied, twisting his wrist back and forth in the socket, which was a bit tight. “No mistake, sir, in how my eyes see you right now! If I could even remotely handle your weight, Mr. Clennam—which I can’t; and if you weren’t in a difficult situation—which you are; and if it didn’t go against all the rules of the Marshalsea—which it does; those feelings are such that they would urge me more to have it out with you right here than to anything else I can think of.”
Arthur looked at him for a moment in some wonder, and some little anger. ‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘A mistake, a mistake!’ Turning away, he sat down with a heavy sigh in the faded chair again.
Arthur stared at him for a moment, feeling a mix of confusion and slight anger. ‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘It was a mistake, just a mistake!’ He turned away and sank back down into the worn chair with a deep sigh.
Young John followed him with his eyes, and, after a short pause, cried out, ‘I beg your pardon!’
Young John watched him closely and, after a brief moment, shouted, "Sorry!"
‘Freely granted,’ said Clennam, waving his hand without raising his sunken head. ‘Say no more. I am not worth it.’
‘Freely given,’ Clennam said, waving his hand without lifting his lowered head. ‘No need to say anything else. I don’t deserve it.’
‘This furniture, sir,’ said Young John in a voice of mild and soft explanation, ‘belongs to me. I am in the habit of letting it out to parties without furniture, that have the room. It an’t much, but it’s at your service. Free, I mean. I could not think of letting you have it on any other terms. You’re welcome to it for nothing.’
“This furniture, sir,” Young John said in a soft and gentle tone, “is mine. I usually rent it out to people who don’t have their own furniture and have the space for it. It’s not much, but it’s yours to use. Free, I mean. I couldn’t possibly let you have it any other way. You’re welcome to it at no cost.”
Arthur raised his head again to thank him, and to say he could not accept the favour. John was still turning his wrist, and still contending with himself in his former divided manner.
Arthur lifted his head again to thank him and to say he couldn't accept the favor. John was still twisting his wrist and still struggling with himself in his usual conflicted way.
‘What is the matter between us?’ said Arthur.
‘What’s going on between us?’ said Arthur.
‘I decline to name it, sir,’ returned Young John, suddenly turning loud and sharp. ‘Nothing’s the matter.’
"I won't name it, sir," Young John replied, suddenly raising his voice and sounding sharp. "Nothing's wrong."
Arthur looked at him again, in vain, for an explanation of his behaviour. After a while, Arthur turned away his head again. Young John said, presently afterwards, with the utmost mildness:
Arthur looked at him again, hoping for an explanation of his behavior. After a while, Arthur turned his head away again. Young John then said, with the greatest calmness:
‘The little round table, sir, that’s nigh your elbow, was—you know whose—I needn’t mention him—he died a great gentleman. I bought it of an individual that he gave it to, and that lived here after him. But the individual wasn’t any ways equal to him. Most individuals would find it hard to come up to his level.’
‘The small round table, sir, that’s nearly by your elbow, belonged to—you know who—I don’t need to say his name—he was a great gentleman. I bought it from someone he gave it to, who lived here after him. But that person wasn’t anywhere near his level. Most people would struggle to match his standard.’
Arthur drew the little table nearer, rested his arm upon it, and kept it there.
Arthur pulled the small table closer, rested his arm on it, and left it there.
‘Perhaps you may not be aware, sir,’ said Young John, ‘that I intruded upon him when he was over here in London. On the whole he was of opinion that it was an intrusion, though he was so good as to ask me to sit down and to inquire after father and all other old friends. Leastways humblest acquaintances. He looked, to me, a good deal changed, and I said so when I came back. I asked him if Miss Amy was well—’
‘You might not know this, sir,’ said Young John, ‘but I interrupted him when he was over here in London. Overall, he thought it was an interruption, but he was nice enough to invite me to sit down and ask about my dad and all our other old friends. Or at least our humble acquaintances. He seemed, to me, quite different, and I mentioned that when I got back. I asked him if Miss Amy was doing well—’
‘And she was?’
'So, what happened to her?'
‘I should have thought you would have known without putting the question to such as me,’ returned Young John, after appearing to take a large invisible pill. ‘Since you do put me the question, I am sorry I can’t answer it. But the truth is, he looked upon the inquiry as a liberty, and said, “What was that to me?” It was then I became quite aware I was intruding: of which I had been fearful before. However, he spoke very handsome afterwards; very handsome.’
‘I thought you would have known without asking someone like me,’ Young John replied, after pretending to swallow a big invisible pill. ‘Since you’re asking, I’m sorry I can’t answer. The truth is, he saw the question as an overstep, and said, “What does that have to do with me?” That’s when I realized I was intruding, which I had been worried about before. Still, he spoke very kindly afterward; very kindly.’
They were both silent for several minutes: except that Young John remarked, at about the middle of the pause, ‘He both spoke and acted very handsome.’
They were both quiet for several minutes, except that Young John commented, around the middle of the silence, “He spoke and acted very well.”
It was again Young John who broke the silence by inquiring:
It was once again Young John who broke the silence by asking:
‘If it’s not a liberty, how long may it be your intentions, sir, to go without eating and drinking?’
‘If it’s not a liberty, how long do you intend to go without eating and drinking, sir?’
‘I have not felt the want of anything yet,’ returned Clennam. ‘I have no appetite just now.’
‘I haven't felt the need for anything yet,’ Clennam replied. ‘I don't have an appetite right now.’
‘The more reason why you should take some support, sir,’ urged Young John. ‘If you find yourself going on sitting here for hours and hours partaking of no refreshment because you have no appetite, why then you should and must partake of refreshment without an appetite. I’m going to have tea in my own apartment. If it’s not a liberty, please to come and take a cup. Or I can bring a tray here in two minutes.’
‘That’s even more reason for you to accept some support, sir,’ urged Young John. ‘If you’re just going to sit here for hours without eating because you don’t feel hungry, then you should definitely eat something even if you’re not hungry. I’m going to have tea in my place. If it’s not too forward, please come and join me for a cup. Or I can bring a tray here in two minutes.’
Feeling that Young John would impose that trouble on himself if he refused, and also feeling anxious to show that he bore in mind both the elder Mr Chivery’s entreaty, and the younger Mr Chivery’s apology, Arthur rose and expressed his willingness to take a cup of tea in Mr John’s apartment. Young John locked his door for him as they went out, slided the key into his pocket with great dexterity, and led the way to his own residence.
Feeling that Young John would put himself through that trouble if he refused, and also wanting to show that he remembered both the elder Mr. Chivery’s request and the younger Mr. Chivery’s apology, Arthur stood up and expressed his willingness to have a cup of tea in Mr. John’s room. Young John locked his door for him as they left, skillfully slid the key into his pocket, and led the way to his own place.
It was at the top of the house nearest to the gateway. It was the room to which Clennam had hurried on the day when the enriched family had left the prison for ever, and where he had lifted her insensible from the floor. He foresaw where they were going as soon as their feet touched the staircase. The room was so far changed that it was papered now, and had been repainted, and was far more comfortably furnished; but he could recall it just as he had seen it in that single glance, when he raised her from the ground and carried her down to the carriage.
It was at the top of the house closest to the gate. It was the room where Clennam had rushed on the day the wealthy family had left the prison for good, and where he had lifted her, unconscious, from the floor. He knew where they were headed as soon as their feet hit the staircase. The room had changed so much that it was now wallpapered, repainted, and much more comfortably furnished; but he could remember it just like he had seen it in that brief moment when he picked her up from the ground and carried her down to the carriage.
Young John looked hard at him, biting his fingers.
Young John stared at him intently, nervously biting his fingers.
‘I see you recollect the room, Mr Clennam?’
'I see you remember the room, Mr. Clennam?'
‘I recollect it well, Heaven bless her!’
‘I remember it well, God bless her!’
Oblivious of the tea, Young John continued to bite his fingers and to look at his visitor, as long as his visitor continued to glance about the room. Finally, he made a start at the teapot, gustily rattled a quantity of tea into it from a canister, and set off for the common kitchen to fill it with hot water.
Oblivious to the tea, Young John kept biting his fingers and watching his visitor as long as the visitor kept looking around the room. Finally, he moved toward the teapot, dumped a bunch of tea from a canister into it, and headed to the shared kitchen to fill it with hot water.
Original
The room was so eloquent to Clennam in the changed circumstances of his return to the miserable Marshalsea; it spoke to him so mournfully of her, and of his loss of her; that it would have gone hard with him to resist it, even though he had not been alone. Alone, he did not try. He had his hand on the insensible wall as tenderly as if it had been herself that he touched, and pronounced her name in a low voice. He stood at the window, looking over the prison-parapet with its grim spiked border, and breathed a benediction through the summer haze towards the distant land where she was rich and prosperous.
The room felt so heavy for Clennam given the new circumstances of his return to the dreary Marshalsea; it mournfully reminded him of her and the loss he felt without her. It would have been tough for him to resist its pull, even if he hadn’t been alone. But since he was alone, he didn’t even try. He placed his hand on the cold wall as gently as if he were touching her and whispered her name softly. He stood by the window, gazing over the prison’s spiked edge, and sent a silent blessing through the summer haze towards the distant land where she was thriving and successful.
Young John was some time absent, and, when he came back, showed that he had been outside by bringing with him fresh butter in a cabbage leaf, some thin slices of boiled ham in another cabbage leaf, and a little basket of water-cresses and salad herbs. When these were arranged upon the table to his satisfaction, they sat down to tea.
Young John was gone for a while, and when he returned, it was clear he had been outside. He brought back fresh butter wrapped in a cabbage leaf, some thin slices of boiled ham in another cabbage leaf, and a small basket of watercress and salad herbs. After he arranged everything on the table to his liking, they sat down for tea.
Clennam tried to do honour to the meal, but unavailingly. The ham sickened him, the bread seemed to turn to sand in his mouth. He could force nothing upon himself but a cup of tea.
Clennam attempted to enjoy the meal, but it was futile. The ham made him feel sick, and the bread felt like sand in his mouth. The only thing he could manage was a cup of tea.
‘Try a little something green,’ said Young John, handing him the basket.
“Try a bit of something green,” said Young John, giving him the basket.
He took a sprig or so of water-cress, and tried again; but the bread turned to a heavier sand than before, and the ham (though it was good enough of itself) seemed to blow a faint simoom of ham through the whole Marshalsea.
He picked a small bunch of watercress and tried again; but the bread turned into an even heavier clump than before, and the ham (even though it was perfectly fine on its own) seemed to send a faint scent of ham wafting through the entire Marshalsea.
‘Try a little more something green, sir,’ said Young John; and again handed the basket.
‘Try a bit more of that green stuff, sir,’ said Young John; and he handed the basket over again.
It was so like handing green meat into the cage of a dull imprisoned bird, and John had so evidently brought the little basket as a handful of fresh relief from the stale hot paving-stones and bricks of the jail, that Clennam said, with a smile, ‘It was very kind of you to think of putting this between the wires; but I cannot even get this down to-day.’
It was just like giving fresh food to a bored, trapped bird, and John clearly brought the small basket as a refreshing change from the stale heat of the prison's stone and brick walls. Clennam smiled and said, “It was really thoughtful of you to think of putting this through the bars, but I can't even take this down today.”
As if the difficulty were contagious, Young John soon pushed away his own plate, and fell to folding the cabbage-leaf that had contained the ham. When he had folded it into a number of layers, one over another, so that it was small in the palm of his hand, he began to flatten it between both his hands, and to eye Clennam attentively.
As if the difficulty was catching, Young John quickly pushed his plate away and started folding the cabbage leaf that had held the ham. After folding it into several layers, making it small enough to fit in his palm, he began to flatten it between both hands and watched Clennam closely.
‘I wonder,’ he at length said, compressing his green packet with some force, ‘that if it’s not worth your while to take care of yourself for your own sake, it’s not worth doing for some one else’s.’
"I wonder," he finally said, squeezing his green packet tightly, "if it’s not worth your time to take care of yourself for your own sake, then it’s not worth doing for someone else's."
‘Truly,’ returned Arthur, with a sigh and a smile, ‘I don’t know for whose.’
‘Honestly,’ replied Arthur, with a sigh and a smile, ‘I have no idea whose.’
‘Mr Clennam,’ said John, warmly, ‘I am surprised that a gentleman who is capable of the straightforwardness that you are capable of, should be capable of the mean action of making me such an answer. Mr Clennam, I am surprised that a gentleman who is capable of having a heart of his own, should be capable of the heartlessness of treating mine in that way. I am astonished at it, sir. Really and truly I am astonished!’
‘Mr. Clennam,’ John said warmly, ‘I’m surprised that someone as straightforward as you can act so petty by giving me that kind of answer. Mr. Clennam, I’m astonished that a man who can have his own feelings can be so heartless in treating mine like this. I truly am amazed, sir. I really am!’
Having got upon his feet to emphasise his concluding words, Young John sat down again, and fell to rolling his green packet on his right leg; never taking his eyes off Clennam, but surveying him with a fixed look of indignant reproach.
Having stood up to emphasize his final words, Young John sat back down and started rolling his green packet on his right leg, never taking his eyes off Clennam, but staring at him with a look of angry reproach.
‘I had got over it, sir,’ said John. ‘I had conquered it, knowing that it must be conquered, and had come to the resolution to think no more about it. I shouldn’t have given my mind to it again, I hope, if to this prison you had not been brought, and in an hour unfortunate for me, this day!’ (In his agitation Young John adopted his mother’s powerful construction of sentences.) ‘When you first came upon me, sir, in the Lodge, this day, more as if a Upas tree had been made a capture of than a private defendant, such mingled streams of feelings broke loose again within me, that everything was for the first few minutes swept away before them, and I was going round and round in a vortex. I got out of it. I struggled, and got out of it. If it was the last word I had to speak, against that vortex with my utmost powers I strove, and out of it I came. I argued that if I had been rude, apologies was due, and those apologies without a question of demeaning, I did make. And now, when I’ve been so wishful to show that one thought is next to being a holy one with me and goes before all others—now, after all, you dodge me when I ever so gently hint at it, and throw me back upon myself. For, do not, sir,’ said Young John, ‘do not be so base as to deny that dodge you do, and thrown me back upon myself you have!’
"I’ve moved past it, sir," said John. "I’ve overcome it, knowing that it had to be conquered, and I made up my mind to stop thinking about it. I wouldn’t have let it bother me again, I hope, if you hadn’t ended up in this prison, and on such an unfortunate hour for me, today!" (In his agitation, Young John took on his mother’s powerful style of speaking.) "When you first approached me, sir, in the Lodge today, I felt more like a captured Upas tree than a private defendant. Those mixed emotions surged within me, so much so that everything was overwhelmed in the first few minutes, and I was caught in a whirlwind. I got out of it. I fought and escaped it. If it was the last thing I had to say, I battled against that vortex with all my strength, and I emerged. I figured that if I had been rude, I needed to apologize, and without any hesitation about being humble, I did make those apologies. And now, when I’ve been so eager to show that one thought, which is almost sacred to me, comes before all others—now, after all of that, you dodge me whenever I gently bring it up, and push me back on myself. So, please, sir," said Young John, "don’t be so low as to deny that you do dodge me, and that you have indeed thrown me back upon myself!"
All amazement, Arthur gazed at him like one lost, only saying, ‘What is it? What do you mean, John?’ But, John, being in that state of mind in which nothing would seem to be more impossible to a certain class of people than the giving of an answer, went ahead blindly.
All amazed, Arthur looked at him like someone who was lost, only saying, ‘What is it? What do you mean, John?’ But John, in a state of mind where answering seemed impossible to some people, continued on blindly.
‘I hadn’t,’ John declared, ‘no, I hadn’t, and I never had the audaciousness to think, I am sure, that all was anything but lost. I hadn’t, no, why should I say I hadn’t if I ever had, any hope that it was possible to be so blest, not after the words that passed, not even if barriers insurmountable had not been raised! But is that a reason why I am to have no memory, why I am to have no thoughts, why I am to have no sacred spots, nor anything?’
"I hadn't," John said, "no, I hadn't, and I'm sure I never had the nerve to think that anything was anything but lost. I hadn't, no, why would I say I hadn't if I ever did have any hope that it was possible to be so blessed, not after the words that were said, not even if there weren't insurmountable barriers! But is that a reason for me to have no memories, to have no thoughts, to have no special places, or anything?"
‘What can you mean?’ cried Arthur.
‘What do you mean?’ shouted Arthur.
‘It’s all very well to trample on it, sir,’ John went on, scouring a very prairie of wild words, ‘if a person can make up his mind to be guilty of the action. It’s all very well to trample on it, but it’s there. It may be that it couldn’t be trampled upon if it wasn’t there. But that doesn’t make it gentlemanly, that doesn’t make it honourable, that doesn’t justify throwing a person back upon himself after he has struggled and strived out of himself like a butterfly. The world may sneer at a turnkey, but he’s a man—when he isn’t a woman, which among female criminals he’s expected to be.’
“It’s easy to dismiss it, sir,” John continued, unleashing a torrent of words, “if someone can convince themselves that their actions are justified. It’s easy to dismiss it, but it’s still there. Maybe it wouldn’t be dismissed if it wasn’t present. But that doesn’t make it classy, that doesn’t make it honorable, and it doesn’t excuse pushing someone back into despair after they’ve fought and struggled to rise up like a butterfly. The world might mock a prison guard, but he’s still a man—unless he’s a woman, which is what’s expected of female offenders.”
Ridiculous as the incoherence of his talk was, there was yet a truthfulness in Young John’s simple, sentimental character, and a sense of being wounded in some very tender respect, expressed in his burning face and in the agitation of his voice and manner, which Arthur must have been cruel to disregard. He turned his thoughts back to the starting-point of this unknown injury; and in the meantime Young John, having rolled his green packet pretty round, cut it carefully into three pieces, and laid it on a plate as if it were some particular delicacy.
As ridiculous as his jumbled words were, there was a sincerity in Young John’s straightforward, emotional nature, and a feeling of being hurt in a very personal way, shown in his flushed face and the tension in his voice and behavior, which Arthur must have been heartless to ignore. He reflected on the source of this mysterious hurt; meanwhile, Young John, having shaped his green packet neatly, sliced it into three pieces and arranged it on a plate as if it were a special treat.
‘It seems to me just possible,’ said Arthur, when he had retraced the conversation to the water-cresses and back again, ‘that you have made some reference to Miss Dorrit.’
"It seems to me that it's just possible," Arthur said after he had gone over the conversation from the watercress back to this point, "that you might have mentioned Miss Dorrit."
‘It is just possible, sir,’ returned John Chivery.
‘It’s just possible, sir,’ replied John Chivery.
‘I don’t understand it. I hope I may not be so unlucky as to make you think I mean to offend you again, for I never have meant to offend you yet, when I say I don’t understand it.’
‘I don’t get it. I hope I’m not so unlucky as to make you think I’m trying to offend you again, because I’ve never meant to offend you at all when I say I don’t get it.’
‘Sir,’ said Young John, ‘will you have the perfidy to deny that you know and long have known that I felt towards Miss Dorrit, call it not the presumption of love, but adoration and sacrifice?’
“Sir,” Young John said, “do you really have the nerve to deny that you’ve known for a long time how I feel about Miss Dorrit? Don’t call it the presumption of love, but rather adoration and sacrifice?”
‘Indeed, John, I will not have any perfidy if I know it; why you should suspect me of it I am at a loss to think. Did you ever hear from Mrs Chivery, your mother, that I went to see her once?’
‘Of course, John, I won’t be dishonest if I know about it; I’m confused as to why you would think that of me. Did you ever hear from Mrs. Chivery, your mother, that I visited her once?’
‘No, sir,’ returned John, shortly. ‘Never heard of such a thing.’
‘No, sir,’ John replied curtly. ‘I’ve never heard of anything like that.’
‘But I did. Can you imagine why?’
‘But I did. Can you guess why?’
‘No, sir,’ returned John, shortly. ‘I can’t imagine why.’
‘No, sir,’ John replied curtly. ‘I can’t see why.’
‘I will tell you. I was solicitous to promote Miss Dorrit’s happiness; and if I could have supposed that Miss Dorrit returned your affection—’
‘I will tell you. I was eager to support Miss Dorrit’s happiness; and if I could have believed that Miss Dorrit felt the same way about you—’
Poor John Chivery turned crimson to the tips of his ears. ‘Miss Dorrit never did, sir. I wish to be honourable and true, so far as in my humble way I can, and I would scorn to pretend for a moment that she ever did, or that she ever led me to believe she did; no, nor even that it was ever to be expected in any cool reason that she would or could. She was far above me in all respects at all times. As likewise,’ added John, ‘similarly was her gen-teel family.’
Poor John Chivery turned bright red all the way to the tips of his ears. “Miss Dorrit never did, sir. I want to be honorable and honest, as much as I can in my humble way, and I would never pretend for a second that she ever did, or that she ever gave me any reason to think she did; no, nor even that it was ever reasonable to expect that she would or could. She was far above me in every way, always. Just like,” John added, “her refined family was too.”
His chivalrous feeling towards all that belonged to her made him so very respectable, in spite of his small stature and his rather weak legs, and his very weak hair, and his poetical temperament, that a Goliath might have sat in his place demanding less consideration at Arthur’s hands.
His noble feelings towards everything that belonged to her made him quite respectable, despite his short height, rather weak legs, thin hair, and sensitive nature; a Goliath could have taken his place and would have demanded less respect from Arthur.
‘You speak, John,’ he said, with cordial admiration, ‘like a Man.’
“You speak, John,” he said, with genuine admiration, “like a real man.”
‘Well, sir,’ returned John, brushing his hand across his eyes, ‘then I wish you’d do the same.’
‘Well, sir,’ replied John, wiping his eyes, ‘then I wish you’d do the same.’
He was quick with this unexpected retort, and it again made Arthur regard him with a wondering expression of face.
He responded quickly with this unexpected comeback, which once again made Arthur look at him with a puzzled expression.
‘Leastways,’ said John, stretching his hand across the tea-tray, ‘if too strong a remark, withdrawn! But, why not, why not? When I say to you, Mr Clennam, take care of yourself for some one else’s sake, why not be open, though a turnkey? Why did I get you the room which I knew you’d like best? Why did I carry up your things? Not that I found ‘em heavy; I don’t mention ‘em on that accounts; far from it. Why have I cultivated you in the manner I have done since the morning? On the ground of your own merits? No. They’re very great, I’ve no doubt at all; but not on the ground of them. Another’s merits have had their weight, and have had far more weight with Me. Then why not speak free?’
"Anyway," said John, reaching his hand across the tea tray, "if that was too strong a comment, I take it back! But, why not, right? When I tell you, Mr. Clennam, to take care of yourself for someone else's sake, why not be honest, even if you're a jailer? Why did I get you the room I knew you'd like best? Why did I bring up your things? Not that I found them heavy; I’m not mentioning that for that reason, quite the opposite. Why have I spent so much time with you since this morning? Because of your own qualities? No. They're impressive, no doubt, but that's not the reason. Another person's qualities have mattered more to me, much more than yours. So why not be open?"
‘Unaffectedly, John,’ said Clennam, ‘you are so good a fellow and I have so true a respect for your character, that if I have appeared to be less sensible than I really am of the fact that the kind services you have rendered me to-day are attributable to my having been trusted by Miss Dorrit as her friend—I confess it to be a fault, and I ask your forgiveness.’
“Honestly, John,” Clennam said, “you’re such a great guy, and I really respect your character. If I’ve seemed less aware than I actually am that the kind help you’ve given me today comes from Miss Dorrit trusting me as her friend, I acknowledge that’s a mistake on my part, and I ask for your forgiveness.”
‘Oh! why not,’ John repeated with returning scorn, ‘why not speak free!’
‘Oh! why not,’ John said again with renewed disdain, ‘why not speak freely!’
‘I declare to you,’ returned Arthur, ‘that I do not understand you. Look at me. Consider the trouble I have been in. Is it likely that I would wilfully add to my other self-reproaches, that of being ungrateful or treacherous to you. I do not understand you.’
‘I’m telling you,’ Arthur replied, ‘that I don’t understand you. Look at me. Think about the trouble I’ve been through. Is it possible that I would intentionally add to my other feelings of guilt by being ungrateful or betraying you? I do not understand you.’
John’s incredulous face slowly softened into a face of doubt. He rose, backed into the garret-window of the room, beckoned Arthur to come there, and stood looking at him thoughtfully.
John's shocked expression gradually changed to one of uncertainty. He got up, stepped back to the attic window of the room, signaled for Arthur to join him, and stood there, looking at him thoughtfully.
‘Mr Clennam, do you mean to say that you don’t know?’
‘Mr. Clennam, are you saying that you don’t know?’
‘What, John?’
"What's up, John?"
‘Lord,’ said Young John, appealing with a gasp to the spikes on the wall. ‘He says, What!’
‘Lord,’ said Young John, gasping as he looked at the spikes on the wall. ‘He’s asking, What!’
Clennam looked at the spikes, and looked at John; and looked at the spikes, and looked at John.
Clennam glanced at the spikes, then at John; then back at the spikes, and then at John again.
‘He says What! And what is more,’ exclaimed Young John, surveying him in a doleful maze, ‘he appears to mean it! Do you see this window, sir?’
‘He says What! And what's more,’ exclaimed Young John, looking at him in a confused daze, ‘he actually seems to mean it! Do you see this window, sir?’
‘Of course I see this window.’
‘Of course I see this window.’
‘See this room?’
"Check out this room?"
‘Why, of course I see this room.’
‘Of course I see this room.’
‘That wall opposite, and that yard down below? They have all been witnesses of it, from day to day, from night to night, from week to week, from month to month. For how often have I seen Miss Dorrit here when she has not seen me!’
‘That wall over there, and that yard below? They’ve all been witnesses to it, day in and day out, night after night, week after week, month after month. How many times have I seen Miss Dorrit here without her noticing me!’
‘Witnesses of what?’ said Clennam.
"Witnesses of what?" said Clennam.
‘Of Miss Dorrit’s love.’
‘Miss Dorrit’s love.’
‘For whom?’
"Who for?"
‘You,’ said John. And touched him with the back of his hand upon the breast, and backed to his chair, and sat down on it with a pale face, holding the arms, and shaking his head at him.
‘You,’ said John. He touched him with the back of his hand on the chest, then stepped back to his chair and sat down, his face pale, gripping the arms and shaking his head at him.
If he had dealt Clennam a heavy blow, instead of laying that light touch upon him, its effect could not have been to shake him more. He stood amazed; his eyes looking at John; his lips parted, and seeming now and then to form the word ‘Me!’ without uttering it; his hands dropped at his sides; his whole appearance that of a man who has been awakened from sleep, and stupefied by intelligence beyond his full comprehension.
If he had hit Clennam hard instead of just lightly touching him, it couldn’t have shocked him more. He stood there in disbelief; his eyes fixed on John, his mouth open and occasionally seeming to form the word ‘Me!’ without actually saying it; his hands hanging at his sides; his whole demeanor that of a man who has just been woken up from sleep, overwhelmed by information he can’t fully grasp.
‘Me!’ he at length said aloud.
'Me!' he finally said out loud.
‘Ah!’ groaned Young John. ‘You!’
"Ah!" groaned Young John. "You!"
He did what he could to muster a smile, and returned, ‘Your fancy. You are completely mistaken.’
He tried to force a smile and replied, “That’s your imagination. You’re totally wrong.”
‘I mistaken, sir!’ said Young John. ‘I completely mistaken on that subject! No, Mr Clennam, don’t tell me so. On any other, if you like, for I don’t set up to be a penetrating character, and am well aware of my own deficiencies. But, I mistaken on a point that has caused me more smart in my breast than a flight of savages’ arrows could have done! I mistaken on a point that almost sent me into my grave, as I sometimes wished it would, if the grave could only have been made compatible with the tobacco-business and father and mother’s feelings! I mistaken on a point that, even at the present moment, makes me take out my pocket-handkerchief like a great girl, as people say: though I am sure I don’t know why a great girl should be a term of reproach, for every rightly constituted male mind loves ‘em great and small. Don’t tell me so, don’t tell me so!’
“I was wrong, sir!” said Young John. “I was completely wrong about that subject! No, Mr. Clennam, don’t say that to me. On anything else, if you want, because I don’t pretend to be insightful and I know my own shortcomings. But I was wrong about something that has hurt me more than a bunch of savage arrows could have! I was wrong about something that nearly drove me to my grave, as I sometimes wished it would, if only the grave could have been compatible with the tobacco business and my parents’ feelings! I was wrong about something that, even right now, makes me pull out my handkerchief like a big girl, as people say: though I really don’t see why being called a big girl is an insult, since any decent guy appreciates them, big or small. Don’t say that to me, don’t say that to me!”
Still highly respectable at bottom, though absurd enough upon the surface, Young John took out his pocket-handkerchief with a genuine absence both of display and concealment, which is only to be seen in a man with a great deal of good in him, when he takes out his pocket-handkerchief for the purpose of wiping his eyes. Having dried them, and indulged in the harmless luxury of a sob and a sniff, he put it up again.
Still highly respectable at heart, even if ridiculous on the surface, Young John pulled out his handkerchief with a genuine lack of showiness or hiding, something you only see in a man who has a lot of good in him, especially when he uses his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. After drying them and enjoying the harmless luxury of a sob and a sniff, he put it away again.
The touch was still in its influence so like a blow that Arthur could not get many words together to close the subject with. He assured John Chivery when he had returned his handkerchief to his pocket, that he did all honour to his disinterestedness and to the fidelity of his remembrance of Miss Dorrit. As to the impression on his mind, of which he had just relieved it—here John interposed, and said, ‘No impression! Certainty!’—as to that, they might perhaps speak of it at another time, but would say no more now. Feeling low-spirited and weary, he would go back to his room, with John’s leave, and come out no more that night. John assented, and he crept back in the shadow of the wall to his own lodging.
The touch still lingered in such a way that Arthur struggled to find the words to wrap up the conversation. He told John Chivery, after returning his handkerchief to his pocket, that he truly respected his selflessness and his loyalty in remembering Miss Dorrit. As for the impression on his mind, which he had just cleared—here John interjected, saying, ‘No impression! Certainty!’—about that, they could maybe discuss it another time, but he wouldn't say more now. Feeling down and exhausted, he decided to head back to his room, with John's permission, and wouldn't come out again that night. John agreed, and Arthur moved back into the shadows of the wall towards his own lodgings.
The feeling of the blow was still so strong upon him that, when the dirty old woman was gone whom he found sitting on the stairs outside his door, waiting to make his bed, and who gave him to understand while doing it, that she had received her instructions from Mr Chivery, ‘not the old ‘un but the young ‘un,’ he sat down in the faded arm-chair, pressing his head between his hands, as if he had been stunned. Little Dorrit love him! More bewildering to him than his misery, far.
The impact of the blow was still fresh in his mind that, after the dirty old woman left—who he found sitting on the stairs outside his door, waiting to make his bed and made it clear while doing so that she had been told by Mr. Chivery, ‘not the old one but the young one’—he sat down in the worn-out armchair, pressing his head between his hands, as if he had been knocked out. Little Dorrit loved him! That was even more confusing to him than his misery, by far.
Consider the improbability. He had been accustomed to call her his child, and his dear child, and to invite her confidence by dwelling upon the difference in their respective ages, and to speak of himself as one who was turning old. Yet she might not have thought him old. Something reminded him that he had not thought himself so, until the roses had floated away upon the river.
Consider the unlikeliness. He had always referred to her as his child, and his beloved child, and encouraged her trust by emphasizing their age difference, often presenting himself as someone growing old. Yet she might not have seen him as old. Something made him realize that he hadn't considered himself that way until the roses had drifted away on the river.
He had her two letters among other papers in his box, and he took them out and read them. There seemed to be a sound in them like the sound of her sweet voice. It fell upon his ear with many tones of tenderness, that were not insusceptible of the new meaning. Now it was that the quiet desolation of her answer, ‘No, No, No,’ made to him that night in that very room—that night when he had been shown the dawn of her altered fortune, and when other words had passed between them which he had been destined to remember in humiliation and a prisoner, rushed into his mind.
He had her two letters mixed in with other papers in his box, and he pulled them out to read. They seemed to carry a sound that reminded him of her sweet voice. It reached his ears with many tones of tenderness, which held a new meaning. Now, the quiet desolation of her answer, ‘No, No, No,’ given to him that night in that very room— the same night when he saw the dawn of her changed fortune, and when other words had been exchanged between them that he would remember in humiliation and as a prisoner—came rushing back to him.
Consider the improbability.
Think about the odds.
But it had a preponderating tendency, when considered, to become fainter. There was another and a curious inquiry of his own heart’s that concurrently became stronger. In the reluctance he had felt to believe that she loved any one; in his desire to set that question at rest; in a half-formed consciousness he had had that there would be a kind of nobleness in his helping her love for any one, was there no suppressed something on his own side that he had hushed as it arose? Had he ever whispered to himself that he must not think of such a thing as her loving him, that he must not take advantage of her gratitude, that he must keep his experience in remembrance as a warning and reproof; that he must regard such youthful hopes as having passed away, as his friend’s dead daughter had passed away; that he must be steady in saying to himself that the time had gone by him, and he was too saddened and old?
But it had a noticeable tendency, when you thought about it, to become less intense. There was another, more curious question tugging at his heart that was getting stronger. He felt hesitant to believe that she loved anyone; he wanted to settle that question for good. In a vague realization he had that there would be a kind of honor in helping her love someone else, was there something suppressed within him that he had pushed down as it surfaced? Had he ever quietly told himself not to consider the possibility of her loving him, not to take advantage of her gratitude, to remember his experiences as a cautionary tale; to view such youthful hopes as gone, just like his friend's deceased daughter? He needed to firmly tell himself that those days were behind him, and that he was too sad and too old now?
He had kissed her when he raised her from the ground on the day when she had been so consistently and expressively forgotten. Quite as he might have kissed her, if she had been conscious? No difference?
He had kissed her when he lifted her off the ground on the day she had been so consistently and clearly overlooked. Just like he might have kissed her if she had been aware? No difference?
The darkness found him occupied with these thoughts. The darkness also found Mr and Mrs Plornish knocking at his door. They brought with them a basket, filled with choice selections from that stock in trade which met with such a quick sale and produced such a slow return. Mrs Plornish was affected to tears. Mr Plornish amiably growled, in his philosophical but not lucid manner, that there was ups you see, and there was downs. It was in vain to ask why ups, why downs; there they was, you know. He had heerd it given for a truth that accordin’ as the world went round, which round it did rewolve undoubted, even the best of gentlemen must take his turn of standing with his ed upside down and all his air a flying the wrong way into what you might call Space. Wery well then. What Mr Plornish said was, wery well then. That gentleman’s ed would come up-ards when his turn come, that gentleman’s air would be a pleasure to look upon being all smooth again, and wery well then!
The darkness found him lost in these thoughts. It also found Mr. and Mrs. Plornish knocking at his door. They brought a basket filled with carefully chosen items from their stock that sold quickly but brought in little profit. Mrs. Plornish was moved to tears. Mr. Plornish grumbled amiably, in his philosophical but unclear way, that there were ups and downs, you see. It was pointless to ask why there were ups or downs; they just were, you know. He had heard it said that as the world turned—and it definitely did—even the best gentlemen had to take their turn with everything turned upside down, with all their air flying the wrong way into what you might call Space. Well then. What Mr. Plornish meant was, well then. That gentleman would come out on top when it was his turn, that gentleman’s situation would be a pleasure to see when it was all smooth again, and well then!
It has been already stated that Mrs Plornish, not being philosophical, wept. It further happened that Mrs Plornish, not being philosophical, was intelligible. It may have arisen out of her softened state of mind, out of her sex’s wit, out of a woman’s quick association of ideas, or out of a woman’s no association of ideas, but it further happened somehow that Mrs Plornish’s intelligibility displayed itself upon the very subject of Arthur’s meditations.
It has already been mentioned that Mrs. Plornish, not being philosophical, cried. Additionally, since Mrs. Plornish wasn't philosophical, she was easy to understand. It might have come from her vulnerable state of mind, her gender's cleverness, a woman's quick connections of ideas, or a woman’s lack of connections of ideas, but somehow it also happened that Mrs. Plornish's clarity emerged on the very topic of Arthur's thoughts.
‘The way father has been talking about you, Mr Clennam,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘you hardly would believe. It’s made him quite poorly. As to his voice, this misfortune has took it away. You know what a sweet singer father is; but he couldn’t get a note out for the children at tea, if you’ll credit what I tell you.’
‘The way Dad has been talking about you, Mr. Clennam,’ said Mrs. Plornish, ‘you wouldn't even believe it. It's made him quite unwell. As for his voice, this situation has taken it away. You know how sweet a singer Dad is; but he couldn't get a note out for the kids at tea, if you’ll believe what I'm telling you.’
While speaking, Mrs Plornish shook her head, and wiped her eyes, and looked retrospectively about the room.
While she spoke, Mrs. Plornish shook her head, wiped her eyes, and glanced around the room.
‘As to Mr Baptist,’ pursued Mrs Plornish, ‘whatever he’ll do when he comes to know of it, I can’t conceive nor yet imagine. He’d have been here before now, you may be sure, but that he’s away on confidential business of your own. The persevering manner in which he follows up that business, and gives himself no rest from it—it really do,’ said Mrs Plornish, winding up in the Italian manner, ‘as I say to him, Mooshattonisha padrona.’
"As for Mr. Baptist," continued Mrs. Plornish, "I can’t imagine what he’ll do when he finds out. He would’ve been here by now, that’s for sure, if it weren't for your confidential business. The way he tirelessly chases after that work and never gives himself a break—it really does," said Mrs. Plornish, finishing in an Italian style, "as I tell him, Mooshattonisha padrona."
Though not conceited, Mrs Plornish felt that she had turned this Tuscan sentence with peculiar elegance. Mr Plornish could not conceal his exultation in her accomplishments as a linguist.
Though not arrogant, Mrs. Plornish felt she had crafted this Tuscan sentence with a unique elegance. Mr. Plornish couldn't hide his delight in her skills as a linguist.
‘But what I say is, Mr Clennam,’ the good woman went on, ‘there’s always something to be thankful for, as I am sure you will yourself admit. Speaking in this room, it’s not hard to think what the present something is. It’s a thing to be thankful for, indeed, that Miss Dorrit is not here to know it.’
“But what I’m saying is, Mr. Clennam,” the kind woman continued, “there’s always something to be grateful for, and I’m sure you would agree. Being in this room, it’s easy to think about what that current something is. It’s definitely something to be thankful for that Miss Dorrit isn’t here to find out about it.”
Arthur thought she looked at him with particular expression.
Arthur thought she looked at him with a special expression.
‘It’s a thing,’ reiterated Mrs Plornish, ‘to be thankful for, indeed, that Miss Dorrit is far away. It’s to be hoped she is not likely to hear of it. If she had been here to see it, sir, it’s not to be doubted that the sight of you,’ Mrs Plornish repeated those words—‘not to be doubted, that the sight of you—in misfortune and trouble, would have been almost too much for her affectionate heart. There’s nothing I can think of, that would have touched Miss Dorrit so bad as that.’
“It's definitely a blessing,” Mrs. Plornish said again, “that Miss Dorrit is far away. Let’s hope she won’t find out about it. If she had been here to witness it, sir, there’s no doubt that seeing you—” Mrs. Plornish emphasized those words again—“there’s no doubt that seeing you in misfortune and trouble would have been almost too much for her caring heart. I can’t think of anything that would have upset Miss Dorrit as much as that.”
Of a certainty Mrs Plornish did look at him now, with a sort of quivering defiance in her friendly emotion.
Of course, Mrs. Plornish did look at him now, with a kind of shaky defiance in her friendly feelings.
‘Yes!’ said she. ‘And it shows what notice father takes, though at his time of life, that he says to me this afternoon, which Happy Cottage knows I neither make it up nor any ways enlarge, “Mary, it’s much to be rejoiced in that Miss Dorrit is not on the spot to behold it.” Those were father’s words. Father’s own words was, “Much to be rejoiced in, Mary, that Miss Dorrit is not on the spot to behold it.” I says to father then, I says to him, “Father, you are right!” That,’ Mrs Plornish concluded, with the air of a very precise legal witness, ‘is what passed betwixt father and me. And I tell you nothing but what did pass betwixt me and father.’
“Yes!” she said. “And it really shows how attentive my father is, even at his age, that he told me this afternoon, which Happy Cottage knows I’m not making up or exaggerating at all, ‘Mary, it’s great news that Miss Dorrit isn’t here to see it.’ Those were my father’s exact words. His own words were, ‘It’s great news, Mary, that Miss Dorrit isn’t here to see it.’ I then told my father, I said to him, ‘You’re right, Dad!’ That,” Mrs. Plornish concluded, with the demeanor of a very careful legal witness, “is what happened between my father and me. And I’m telling you nothing but what actually went down between me and my father.”
Mr Plornish, as being of a more laconic temperament, embraced this opportunity of interposing with the suggestion that she should now leave Mr Clennam to himself. ‘For, you see,’ said Mr Plornish, gravely, ‘I know what it is, old gal;’ repeating that valuable remark several times, as if it appeared to him to include some great moral secret. Finally, the worthy couple went away arm in arm.
Mr. Plornish, being more reserved, took this chance to suggest that she should let Mr. Clennam be alone for a while. "You see," Mr. Plornish said seriously, "I know what it is, old gal," repeating this insightful comment several times, as if he believed it held some deep moral truth. Eventually, the kind couple left, walking arm in arm.
Little Dorrit, Little Dorrit. Again, for hours. Always Little Dorrit!
Little Dorrit, Little Dorrit. Again, for hours. Always Little Dorrit!
Happily, if it ever had been so, it was over, and better over. Granted that she had loved him, and he had known it and had suffered himself to love her, what a road to have led her away upon—the road that would have brought her back to this miserable place! He ought to be much comforted by the reflection that she was quit of it forever; that she was, or would soon be, married (vague rumours of her father’s projects in that direction had reached Bleeding Heart Yard, with the news of her sister’s marriage); and that the Marshalsea gate had shut for ever on all those perplexed possibilities of a time that was gone.
Fortunately, if it ever really was happy, that's all in the past now, and it's better that way. Sure, she had loved him, and he had known it and chosen to love her back, but what a path that would have taken her down—the path that would have brought her back to this awful place! He should feel comforted knowing that she was free from it forever; that she was, or would soon be, married (vague rumors about her father’s plans in that regard had reached Bleeding Heart Yard, along with news of her sister’s marriage); and that the Marshalsea gate had closed for good on all those complicated possibilities of a time that was gone.
Dear Little Dorrit.
Dear Little Dorrit.
Looking back upon his own poor story, she was its vanishing-point. Every thing in its perspective led to her innocent figure. He had travelled thousands of miles towards it; previous unquiet hopes and doubts had worked themselves out before it; it was the centre of the interest of his life; it was the termination of everything that was good and pleasant in it; beyond, there was nothing but mere waste and darkened sky.
Looking back on his sad story, she was its focal point. Everything in his journey pointed to her innocent figure. He had traveled thousands of miles to reach her; all his restless hopes and doubts had been resolved in her presence; she was the center of his life's interest; she represented the end of everything good and enjoyable in it; beyond her, there was nothing but emptiness and a darkened sky.
As ill at ease as on the first night of his lying down to sleep within those dreary walls, he wore the night out with such thoughts. What time Young John lay wrapt in peaceful slumber, after composing and arranging the following monumental inscription on his pillow—
As uncomfortable as he had been on his first night sleeping within those dreary walls, he spent the night consumed by such thoughts. While Young John lay wrapped in peaceful sleep, he composed and arranged the following monumental inscription on his pillow—
STRANGER!
RESPECT THE TOMB OF
JOHN CHIVERY, JUNIOR,
WHO DIED AT AN OLD AGE
NOT IMPORTANT TO DISCUSS.
HE CAME ACROSS HIS RIVAL IN TROUBLE,
AND FELT TEMPTED
TO FIGHT HIM;
BUT, FOR THE SAKE OF HIS LOVED ONE,
HE OVERCAME THOSE FEELINGS OF BITTERNESS AND BECAME
GENEROUS.
CHAPTER 28. An Appearance in the Marshalsea
The opinion of the community outside the prison gates bore hard on Clennam as time went on, and he made no friends among the community within. Too depressed to associate with the herd in the yard, who got together to forget their cares; too retiring and too unhappy to join in the poor socialities of the tavern; he kept his own room, and was held in distrust. Some said he was proud; some objected that he was sullen and reserved; some were contemptuous of him, for that he was a poor-spirited dog who pined under his debts. The whole population were shy of him on these various counts of indictment, but especially the last, which involved a species of domestic treason; and he soon became so confirmed in his seclusion, that his only time for walking up and down was when the evening Club were assembled at their songs and toasts and sentiments, and when the yard was nearly left to the women and children.
The opinion of the community outside the prison gates weighed heavily on Clennam as time passed, and he made no friends among those inside. Too downcast to mingle with the crowd in the yard, who gathered to escape their worries; too withdrawn and unhappy to participate in the meager social activities at the tavern; he isolated himself in his room and was viewed with suspicion. Some said he was arrogant; others claimed he was gloomy and distant; some looked down on him, considering him a weakling who suffered under his debts. The entire population kept their distance due to these various criticisms, but especially the last one, as it hinted at a kind of domestic betrayal; and he quickly became so entrenched in his solitude that his only chance to walk around was when the evening Club gathered for their songs, toasts, and discussions, leaving the yard nearly deserted except for women and children.
Imprisonment began to tell upon him. He knew that he idled and moped. After what he had known of the influences of imprisonment within the four small walls of the very room he occupied, this consciousness made him afraid of himself. Shrinking from the observation of other men, and shrinking from his own, he began to change very sensibly. Anybody might see that the shadow of the wall was dark upon him.
Imprisonment started to take a toll on him. He realized he was wasting time and feeling sorry for himself. After experiencing the effects of being confined within the four small walls of the room he was in, this awareness made him afraid of who he was becoming. Avoiding the gaze of others and his own reflection, he began to change noticeably. Anyone could see that the shadow of the walls was weighing heavily on him.
One day when he might have been some ten or twelve weeks in jail, and when he had been trying to read and had not been able to release even the imaginary people of the book from the Marshalsea, a footstep stopped at his door, and a hand tapped at it. He arose and opened it, and an agreeable voice accosted him with ‘How do you do, Mr Clennam? I hope I am not unwelcome in calling to see you.’
One day, after he had been in jail for about ten or twelve weeks, and while he was trying to read but couldn't even free the fictional characters from the Marshalsea, he heard a footstep stop at his door, followed by a tap. He got up and opened it, and a friendly voice greeted him with, "How do you do, Mr. Clennam? I hope I'm not bothering you by dropping in to see you."
It was the sprightly young Barnacle, Ferdinand. He looked very good-natured and prepossessing, though overpoweringly gay and free, in contrast with the squalid prison.
It was the lively young Barnacle, Ferdinand. He seemed really friendly and attractive, though strikingly cheerful and carefree, especially compared to the grim prison.
‘You are surprised to see me, Mr Clennam,’ he said, taking the seat which Clennam offered him.
‘You're surprised to see me, Mr. Clennam,’ he said, taking the seat that Clennam offered him.
‘I must confess to being much surprised.’
‘I have to admit I’m quite surprised.’
‘Not disagreeably, I hope?’
“Not unpleasantly, I hope?”
‘By no means.’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Thank you. Frankly,’ said the engaging young Barnacle, ‘I have been excessively sorry to hear that you were under the necessity of a temporary retirement here, and I hope (of course as between two private gentlemen) that our place has had nothing to do with it?’
‘Thank you. Honestly,’ said the charming young Barnacle, ‘I’ve been really sorry to hear that you had to take a break here, and I hope (just between two private individuals) that our place had nothing to do with it?’
‘Your office?’
"Is this your office?"
‘Our Circumlocution place.’
‘Our Circumlocution spot.’
‘I cannot charge any part of my reverses upon that remarkable establishment.’
‘I can’t blame any part of my setbacks on that remarkable establishment.’
‘Upon my life,’ said the vivacious young Barnacle, ‘I am heartily glad to know it. It is quite a relief to me to hear you say it. I should have so exceedingly regretted our place having had anything to do with your difficulties.’
"Upon my life," said the lively young Barnacle, "I’m really glad to hear that. It’s such a relief to me to hear you say it. I would have felt terrible if our situation had anything to do with your problems."
Clennam again assured him that he absolved it of the responsibility.
Clennam again assured him that he took it off the hook for the responsibility.
‘That’s right,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I am very happy to hear it. I was rather afraid in my own mind that we might have helped to floor you, because there is no doubt that it is our misfortune to do that kind of thing now and then. We don’t want to do it; but if men will be gravelled, why—we can’t help it.’
"That’s right," Ferdinand said. "I’m really glad to hear that. I was a bit worried that we might have let you down, since it’s definitely our bad luck to do that every once in a while. We never want to, but if people get upset, well—we can’t do anything about it."
‘Without giving an unqualified assent to what you say,’ returned Arthur, gloomily, ‘I am much obliged to you for your interest in me.’
"Without fully agreeing with what you say," Arthur replied, feeling down, "I really appreciate your concern for me."
‘No, but really! Our place is,’ said the easy young Barnacle, ‘the most inoffensive place possible. You’ll say we are a humbug. I won’t say we are not; but all that sort of thing is intended to be, and must be. Don’t you see?’
‘No, but really! Our place is,’ said the relaxed young Barnacle, ‘the most harmless place you could imagine. You might call us a fraud. I won’t deny it; but all that stuff is meant to be that way, and it has to be. Don’t you get it?’
‘I do not,’ said Clennam.
"I don't," said Clennam.
‘You don’t regard it from the right point of view. It is the point of view that is the essential thing. Regard our place from the point of view that we only ask you to leave us alone, and we are as capital a Department as you’ll find anywhere.’
‘You’re not looking at it from the right perspective. The perspective is what really matters. Look at our situation from the perspective that we just want you to leave us alone, and we're as important a Department as you’ll find anywhere.’
‘Is your place there to be left alone?’ asked Clennam.
‘Is your place there to be left alone?’ asked Clennam.
‘You exactly hit it,’ returned Ferdinand. ‘It is there with the express intention that everything shall be left alone. That is what it means. That is what it’s for. No doubt there’s a certain form to be kept up that it’s for something else, but it’s only a form. Why, good Heaven, we are nothing but forms! Think what a lot of our forms you have gone through. And you have never got any nearer to an end?’
"You got it exactly right," Ferdinand replied. "It’s there with the clear intention that everything should just stay as it is. That’s the meaning behind it. That’s its purpose. Sure, there’s some sort of facade that suggests it’s for something else, but that’s just a facade. Honestly, we are nothing but facades! Think of all the facades you've gone through. And have you ever gotten any closer to a conclusion?"
‘Never,’ said Clennam.
"Never," Clennam said.
‘Look at it from the right point of view, and there you have us—official and effectual. It’s like a limited game of cricket. A field of outsiders are always going in to bowl at the Public Service, and we block the balls.’
‘Look at it from the right angle, and there we are—official and effective. It’s like a restricted game of cricket. A group of outsiders are always coming in to bowl at the Public Service, and we defend against their pitches.’
Clennam asked what became of the bowlers? The airy young Barnacle replied that they grew tired, got dead beat, got lamed, got their backs broken, died off, gave it up, went in for other games.
Clennam asked what happened to the bowlers. The carefree young Barnacle replied that they got tired, wore themselves out, got injured, suffered broken backs, passed away, quit, and moved on to other games.
‘And this occasions me to congratulate myself again,’ he pursued, ‘on the circumstance that our place has had nothing to do with your temporary retirement. It very easily might have had a hand in it; because it is undeniable that we are sometimes a most unlucky place, in our effects upon people who will not leave us alone. Mr Clennam, I am quite unreserved with you. As between yourself and myself, I know I may be. I was so, when I first saw you making the mistake of not leaving us alone; because I perceived that you were inexperienced and sanguine, and had—I hope you’ll not object to my saying—some simplicity?’
“And this makes me congratulate myself again,” he continued, “on the fact that our place had nothing to do with your temporary leave. It easily could have played a role; it’s undeniable that we can be quite an unlucky place for those who won’t leave us alone. Mr. Clennam, I’m completely open with you. Between you and me, I know I can be. I was when I first saw you making the mistake of not leaving us alone; because I realized you were inexperienced and hopeful, and had—I hope you won’t mind me saying—some naivety?”
‘Not at all.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Some simplicity. Therefore I felt what a pity it was, and I went out of my way to hint to you (which really was not official, but I never am official when I can help it) something to the effect that if I were you, I wouldn’t bother myself. However, you did bother yourself, and you have since bothered yourself. Now, don’t do it any more.’
‘Some simplicity. So I thought it was a pity, and I tried to give you a hint (which wasn’t really official, but I never am official when I can avoid it) suggesting that if I were you, I wouldn’t worry about it. But you did worry about it, and you’ve continued to worry about it. Now, please stop doing that.’
‘I am not likely to have the opportunity,’ said Clennam.
‘I probably won’t get the chance,’ said Clennam.
‘Oh yes, you are! You’ll leave here. Everybody leaves here. There are no ends of ways of leaving here. Now, don’t come back to us. That entreaty is the second object of my call. Pray, don’t come back to us. Upon my honour,’ said Ferdinand in a very friendly and confiding way, ‘I shall be greatly vexed if you don’t take warning by the past and keep away from us.’
‘Oh yes, you are! You'll be leaving here. Everyone leaves here. There are countless ways to leave here. Now, please don't come back to us. That's the second reason I'm calling. Seriously, don’t come back to us. I swear,’ said Ferdinand in a very friendly and trusting manner, ‘I will be really upset if you don’t learn from the past and stay away from us.’
‘And the invention?’ said Clennam.
"And the invention?" Clennam asked.
‘My good fellow,’ returned Ferdinand, ‘if you’ll excuse the freedom of that form of address, nobody wants to know of the invention, and nobody cares twopence-halfpenny about it.’
"My good man," replied Ferdinand, "if you’ll excuse my casual way of speaking, no one is interested in the invention, and no one cares even a bit about it."
‘Nobody in the Office, that is to say?’
‘Nobody in the office, you mean?’
‘Nor out of it. Everybody is ready to dislike and ridicule any invention. You have no idea how many people want to be left alone. You have no idea how the Genius of the country (overlook the Parliamentary nature of the phrase, and don’t be bored by it) tends to being left alone. Believe me, Mr Clennam,’ said the sprightly young Barnacle in his pleasantest manner, ‘our place is not a wicked Giant to be charged at full tilt; but only a windmill showing you, as it grinds immense quantities of chaff, which way the country wind blows.’
'Nor out of it. Everyone is quick to dislike and mock any new invention. You have no idea how many people just want to be left alone. You have no idea how the brilliance of the country—ignore the parliamentary nature of that phrase, and don't be bored by it—tends to prefer solitude. Believe me, Mr. Clennam,' said the energetic young Barnacle in his friendliest tone, 'our place is not a wicked giant to be charged at head-on; it's just a windmill showing you, as it grinds through a huge amount of chaff, which way the country's wind is blowing.'
‘If I could believe that,’ said Clennam, ‘it would be a dismal prospect for all of us.’
“If I could believe that,” Clennam said, “it would be a bleak outlook for all of us.”
‘Oh! Don’t say so!’ returned Ferdinand. ‘It’s all right. We must have humbug, we all like humbug, we couldn’t get on without humbug. A little humbug, and a groove, and everything goes on admirably, if you leave it alone.’
‘Oh! Don’t say that!’ replied Ferdinand. ‘It’s fine. We all need a bit of nonsense; we all enjoy it, and we wouldn’t be able to function without it. A little nonsense, a routine, and everything operates perfectly, as long as you just let it be.’
With this hopeful confession of his faith as the head of the rising Barnacles who were born of woman, to be followed under a variety of watchwords which they utterly repudiated and disbelieved, Ferdinand rose. Nothing could be more agreeable than his frank and courteous bearing, or adapted with a more gentlemanly instinct to the circumstances of his visit.
With this hopeful confession of his faith as the leader of the emerging Barnacles who were born of women, to be followed under a variety of slogans that they completely rejected and disbelieved, Ferdinand stood up. Nothing could be more pleasant than his honest and polite demeanor, which was more suited to the circumstances of his visit.
‘Is it fair to ask,’ he said, as Clennam gave him his hand with a real feeling of thankfulness for his candour and good-humour, ‘whether it is true that our late lamented Merdle is the cause of this passing inconvenience?’
‘Is it fair to ask,’ he said, as Clennam shook his hand with genuine gratitude for his honesty and good-naturedness, ‘if it’s true that our recently deceased Merdle is the reason for this temporary inconvenience?’
‘I am one of the many he has ruined. Yes.’
‘I am one of the many he has destroyed. Yes.’
‘He must have been an exceedingly clever fellow,’ said Ferdinand Barnacle.
"He must have been really clever," said Ferdinand Barnacle.
Arthur, not being in the mood to extol the memory of the deceased, was silent.
Arthur, not feeling like praising the memory of the deceased, stayed quiet.
‘A consummate rascal, of course,’ said Ferdinand, ‘but remarkably clever! One cannot help admiring the fellow. Must have been such a master of humbug. Knew people so well—got over them so completely—did so much with them!’
‘A total rascal, of course,’ said Ferdinand, ‘but incredibly clever! You can't help but admire the guy. Must have been such a master of deception. Knew people so well—had them completely wrapped around his finger—did so much with them!’
In his easy way, he was really moved to genuine admiration.
In his laid-back manner, he was truly touched with real admiration.
‘I hope,’ said Arthur, ‘that he and his dupes may be a warning to people not to have so much done with them again.’
"I hope," Arthur said, "that he and his followers serve as a warning to people not to get involved with them again."
‘My dear Mr Clennam,’ returned Ferdinand, laughing, ‘have you really such a verdant hope? The next man who has as large a capacity and as genuine a taste for swindling, will succeed as well. Pardon me, but I think you really have no idea how the human bees will swarm to the beating of any old tin kettle; in that fact lies the complete manual of governing them. When they can be got to believe that the kettle is made of the precious metals, in that fact lies the whole power of men like our late lamented. No doubt there are here and there,’ said Ferdinand politely, ‘exceptional cases, where people have been taken in for what appeared to them to be much better reasons; and I need not go far to find such a case; but they don’t invalidate the rule. Good day! I hope that when I have the pleasure of seeing you, next, this passing cloud will have given place to sunshine. Don’t come a step beyond the door. I know the way out perfectly. Good day!’
‘My dear Mr. Clennam,’ Ferdinand replied, laughing, ‘do you really have such a naive hope? The next person with as much skill and a real talent for conning people will do just as well. Forgive me, but I think you really don't understand how people will flock to the sound of any old tin kettle; that's the complete guide to controlling them. When they can be convinced that the kettle is made of precious metals, that's where the true power lies for men like our dearly departed. No doubt there are a few,’ Ferdinand said politely, ‘unique situations where people have been fooled for what seemed like much better reasons; I don’t have to look far to find such a case, but they don’t change the general rule. Have a good day! I hope that by the next time I see you, this passing cloud will have given way to sunshine. Don’t come a step beyond the door. I know my way out perfectly. Good day!’
With those words, the best and brightest of the Barnacles went down-stairs, hummed his way through the Lodge, mounted his horse in the front court-yard, and rode off to keep an appointment with his noble kinsman, who wanted a little coaching before he could triumphantly answer certain infidel Snobs who were going to question the Nobs about their statesmanship.
With those words, the smartest of the Barnacles went downstairs, hummed his way through the Lodge, got on his horse in the front courtyard, and rode off to meet his noble relative, who needed a bit of guidance before he could confidently respond to some skeptical Snobs who were planning to question the Nobs about their leadership skills.
He must have passed Mr Rugg on his way out, for, a minute or two afterwards, that ruddy-headed gentleman shone in at the door, like an elderly Phoebus.
He must have passed Mr. Rugg on his way out because, a minute or two later, that red-headed guy popped in through the door, looking like an older version of Apollo.
‘How do you do to-day, sir?’ said Mr Rugg. ‘Is there any little thing I can do for you to-day, sir?’
‘How are you today, sir?’ asked Mr. Rugg. ‘Is there anything I can help you with today, sir?’
‘No, I thank you.’
"No, thank you."
Mr Rugg’s enjoyment of embarrassed affairs was like a housekeeper’s enjoyment in pickling and preserving, or a washerwoman’s enjoyment of a heavy wash, or a dustman’s enjoyment of an overflowing dust-bin, or any other professional enjoyment of a mess in the way of business.
Mr. Rugg’s enjoyment of awkward situations was like a housekeeper’s pleasure in pickling and preserving, or a washerwoman’s satisfaction in tackling a heavy laundry load, or a trash collector’s joy in dealing with an overflowing bin, or any other kind of professional enjoyment that comes from handling a mess in their line of work.
‘I still look round, from time to time, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, cheerfully, ‘to see whether any lingering Detainers are accumulating at the gate. They have fallen in pretty thick, sir; as thick as we could have expected.’
‘I still look around, every once in a while, sir,’ said Mr. Rugg, cheerfully, ‘to see if any lingering Detainers are piling up at the gate. They've come in pretty fast, sir; as fast as we could have anticipated.’
He remarked upon the circumstance as if it were matter of congratulation: rubbing his hands briskly, and rolling his head a little.
He commented on the situation as if it were something to celebrate: rubbing his hands quickly and slightly rolling his head.
‘As thick,’ repeated Mr Rugg, ‘as we could reasonably have expected. Quite a shower-bath of ‘em. I don’t often intrude upon you now, when I look round, because I know you are not inclined for company, and that if you wished to see me, you would leave word in the Lodge. But I am here pretty well every day, sir. Would this be an unseasonable time, sir,’ asked Mr Rugg, coaxingly, ‘for me to offer an observation?’
‘As thick,’ repeated Mr. Rugg, ‘as we could reasonably have expected. Quite a downpour of them. I don’t usually barge in on you now, when I look around, because I know you’re not really up for company, and if you wanted to see me, you would leave a message at the Lodge. But I’m here almost every day, sir. Would this be a bad time, sir,’ asked Mr. Rugg, in a friendly way, ‘for me to offer a comment?’
‘As seasonable a time as any other.’
‘Just as good a time as any other.’
‘Hum! Public opinion, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘has been busy with you.’
"Well! Public opinion, sir," said Mr. Rugg, "has been talking about you."
‘I don’t doubt it.’
"I believe it."
‘Might it not be advisable, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, more coaxingly yet, ‘now to make, at last and after all, a trifling concession to public opinion? We all do it in one way or another. The fact is, we must do it.’
‘Wouldn’t it be wise, sir,’ said Mr. Rugg, more gently this time, ‘to finally make a small concession to public opinion? We all do it in some way. The truth is, we have to.’
‘I cannot set myself right with it, Mr Rugg, and have no business to expect that I ever shall.’
‘I can’t come to terms with it, Mr. Rugg, and I shouldn’t expect that I ever will.’
‘Don’t say that, sir, don’t say that. The cost of being moved to the Bench is almost insignificant, and if the general feeling is strong that you ought to be there, why—really—’
‘Don't say that, sir, don't say that. The cost of being moved to the Bench is almost nothing, and if everyone feels strongly that you should be there, well—really—’
‘I thought you had settled, Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur, ‘that my determination to remain here was a matter of taste.’
‘I thought you had made up your mind, Mr. Rugg,’ Arthur said, ‘that my decision to stay here was just a matter of personal preference.’
‘Well, sir, well! But is it good taste, is it good taste? That’s the Question.’ Mr Rugg was so soothingly persuasive as to be quite pathetic. ‘I was almost going to say, is it good feeling? This is an extensive affair of yours; and your remaining here where a man can come for a pound or two, is remarked upon as not in keeping. It is not in keeping. I can’t tell you, sir, in how many quarters I heard it mentioned. I heard comments made upon it last night in a Parlour frequented by what I should call, if I did not look in there now and then myself, the best legal company—I heard, there, comments on it that I was sorry to hear. They hurt me on your account. Again, only this morning at breakfast. My daughter (but a woman, you’ll say: yet still with a feeling for these things, and even with some little personal experience, as the plaintiff in Rugg and Bawkins) was expressing her great surprise; her great surprise. Now under these circumstances, and considering that none of us can quite set ourselves above public opinion, wouldn’t a trifling concession to that opinion be—Come, sir,’ said Rugg, ‘I will put it on the lowest ground of argument, and say, Amiable?’
“Well, sir, well! But is it really good taste, is it really good taste? That’s the question.” Mr. Rugg was so soothing and persuasive that it was almost sad. “I was almost going to say, is it good feeling? This is quite a big deal for you; and your staying here where a man can come for a pound or two is seen as inappropriate. It’s definitely not appropriate. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve heard mention it. I heard comments about it last night in a parlor frequented by what I would consider—if I didn’t go in there now and then myself—the best legal company. I heard comments there that I really didn’t want to hear. They upset me on your behalf. Again, just this morning at breakfast, my daughter (but just a woman, you’ll think: still, she has a sensitivity for these matters and even a bit of personal experience, being the plaintiff in Rugg and Bawkins) was expressing her significant surprise; her significant surprise. Now, given these circumstances, and considering that none of us can quite elevate ourselves above public opinion, wouldn’t a small concession to that opinion be—Come on, sir,” said Rugg, “let’s put it in the simplest terms and say, amiable?”
Arthur’s thoughts had once more wandered away to Little Dorrit, and the question remained unanswered.
Arthur's thoughts had once again drifted back to Little Dorrit, and the question was still unanswered.
‘As to myself, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, hoping that his eloquence had reduced him to a state of indecision, ‘it is a principle of mine not to consider myself when a client’s inclinations are in the scale. But, knowing your considerate character and general wish to oblige, I will repeat that I should prefer your being in the Bench. Your case has made a noise; it is a creditable case to be professionally concerned in; I should feel on a better standing with my connection, if you went to the Bench. Don’t let that influence you, sir. I merely state the fact.’
“Regarding myself, sir,” Mr. Rugg said, hoping his persuasive talk had put him in a position of uncertainty, “it’s my principle not to prioritize my own interests when my client’s preferences are at stake. However, knowing your considerate nature and your general willingness to help, I'll reiterate that I would prefer you to be on the Bench. Your case has garnered attention; it’s a respectable case to be involved in professionally; I would feel more esteemed among my peers if you were on the Bench. Don’t let that sway you, sir. I’m just stating the fact.”
So errant had the prisoner’s attention already grown in solitude and dejection, and so accustomed had it become to commune with only one silent figure within the ever-frowning walls, that Clennam had to shake off a kind of stupor before he could look at Mr Rugg, recall the thread of his talk, and hurriedly say, ‘I am unchanged, and unchangeable, in my decision. Pray, let it be; let it be!’ Mr Rugg, without concealing that he was nettled and mortified, replied:
The prisoner had become so lost in his own thoughts during his isolation and sadness, and so used to only interacting with one silent figure within the perpetually grim walls, that Clennam had to shake off a kind of daze before he could focus on Mr. Rugg, remember what they were discussing, and quickly say, “I haven’t changed, and I won’t change my mind. Please, let it be; let it be!” Mr. Rugg, clearly annoyed and embarrassed, responded:
‘Oh! Beyond a doubt, sir. I have travelled out of the record, sir, I am aware, in putting the point to you. But really, when I hear it remarked in several companies, and in very good company, that however worthy of a foreigner, it is not worthy of the spirit of an Englishman to remain in the Marshalsea when the glorious liberties of his island home admit of his removal to the Bench, I thought I would depart from the narrow professional line marked out to me, and mention it. Personally,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘I have no opinion on the topic.’
"Oh! Absolutely, sir. I know I'm going off the usual topic, but honestly, when I hear it said in various circles, even among very respectable people, that although it may be acceptable for a foreigner, it’s beneath the dignity of an Englishman to stay in the Marshalsea when the wonderful freedoms of his home island allow him to move to the Bench, I thought I should step outside my usual professional boundaries and bring it up. Personally," Mr. Rugg said, "I have no opinion on the matter."
‘That’s well,’ returned Arthur.
"That's good," replied Arthur.
‘Oh! None at all, sir!’ said Mr Rugg. ‘If I had, I should have been unwilling, some minutes ago, to see a client of mine visited in this place by a gentleman of a high family riding a saddle-horse. But it was not my business. If I had, I might have wished to be now empowered to mention to another gentleman, a gentleman of military exterior at present waiting in the Lodge, that my client had never intended to remain here, and was on the eve of removal to a superior abode. But my course as a professional machine is clear; I have nothing to do with it. Is it your good pleasure to see the gentleman, sir?’
“Not at all, sir!” said Mr. Rugg. “If I had, I would have been hesitant, just a few minutes ago, to let a high-ranking gentleman on horseback visit my client in this place. But that’s not my concern. If I had, I might have wanted to inform another gentleman, a military-looking man currently waiting at the Lodge, that my client never intended to stay here and was about to move to a better place. But my role as a professional is straightforward; I have nothing to do with it. Would you like to see the gentleman, sir?”
‘Who is waiting to see me, did you say?’
‘Who is waiting to see me, you said?’
‘I did take that unprofessional liberty, sir. Hearing that I was your professional adviser, he declined to interpose before my very limited function was performed. Happily,’ said Mr Rugg, with sarcasm, ‘I did not so far travel out of the record as to ask the gentleman for his name.’
‘I took that unprofessional liberty, sir. When he found out I was your professional adviser, he refused to step in before I did my very limited job. Thankfully,’ said Mr. Rugg, with sarcasm, ‘I didn’t stray so far from the task that I asked the gentleman for his name.’
‘I suppose I have no resource but to see him,’ sighed Clennam, wearily.
"I guess I have no choice but to see him," sighed Clennam, tiredly.
‘Then it is your good pleasure, sir?’ retorted Rugg. ‘Am I honoured by your instructions to mention as much to the gentleman, as I pass out? I am? Thank you, sir. I take my leave.’ His leave he took accordingly, in dudgeon.
‘So it is your wish, sir?’ Rugg shot back. ‘Should I be honored with your request to tell the gentleman as I leave? I should? Thank you, sir. I’m out of here.’ He left, clearly annoyed.
The gentleman of military exterior had so imperfectly awakened Clennam’s curiosity, in the existing state of his mind, that a half-forgetfulness of such a visitor’s having been referred to, was already creeping over it as a part of the sombre veil which almost always dimmed it now, when a heavy footstep on the stairs aroused him. It appeared to ascend them, not very promptly or spontaneously, yet with a display of stride and clatter meant to be insulting. As it paused for a moment on the landing outside his door, he could not recall his association with the peculiarity of its sound, though he thought he had one. Only a moment was given him for consideration. His door was immediately swung open by a thump, and in the doorway stood the missing Blandois, the cause of many anxieties.
The man with a military appearance had so partially stirred Clennam’s curiosity, given his current state of mind, that he was already starting to forget about the visitor being mentioned, as a dark cloud of gloom that almost always hung over him was settling in. Just then, a loud footstep on the stairs caught his attention. It climbed the steps slowly and almost reluctantly, but with an exaggerated stride and noise meant to provoke. As it paused for a moment on the landing outside his door, he couldn’t quite place the unusual sound, even though he felt he should. He had only a brief moment to think. His door was suddenly flung open with a bang, and there stood the elusive Blandois, the source of much worry.
‘Salve, fellow jail-bird!’ said he. ‘You want me, it seems. Here I am!’
‘Hey, fellow inmate!’ he said. ‘You’re looking for me, it seems. Here I am!’
Before Arthur could speak to him in his indignant wonder, Cavalletto followed him into the room. Mr Pancks followed Cavalletto. Neither of the two had been there since its present occupant had had possession of it. Mr Pancks, breathing hard, sidled near the window, put his hat on the ground, stirred his hair up with both hands, and folded his arms, like a man who had come to a pause in a hard day’s work. Mr Baptist, never taking his eyes from his dreaded chum of old, softly sat down on the floor with his back against the door and one of his ankles in each hand: resuming the attitude (except that it was now expressive of unwinking watchfulness) in which he had sat before the same man in the deeper shade of another prison, one hot morning at Marseilles.
Before Arthur could express his astonishment, Cavalletto entered the room after him. Mr. Pancks followed Cavalletto. Neither of them had been there since the current occupant took over. Mr. Pancks, out of breath, moved closer to the window, placed his hat on the floor, tousled his hair with both hands, and crossed his arms, like someone who had just paused from a long day’s work. Mr. Baptist, keeping his eyes on his old feared companion, quietly sat on the floor with his back against the door, holding one ankle in each hand: resuming the position (now reflecting intense vigilance) that he had held before the same man in the deeper shadow of another prison, one hot morning in Marseilles.
Original
‘I have it on the witnessing of these two madmen,’ said Monsieur Blandois, otherwise Lagnier, otherwise Rigaud, ‘that you want me, brother-bird. Here I am!’
‘I have it on the word of these two crazies,’ said Monsieur Blandois, also known as Lagnier, also known as Rigaud, ‘that you’re looking for me, brother-bird. Here I am!’
Glancing round contemptuously at the bedstead, which was turned up by day, he leaned his back against it as a resting-place, without removing his hat from his head, and stood defiantly lounging with his hands in his pockets.
Glancing around with disdain at the bed frame, which was propped up during the day, he leaned against it as a place to rest, not taking off his hat, and stood there casually with his hands in his pockets.
‘You villain of ill-omen!’ said Arthur. ‘You have purposely cast a dreadful suspicion upon my mother’s house. Why have you done it? What prompted you to the devilish invention?’
‘You scoundrel of bad fortune!’ said Arthur. ‘You have intentionally cast a terrible shadow over my mother’s house. Why did you do this? What drove you to come up with such a wicked scheme?’
Monsieur Rigaud, after frowning at him for a moment, laughed. ‘Hear this noble gentleman! Listen, all the world, to this creature of Virtue! But take care, take care. It is possible, my friend, that your ardour is a little compromising. Holy Blue! It is possible.’
Monsieur Rigaud, after giving him a disapproving look for a moment, laughed. ‘Listen to this noble gentleman! Everyone, take note of this paragon of Virtue! But be careful, be careful. It’s possible, my friend, that your enthusiasm is a bit compromising. Holy Blue! It’s possible.’
‘Signore!’ interposed Cavalletto, also addressing Arthur: ‘for to commence, hear me! I received your instructions to find him, Rigaud; is it not?’
“Sir!” interrupted Cavalletto, also speaking to Arthur. “To start, listen to me! I got your instructions to find him, Rigaud; is that right?”
‘It is the truth.’
‘It's the truth.’
‘I go, consequentementally,’—it would have given Mrs Plornish great concern if she could have been persuaded that his occasional lengthening of an adverb in this way, was the chief fault of his English,—‘first among my countrymen. I ask them what news in Londra, of foreigners arrived. Then I go among the French. Then I go among the Germans. They all tell me. The great part of us know well the other, and they all tell me. But!—no person can tell me nothing of him, Rigaud. Fifteen times,’ said Cavalletto, thrice throwing out his left hand with all its fingers spread, and doing it so rapidly that the sense of sight could hardly follow the action, ‘I ask of him in every place where go the foreigners; and fifteen times,’ repeating the same swift performance, ‘they know nothing. But!—’
"I'm going, consequently,"—it would have really worried Mrs. Plornish if she could have been convinced that his occasional stretching of an adverb like that was the main flaw in his English,—"first among my fellow countrymen. I ask them what news there is in London about any newcomers. Then I go among the French. Then I go among the Germans. They all tell me. Most of us know each other well, and they all tell me. But!—no one can tell me anything about him, Rigaud. I've asked fifteen times," said Cavalletto, flinging out his left hand with all its fingers spread, doing it so quickly that the eye could hardly keep up, "in every place where the foreigners go; and fifteen times," repeating the same swift gesture, "they know nothing. But!"
At this significant Italian rest on the word ‘But,’ his backhanded shake of his right forefinger came into play; a very little, and very cautiously.
At this important moment, when he paused on the word 'But,' he subtly flicked his right forefinger, just a tiny movement, and did so very carefully.
‘But!—After a long time when I have not been able to find that he is here in Londra, some one tells me of a soldier with white hair—hey?—not hair like this that he carries—white—who lives retired secrettementally, in a certain place. But!—’ with another rest upon the word, ‘who sometimes in the after-dinner, walks, and smokes. It is necessary, as they say in Italy (and as they know, poor people), to have patience. I have patience. I ask where is this certain place. One. believes it is here, one believes it is there. Eh well! It is not here, it is not there. I wait patientissamentally. At last I find it. Then I watch; then I hide, until he walks and smokes. He is a soldier with grey hair—But!—’ a very decided rest indeed, and a very vigorous play from side to side of the back-handed forefinger—‘he is also this man that you see.’
‘But!—After a long time without being able to find him here in London, someone tells me about a soldier with white hair—hey?—not the kind of hair he has—white—who lives quietly and secretly in a certain place. But!—’ with another pause on the word, ‘who sometimes walks and smokes after dinner. It’s necessary, as they say in Italy (and as the poor people know), to have patience. I have patience. I ask where this certain place is. People think it’s here, people think it’s there. Well! It’s not here, it’s not there. I wait patiently. Finally, I find it. Then I watch; then I hide, until he walks and smokes. He’s a soldier with grey hair—But!—’ a very deliberate pause indeed, and a very vigorous gesture from side to side of the back-handed forefinger—‘he is also the man you see.’
It was noticeable, that, in his old habit of submission to one who had been at the trouble of asserting superiority over him, he even then bestowed upon Rigaud a confused bend of his head, after thus pointing him out.
It was clear that, in his usual tendency to submit to someone who had gone to the trouble of asserting their superiority over him, he even then gave Rigaud a slight, confused nod of his head after pointing him out like that.
‘Eh well, Signore!’ he cried in conclusion, addressing Arthur again. ‘I waited for a good opportunity. I writed some words to Signor Panco,’ an air of novelty came over Mr Pancks with this designation, ‘to come and help. I showed him, Rigaud, at his window, to Signor Panco, who was often the spy in the day. I slept at night near the door of the house. At last we entered, only this to-day, and now you see him! As he would not come up in presence of the illustrious Advocate,’ such was Mr Baptist’s honourable mention of Mr Rugg, ‘we waited down below there, together, and Signor Panco guarded the street.’
"Well, Sir!" he exclaimed at the end, speaking to Arthur again. "I waited for a good chance. I wrote a few words to Mr. Panco," he said with a touch of excitement at the mention of Panco's name, "to come and help. I pointed out Rigaud at his window to Mr. Panco, who often acted as the lookout during the day. I stayed near the door of the house at night. Finally, we went in, just today, and now you see him! Since he wouldn't come up in front of the esteemed Advocate," such was Mr. Baptist’s respectful mention of Mr. Rugg, "we waited down below there together, while Mr. Panco kept watch on the street."
At the close of this recital, Arthur turned his eyes upon the impudent and wicked face. As it met his, the nose came down over the moustache and the moustache went up under the nose. When nose and moustache had settled into their places again, Monsieur Rigaud loudly snapped his fingers half-a-dozen times; bending forward to jerk the snaps at Arthur, as if they were palpable missiles which he jerked into his face.
At the end of this performance, Arthur looked at the smug and wicked face. When their eyes connected, the nose dropped over the mustache, and the mustache lifted under the nose. Once the nose and mustache were back in their positions, Monsieur Rigaud loudly snapped his fingers half a dozen times, leaning forward to aim the snaps at Arthur as if they were physical projectiles he was tossing at his face.
‘Now, Philosopher!’ said Rigaud. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘Now, Philosopher!’ said Rigaud. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘I want to know,’ returned Arthur, without disguising his abhorrence, ‘how you dare direct a suspicion of murder against my mother’s house?’
“I want to know,” Arthur replied, clearly showing his disgust, “how you have the audacity to suspect my mother’s house of murder?”
‘Dare!’ cried Rigaud. ‘Ho, ho! Hear him! Dare? Is it dare? By Heaven, my small boy, but you are a little imprudent!’
‘Dare!’ shouted Rigaud. ‘Ha, ha! Listen to him! Dare? Is that what you call it? By Heaven, my young friend, you’re a bit reckless!’
‘I want that suspicion to be cleared away,’ said Arthur. ‘You shall be taken there, and be publicly seen. I want to know, moreover, what business you had there when I had a burning desire to fling you down-stairs. Don’t frown at me, man! I have seen enough of you to know that you are a bully and coward. I need no revival of my spirits from the effects of this wretched place to tell you so plain a fact, and one that you know so well.’
“I want that suspicion cleared up,” said Arthur. “You’ll be taken there and seen in public. I also want to know what you were doing there when I wanted so badly to throw you down the stairs. Don’t scowl at me, man! I’ve seen enough of you to know you're a bully and a coward. I don’t need any boost from this terrible place to tell you such an obvious truth, one that you know all too well.”
White to the lips, Rigaud stroked his moustache, muttering, ‘By Heaven, my small boy, but you are a little compromising of my lady, your respectable mother’—and seemed for a minute undecided how to act. His indecision was soon gone. He sat himself down with a threatening swagger, and said:
White to the lips, Rigaud stroked his mustache, muttering, ‘By Heaven, my small boy, but you’re putting your respectable mother, my lady, in a tough spot’—and seemed for a moment unsure of what to do. His uncertainty didn't last long. He sat down with a menacing swagger and said:
‘Give me a bottle of wine. You can buy wine here. Send one of your madmen to get me a bottle of wine. I won’t talk to you without wine. Come! Yes or no?’
‘Give me a bottle of wine. You can buy wine here. Send one of your crazy guys to get me a bottle of wine. I won’t talk to you without wine. Come on! Yes or no?’
‘Fetch him what he wants, Cavalletto,’ said Arthur, scornfully, producing the money.
‘Get him what he wants, Cavalletto,’ said Arthur, with disdain, pulling out the money.
‘Contraband beast,’ added Rigaud, ‘bring Port wine! I’ll drink nothing but Porto-Porto.’
‘Contraband beast,’ Rigaud added, ‘bring me Port wine! I’ll drink nothing but Porto-Porto.’
The contraband beast, however, assuring all present, with his significant finger, that he peremptorily declined to leave his post at the door, Signor Panco offered his services. He soon returned with the bottle of wine: which, according to the custom of the place, originating in a scarcity of corkscrews among the Collegians (in common with a scarcity of much else), was already opened for use.
The smuggled creature, however, confidently gestured with his prominent finger, insisting that he would not leave his position at the door. Signor Panco offered to help. He quickly came back with a bottle of wine, which, following the local custom—born from a lack of corkscrews among the Collegians (along with a shortage of many other things)—was already opened and ready to go.
‘Madman! A large glass,’ said Rigaud.
‘Madman! A big glass,’ said Rigaud.
Signor Panco put a tumbler before him; not without a visible conflict of feeling on the question of throwing it at his head.
Signor Panco placed a glass in front of him, visibly torn about whether to throw it at his head.
‘Haha!’ boasted Rigaud. ‘Once a gentleman, and always a gentleman. A gentleman from the beginning, and a gentleman to the end. What the Devil! A gentleman must be waited on, I hope? It’s a part of my character to be waited on!’
‘Haha!’ boasted Rigaud. ‘Once a gentleman, always a gentleman. A gentleman from the start, and a gentleman to the finish. What the hell! A gentleman should be served, right? It’s part of who I am to be served!’
He half filled the tumbler as he said it, and drank off the contents when he had done saying it.
He poured half a glass and drank it all after he finished speaking.
‘Hah!’ smacking his lips. ‘Not a very old prisoner that! I judge by your looks, brave sir, that imprisonment will subdue your blood much sooner than it softens this hot wine. You are mellowing—losing body and colour already. I salute you!’
‘Haha!’ smacking his lips. ‘Not a very old prisoner there! From your looks, brave sir, I’d say that being locked up will wear you down much faster than this hot wine. You’re mellowing—losing your strength and color already. Cheers to you!’
He tossed off another half glass: holding it up both before and afterwards, so as to display his small, white hand.
He downed another half glass, holding it up both before and after to show off his small, pale hand.
‘To business,’ he then continued. ‘To conversation. You have shown yourself more free of speech than body, sir.’
‘To business,’ he continued. ‘To conversation. You've been more outspoken than physically present, sir.’
‘I have used the freedom of telling you what you know yourself to be. You know yourself, as we all know you, to be far worse than that.’
‘I have taken the liberty to point out what you already recognize about yourself. You know, as we all do, that you are much worse than that.’
‘Add, always a gentleman, and it’s no matter. Except in that regard, we are all alike. For example: you couldn’t for your life be a gentleman; I couldn’t for my life be otherwise. How great the difference! Let us go on. Words, sir, never influence the course of the cards, or the course of the dice. Do you know that? You do? I also play a game, and words are without power over it.’
‘Add, always a gentleman, and it doesn't matter. Except for that, we’re all the same. For instance: you couldn't possibly be a gentleman; I couldn't be anything but. What a huge difference! Let's move on. Words, sir, never affect how the cards are dealt or how the dice roll. Do you know that? You do? I also play a game, and words have no power over it.’
Now that he was confronted with Cavalletto, and knew that his story was known—whatever thin disguise he had worn, he dropped; and faced it out, with a bare face, as the infamous wretch he was.
Now that he was faced with Cavalletto and realized that his story was known—no matter what weak cover he had put on, he let it go and confronted it, with no facade, as the infamous scoundrel he truly was.
‘No, my son,’ he resumed, with a snap of his fingers. ‘I play my game to the end in spite of words; and Death of my Body and Death of my Soul! I’ll win it. You want to know why I played this little trick that you have interrupted? Know then that I had, and that I have—do you understand me? have—a commodity to sell to my lady your respectable mother. I described my precious commodity, and fixed my price. Touching the bargain, your admirable mother was a little too calm, too stolid, too immovable and statue-like. In fine, your admirable mother vexed me. To make variety in my position, and to amuse myself—what! a gentleman must be amused at somebody’s expense!—I conceived the happy idea of disappearing. An idea, see you, that your characteristic mother and my Flintwinch would have been well enough pleased to execute. Ah! Bah, bah, bah, don’t look as from high to low at me! I repeat it. Well enough pleased, excessively enchanted, and with all their hearts ravished. How strongly will you have it?’
‘No, my son,’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘I’m playing my game to the end, no matter what anyone says; and whether it’s the Death of my Body or the Death of my Soul, I’ll win. You want to know why I pulled this little trick that you interrupted? Well, I had—and still have, do you understand me? have—a valuable item to sell to your respectable mother. I explained my precious item and set my price. Concerning the deal, your admirable mother was a bit too calm, too unresponsive, too rigid and statue-like. In short, your admirable mother annoyed me. To mix things up and keep myself entertained—after all, a gentleman needs to be amused at someone’s expense!—I thought it would be fun to disappear. An idea, you see, that your typical mother and my Flintwinch would have been pleased to carry out. Ah! Come on, don’t look down on me! I’ll say it again. They would have been quite pleased, excessively delighted, and wholeheartedly thrilled. How strongly would you like me to put it?’
He threw out the lees of his glass on the ground, so that they nearly spattered Cavalletto. This seemed to draw his attention to him anew. He set down his glass and said:
He threw the dregs of his glass onto the ground, almost splattering Cavalletto. This seemed to catch his attention again. He put down his glass and said:
‘I’ll not fill it. What! I am born to be served. Come then, you Cavalletto, and fill!’
‘I won’t fill it. What! I was born to be served. Come on, you Cavalletto, and fill it!’
The little man looked at Clennam, whose eyes were occupied with Rigaud, and, seeing no prohibition, got up from the ground, and poured out from the bottle into the glass. The blending, as he did so, of his old submission with a sense of something humorous; the striving of that with a certain smouldering ferocity, which might have flashed fire in an instant (as the born gentleman seemed to think, for he had a wary eye upon him); and the easy yielding of all to a good-natured, careless, predominant propensity to sit down on the ground again: formed a very remarkable combination of character.
The little man looked at Clennam, who was focused on Rigaud, and, noticing no objection, got up from the ground and poured from the bottle into the glass. The mix of his old submissiveness with a hint of humor, combined with a smoldering intensity that could have ignited at any moment (as the natural gentleman seemed to believe, for he kept a cautious watch on him); and the easy surrender of everything to a relaxed, carefree inclination to sit back down on the ground again: created a very striking blend of character.
‘This happy idea, brave sir,’ Rigaud resumed after drinking, ‘was a happy idea for several reasons. It amused me, it worried your dear mama and my Flintwinch, it caused you agonies (my terms for a lesson in politeness towards a gentleman), and it suggested to all the amiable persons interested that your entirely devoted is a man to fear. By Heaven, he is a man to fear! Beyond this; it might have restored her wit to my lady your mother—might, under the pressing little suspicion your wisdom has recognised, have persuaded her at last to announce, covertly, in the journals, that the difficulties of a certain contract would be removed by the appearance of a certain important party to it. Perhaps yes, perhaps no. But that, you have interrupted. Now, what is it you say? What is it you want?’
‘This brilliant idea, brave sir,’ Rigaud continued after taking a drink, ‘was a great idea for several reasons. It entertained me, it worried your dear mother and my Flintwinch, it caused you a lot of pain (which I call a lesson in politeness towards a gentleman), and it suggested to all the lovely people involved that your completely devoted man is someone to be feared. By Heaven, he is someone to be feared! Beyond that, it could have helped bring back your mother’s wit—might have, under the pressing little suspicion your wisdom has noticed, finally convinced her to secretly announce in the papers that the challenges of a certain contract would be resolved by the appearance of a notable party involved. Maybe yes, maybe no. But you've interrupted me. Now, what are you saying? What do you want?’
Never had Clennam felt more acutely that he was a prisoner in bonds, than when he saw this man before him, and could not accompany him to his mother’s house. All the undiscernible difficulties and dangers he had ever feared were closing in, when he could not stir hand or foot.
Never had Clennam felt more intensely that he was trapped, than when he saw this man in front of him and couldn’t go with him to his mother’s house. All the unseen challenges and risks he had ever worried about were closing in, while he felt completely immobilized.
‘Perhaps, my friend, philosopher, man of virtue, Imbecile, what you will; perhaps,’ said Rigaud, pausing in his drink to look out of his glass with his horrible smile, ‘you would have done better to leave me alone?’
‘Maybe, my friend, philosopher, person of virtue, fool, whatever you like; perhaps,’ said Rigaud, stopping to look through his glass with his awful smile, ‘you would have been better off leaving me alone?’
‘No! At least,’ said Clennam, ‘you are known to be alive and unharmed. At least you cannot escape from these two witnesses; and they can produce you before any public authorities, or before hundreds of people!’
‘No! At least,’ said Clennam, ‘you’re known to be alive and safe. At least you can’t escape from these two witnesses; and they can present you to any public authorities, or before a crowd of people!’
‘But will not produce me before one,’ said Rigaud, snapping his fingers again with an air of triumphant menace. ‘To the Devil with your witnesses! To the Devil with your produced! To the Devil with yourself! What! Do I know what I know, for that? Have I my commodity on sale, for that? Bah, poor debtor! You have interrupted my little project. Let it pass. How then? What remains? To you, nothing; to me, all. Produce me! Is that what you want? I will produce myself, only too quickly. Contrabandist! Give me pen, ink, and paper.’
‘But you won’t bring me before one,’ said Rigaud, snapping his fingers again with a look of triumphant threat. ‘To hell with your witnesses! To hell with your evidence! To hell with you! What! Do I know what I know for that? Am I selling my goods for that? Bah, poor debtor! You've messed up my little plan. Let it go. So then? What’s left? To you, nothing; to me, everything. You want to bring me! Is that what you're looking for? I’ll show myself, and quickly. Smuggler! Bring me pen, ink, and paper.’
Cavalletto got up again as before, and laid them before him in his former manner. Rigaud, after some villainous thinking and smiling, wrote, and read aloud, as follows:
Cavalletto stood up again like before and placed them in front of him as he had done earlier. Rigaud, after some sneaky thinking and smirking, wrote and read aloud the following:
‘To MRS CLENNAM.
‘To Mrs. Clennam.
‘Wait answer.
‘Hold on for an answer.
‘Prison of the Marshalsea. ‘At the apartment of your son.
‘Prison of the Marshalsea. ‘At your son's place.
‘Dear Madam, ‘I am in despair to be informed to-day by our prisoner here (who has had the goodness to employ spies to seek me, living for politic reasons in retirement), that you have had fears for my safety.
‘Dear Madam, ‘I am in despair to learn today from our prisoner here (who has kindly sent spies to find me, as I live in seclusion for political reasons), that you have been worried about my safety.
‘Reassure yourself, dear madam. I am well, I am strong and constant.
‘Reassure yourself, dear madam. I’m good, I’m strong, and I’m reliable.
‘With the greatest impatience I should fly to your house, but that I foresee it to be possible, under the circumstances, that you will not yet have quite definitively arranged the little proposition I have had the honour to submit to you. I name one week from this day, for a last final visit on my part; when you will unconditionally accept it or reject it, with its train of consequences.
‘With great impatience, I would rush to your house, but I anticipate that you may not have fully settled the small proposal I had the honor of presenting to you. I suggest one week from today for a final visit on my part, when you will either accept or reject it, along with its consequences.
‘I suppress my ardour to embrace you and achieve this interesting business, in order that you may have leisure to adjust its details to our perfect mutual satisfaction.
'I hold back my desire to embrace you and handle this intriguing matter, so that you have time to work out the details to our complete mutual satisfaction.
‘In the meanwhile, it is not too much to propose (our prisoner having deranged my housekeeping), that my expenses of lodging and nourishment at an hotel shall be paid by you.
‘In the meantime, it’s reasonable to suggest (since our prisoner has messed up my home life) that you cover my lodging and food expenses at a hotel.’
‘Receive, dear madam, the assurance of my highest and most distinguished consideration,
‘Please accept, dear madam, my utmost respect and consideration,
RIGAUD BLANDOIS.
‘A thousand friendships to that dear Flintwinch.
‘A thousand friendships to that dear Flintwinch.
‘I kiss the hands of Madame F.’
‘I kiss the hands of Madame F.’
When he had finished this epistle, Rigaud folded it and tossed it with a flourish at Clennam’s feet. ‘Hola you! Apropos of producing, let somebody produce that at its address, and produce the answer here.’
When he finished writing this letter, Rigaud folded it and tossed it dramatically at Clennam’s feet. ‘Hey you! About that production, let someone send it to the address, and bring the reply back here.’
‘Cavalletto,’ said Arthur. ‘Will you take this fellow’s letter?’
‘Cavalletto,’ Arthur said. ‘Will you take this guy’s letter?’
But, Cavalletto’s significant finger again expressing that his post was at the door to keep watch over Rigaud, now he had found him with so much trouble, and that the duty of his post was to sit on the floor backed up by the door, looking at Rigaud and holding his own ankles,—Signor Panco once more volunteered. His services being accepted, Cavalletto suffered the door to open barely wide enough to admit of his squeezing himself out, and immediately shut it on him.
But Cavalletto's important finger pointed out that his job was to stay at the door and keep an eye on Rigaud, whom he had finally found after so much trouble, and that his duty was to sit on the floor with his back against the door, watching Rigaud while holding his own ankles. Signor Panco once again offered to help. With his offer accepted, Cavalletto opened the door just wide enough to squeeze himself out and quickly shut it behind him.
‘Touch me with a finger, touch me with an epithet, question my superiority as I sit here drinking my wine at my pleasure,’ said Rigaud, ‘and I follow the letter and cancel my week’s grace. You wanted me? You have got me! How do you like me?’
‘Touch me with a finger, call me a name, question my superiority as I sit here enjoying my wine,’ said Rigaud, ‘and I’ll take it literally and cancel my week’s grace. You wanted me? You have me now! How do you like me?’
‘You know,’ returned Clennam, with a bitter sense of his helplessness, ‘that when I sought you, I was not a prisoner.’
‘You know,’ Clennam replied, feeling frustrated by his powerlessness, ‘that when I came to you, I wasn’t a prisoner.’
‘To the Devil with you and your prison,’ retorted Rigaud, leisurely, as he took from his pocket a case containing the materials for making cigarettes, and employed his facile hands in folding a few for present use; ‘I care for neither of you. Contrabandist! A light.’
‘To hell with you and your prison,’ Rigaud shot back casually as he pulled out a case with cigarette-making supplies from his pocket, expertly rolling a few for later use; ‘I don't care about either of you. Smuggler! Lend me a light.’
Again Cavalletto got up, and gave him what he wanted. There had been something dreadful in the noiseless skill of his cold, white hands, with the fingers lithely twisting about and twining one over another like serpents. Clennam could not prevent himself from shuddering inwardly, as if he had been looking on at a nest of those creatures.
Again, Cavalletto stood up and provided him with what he wanted. There was something terrifying about the silent precision of his cold, white hands, with the fingers moving gracefully and intertwining like snakes. Clennam couldn’t help but shudder inside, as if he were watching a nest of those creatures.
‘Hola, Pig!’ cried Rigaud, with a noisy stimulating cry, as if Cavalletto were an Italian horse or mule. ‘What! The infernal old jail was a respectable one to this. There was dignity in the bars and stones of that place. It was a prison for men. But this? Bah! A hospital for imbeciles!’
‘Hey, Pig!’ shouted Rigaud with an animated cry, as if Cavalletto were an Italian horse or mule. ‘What! The damn old jail was respectable compared to this. There was dignity in the bars and stones of that place. It was a prison for men. But this? Ugh! A hospital for fools!’
He smoked his cigarette out, with his ugly smile so fixed upon his face that he looked as though he were smoking with his drooping beak of a nose, rather than with his mouth; like a fancy in a weird picture. When he had lighted a second cigarette at the still burning end of the first, he said to Clennam:
He finished his cigarette, with an ugly grin plastered on his face that made it seem like he was smoking through his droopy nose instead of his mouth, like something out of a strange painting. After lighting a second cigarette off the still glowing end of the first, he said to Clennam:
‘One must pass the time in the madman’s absence. One must talk. One can’t drink strong wine all day long, or I would have another bottle. She’s handsome, sir. Though not exactly to my taste, still, by the Thunder and the Lightning! handsome. I felicitate you on your admiration.’
'You have to find a way to fill the time while the madman is gone. You have to talk. You can’t just drink strong wine all day long, or else I’d grab another bottle. She’s attractive, sir. Not exactly my type, but still, by Thunder and Lightning! attractive. I congratulate you on your taste.'
‘I neither know nor ask,’ said Clennam, ‘of whom you speak.’
"I don't know or care," Clennam said, "who you're talking about."
‘Della bella Gowana, sir, as they say in Italy. Of the Gowan, the fair Gowan.’
‘The beautiful Gowana, sir, as they say in Italy. Of the Gowan, the lovely Gowan.’
‘Of whose husband you were the—follower, I think?’
‘Whose husband you were the—follower, I think?’
‘Sir? Follower? You are insolent. The friend.’
‘Sir? Follower? You are disrespectful. The friend.’
‘Do you sell all your friends?’
‘Do you sell all your friends?’
Rigaud took his cigarette from his mouth, and eyed him with a momentary revelation of surprise. But he put it between his lips again, as he answered with coolness:
Rigaud took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at him with a brief flash of surprise. But he put it back between his lips and replied calmly:
‘I sell anything that commands a price. How do your lawyers live, your politicians, your intriguers, your men of the Exchange? How do you live? How do you come here? Have you sold no friend? Lady of mine! I rather think, yes!’
'I sell anything that has a price. How do your lawyers get by, your politicians, your schemers, your traders? How do you survive? How did you arrive here? Haven't you sold out a friend? My lady! I suspect you have!'
Clennam turned away from him towards the window, and sat looking out at the wall.
Clennam turned away from him and faced the window, sitting there and staring at the wall.
‘Effectively, sir,’ said Rigaud, ‘Society sells itself and sells me: and I sell Society. I perceive you have acquaintance with another lady. Also handsome. A strong spirit. Let us see. How do they call her? Wade.’
‘Basically, sir,’ said Rigaud, ‘Society markets itself and markets me: and I market Society. I see you know another lady. Also attractive. Strong-willed. Let’s see. What do they call her? Wade.’
He received no answer, but could easily discern that he had hit the mark.
He got no response, but he could clearly tell that he had struck a chord.
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘that handsome lady and strong spirit addresses me in the street, and I am not insensible. I respond. That handsome lady and strong spirit does me the favour to remark, in full confidence, “I have my curiosity, and I have my chagrins. You are not more than ordinarily honourable, perhaps?” I announce myself, “Madame, a gentleman from the birth, and a gentleman to the death; but not more than ordinarily honourable. I despise such a weak fantasy.” Thereupon she is pleased to compliment. “The difference between you and the rest is,” she answers, “that you say so.” For she knows Society. I accept her congratulations with gallantry and politeness. Politeness and little gallantries are inseparable from my character. She then makes a proposition, which is, in effect, that she has seen us much together; that it appears to her that I am for the passing time the cat of the house, the friend of the family; that her curiosity and her chagrins awaken the fancy to be acquainted with their movements, to know the manner of their life, how the fair Gowana is beloved, how the fair Gowana is cherished, and so on. She is not rich, but offers such and such little recompenses for the little cares and derangements of such services; and I graciously—to do everything graciously is a part of my character—consent to accept them. O yes! So goes the world. It is the mode.’
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘that beautiful woman with a strong spirit talks to me on the street, and I’m not indifferent. I respond. That beautiful woman with a strong spirit kindly points out, with complete confidence, “I have my curiosities and my troubles. You're not any more honorable than the average person, right?” I introduce myself, “Madam, a gentleman by birth and a gentleman until death; but not any more honorable than the average person. I disdain such a weak delusion.” Then she pleasingly compliments me. “The difference between you and everyone else is,” she replies, “that you admit it.” Because she understands Society. I accept her compliments with charm and politeness. Politeness and little acts of charm are part of my nature. She then makes a proposal, which essentially states that she has noticed us spending a lot of time together; that it seems to her that I am currently the house cat, the family friend; that her curiosities and troubles inspire a desire to know about their lives, to see how the lovely Gowana is loved, how the lovely Gowana is cherished, and so on. She isn’t wealthy but offers these small tokens of appreciation for the little efforts and troubles of such services; and I graciously—to do everything graciously is part of my character—agree to accept them. Oh yes! That’s how the world works. It’s the trend.’
Though Clennam’s back was turned while he spoke, and thenceforth to the end of the interview, he kept those glittering eyes of his that were too near together, upon him, and evidently saw in the very carriage of the head, as he passed with his braggart recklessness from clause to clause of what he said, that he was saying nothing which Clennam did not already know.
Though Clennam's back was turned while he spoke, and remained that way until the end of the meeting, he kept his glittering eyes, which were too close together, on him. It was clear that he noticed, just by the way the other held his head, as he confidently moved through each point he made, that he was saying nothing Clennam didn't already know.
‘Whoof! The fair Gowana!’ he said, lighting a third cigarette with a sound as if his lightest breath could blow her away. ‘Charming, but imprudent! For it was not well of the fair Gowana to make mysteries of letters from old lovers, in her bedchamber on the mountain, that her husband might not see them. No, no. That was not well. Whoof! The Gowana was mistaken there.’
‘Wow! The lovely Gowana!’ he said, lighting a third cigarette with a sound as if the slightest breath could blow her away. ‘Charming, but reckless! It wasn’t smart of the lovely Gowana to keep letters from old lovers a secret in her bedroom on the mountain, so her husband wouldn’t see them. No, no. That wasn’t smart. Wow! Gowana was wrong about that.’
‘I earnestly hope,’ cried Arthur aloud, ‘that Pancks may not be long gone, for this man’s presence pollutes the room.’
"I really hope," Arthur said loudly, "that Pancks isn't away for too long, because this guy's presence is ruining the atmosphere."
‘Ah! But he’ll flourish here, and everywhere,’ said Rigaud, with an exulting look and snap of his fingers. ‘He always has; he always will!’ Stretching his body out on the only three chairs in the room besides that on which Clennam sat, he sang, smiting himself on the breast as the gallant personage of the song.
‘Ah! But he’s going to thrive here, and everywhere,’ said Rigaud, looking triumphant and snapping his fingers. ‘He always has; he always will!’ Stretching out across the only three chairs in the room besides the one Clennam sat on, he sang, hitting his chest like the heroic character of the song.
‘Who passes by this road so late?
‘Who is walking down this road so late?
Compagnon de la Majolaine!
Majolaine Buddy!
Who passes by this road so late?
Who is walking down this road so late?
Always gay!
Always fabulous!
‘Sing the Refrain, pig! You could sing it once, in another jail. Sing it! Or, by every Saint who was stoned to death, I’ll be affronted and compromising; and then some people who are not dead yet, had better have been stoned along with them!’
‘Sing the refrain, pig! You could sing it once, in another jail. Sing it! Or, by every saint who was stoned to death, I’ll be offended and compromising; and then some people who are still alive had better have been stoned along with them!’
‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower,
‘Of all the king’s knights, it’s the best,
Compagnon de la Majolaine!
Majolaine Companion!
Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower,
Of all the king's knights, he's the best.
Always gay!’
Always lively!
Partly in his old habit of submission, partly because his not doing it might injure his benefactor, and partly because he would as soon do it as anything else, Cavalletto took up the Refrain this time. Rigaud laughed, and fell to smoking with his eyes shut.
Partly out of his old habit of going along with things, partly because not doing it might hurt his benefactor, and partly because he would just as soon do it as anything else, Cavalletto joined in the Refrain this time. Rigaud laughed and started smoking with his eyes closed.
Possibly another quarter of an hour elapsed before Mr Pancks’s step was heard upon the stairs, but the interval seemed to Clennam insupportably long. His step was attended by another step; and when Cavalletto opened the door, he admitted Mr Pancks and Mr Flintwinch. The latter was no sooner visible, than Rigaud rushed at him and embraced him boisterously.
Maybe another fifteen minutes went by before Mr. Pancks’s footsteps were heard on the stairs, but to Clennam, the wait felt unbearably long. His steps were accompanied by another set of footsteps; and when Cavalletto opened the door, he let in Mr. Pancks and Mr. Flintwinch. As soon as Mr. Flintwinch was in sight, Rigaud charged at him and hugged him excitedly.
‘How do you find yourself, sir?’ said Mr Flintwinch, as soon as he could disengage himself, which he struggled to do with very little ceremony. ‘Thank you, no; I don’t want any more.’ This was in reference to another menace of attention from his recovered friend. ‘Well, Arthur. You remember what I said to you about sleeping dogs and missing ones. It’s come true, you see.’
‘How are you doing, sir?’ said Mr. Flintwinch, as soon as he could break free, which he struggled to do with very little finesse. ‘No, thank you; I don’t want any more.’ This was in response to another unwanted advance from his revived friend. ‘Well, Arthur. You remember what I told you about sleeping dogs and ones that are lost. It’s come true, you see.’
He was as imperturbable as ever, to all appearance, and nodded his head in a moralising way as he looked round the room.
He looked completely unbothered as always and nodded his head in a preachy manner as he glanced around the room.
‘And this is the Marshalsea prison for debt!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Hah! you have brought your pigs to a very indifferent market, Arthur.’
‘And this is the Marshalsea prison for debt!’ said Mr. Flintwinch. ‘Hah! you have brought your pigs to a very poor market, Arthur.’
If Arthur had patience, Rigaud had not. He took his little Flintwinch, with fierce playfulness, by the two lapels of his coat, and cried:
If Arthur was patient, Rigaud was not. He grabbed his tiny Flintwinch, with intense playfulness, by the two lapels of his coat, and shouted:
‘To the Devil with the Market, to the Devil with the Pigs, and to the Devil with the Pig-Driver! Now! Give me the answer to my letter.’
‘To hell with the Market, to hell with the Pigs, and to hell with the Pig-Driver! Now! Give me the answer to my letter.’
‘If you can make it convenient to let go a moment, sir,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, ‘I’ll first hand Mr Arthur a little note that I have for him.’
‘If you could make it easy to pause for a moment, sir,’ replied Mr. Flintwinch, ‘I’ll give Mr. Arthur a little note that I have for him.’
He did so. It was in his mother’s maimed writing, on a slip of paper, and contained only these words:
He did that. It was in his mother’s shaky handwriting, on a piece of paper, and it said only this:
‘I hope it is enough that you have ruined yourself. Rest contented without more ruin. Jeremiah Flintwinch is my messenger and representative. Your affectionate M. C.’
‘I hope it's enough that you've ruined yourself. Be at peace without further destruction. Jeremiah Flintwinch is my messenger and representative. Yours affectionately, M. C.’
Clennam read this twice, in silence, and then tore it to pieces. Rigaud in the meanwhile stepped into a chair, and sat himself on the back with his feet upon the seat.
Clennam read this twice, quietly, and then ripped it to shreds. Meanwhile, Rigaud climbed onto a chair and sat on the back with his feet on the seat.
‘Now, Beau Flintwinch,’ he said, when he had closely watched the note to its destruction, ‘the answer to my letter?’
‘Now, Beau Flintwinch,’ he said, after carefully watching the note until it was gone, ‘do you have a reply to my letter?’
‘Mrs Clennam did not write, Mr Blandois, her hands being cramped, and she thinking it as well to send it verbally by me.’ Mr Flintwinch screwed this out of himself, unwillingly and rustily. ‘She sends her compliments, and says she doesn’t on the whole wish to term you unreasonable, and that she agrees. But without prejudicing the appointment that stands for this day week.’
‘Mrs. Clennam didn’t write, Mr. Blandois, her hands cramped, and she thought it was best to send her message verbally through me.’ Mr. Flintwinch relayed this with reluctance and a bit of a struggle. ‘She sends her regards and says she doesn’t really want to call you unreasonable, and that she agrees. But she doesn’t want to affect the appointment we have for this day next week.’
Monsieur Rigaud, after indulging in a fit of laughter, descended from his throne, saying, ‘Good! I go to seek an hotel!’ But, there his eyes encountered Cavalletto, who was still at his post.
Monsieur Rigaud, after having a good laugh, got up from his throne and said, ‘Great! I’m off to find a hotel!’ But then he saw Cavalletto, who was still standing at his post.
‘Come, Pig,’ he added, ‘I have had you for a follower against my will; now, I’ll have you against yours. I tell you, my little reptiles, I am born to be served. I demand the service of this contrabandist as my domestic until this day week.’
‘Come, Pig,’ he added, ‘I’ve had you following me even though I didn’t want that; now, you’ll follow me whether you like it or not. I’m telling you, my little reptiles, I was born to be served. I want this smuggler to be my servant until this day next week.’
In answer to Cavalletto’s look of inquiry, Clennam made him a sign to go; but he added aloud, ‘unless you are afraid of him.’ Cavalletto replied with a very emphatic finger-negative.‘No, master, I am not afraid of him, when I no more keep it secrettementally that he was once my comrade.’ Rigaud took no notice of either remark until he had lighted his last cigarette and was quite ready for walking.
In response to Cavalletto's questioning look, Clennam gestured for him to leave; however, he added out loud, "Unless you're afraid of him." Cavalletto firmly shook his head. "No, boss, I'm not afraid of him, especially since I no longer keep it a secret that he was once my partner." Rigaud ignored both comments until he had finished lighting his last cigarette and was fully prepared to walk.
‘Afraid of him,’ he said then, looking round upon them all. ‘Whoof! My children, my babies, my little dolls, you are all afraid of him. You give him his bottle of wine here; you give him meat, drink, and lodging there; you dare not touch him with a finger or an epithet. No. It is his character to triumph! Whoof!
‘Afraid of him,’ he said, looking around at them all. ‘Wow! My children, my babies, my little dolls, you’re all scared of him. You give him his bottle of wine here; you provide him with food, drink, and a place to stay there; you wouldn’t dare touch him or say anything insulting. No. It’s just his nature to win! Wow!
‘Of all the king’s knights he’s the flower,
‘Of all the king’s knights he’s the best,
And he’s always gay!’
And he’s always happy!’
With this adaptation of the Refrain to himself, he stalked out of the room closely followed by Cavalletto, whom perhaps he had pressed into his service because he tolerably well knew it would not be easy to get rid of him. Mr Flintwinch, after scraping his chin, and looking about with caustic disparagement of the Pig-Market, nodded to Arthur, and followed. Mr Pancks, still penitent and depressed, followed too; after receiving with great attention a secret word or two of instructions from Arthur, and whispering back that he would see this affair out, and stand by it to the end. The prisoner, with the feeling that he was more despised, more scorned and repudiated, more helpless, altogether more miserable and fallen than before, was left alone again.
With this twist on the Refrain for himself, he strode out of the room, closely followed by Cavalletto, who he probably brought along because he knew it wouldn't be easy to shake him off. Mr. Flintwinch, after scraping his chin and looking around with a sarcastic disdain for the Pig-Market, nodded to Arthur and followed. Mr. Pancks, still feeling sorry and down, followed as well, after receiving a couple of secret words of instruction from Arthur and whispering back that he would see this through and stand by it until the end. The prisoner, feeling more despised, more scorned and rejected, more helpless, and entirely more miserable and fallen than before, was left alone again.
CHAPTER 29. A Plea in the Marshalsea
Haggard anxiety and remorse are bad companions to be barred up with. Brooding all day, and resting very little indeed at night, will not arm a man against misery. Next morning, Clennam felt that his health was sinking, as his spirits had already sunk and that the weight under which he bent was bearing him down.
Haggard anxiety and guilt are terrible friends to be locked away with. Spending all day worrying and barely getting any rest at night won’t prepare someone for misery. The next morning, Clennam realized his health was declining, just as his spirits had already fallen, and the burden he carried was weighing him down.
Night after night he had risen from his bed of wretchedness at twelve or one o’clock, and had sat at his window watching the sickly lamps in the yard, and looking upward for the first wan trace of day, hours before it was possible that the sky could show it to him. Now when the night came, he could not even persuade himself to undress.
Night after night, he got out of his miserable bed at midnight or one o’clock, sitting by his window, watching the dim lights in the yard and looking up for the first hint of dawn, hours before it was likely the sky would show it to him. Now, when night fell, he couldn't even convince himself to get undressed.
For a burning restlessness set in, an agonised impatience of the prison, and a conviction that he was going to break his heart and die there, which caused him indescribable suffering. His dread and hatred of the place became so intense that he felt it a labour to draw his breath in it. The sensation of being stifled sometimes so overpowered him, that he would stand at the window holding his throat and gasping. At the same time a longing for other air, and a yearning to be beyond the blind blank wall, made him feel as if he must go mad with the ardour of the desire.
A burning restlessness took over him, an agonizing impatience with the prison, and a belief that he was going to break his heart and die there, which caused him indescribable suffering. His dread and hatred for the place became so intense that breathing felt like a struggle. The feeling of being suffocated sometimes overwhelmed him so much that he would stand at the window, clutching his throat and gasping for air. At the same time, a longing for fresh air and a desire to get beyond the dull, blank wall made him feel like he might go crazy with the intensity of his wish.
Many other prisoners had had experience of this condition before him, and its violence and continuity had worn themselves out in their cases, as they did in his. Two nights and a day exhausted it. It came back by fits, but those grew fainter and returned at lengthening intervals. A desolate calm succeeded; and the middle of the week found him settled down in the despondency of low, slow fever.
Many other prisoners had experienced this condition before him, and its intensity and persistence had faded over time for them, just as it did for him. Two nights and a day drained it away. It returned in bursts, but those became weaker and occurred less often. A bleak calm followed; by the middle of the week, he found himself mired in the gloom of a lingering low-grade fever.
With Cavalletto and Pancks away, he had no visitors to fear but Mr and Mrs Plornish. His anxiety, in reference to that worthy pair, was that they should not come near him; for, in the morbid state of his nerves, he sought to be left alone, and spared the being seen so subdued and weak. He wrote a note to Mrs Plornish representing himself as occupied with his affairs, and bound by the necessity of devoting himself to them, to remain for a time even without the pleasant interruption of a sight of her kind face. As to Young John, who looked in daily at a certain hour, when the turnkeys were relieved, to ask if he could do anything for him; he always made a pretence of being engaged in writing, and to answer cheerfully in the negative. The subject of their only long conversation had never been revived between them. Through all these changes of unhappiness, however, it had never lost its hold on Clennam’s mind.
With Cavalletto and Pancks gone, he had no visitors to worry about except Mr. and Mrs. Plornish. His concern regarding that couple was that they wouldn’t come near him; in his fragile state, he wanted to be left alone and didn’t want anyone to see him so subdued and weak. He wrote a note to Mrs. Plornish saying he was busy with his work and needed to focus on it for a while, even if it meant missing the pleasure of seeing her kind face. As for Young John, who stopped by every day at a certain time to see if he could help, he always pretended to be busy writing and responded cheerfully with a no. The topic of their only long conversation had never come up again. Despite all these changes in his unhappiness, it had never left Clennam’s mind.
The sixth day of the appointed week was a moist, hot, misty day. It seemed as though the prison’s poverty, and shabbiness, and dirt, were growing in the sultry atmosphere. With an aching head and a weary heart, Clennam had watched the miserable night out, listening to the fall of rain on the yard pavement, thinking of its softer fall upon the country earth. A blurred circle of yellow haze had risen up in the sky in lieu of sun, and he had watched the patch it put upon his wall, like a bit of the prison’s raggedness. He had heard the gates open; and the badly shod feet that waited outside shuffle in; and the sweeping, and pumping, and moving about, begin, which commenced the prison morning. So ill and faint that he was obliged to rest many times in the process of getting himself washed, he had at length crept to his chair by the open window. In it he sat dozing, while the old woman who arranged his room went through her morning’s work.
The sixth day of the designated week was a damp, hot, foggy day. It felt like the prison's poverty, shabbiness, and dirt were intensifying in the muggy air. With a throbbing headache and a heavy heart, Clennam had endured the miserable night, listening to the rain falling on the yard pavement, wishing it would softly fall on the countryside instead. A blurry yellow haze had appeared in the sky instead of the sun, and he noticed the patch it cast on his wall, resembling a piece of the prison's raggedness. He heard the gates open; the poorly shod feet waiting outside shuffled in; and the sweeping, pumping, and moving about began, signaling the start of the prison morning. Feeling so ill and weak that he had to take breaks while washing up, he finally made his way to his chair by the open window. There, he sat dozing as the old woman who tidied his room went about her morning routine.
Light of head with want of sleep and want of food (his appetite, and even his sense of taste, having forsaken him), he had been two or three times conscious, in the night, of going astray. He had heard fragments of tunes and songs in the warm wind, which he knew had no existence. Now that he began to doze in exhaustion, he heard them again; and voices seemed to address him, and he answered, and started.
Light-headed from lack of sleep and food (his appetite and even his sense of taste long gone), he had been aware, two or three times during the night, of losing his way. He had heard snatches of melodies and songs in the warm wind that he knew weren’t real. Now, as he began to doze off from exhaustion, he heard them again; voices seemed to speak to him, and he responded, startled.
Dozing and dreaming, without the power of reckoning time, so that a minute might have been an hour and an hour a minute, some abiding impression of a garden stole over him—a garden of flowers, with a damp warm wind gently stirring their scents. It required such a painful effort to lift his head for the purpose of inquiring into this, or inquiring into anything, that the impression appeared to have become quite an old and importunate one when he looked round. Beside the tea-cup on his table he saw, then, a blooming nosegay: a wonderful handful of the choicest and most lovely flowers.
Dozing and dreaming, without the ability to track time, so that a minute could have felt like an hour and an hour like a minute, a lingering sense of a garden washed over him—a garden full of flowers, with a warm damp breeze softly wafting their scents. It took such a painful effort to lift his head to investigate this or anything else, that the impression felt like it had been around for quite a while when he glanced around. Next to the teacup on his table, he noticed a vibrant bouquet: a stunning collection of the finest and most beautiful flowers.
Nothing had ever appeared so beautiful in his sight. He took them up and inhaled their fragrance, and he lifted them to his hot head, and he put them down and opened his parched hands to them, as cold hands are opened to receive the cheering of a fire. It was not until he had delighted in them for some time, that he wondered who had sent them; and opened his door to ask the woman who must have put them there, how they had come into her hands. But she was gone, and seemed to have been long gone; for the tea she had left for him on the table was cold. He tried to drink some, but could not bear the odour of it: so he crept back to his chair by the open window, and put the flowers on the little round table of old.
Nothing had ever looked so beautiful to him. He picked them up and breathed in their fragrance, then held them close to his hot forehead before putting them down and opening his dry hands to them, like cold hands reaching out to enjoy the warmth of a fire. After savoring them for a while, he wondered who had sent them and went to his door to ask the woman who must have placed them there how they had come into her possession. But she was gone, and it seemed she had been gone for a while; the tea she left for him on the table was cold. He tried to drink some, but couldn't stand the smell of it, so he returned to his chair by the open window and set the flowers on the little round table from long ago.
When the first faintness consequent on having moved about had left him, he subsided into his former state. One of the night-tunes was playing in the wind, when the door of his room seemed to open to a light touch, and, after a moment’s pause, a quiet figure seemed to stand there, with a black mantle on it. It seemed to draw the mantle off and drop it on the ground, and then it seemed to be his Little Dorrit in her old, worn dress. It seemed to tremble, and to clasp its hands, and to smile, and to burst into tears.
When the first dizziness from moving around faded away, he settled back into his previous state. One of the night songs was playing in the wind when the door to his room appeared to open with a gentle touch, and after a brief pause, a quiet figure stood there, draped in a black cloak. It seemed to pull off the cloak and let it fall to the ground, revealing his Little Dorrit in her old, worn dress. She looked like she was trembling, clasping her hands, smiling, and then bursting into tears.
He roused himself, and cried out. And then he saw, in the loving, pitying, sorrowing, dear face, as in a mirror, how changed he was; and she came towards him; and with her hands laid on his breast to keep him in his chair, and with her knees upon the floor at his feet, and with her lips raised up to kiss him, and with her tears dropping on him as the rain from Heaven had dropped upon the flowers, Little Dorrit, a living presence, called him by his name.
He woke up and shouted. Then he saw, reflected in her loving, compassionate, sorrowful, familiar face, just how much he had changed; she moved closer to him, with her hands resting on his chest to keep him in his chair, her knees on the floor by his feet, her lips leaning up to kiss him, and her tears falling on him like rain from Heaven onto the flowers. Little Dorrit, a vibrant presence, called him by his name.
‘O, my best friend! Dear Mr Clennam, don’t let me see you weep! Unless you weep with pleasure to see me. I hope you do. Your own poor child come back!’
‘Oh, my best friend! Dear Mr. Clennam, please don't let me see you cry! Unless it's tears of joy to see me. I hope it is. Your own poor child has returned!’
So faithful, tender, and unspoiled by Fortune. In the sound of her voice, in the light of her eyes, in the touch of her hands, so Angelically comforting and true!
So loyal, gentle, and untouched by Fate. In the sound of her voice, in the light of her eyes, in the touch of her hands, so Angelically comforting and genuine!
As he embraced her, she said to him, ‘They never told me you were ill,’ and drawing an arm softly round his neck, laid his head upon her bosom, put a hand upon his head, and resting her cheek upon that hand, nursed him as lovingly, and GOD knows as innocently, as she had nursed her father in that room when she had been but a baby, needing all the care from others that she took of them.
As he hugged her, she said to him, "They never told me you were sick," and gently wrapping an arm around his neck, laid his head against her chest. She placed a hand on his head and rested her cheek on that hand, caring for him as lovingly—and God knows, as innocently—as she had cared for her father in that room when she was just a baby, needing all the attention from others that she now gave to him.
When he could speak, he said, ‘Is it possible that you have come to me? And in this dress?’
When he was able to speak, he said, ‘Is it possible that you’ve come to see me? And in that outfit?’
‘I hoped you would like me better in this dress than any other. I have always kept it by me, to remind me: though I wanted no reminding. I am not alone, you see. I have brought an old friend with me.’
‘I hoped you would like me better in this dress than in any other. I’ve always kept it around to remind me, even though I didn’t need reminding. I’m not alone, you see. I’ve brought an old friend with me.’
Looking round, he saw Maggy in her big cap which had been long abandoned, with a basket on her arm as in the bygone days, chuckling rapturously.
Looking around, he saw Maggy in her oversized cap, which had been long forgotten, with a basket on her arm like in the old days, laughing joyfully.
‘It was only yesterday evening that I came to London with my brother. I sent round to Mrs Plornish almost as soon as we arrived, that I might hear of you and let you know I had come. Then I heard that you were here. Did you happen to think of me in the night? I almost believe you must have thought of me a little. I thought of you so anxiously, and it appeared so long to morning.’
‘It was just last night that I arrived in London with my brother. I contacted Mrs. Plornish almost as soon as we got here so I could find out about you and let you know I had arrived. Then I heard that you were here. Did you happen to think about me during the night? I almost believe you must have thought about me a little. I thought about you so much, and the night felt so long until morning.’
‘I have thought of you—’ he hesitated what to call her. She perceived it in an instant.
‘I have thought of you—’ he hesitated over what to call her. She noticed it immediately.
‘You have not spoken to me by my right name yet. You know what my right name always is with you.’
‘You still haven't called me by my real name. You know what my real name always is to you.’
‘I have thought of you, Little Dorrit, every day, every hour, every minute, since I have been here.’
‘I’ve thought about you, Little Dorrit, every day, every hour, every minute, since I got here.’
‘Have you? Have you?’
"Have you? Have you?"
He saw the bright delight of her face, and the flush that kindled in it, with a feeling of shame. He, a broken, bankrupt, sick, dishonoured prisoner.
He saw the bright joy on her face and the flush that lit up her cheeks, and he felt ashamed. He, a broken, bankrupt, sick, dishonored prisoner.
‘I was here before the gates were opened, but I was afraid to come straight to you. I should have done you more harm than good, at first; for the prison was so familiar and yet so strange, and it brought back so many remembrances of my poor father, and of you too, that at first it overpowered me. But we went to Mr Chivery before we came to the gate, and he brought us in, and got John’s room for us—my poor old room, you know—and we waited there a little. I brought the flowers to the door, but you didn’t hear me.’
‘I was here before the gates opened, but I was too afraid to come directly to you. At first, I would have done you more harm than good because the prison felt both familiar and strange, and it brought back so many memories of my poor father and of you too, that it overwhelmed me. But we went to Mr. Chivery before we reached the gate, and he let us in and got us John's room—my poor old room, you know—and we waited there for a bit. I brought the flowers to the door, but you didn’t hear me.’
She looked something more womanly than when she had gone away, and the ripening touch of the Italian sun was visible upon her face. But, otherwise, she was quite unchanged. The same deep, timid earnestness that he had always seen in her, and never without emotion, he saw still. If it had a new meaning that smote him to the heart, the change was in his perception, not in her.
She seemed more womanly than when she left, and the warming touch of the Italian sun was evident on her face. But, aside from that, she was completely the same. He still saw the same deep, shy seriousness in her that always stirred his emotions. If it carried a new significance that struck him deeply, the shift was in how he perceived her, not in her.
She took off her old bonnet, hung it in the old place, and noiselessly began, with Maggy’s help, to make his room as fresh and neat as it could be made, and to sprinkle it with a pleasant-smelling water. When that was done, the basket, which was filled with grapes and other fruit, was unpacked, and all its contents were quietly put away. When that was done, a moment’s whisper despatched Maggy to despatch somebody else to fill the basket again; which soon came back replenished with new stores, from which a present provision of cooling drink and jelly, and a prospective supply of roast chicken and wine and water, were the first extracts. These various arrangements completed, she took out her old needle-case to make him a curtain for his window; and thus, with a quiet reigning in the room, that seemed to diffuse itself through the else noisy prison, he found himself composed in his chair, with Little Dorrit working at his side.
She took off her old bonnet, hung it up in its usual spot, and quietly started, with Maggy’s help, to make his room as fresh and neat as possible, sprinkling it with some nice-smelling water. Once that was done, they unpacked a basket filled with grapes and other fruits and put everything away quietly. After that, a brief whisper sent Maggy off to have someone else refill the basket; it soon returned stocked with new goodies, including a refreshing drink and jelly, along with some anticipated roast chicken, wine, and water. With these arrangements completed, she pulled out her old needle case to make him a curtain for his window. With a calm presence in the room that seemed to spread throughout the otherwise noisy place, he found himself relaxed in his chair, with Little Dorrit working by his side.
To see the modest head again bent down over its task, and the nimble fingers busy at their old work—though she was not so absorbed in it, but that her compassionate eyes were often raised to his face, and, when they drooped again had tears in them—to be so consoled and comforted, and to believe that all the devotion of this great nature was turned to him in his adversity to pour out its inexhaustible wealth of goodness upon him, did not steady Clennam’s trembling voice or hand, or strengthen him in his weakness. Yet it inspired him with an inward fortitude, that rose with his love. And how dearly he loved her now, what words can tell!
To see the humble head bent down over its work again, and the quick fingers busy with their usual tasks—though she wasn't completely absorbed, as her compassionate eyes often looked up at his face, and when they dropped again they were filled with tears—being consoled and comforted like this, and believing that all the devotion from this incredible person was focused on him in his time of trouble, pouring out an endless supply of goodness upon him, didn’t steady Clennam’s shaking voice or hand, nor did it strengthen him in his weakness. Yet it gave him a kind of inner strength that grew with his love. And how deeply he loved her now, what words could express!
As they sat side by side in the shadow of the wall, the shadow fell like light upon him. She would not let him speak much, and he lay back in his chair, looking at her. Now and again she would rise and give him the glass that he might drink, or would smooth the resting-place of his head; then she would gently resume her seat by him, and bend over her work again.
As they sat next to each other in the shade of the wall, the shadow seemed to illuminate him. She wouldn’t let him talk much, and he leaned back in his chair, gazing at her. Every now and then, she would stand up and hand him the glass so he could drink, or she would adjust the spot where his head rested; then she would quietly return to her seat beside him and go back to her work.
The shadow moved with the sun, but she never moved from his side, except to wait upon him. The sun went down and she was still there. She had done her work now, and her hand, faltering on the arm of his chair since its last tending of him, was hesitating there yet. He laid his hand upon it, and it clasped him with a trembling supplication.
The shadow shifted as the sun set, but she never left his side, only stepping away to serve him. The sun went down, and she remained there. She had finished her tasks, and her hand, unsteady on the arm of his chair since she last cared for him, lingered there still. He placed his hand on hers, and it clutched him with a quivering plea.
‘Dear Mr Clennam, I must say something to you before I go. I have put it off from hour to hour, but I must say it.’
‘Dear Mr. Clennam, I need to say something to you before I leave. I've been putting it off for hours, but I have to say it.’
‘I too, dear Little Dorrit. I have put off what I must say.’
‘I too, dear Little Dorrit. I have delayed saying what I need to say.’
She nervously moved her hand towards his lips as if to stop him; then it dropped, trembling, into its former place.
She nervously reached her hand towards his lips as if to stop him; then it fell back, shaking, into its original position.
‘I am not going abroad again. My brother is, but I am not. He was always attached to me, and he is so grateful to me now—so much too grateful, for it is only because I happened to be with him in his illness—that he says I shall be free to stay where I like best, and to do what I like best. He only wishes me to be happy, he says.’
‘I’m not going abroad again. My brother is, but I’m not. He’s always been close to me, and he’s really thankful to me now—maybe even too thankful, since it’s just because I happened to be with him during his illness—that he says I can stay wherever I want and do whatever I want. He just wants me to be happy, he says.’
There was one bright star shining in the sky. She looked up at it while she spoke, as if it were the fervent purpose of her own heart shining above her.
There was one bright star shining in the sky. She looked up at it while she talked, as if it were the passionate goal of her own heart shining above her.
‘You will understand, I dare say, without my telling you, that my brother has come home to find my dear father’s will, and to take possession of his property. He says, if there is a will, he is sure I shall be left rich; and if there is none, that he will make me so.’
‘You’ll probably get it without me explaining, that my brother has returned home to see my dad’s will and claim his property. He says if there’s a will, he’s sure I’ll be left wealthy; and if there isn’t one, he’ll make sure I am.’
He would have spoken; but she put up her trembling hand again, and he stopped.
He was about to say something, but she raised her shaking hand again, and he stopped.
‘I have no use for money, I have no wish for it. It would be of no value at all to me but for your sake. I could not be rich, and you here. I must always be much worse than poor, with you distressed. Will you let me lend you all I have? Will you let me give it you? Will you let me show you that I have never forgotten, that I never can forget, your protection of me when this was my home? Dear Mr Clennam, make me of all the world the happiest, by saying Yes? Make me as happy as I can be in leaving you here, by saying nothing to-night, and letting me go away with the hope that you will think of it kindly; and that for my sake—not for yours, for mine, for nobody’s but mine!—you will give me the greatest joy I can experience on earth, the joy of knowing that I have been serviceable to you, and that I have paid some little of the great debt of my affection and gratitude. I can’t say what I wish to say. I can’t visit you here where I have lived so long, I can’t think of you here where I have seen so much, and be as calm and comforting as I ought. My tears will make their way. I cannot keep them back. But pray, pray, pray, do not turn from your Little Dorrit, now, in your affliction! Pray, pray, pray, I beg you and implore you with all my grieving heart, my friend—my dear!—take all I have, and make it a Blessing to me!’
‘I don’t care about money; I have no desire for it. It wouldn't mean anything to me if it weren't for you. I can't be wealthy while you’re here suffering. I’ll always feel worse than poor if you’re unhappy. Will you let me lend you everything I have? Will you let me give it to you? Will you let me show you that I’ve never forgotten, and I never can forget, how you protected me when this was my home? Dear Mr. Clennam, make me the happiest person in the world by saying Yes. Make me as happy as I can be while leaving you here, by saying nothing tonight and letting me go with the hope that you’ll think kindly of it; and that for my sake—not for yours, for mine, for nobody's but mine!—you will give me the greatest joy I can have on this earth, the joy of knowing that I've been helpful to you, and that I've repaid at least a little of my immense debt of affection and gratitude. I can’t express what I want to say. I can’t visit you here after having lived so long in this place; I can’t think of you here where I have so many memories, and be as calm and comforting as I should. My tears are going to come. I can’t hold them back. But please, please, please, don’t turn away from your Little Dorrit now, in your pain! Please, please, please, I beg you with all my grieving heart, my friend—my dear!—take all I have, and make it a Blessing to me!’
The star had shone on her face until now, when her face sank upon his hand and her own.
The star had shone on her face until now, when her face dropped onto his hand and her own.
It had grown darker when he raised her in his encircling arm, and softly answered her.
It had gotten darker when he lifted her in his arms and gently replied to her.
‘No, darling Little Dorrit. No, my child. I must not hear of such a sacrifice. Liberty and hope would be so dear, bought at such a price, that I could never support their weight, never bear the reproach of possessing them. But with what ardent thankfulness and love I say this, I may call Heaven to witness!’
‘No, darling Little Dorrit. No, my child. I can’t accept such a sacrifice. Freedom and hope would feel so precious, bought at such a cost, that I could never carry their weight or endure the guilt of having them. But with all the heartfelt gratitude and love I have when I say this, I could call Heaven to witness it!’
‘And yet you will not let me be faithful to you in your affliction?’
‘And yet you won't let me be loyal to you in your troubles?’
‘Say, dearest Little Dorrit, and yet I will try to be faithful to you. If, in the bygone days when this was your home and when this was your dress, I had understood myself (I speak only of myself) better, and had read the secrets of my own breast more distinctly; if, through my reserve and self-mistrust, I had discerned a light that I see brightly now when it has passed far away, and my weak footsteps can never overtake it; if I had then known, and told you that I loved and honoured you, not as the poor child I used to call you, but as a woman whose true hand would raise me high above myself and make me a far happier and better man; if I had so used the opportunity there is no recalling—as I wish I had, O I wish I had!—and if something had kept us apart then, when I was moderately thriving, and when you were poor; I might have met your noble offer of your fortune, dearest girl, with other words than these, and still have blushed to touch it. But, as it is, I must never touch it, never!’
“Say, my dearest Little Dorrit, but I will try to stay true to you. If, back in the days when this was your home and you wore this dress, I had understood myself (I’m only talking about myself) better, and had recognized the secrets of my own heart more clearly; if, through my shyness and lack of self-confidence, I had seen a light that I now see clearly, which is far beyond my reach; if I had known then, and had told you that I loved and respected you, not as the poor child I used to call you, but as a woman whose true presence would lift me far beyond myself and make me a much happier and better man; if I had taken advantage of that opportunity that can’t be reclaimed—as I wish I had, oh how I wish I had!—and if something hadn’t kept us apart then, when I was getting by and you were struggling; I might have responded to your generous offer of your fortune, my dear girl, with other words than these, and still would have felt shy about accepting it. But as it stands, I can never touch it, never!”
She besought him, more pathetically and earnestly, with her little supplicatory hand, than she could have done in any words.
She begged him, more desperately and sincerely, with her little pleading hand, than she could have expressed in any words.
‘I am disgraced enough, my Little Dorrit. I must not descend so low as that, and carry you—so dear, so generous, so good—down with me. GOD bless you, GOD reward you! It is past.’
‘I am already in disgrace, my Little Dorrit. I can’t stoop so low as to bring you—so dear, so generous, so good—down with me. God bless you, God reward you! It’s over.’
He took her in his arms, as if she had been his daughter.
He held her in his arms, as if she were his daughter.
‘Always so much older, so much rougher, and so much less worthy, even what I was must be dismissed by both of us, and you must see me only as I am. I put this parting kiss upon your cheek, my child—who might have been more near to me, who never could have been more dear—a ruined man far removed from you, for ever separated from you, whose course is run while yours is but beginning. I have not the courage to ask to be forgotten by you in my humiliation; but I ask to be remembered only as I am.’
‘Always so much older, so much rougher, and so much less deserving, even what I was should be dismissed by both of us, and you should see me only as I am. I place this parting kiss on your cheek, my child—who could have been closer to me, who could never have been more precious—a ruined man far away from you, forever separated from you, whose journey is over while yours is just starting. I don’t have the strength to ask you to forget me in my shame; but I ask to be remembered just as I am.’
The bell began to ring, warning visitors to depart. He took her mantle from the wall, and tenderly wrapped it round her.
The bell started to ring, signaling visitors to leave. He took her coat off the wall and gently wrapped it around her.
‘One other word, my Little Dorrit. A hard one to me, but it is a necessary one. The time when you and this prison had anything in common has long gone by. Do you understand?’
‘Just one more thing, my Little Dorrit. It’s a tough one for me to say, but it’s necessary. The time when you and this prison shared anything in common is long gone. Do you get it?’
‘O! you will never say to me,’ she cried, weeping bitterly, and holding up her clasped hands in entreaty, ‘that I am not to come back any more! You will surely not desert me so!’
‘Oh! you will never say to me,’ she cried, weeping hard, and holding up her clasped hands in pleading, ‘that I can’t come back anymore! You won’t really abandon me like this!’
‘I would say it, if I could; but I have not the courage quite to shut out this dear face, and abandon all hope of its return. But do not come soon, do not come often! This is now a tainted place, and I well know the taint of it clings to me. You belong to much brighter and better scenes. You are not to look back here, my Little Dorrit; you are to look away to very different and much happier paths. Again, GOD bless you in them! GOD reward you!’
"I would say it if I could, but I don’t have the courage to completely shut out this dear face and give up all hope of seeing it again. But please don't come back too soon, and don't come often! This place has become tainted, and I know that the stain of it clings to me. You belong to much brighter and better situations. You should not look back here, my Little Dorrit; you should look ahead to very different and much happier paths. Again, God bless you on those paths! God reward you!"
Maggy, who had fallen into very low spirits, here cried, ‘Oh get him into a hospital; do get him into a hospital, Mother! He’ll never look like hisself again, if he an’t got into a hospital. And then the little woman as was always a spinning at her wheel, she can go to the cupboard with the Princess, and say, what do you keep the Chicking there for? and then they can take it out and give it to him, and then all be happy!’
Maggy, who was feeling really down, cried, ‘Oh, please get him into a hospital; you have to get him into a hospital, Mom! He’ll never be the same again if he doesn’t get to a hospital. And then the little woman who always spins at her wheel can go to the cupboard with the Princess and ask, what do you keep the chicken there for? Then they can take it out and give it to him, and everyone will be happy!’
The interruption was seasonable, for the bell had nearly rung itself out. Again tenderly wrapping her mantle about her, and taking her on his arm (though, but for her visit, he was almost too weak to walk), Arthur led Little Dorrit down-stairs. She was the last visitor to pass out at the Lodge, and the gate jarred heavily and hopelessly upon her.
The interruption came at the right time, as the bell was about to finish ringing. Again, carefully wrapping her shawl around her and taking her arm (though he was almost too weak to walk without her visit), Arthur led Little Dorrit downstairs. She was the last visitor to exit through the Lodge, and the gate creaked heavily and hopelessly behind her.
With the funeral clang that it sounded into Arthur’s heart, his sense of weakness returned. It was a toilsome journey up-stairs to his room, and he re-entered its dark solitary precincts in unutterable misery.
With the funeral toll that echoed in Arthur’s heart, his feeling of weakness came back. It was a tough climb up the stairs to his room, and he stepped back into its dark, lonely space in complete misery.
When it was almost midnight, and the prison had long been quiet, a cautious creak came up the stairs, and a cautious tap of a key was given at his door. It was Young John. He glided in, in his stockings, and held the door closed, while he spoke in a whisper.
When it was nearly midnight and the prison had been quiet for a while, a careful creak echoed up the stairs, followed by a soft tap of a key at his door. It was Young John. He slipped inside in his socks and held the door shut while he spoke in a whisper.
‘It’s against all rules, but I don’t mind. I was determined to come through, and come to you.’
‘It’s against all the rules, but I don’t care. I was determined to get through and reach you.’
‘What is the matter?’
"What's the matter?"
‘Nothing’s the matter, sir. I was waiting in the court-yard for Miss Dorrit when she came out. I thought you’d like some one to see that she was safe.’
‘There’s nothing wrong, sir. I was waiting in the courtyard for Miss Dorrit when she came out. I thought you’d want someone to make sure she was safe.’
‘Thank you, thank you! You took her home, John?’
‘Thanks, thanks! You took her home, John?’
‘I saw her to her hotel. The same that Mr Dorrit was at. Miss Dorrit walked all the way, and talked to me so kind, it quite knocked me over. Why do you think she walked instead of riding?’
‘I walked her to her hotel. The same one where Mr. Dorrit was staying. Miss Dorrit walked the whole way and talked to me so nicely, it really surprised me. Why do you think she chose to walk instead of riding?’
‘I don’t know, John.’
"I have no idea, John."
‘To talk about you. She said to me, “John, you was always honourable, and if you’ll promise me that you will take care of him, and never let him want for help and comfort when I am not there, my mind will be at rest so far.” I promised her. And I’ll stand by you,’ said John Chivery, ‘for ever!’
‘To talk about you. She said to me, “John, you’ve always been honorable, and if you promise me that you’ll take care of him and never let him go without help and comfort when I’m not around, I’ll be at ease as far as that goes.” I promised her. And I’ll stand by you,’ said John Chivery, ‘forever!’
Clennam, much affected, stretched out his hand to this honest spirit.
Clennam, feeling deeply moved, reached out his hand to this genuine person.
‘Before I take it,’ said John, looking at it, without coming from the door, ‘guess what message Miss Dorrit gave me.’
‘Before I take it,’ said John, looking at it without stepping away from the door, ‘guess what message Miss Dorrit sent me.’
Clennam shook his head.
Clennam shook his head.
‘“Tell him,”’ repeated John, in a distinct, though quavering voice, ‘“that his Little Dorrit sent him her undying love.” Now it’s delivered. Have I been honourable, sir?’
“Tell him,” John said again, his voice shaky but clear, “that his Little Dorrit sent him her everlasting love.” It’s been delivered. Have I done the right thing, sir?
‘Very, very!’
'So, so!'
‘Will you tell Miss Dorrit I’ve been honourable, sir?’
"Will you let Miss Dorrit know that I've been honest, sir?"
‘I will indeed.’
"I definitely will."
‘There’s my hand, sir,’ said John, ‘and I’ll stand by you forever!’
‘Here’s my hand, sir,’ said John, ‘and I’ll stand by you always!’
After a hearty squeeze, he disappeared with the same cautious creak upon the stair, crept shoeless over the pavement of the yard, and, locking the gates behind him, passed out into the front where he had left his shoes. If the same way had been paved with burning ploughshares, it is not at all improbable that John would have traversed it with the same devotion, for the same purpose.
After a tight hug, he vanished with the same careful creak on the stairs, quietly walked barefoot across the yard, and, locking the gates behind him, stepped out to where he had left his shoes. If the path had been covered with burning coals, it’s quite likely that John would have walked it with the same dedication for the same reason.
CHAPTER 30. Closing in
The last day of the appointed week touched the bars of the Marshalsea gate. Black, all night, since the gate had clashed upon Little Dorrit, its iron stripes were turned by the early-glowing sun into stripes of gold. Far aslant across the city, over its jumbled roofs, and through the open tracery of its church towers, struck the long bright rays, bars of the prison of this lower world.
The final day of the designated week arrived at the Marshalsea gate. Dark for the whole night since the gate had shut behind Little Dorrit, its iron bars were transformed by the early morning sun into golden stripes. Across the city, over its chaotic rooftops, and through the open designs of its church towers, the long, bright rays shone, like bars from the prison of this lower world.
Throughout the day the old house within the gateway remained untroubled by any visitors. But, when the sun was low, three men turned in at the gateway and made for the dilapidated house.
Throughout the day, the old house by the gate stayed undisturbed by any visitors. But when the sun was setting, three men walked through the gate and headed toward the rundown house.
Rigaud was the first, and walked by himself smoking. Mr Baptist was the second, and jogged close after him, looking at no other object. Mr Pancks was the third, and carried his hat under his arm for the liberation of his restive hair; the weather being extremely hot. They all came together at the door-steps.
Rigaud was the first, walking alone and smoking. Mr. Baptist was second, jogging closely behind him and not looking at anything else. Mr. Pancks was third, carrying his hat under his arm to free his unruly hair since the weather was really hot. They all arrived together at the doorstep.
‘You pair of madmen!’ said Rigaud, facing about. ‘Don’t go yet!’
‘You two lunatics!’ Rigaud said, turning around. ‘Don’t leave yet!’
‘We don’t mean to,’ said Mr Pancks.
‘We don’t mean to,’ Mr. Pancks said.
Giving him a dark glance in acknowledgment of his answer, Rigaud knocked loudly. He had charged himself with drink, for the playing out of his game, and was impatient to begin. He had hardly finished one long resounding knock, when he turned to the knocker again and began another. That was not yet finished when Jeremiah Flintwinch opened the door, and they all clanked into the stone hall. Rigaud, thrusting Mr Flintwinch aside, proceeded straight up-stairs. His two attendants followed him, Mr Flintwinch followed them, and they all came trooping into Mrs Clennam’s quiet room. It was in its usual state; except that one of the windows was wide open, and Affery sat on its old-fashioned window-seat, mending a stocking. The usual articles were on the little table; the usual deadened fire was in the grate; the bed had its usual pall upon it; and the mistress of all sat on her black bier-like sofa, propped up by her black angular bolster that was like the headsman’s block.
Giving him a dark look in response to his answer, Rigaud knocked loudly. He had loaded up on drinks to play his game and was eager to start. He had barely finished one long, loud knock before he turned back to the knocker and started again. Before that knock was done, Jeremiah Flintwinch opened the door, and they all clanked into the stone hall. Rigaud pushed Mr. Flintwinch aside and went straight upstairs. His two attendants followed him, Mr. Flintwinch followed them, and they all walked into Mrs. Clennam’s quiet room. It was in its usual condition, except one of the windows was wide open, and Affery sat on the old-fashioned window seat, mending a stocking. The usual items were on the small table; the usual cold fire was in the grate; the bed had its usual covering on it; and the mistress sat on her dark, coffin-like sofa, propped up by her black, angular bolster that resembled a headsman’s block.
Yet there was a nameless air of preparation in the room, as if it were strung up for an occasion. From what the room derived it—every one of its small variety of objects being in the fixed spot it had occupied for years—no one could have said without looking attentively at its mistress, and that, too, with a previous knowledge of her face. Although her unchanging black dress was in every plait precisely as of old, and her unchanging attitude was rigidly preserved, a very slight additional setting of her features and contraction of her gloomy forehead was so powerfully marked, that it marked everything about her.
Yet there was an unspoken sense of preparation in the room, as if it was set up for a special occasion. It was hard to say what the atmosphere came from—every one of its small assortment of objects had stayed in the same place for years—unless you looked closely at its owner, and even then, you needed to know her face well. Although her black dress was exactly as it always had been, each pleat just like before, and her stance remained unchanged, the slightest shift in her expression and a deepening frown were so noticeable that they influenced everything around her.
‘Who are these?’ she said, wonderingly, as the two attendants entered. ‘What do these people want here?’
‘Who are they?’ she asked, curiously, as the two attendants walked in. ‘What do they want here?’
‘Who are these, dear madame, is it?’ returned Rigaud. ‘Faith, they are friends of your son the prisoner. And what do they want here, is it? Death, madame, I don’t know. You will do well to ask them.’
‘Who are these people, dear madame?’ replied Rigaud. ‘Well, they are friends of your son, the prisoner. And what do they want here? Death, madame, I can’t say. You should ask them.’
‘You know you told us at the door, not to go yet,’ said Pancks.
‘You know you told us at the door not to leave yet,’ said Pancks.
‘And you know you told me at the door, you didn’t mean to go,’ retorted Rigaud. ‘In a word, madame, permit me to present two spies of the prisoner’s—madmen, but spies. If you wish them to remain here during our little conversation, say the word. It is nothing to me.’
‘And you know you told me at the door that you didn’t mean to leave,’ Rigaud shot back. ‘In short, madame, let me introduce you to two spies of the prisoner—madmen, but still spies. If you want them to stay here while we chat, just say the word. It doesn’t matter to me.’
‘Why should I wish them to remain here?’ said Mrs Clennam. ‘What have I to do with them?’
‘Why would I want them to stay here?’ said Mrs. Clennam. ‘What does it have to do with me?’
‘Then, dearest madame,’ said Rigaud, throwing himself into an arm-chair so heavily that the old room trembled, ‘you will do well to dismiss them. It is your affair. They are not my spies, not my rascals.’
‘Then, dear lady,’ said Rigaud, plopping down into an armchair so hard that the old room shook, ‘you should definitely let them go. It's your business. They aren't my spies, nor my troublemakers.’
‘Hark! You Pancks,’ said Mrs Clennam, bending her brows upon him angrily, ‘you Casby’s clerk! Attend to your employer’s business and your own. Go. And take that other man with you.’
‘Listen up, Pancks,’ said Mrs. Clennam, furrowing her brows at him angrily, ‘you Casby’s clerk! Focus on your boss’s work and your own. Go. And take that other guy with you.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ returned Mr Pancks, ‘I am glad to say I see no objection to our both retiring. We have done all we undertook to do for Mr Clennam. His constant anxiety has been (and it grew worse upon him when he became a prisoner), that this agreeable gentleman should be brought back here to the place from which he slipped away. Here he is—brought back. And I will say,’ added Mr Pancks, ‘to his ill-looking face, that in my opinion the world would be no worse for his slipping out of it altogether.’
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mr. Pancks replied. “I’m happy to say I have no problem with us both leaving. We’ve done everything we set out to do for Mr. Clennam. His ongoing worry—especially when he became a prisoner—has been about making sure this pleasant gentleman was brought back to the place he escaped from. Here he is—back again. And I’ll say,” Mr. Pancks added, looking at his not-so-great face, “that in my opinion, the world wouldn’t miss him if he disappeared completely.”
‘Your opinion is not asked,’ answered Mrs Clennam. ‘Go.’
“Your opinion isn’t needed,” Mrs. Clennam replied. “Leave.”
‘I am sorry not to leave you in better company, ma’am,’ said Pancks; ‘and sorry, too, that Mr Clennam can’t be present. It’s my fault, that is.’
“I’m sorry I can’t leave you in better company, ma’am,” said Pancks; “and I’m also sorry that Mr. Clennam can’t be here. That’s my fault.”
‘You mean his own,’ she returned.
‘You mean his own,’ she replied.
‘No, I mean mine, ma’am,’ said Pancks, ‘for it was my misfortune to lead him into a ruinous investment.’ (Mr Pancks still clung to that word, and never said speculation.) ‘Though I can prove by figures,’ added Mr Pancks, with an anxious countenance, ‘that it ought to have been a good investment. I have gone over it since it failed, every day of my life, and it comes out—regarded as a question of figures—triumphant. The present is not a time or place,’ Mr Pancks pursued, with a longing glance into his hat, where he kept his calculations, ‘for entering upon the figures; but the figures are not to be disputed. Mr Clennam ought to have been at this moment in his carriage and pair, and I ought to have been worth from three to five thousand pound.’
‘No, I mean mine, ma’am,’ said Pancks, ‘because it was my misfortune to lead him into a disastrous investment.’ (Mr. Pancks still held on to that word and never said speculation.) ‘Though I can prove by numbers,’ added Mr. Pancks, with a worried expression, ‘that it should have been a good investment. I’ve gone over it every day since it failed, and it turns out—considered as a matter of numbers—successful. This isn’t the right time or place,’ Mr. Pancks continued, glancing longingly at his hat, where he kept his calculations, ‘for going into the numbers; but the numbers can’t be disputed. Mr. Clennam should be right now in his carriage and pair, and I should be worth three to five thousand pounds.’
Mr Pancks put his hair erect with a general aspect of confidence that could hardly have been surpassed, if he had had the amount in his pocket. These incontrovertible figures had been the occupation of every moment of his leisure since he had lost his money, and were destined to afford him consolation to the end of his days.
Mr. Pancks styled his hair upright with an air of confidence that could hardly have been exceeded, even if he had cash in his pocket. These undeniable figures had occupied every moment of his free time since he lost his money and were set to bring him comfort for the rest of his life.
‘However,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘enough of that. Altro, old boy, you have seen the figures, and you know how they come out.’ Mr Baptist, who had not the slightest arithmetical power of compensating himself in this way, nodded, with a fine display of bright teeth.
‘However,’ said Mr. Pancks, ‘let’s move on from that. Altro, my friend, you’ve seen the numbers, and you know how they add up.’ Mr. Baptist, who didn’t have the slightest ability to do any math like that, nodded, showcasing a big smile with his bright teeth.
At whom Mr Flintwinch had been looking, and to whom he then said:
At whom Mr. Flintwinch had been looking, and to whom he then said:
‘Oh! it’s you, is it? I thought I remembered your face, but I wasn’t certain till I saw your teeth. Ah! yes, to be sure. It was this officious refugee,’ said Jeremiah to Mrs Clennam, ‘who came knocking at the door on the night when Arthur and Chatterbox were here, and who asked me a whole Catechism of questions about Mr Blandois.’
‘Oh! It’s you, right? I thought I recognized your face, but I wasn’t sure until I saw your teeth. Ah! Yes, of course. It was this overly eager refugee,’ said Jeremiah to Mrs. Clennam, ‘who came knocking at the door on the night when Arthur and Chatterbox were here, and who asked me a whole bunch of questions about Mr. Blandois.’
‘It is true,’ Mr Baptist cheerfully admitted. ‘And behold him, padrone! I have found him consequentementally.’
‘That's true,’ Mr. Baptist said cheerfully. ‘And look at him, boss! I’ve found him, just as I said I would.’
‘I shouldn’t have objected,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, ‘to your having broken your neck consequentementally.’
‘I shouldn't have complained,’ replied Mr. Flintwinch, ‘about you breaking your neck as a result.’
‘And now,’ said Mr Pancks, whose eye had often stealthily wandered to the window-seat and the stocking that was being mended there, ‘I’ve only one other word to say before I go. If Mr Clennam was here—but unfortunately, though he has so far got the better of this fine gentleman as to return him to this place against his will, he is ill and in prison—ill and in prison, poor fellow—if he was here,’ said Mr Pancks, taking one step aside towards the window-seat, and laying his right hand upon the stocking; ‘he would say, “Affery, tell your dreams!”’
"And now," said Mr. Pancks, whose gaze had frequently shifted to the window seat and the stocking being mended there, "I have just one more thing to say before I leave. If Mr. Clennam were here—but unfortunately, even though he has managed to bring this fine gentleman back to this place against his will, he is sick and in prison—sick and in prison, poor guy—if he were here," said Mr. Pancks, taking a step toward the window seat and placing his right hand on the stocking, "he would say, 'Affery, share your dreams!'"
Mr Pancks held up his right forefinger between his nose and the stocking with a ghostly air of warning, turned, steamed out and towed Mr Baptist after him. The house-door was heard to close upon them, their steps were heard passing over the dull pavement of the echoing court-yard, and still nobody had added a word. Mrs Clennam and Jeremiah had exchanged a look; and had then looked, and looked still, at Affery, who sat mending the stocking with great assiduity.
Mr. Pancks raised his right forefinger between his nose and the stocking with an eerie look of warning, then turned, marched out, and dragged Mr. Baptist along with him. The sound of the house door closing behind them was heard, their footsteps echoed as they walked over the dull pavement of the courtyard, and yet no one had spoken a word. Mrs. Clennam and Jeremiah shared a glance; then continued to look attentively at Affery, who was diligently mending the stocking.
‘Come!’ said Mr Flintwinch at length, screwing himself a curve or two in the direction of the window-seat, and rubbing the palms of his hands on his coat-tail as if he were preparing them to do something: ‘Whatever has to be said among us had better be begun to be said without more loss of time.—So, Affery, my woman, take yourself away!’
‘Come!’ said Mr. Flintwinch after a while, twisting himself a bit in the direction of the window seat and rubbing his hands on his coat-tail as if he was getting ready to do something: ‘Whatever we need to discuss should be started without wasting any more time.—So, Affery, my dear, you should leave!’
In a moment Affery had thrown the stocking down, started up, caught hold of the windowsill with her right hand, lodged herself upon the window-seat with her right knee, and was flourishing her left hand, beating expected assailants off.
In an instant, Affery tossed the stocking aside, jumped up, grabbed the windowsill with her right hand, settled herself on the window seat with her right knee, and was waving her left hand, fending off expected attackers.
‘No, I won’t, Jeremiah—no, I won’t—no, I won’t! I won’t go! I’ll stay here. I’ll hear all I don’t know, and say all I know. I will, at last, if I die for it. I will, I will, I will, I will!’
‘No, I won’t, Jeremiah—no, I won’t—no, I won’t! I won’t go! I’ll stay here. I’ll learn everything I don’t know and share everything I do. I will, even if it kills me. I will, I will, I will, I will!’
Mr Flintwinch, stiffening with indignation and amazement, moistened the fingers of one hand at his lips, softly described a circle with them in the palm of the other hand, and continued with a menacing grin to screw himself in the direction of his wife; gasping some remark as he advanced, of which, in his choking anger, only the words, ‘Such a dose!’ were audible.
Mr. Flintwinch, filled with anger and disbelief, wet the fingers of one hand at his lips, gently traced a circle in the palm of his other hand, and kept turning himself toward his wife with a threatening grin; as he moved closer, he gasped out a comment, but in his choking rage, only the words, "Such a dose!" could be heard.
‘Not a bit nearer, Jeremiah!’ cried Affery, never ceasing to beat the air. ‘Don’t come a bit nearer to me, or I’ll rouse the neighbourhood! I’ll throw myself out of window. I’ll scream Fire and Murder! I’ll wake the dead! Stop where you are, or I’ll make shrieks enough to wake the dead!’
‘Not even a step closer, Jeremiah!’ shouted Affery, still waving her arms around. ‘Don’t you dare come any closer to me, or I’ll wake up the whole neighborhood! I’ll throw myself out the window. I’ll scream Fire and Murder! I’ll wake the dead! Stay where you are, or I’ll scream loud enough to wake the dead!’
The determined voice of Mrs Clennam echoed ‘Stop!’ Jeremiah had stopped already.
The firm voice of Mrs. Clennam rang out, "Stop!" Jeremiah had already come to a halt.
‘It is closing in, Flintwinch. Let her alone. Affery, do you turn against me after these many years?’
‘It's getting closer, Flintwinch. Leave her alone. Affery, are you turning against me after all these years?’
‘I do, if it’s turning against you to hear what I don’t know, and say what I know. I have broke out now, and I can’t go back. I am determined to do it. I will do it, I will, I will, I will! If that’s turning against you, yes, I turn against both of you two clever ones. I told Arthur when he first come home to stand up against you. I told him it was no reason, because I was afeard of my life of you, that he should be. All manner of things have been a-going on since then, and I won’t be run up by Jeremiah, nor yet I won’t be dazed and scared, nor made a party to I don’t know what, no more. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t! I’ll up for Arthur when he has nothing left, and is ill, and in prison, and can’t up for himself. I will, I will, I will, I will!’
"I do, if it means going against you to share what I don't know and to say what I do know. I've broken free now, and there's no going back. I'm determined to do this. I will do it, I will, I will, I will! If that's going against you, then yes, I'm turning against both of you clever ones. I told Arthur when he first came home to stand up to you. I told him there was no reason for him to be scared just because I was terrified of you. All kinds of things have been happening since then, and I won’t be pushed around by Jeremiah, nor will I be confused and scared, or dragged into something I don’t understand, not anymore. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t! I’ll support Arthur when he has nothing left, and when he's sick, and in jail, and can’t stand up for himself. I will, I will, I will, I will!"
‘How do you know, you heap of confusion,’ asked Mrs Clennam sternly, ‘that in doing what you are doing now, you are even serving Arthur?’
‘How do you know, you bundle of confusion,’ Mrs. Clennam asked sternly, ‘that by doing what you're doing now, you're even helping Arthur?’
‘I don’t know nothing rightly about anything,’ said Affery; ‘and if ever you said a true word in your life, it’s when you call me a heap of confusion, for you two clever ones have done your most to make me such. You married me whether I liked it or not, and you’ve led me, pretty well ever since, such a life of dreaming and frightening as never was known, and what do you expect me to be but a heap of confusion? You wanted to make me such, and I am such; but I won’t submit no longer; no, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!’ She was still beating the air against all comers.
‘I don't really know anything at all,’ said Affery; ‘and if you ever spoke the truth in your life, it’s when you called me a total mess, because you two smart ones have done everything to make me one. You married me whether I wanted it or not, and you’ve pretty much led me into a life of nightmares and confusion like no one has ever experienced, and what do you expect me to be but a total mess? You wanted to make me this way, and I am; but I won’t put up with it anymore; no, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!’ She was still flailing her arms at everything around her.
After gazing at her in silence, Mrs Clennam turned to Rigaud. ‘You see and hear this foolish creature. Do you object to such a piece of distraction remaining where she is?’
After looking at her in silence, Mrs. Clennam turned to Rigaud. ‘You see and hear this foolish person. Do you have a problem with her staying where she is?’
‘I, madame,’ he replied, ‘do I? That’s a question for you.’
‘I, madam,’ he replied, ‘do I? That’s a question for you.’
‘I do not,’ she said, gloomily. ‘There is little left to choose now. Flintwinch, it is closing in.’
‘I don’t,’ she said, gloomily. ‘There’s not much left to choose now. Flintwinch, it’s closing in.’
Mr Flintwinch replied by directing a look of red vengeance at his wife, and then, as if to pinion himself from falling upon her, screwed his crossed arms into the breast of his waistcoat, and with his chin very near one of his elbows stood in a corner, watching Rigaud in the oddest attitude. Rigaud, for his part, arose from his chair, and seated himself on the table with his legs dangling. In this easy attitude, he met Mrs Clennam’s set face, with his moustache going up and his nose coming down.
Mr. Flintwinch responded by giving his wife a fierce look and then, as if to prevent himself from jumping on her, pressed his crossed arms into his waistcoat. With his chin resting close to one of his elbows, he stood in a corner, watching Rigaud in the strangest pose. Rigaud, for his part, got up from his chair and sat on the table with his legs hanging down. In this relaxed position, he faced Mrs. Clennam’s stern expression, his moustache curling up and his nose dipping down.
‘Madame, I am a gentleman—’
"Ma'am, I'm a gentleman—"
‘Of whom,’ she interrupted in her steady tones, ‘I have heard disparagement, in connection with a French jail and an accusation of murder.’
‘Of whom,’ she interrupted in her calm voice, ‘I have heard criticism, related to a French prison and an accusation of murder.’
He kissed his hand to her with his exaggerated gallantry.
He dramatically kissed his hand to her with exaggerated charm.
‘Perfectly. Exactly. Of a lady too! What absurdity! How incredible! I had the honour of making a great success then; I hope to have the honour of making a great success now. I kiss your hands. Madame, I am a gentleman (I was going to observe), who when he says, “I will definitely finish this or that affair at the present sitting,” does definitely finish it. I announce to you that we are arrived at our last sitting on our little business. You do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’
‘Perfectly. Exactly. A lady too! What nonsense! How incredible! I had the honor of achieving great success then; I hope to have the honor of achieving great success now. I kiss your hands. Madame, I am a gentleman (I was going to mention), who when he says, “I will definitely finish this or that matter in this meeting,” really does finish it. I’m here to announce that we’ve arrived at our final meeting regarding our little business. Do you please follow along and understand?’
She kept her eyes fixed upon him with a frown. ‘Yes.’
She stared at him with a frown. ‘Yes.’
‘Further, I am a gentleman to whom mere mercenary trade-bargains are unknown, but to whom money is always acceptable as the means of pursuing his pleasures. You do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’
‘Furthermore, I’m a gentleman who doesn’t understand mere mercenary trade deals, but finds money always acceptable as a way to enjoy my pleasures. Do you follow and understand me?’
‘Scarcely necessary to ask, one would say. Yes.’
‘It's hardly necessary to ask, I would say. Yes.’
‘Further, I am a gentleman of the softest and sweetest disposition, but who, if trifled with, becomes enraged. Noble natures under such circumstances become enraged. I possess a noble nature. When the lion is awakened—that is to say, when I enrage—the satisfaction of my animosity is as acceptable to me as money. You always do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’
‘Furthermore, I am a gentleman with a gentle and kind nature, but if provoked, I get very angry. People with noble spirits react this way when pushed. I have a noble spirit. When the lion is stirred up—that is to say, when I get angry—the satisfaction of my anger is as important to me as money. You always kindly follow and understand me?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, somewhat louder than before.
‘Yes,’ she replied, a bit louder than before.
‘Do not let me derange you; pray be tranquil. I have said we are now arrived at our last sitting. Allow me to recall the two sittings we have held.’
'Don't let me upset you; please stay calm. I've said we are now at our final session. Let me remind you of the two sessions we've had.'
‘It is not necessary.’
'It's not needed.'
‘Death, madame,’ he burst out, ‘it’s my fancy! Besides, it clears the way. The first sitting was limited. I had the honour of making your acquaintance—of presenting my letter; I am a Knight of Industry, at your service, madame, but my polished manners had won me so much of success, as a master of languages, among your compatriots who are as stiff as their own starch is to one another, but are ready to relax to a foreign gentleman of polished manners—and of observing one or two little things,’ he glanced around the room and smiled, ‘about this honourable house, to know which was necessary to assure me, and to convince me that I had the distinguished pleasure of making the acquaintance of the lady I sought. I achieved this. I gave my word of honour to our dear Flintwinch that I would return. I gracefully departed.’
“Death, ma’am,” he exclaimed, “that’s my idea! Plus, it clears the way. The first meeting was brief. I had the privilege of meeting you—of delivering my letter; I am a Knight of Industry, at your service, ma’am, but my refined manners had helped me achieve some success as a language expert among your countrymen, who are as rigid with each other as their own starch, but are willing to loosen up for a foreign gentleman with class—and by noticing a few small details,” he glanced around the room and smiled, “about this esteemed house, knowing which was essential to reassure me, and to confirm that I had the pleasure of meeting the lady I was looking for. I accomplished this. I promised our dear Flintwinch that I would return. I left gracefully.”
Her face neither acquiesced nor demurred. The same when he paused, and when he spoke, it as yet showed him always the one attentive frown, and the dark revelation before mentioned of her being nerved for the occasion.
Her face neither agreed nor disagreed. The same happened when he paused, and when he spoke, it still showed him the same focused frown, along with the darker hint mentioned earlier that she was prepared for the situation.
‘I say, gracefully departed, because it was graceful to retire without alarming a lady. To be morally graceful, not less than physically, is a part of the character of Rigaud Blandois. It was also politic, as leaving you with something overhanging you, to expect me again with a little anxiety on a day not named. But your slave is politic. By Heaven, madame, politic! Let us return. On the day not named, I have again the honour to render myself at your house. I intimate that I have something to sell, which, if not bought, will compromise madame whom I highly esteem. I explain myself generally. I demand—I think it was a thousand pounds. Will you correct me?’
“I say, gracefully departed, because it was classy to leave without upsetting a lady. Being morally graceful, just like being physically graceful, is part of Rigaud Blandois’s character. It was also strategic, as leaving you with something lingering makes you expect me again with a bit of anxiety on an unspecified day. But your servant is strategic. By Heaven, madame, strategic! Let’s get back to the point. On that unspecified day, I have the honor of coming by your house again. I mention that I have something to sell, which, if not purchased, will put you in a compromising position, madame, whom I hold in high regard. I will speak in broad terms. I demand—I believe it was a thousand pounds. Will you correct me?”
Thus forced to speak, she replied with constraint, ‘You demanded as much as a thousand pounds.’
Thus forced to speak, she replied awkwardly, ‘You asked for as much as a thousand pounds.’
‘I demand at present, Two. Such are the evils of delay. But to return once more. We are not accordant; we differ on that occasion. I am playful; playfulness is a part of my amiable character. Playfully, I become as one slain and hidden. For, it may alone be worth half the sum to madame, to be freed from the suspicions that my droll idea awakens. Accident and spies intermix themselves against my playfulness, and spoil the fruit, perhaps—who knows? only you and Flintwinch—when it is just ripe. Thus, madame, I am here for the last time. Listen! Definitely the last.’
“I’m asking for two right now. Delay brings its own problems. But let’s get back to it. We don’t agree; we had our differences then. I like to have fun; being playful is part of my friendly nature. In a playful way, I act as if I'm dead and buried. It might be worth half the amount to Madame to be free from the suspicions my silly idea raises. Accidents and spies mix in to ruin my playfulness, and spoil the outcome—who knows? Only you and Flintwinch—right when it’s almost perfect. So, Madame, I’m here for the last time. Listen! This is definitely the last time.”
As he struck his straggling boot-heels against the flap of the table, meeting her frown with an insolent gaze, he began to change his tone for a fierce one.
As he kicked his untidy boot heels against the edge of the table, meeting her frown with a defiant look, he started to shift his tone to a harsh one.
‘Bah! Stop an instant! Let us advance by steps. Here is my Hotel-note to be paid, according to contract. Five minutes hence we may be at daggers’ points. I’ll not leave it till then, or you’ll cheat me. Pay it! Count me the money!’
‘Bah! Hold on a second! Let’s take this one step at a time. Here’s my hotel bill that needs to be paid, as per our agreement. In five minutes, we might be at each other’s throats. I won’t leave until this is settled, or you’ll try to cheat me. Pay it! Hand me the cash!’
‘Take it from his hand and pay it, Flintwinch,’ said Mrs Clennam.
“Take it from his hand and pay it, Flintwinch,” said Mrs. Clennam.
He spirted it into Mr Flintwinch’s face when the old man advanced to take it, and held forth his hand, repeating noisily, ‘Pay it! Count it out! Good money!’ Jeremiah picked the bill up, looked at the total with a bloodshot eye, took a small canvas bag from his pocket, and told the amount into his hand.
He shot it into Mr. Flintwinch’s face as the old man came forward to grab it, stretching out his hand and loudly demanding, “Pay it! Count it out! Good money!” Jeremiah picked up the bill, stared at the total with a bloodshot eye, pulled a small canvas bag from his pocket, and counted the amount into his hand.
Rigaud chinked the money, weighed it in his hand, threw it up a little way and caught it, chinked it again.
Rigaud jingled the money, felt its weight in his hand, tossed it up a bit and caught it, then jingled it again.
‘The sound of it, to the bold Rigaud Blandois, is like the taste of fresh meat to the tiger. Say, then, madame. How much?’
‘The sound of it, to the brave Rigaud Blandois, is like the taste of fresh meat to the tiger. So, tell me, madame. How much?’
He turned upon her suddenly with a menacing gesture of the weighted hand that clenched the money, as if he were going to strike her with it.
He suddenly turned to her with a threatening gesture, his heavy hand gripping the money, as if he were about to hit her with it.
‘I tell you again, as I told you before, that we are not rich here, as you suppose us to be, and that your demand is excessive. I have not the present means of complying with such a demand, if I had ever so great an inclination.’
'I tell you again, just like I did before, that we're not as wealthy here as you think we are, and your request is unreasonable. I don’t currently have the resources to meet such a demand, even if I wanted to.'
‘If!’ cried Rigaud. ‘Hear this lady with her If! Will you say that you have not the inclination?’
‘If!’ cried Rigaud. ‘Listen to this lady with her If! Are you really going to say that you don't have the desire?’
‘I will say what presents itself to me, and not what presents itself to you.’
‘I will speak about what comes to my mind, not what comes to yours.’
‘Say it then. As to the inclination. Quick! Come to the inclination, and I know what to do.’
‘Say it then. Let's get to the point. Hurry up! Get to the point, and I know how to handle it.’
She was no quicker, and no slower, in her reply. ‘It would seem that you have obtained possession of a paper—or of papers—which I assuredly have the inclination to recover.’
She replied neither faster nor slower. "It seems you've gotten hold of a paper—or some papers—that I definitely want to get back."
Rigaud, with a loud laugh, drummed his heels against the table, and chinked his money. ‘I think so! I believe you there!’
Rigaud, laughing loudly, kicked his heels against the table and jangled his money. "I think so! I believe you there!"
‘The paper might be worth, to me, a sum of money. I cannot say how much, or how little.’
‘The paper might be worth something to me. I can’t say how much or how little.’
‘What the Devil!’ he asked savagely. ‘Not after a week’s grace to consider?’
‘What the hell!’ he asked angrily. ‘Not after a week to think it over?’
‘No! I will not out of my scanty means—for I tell you again, we are poor here, and not rich—I will not offer any price for a power that I do not know the worst and the fullest extent of. This is the third time of your hinting and threatening. You must speak explicitly, or you may go where you will, and do what you will. It is better to be torn to pieces at a spring, than to be a mouse at the caprice of such a cat.’
‘No! I won’t give away what little I have—I'm telling you again, we’re struggling here, not well-off—I won’t pay any price for a power that I don’t understand completely. This is the third time you’ve hinted and threatened. You need to be clear, or you can go wherever you want and do whatever you like. It’s better to be ripped apart at a spring than to be a mouse at the whim of such a cat.’
He looked at her so hard with those eyes too near together that the sinister sight of each, crossing that of the other, seemed to make the bridge of his hooked nose crooked. After a long survey, he said, with the further setting off of his internal smile:
He stared at her intensely with his eyes that were too close together, making the unsettling sight of each eye crossing the other make the bridge of his hooked nose look crooked. After a long look, he said, while revealing a sly smile:
‘You are a bold woman!’
"You’re a bold woman!"
‘I am a resolved woman.’
"I am a determined woman."
‘You always were. What? She always was; is it not so, my little Flintwinch?’
‘You always were. What? She always was; isn't that right, my little Flintwinch?’
‘Flintwinch, say nothing to him. It is for him to say, here and now, all he can; or to go hence, and do all he can. You know this to be our determination. Leave him to his action on it.’
‘Flintwinch, don't say anything to him. It's up to him to speak, right here and now, about everything he can; or to leave and do everything he can. You know this is our decision. Let him handle it.’
She did not shrink under his evil leer, or avoid it. He turned it upon her again, but she remained steady at the point to which she had fixed herself. He got off the table, placed a chair near the sofa, sat down in it, and leaned an arm upon the sofa close to her own, which he touched with his hand. Her face was ever frowning, attentive, and settled.
She didn’t flinch at his nasty stare or try to dodge it. He directed it at her again, but she stayed focused on where she had positioned herself. He got off the table, placed a chair near the sofa, sat down in it, and rested an arm on the sofa close to hers, which he brushed with his hand. Her expression was consistently serious, alert, and composed.
‘It is your pleasure then, madame, that I shall relate a morsel of family history in this little family society,’ said Rigaud, with a warning play of his lithe fingers on her arm. ‘I am something of a doctor. Let me touch your pulse.’
“It’s your pleasure, then, madam, that I share a bit of family history in this little gathering,” said Rigaud, lightly tapping her arm with his nimble fingers. “I have some knowledge of medicine. Let me check your pulse.”
She suffered him to take her wrist in his hand. Holding it, he proceeded to say:
She let him take her wrist in his hand. Holding it, he continued to say:
‘A history of a strange marriage, and a strange mother, and a revenge, and a suppression.—Aye, aye, aye? this pulse is beating curiously! It appears to me that it doubles while I touch it. Are these the usual changes of your malady, madame?’
‘A story about an unusual marriage, a unique mother, revenge, and repression. —Oh, this heartbeat feels odd! It seems to quicken as I touch it. Are these the typical changes of your condition, madam?’
There was a struggle in her maimed arm as she twisted it away, but there was none in her face. On his face there was his own smile.
There was a struggle in her injured arm as she twisted it away, but there was no struggle in her face. On his face was his own smile.
‘I have lived an adventurous life. I am an adventurous character. I have known many adventurers; interesting spirits—amiable society! To one of them I owe my knowledge and my proofs—I repeat it, estimable lady—proofs—of the ravishing little family history I go to commence. You will be charmed with it. But, bah! I forget. One should name a history. Shall I name it the history of a house? But, bah, again. There are so many houses. Shall I name it the history of this house?’
‘I’ve lived an adventurous life. I’m an adventurous person. I’ve met many adventurers; fascinating souls—what a delightful company! To one of them, I owe my insights and my evidence—I say it again, admirable lady—evidence—of the captivating little family story I’m about to start. You’ll love it. But, oh! I almost forgot. A story needs a name. Should I call it the story of a house? But, again, there are so many houses. Should I call it the story of this house?’
Leaning over the sofa, poised on two legs of his chair and his left elbow; that hand often tapping her arm to beat his words home; his legs crossed; his right hand sometimes arranging his hair, sometimes smoothing his moustache, sometimes striking his nose, always threatening her whatever it did; coarse, insolent, rapacious, cruel, and powerful, he pursued his narrative at his ease.
Leaning over the couch, balancing on two legs of his chair with his left elbow on the armrest; that hand frequently tapping her arm to emphasize his words; his legs crossed; his right hand sometimes fixing his hair, sometimes smoothing his mustache, sometimes flicking his nose, always seeming to threaten her no matter what it did; rough, disrespectful, greedy, harsh, and dominant, he calmly continued his story.
‘In fine, then, I name it the history of this house. I commence it. There live here, let us suppose, an uncle and nephew. The uncle, a rigid old gentleman of strong force of character; the nephew, habitually timid, repressed, and under constraint.’
‘In short, I call it the history of this house. I’ll start it. There live here, let’s say, an uncle and his nephew. The uncle is a strict old man with a strong personality; the nephew is usually shy, suppressed, and under pressure.’
Mistress Affery, fixedly attentive in the window-seat, biting the rolled up end of her apron, and trembling from head to foot, here cried out, ‘Jeremiah, keep off from me! I’ve heerd, in my dreams, of Arthur’s father and his uncle. He’s a talking of them. It was before my time here; but I’ve heerd in my dreams that Arthur’s father was a poor, irresolute, frightened chap, who had had everything but his orphan life scared out of him when he was young, and that he had no voice in the choice of his wife even, but his uncle chose her. There she sits! I heerd it in my dreams, and you said it to her own self.’
Mistress Affery, intently focused in the window seat, biting the rolled-up end of her apron and trembling all over, suddenly exclaimed, “Jeremiah, stay away from me! I’ve heard, in my dreams, about Arthur’s father and his uncle. He’s talking about them. It was before my time here, but I’ve dreamt that Arthur’s father was a poor, uncertain, scared guy who had everything but his orphan life scared out of him when he was young, and he didn’t even have a say in choosing his wife—his uncle picked her. There she sits! I heard it in my dreams, and you told it to her yourself.”
As Mr Flintwinch shook his fist at her, and as Mrs Clennam gazed upon her, Rigaud kissed his hand to her.
As Mr. Flintwinch shook his fist at her, and as Mrs. Clennam looked at her, Rigaud kissed his hand to her.
‘Perfectly right, dear Madame Flintwinch. You have a genius for dreaming.’
‘Absolutely right, dear Madame Flintwinch. You have a talent for dreaming.’
‘I don’t want none of your praises,’ returned Affery. ‘I don’t want to have nothing at all to say to you. But Jeremiah said they was dreams, and I’ll tell ‘em as such!’ Here she put her apron in her mouth again, as if she were stopping somebody else’s mouth—perhaps Jeremiah’s, which was chattering with threats as if he were grimly cold.
‘I don’t want any of your praises,’ Affery responded. ‘I don’t want to talk to you at all. But Jeremiah said they were dreams, and I’ll tell them like that!' With that, she put her apron in her mouth again, as if she were silencing someone else—maybe Jeremiah, who was muttering threats as if he were really cold.
‘Our beloved Madame Flintwinch,’ said Rigaud, ‘developing all of a sudden a fine susceptibility and spirituality, is right to a marvel. Yes. So runs the history. Monsieur, the uncle, commands the nephew to marry. Monsieur says to him in effect, “My nephew, I introduce to you a lady of strong force of character, like myself—a resolved lady, a stern lady, a lady who has a will that can break the weak to powder: a lady without pity, without love, implacable, revengeful, cold as the stone, but raging as the fire.” Ah! what fortitude! Ah, what superiority of intellectual strength! Truly, a proud and noble character that I describe in the supposed words of Monsieur, the uncle. Ha, ha, ha! Death of my soul, I love the sweet lady!’
‘Our dear Madame Flintwinch,’ said Rigaud, ‘suddenly showing a remarkable sensitivity and depth, is truly something special. Yes. That’s how the story goes. The uncle tells the nephew he has to get married. The uncle basically says to him, “My nephew, I’m introducing you to a woman of strong character, like me—a determined woman, a stern woman, a woman with a will that can crush the weak: a woman without mercy, without love, relentless, vindictive, cold as stone, but fiery as a blaze.” Ah! What strength! Ah, what superiority of intellect! Truly, I’m describing a proud and noble character in the imagined words of the uncle. Ha, ha, ha! Goodness, I adore that lovely lady!’
Mrs Clennam’s face had changed. There was a remarkable darkness of colour on it, and the brow was more contracted. ‘Madame, madame,’ said Rigaud, tapping her on the arm, as if his cruel hand were sounding a musical instrument, ‘I perceive I interest you. I perceive I awaken your sympathy. Let us go on.’
Mrs. Clennam’s face had changed. It looked unusually dark, and her brow was more furrowed. ‘Madame, madame,’ said Rigaud, tapping her on the arm, as if his cruel hand were playing a musical instrument, ‘I see that I have your interest. I see that I evoke your sympathy. Let’s continue.’
The drooping nose and the ascending moustache had, however, to be hidden for a moment with the white hand, before he could go on; he enjoyed the effect he made so much.
The drooping nose and the upward-curving mustache had to be briefly covered with his white hand before he could continue; he enjoyed the impression he created so much.
‘The nephew, being, as the lucid Madame Flintwinch has remarked, a poor devil who has had everything but his orphan life frightened and famished out of him—the nephew abases his head, and makes response: “My uncle, it is to you to command. Do as you will!” Monsieur, the uncle, does as he will. It is what he always does. The auspicious nuptials take place; the newly married come home to this charming mansion; the lady is received, let us suppose, by Flintwinch. Hey, old intriguer?’
‘The nephew, as the clear-headed Madame Flintwinch pointed out, is a poor guy who has had everything but his orphaned life scared and starved out of him—the nephew lowers his head and replies: “Uncle, it’s up to you. Do whatever you want!” Monsieur, the uncle, does whatever he wants. That’s what he always does. The happy wedding happens; the newlyweds return home to this lovely mansion; the lady is welcomed, let’s say, by Flintwinch. Hey, old schemer?’
Jeremiah, with his eyes upon his mistress, made no reply. Rigaud looked from one to the other, struck his ugly nose, and made a clucking with his tongue.
Jeremiah, keeping his gaze on his mistress, didn’t respond. Rigaud glanced between them, tapped his ugly nose, and made a clicking sound with his tongue.
‘Soon the lady makes a singular and exciting discovery. Thereupon, full of anger, full of jealousy, full of vengeance, she forms—see you, madame!—a scheme of retribution, the weight of which she ingeniously forces her crushed husband to bear himself, as well as execute upon her enemy. What superior intelligence!’
‘Soon the lady makes a unique and thrilling discovery. Filled with anger, jealousy, and a desire for revenge, she devises—look here, madam!—a plan for payback, which she cleverly makes her crushed husband carry out, as well as execute on her enemy. What brilliant intelligence!’
‘Keep off, Jeremiah!’ cried the palpitating Affery, taking her apron from her mouth again. ‘But it was one of my dreams, that you told her, when you quarrelled with her one winter evening at dusk—there she sits and you looking at her—that she oughtn’t to have let Arthur when he come home, suspect his father only; that she had always had the strength and the power; and that she ought to have stood up more to Arthur, for his father. It was in the same dream where you said to her that she was not—not something, but I don’t know what, for she burst out tremendous and stopped you. You know the dream as well as I do. When you come down-stairs into the kitchen with the candle in your hand, and hitched my apron off my head. When you told me I had been dreaming. When you wouldn’t believe the noises.’ After this explosion Affery put her apron into her mouth again; always keeping her hand on the window-sill and her knee on the window-seat, ready to cry out or jump out if her lord and master approached.
“Stay away, Jeremiah!” cried the anxious Affery, pulling her apron from her mouth again. “But it was one of my dreams that you told her about when you argued with her one winter evening at dusk—there she is sitting and you’re looking at her—that she shouldn’t have let Arthur, when he came home, only suspect his father; that she always had the strength and the power; and that she should have stood up more to Arthur, for his father. It was in the same dream where you told her she wasn’t—not something, but I can’t remember what, because she erupted and interrupted you. You know the dream just as well as I do. When you came down to the kitchen with the candle in your hand and pulled my apron off my head. When you told me I had been dreaming. When you wouldn’t believe the noises.” After this outburst, Affery put her apron back in her mouth; always keeping her hand on the window sill and her knee on the window seat, ready to shout or jump out if her lord and master came near.
Rigaud had not lost a word of this.
Rigaud hadn't missed a single word of this.
‘Haha!’ he cried, lifting his eyebrows, folding his arms, and leaning back in his chair. ‘Assuredly, Madame Flintwinch is an oracle! How shall we interpret the oracle, you and I and the old intriguer? He said that you were not—? And you burst out and stopped him! What was it you were not? What is it you are not? Say then, madame!’
‘Haha!’ he exclaimed, raising his eyebrows, crossing his arms, and leaning back in his chair. ‘Definitely, Madame Flintwinch is like an oracle! How should we interpret the oracle, you, me, and the old schemer? He mentioned that you were not—? And you interrupted him! What was it you were not? What is it you’re not? Go on, madame!’
Under this ferocious banter, she sat breathing harder, and her mouth was disturbed. Her lips quivered and opened, in spite of her utmost efforts to keep them still.
Under this intense exchange, she sat breathing heavily, and her mouth was unsettled. Her lips trembled and parted, despite her best efforts to keep them still.
‘Come then, madame! Speak, then! Our old intriguer said that you were not—and you stopped him. He was going to say that you were not—what? I know already, but I want a little confidence from you. How, then? You are not what?’
‘Come on, madame! Speak up! Our old schemer was about to say that you weren't—and you cut him off. He was going to say that you weren’t—what? I already know, but I’d like a bit of honesty from you. So, what are you not?’
She tried again to repress herself, but broke out vehemently, ‘Not Arthur’s mother!’
She tried again to hold back, but burst out passionately, "Not Arthur's mother!"
‘Good,’ said Rigaud. ‘You are amenable.’
"Great," said Rigaud. "You’re easy to get along with."
With the set expression of her face all torn away by the explosion of her passion, and with a bursting, from every rent feature, of the smouldering fire so long pent up, she cried out: ‘I will tell it myself! I will not hear it from your lips, and with the taint of your wickedness upon it. Since it must be seen, I will have it seen by the light I stood in. Not another word. Hear me!’
With her face showing all the turmoil from her intense emotions, and with the smoldering fire that had long been held back bursting from every feature, she shouted: ‘I’ll tell it myself! I won’t hear it from you and have your wickedness attached to it. If it has to be seen, I want it seen through the light I stood in. Not another word. Listen to me!’
‘Unless you are a more obstinate and more persisting woman than even I know you to be,’ Mr Flintwinch interposed, ‘you had better leave Mr Rigaud, Mr Blandois, Mr Beelzebub, to tell it in his own way. What does it signify when he knows all about it?’
‘Unless you’re a more stubborn and persistent woman than I know you to be,’ Mr. Flintwinch interrupted, ‘you should let Mr. Rigaud, Mr. Blandois, Mr. Beelzebub, share it in his own way. What does it matter when he knows all about it?’
‘He does not know all about it.’
‘He doesn’t know everything about it.’
‘He knows all he cares about it,’ Mr Flintwinch testily urged.
“He knows all he cares about,” Mr. Flintwinch urged testily.
‘He does not know me.’
‘He doesn’t know me.’
‘What do you suppose he cares for you, you conceited woman?’ said Mr Flintwinch.
‘What do you think he cares about you, you arrogant woman?’ said Mr. Flintwinch.
‘I tell you, Flintwinch, I will speak. I tell you when it has come to this, I will tell it with my own lips, and will express myself throughout it. What! Have I suffered nothing in this room, no deprivation, no imprisonment, that I should condescend at last to contemplate myself in such a glass as that. Can you see him? Can you hear him? If your wife were a hundred times the ingrate that she is, and if I were a thousand times more hopeless than I am of inducing her to be silent if this man is silenced, I would tell it myself, before I would bear the torment of the hearing it from him.’
‘I’m telling you, Flintwinch, I will speak. I’m saying that when it comes to this, I’ll say it myself and express everything I need to. What! Have I gone through nothing in this room, no loss, no confinement, that I should finally lower myself to see my reflection in a glass like that? Can you see him? Can you hear him? Even if your wife were a hundred times more ungrateful than she is, and if I were a thousand times more hopeless than I am about getting her to stay quiet if this man is silenced, I would say it myself, rather than endure the pain of hearing it from him.’
Rigaud pushed his chair a little back; pushed his legs out straight before him; and sat with his arms folded over against her.
Rigaud moved his chair back a bit, stretched his legs out in front of him, and sat with his arms crossed, facing her.
‘You do not know what it is,’ she went on addressing him, ‘to be brought up strictly and straitly. I was so brought up. Mine was no light youth of sinful gaiety and pleasure. Mine were days of wholesome repression, punishment, and fear. The corruption of our hearts, the evil of our ways, the curse that is upon us, the terrors that surround us—these were the themes of my childhood. They formed my character, and filled me with an abhorrence of evil-doers. When old Mr Gilbert Clennam proposed his orphan nephew to my father for my husband, my father impressed upon me that his bringing-up had been, like mine, one of severe restraint. He told me, that besides the discipline his spirit had undergone, he had lived in a starved house, where rioting and gaiety were unknown, and where every day was a day of toil and trial like the last. He told me that he had been a man in years long before his uncle had acknowledged him as one; and that from his school-days to that hour, his uncle’s roof has been a sanctuary to him from the contagion of the irreligious and dissolute. When, within a twelvemonth of our marriage, I found my husband, at that time when my father spoke of him, to have sinned against the Lord and outraged me by holding a guilty creature in my place, was I to doubt that it had been appointed to me to make the discovery, and that it was appointed to me to lay the hand of punishment upon that creature of perdition? Was I to dismiss in a moment—not my own wrongs—what was I! but all the rejection of sin, and all the war against it, in which I had been bred?’
"You don't understand what it’s like," she continued to address him, "to be raised with strict rules and discipline. I was brought up that way. My youth wasn’t filled with carefree joy and pleasure. My days were marked by healthy restraint, punishment, and fear. The corruption of our hearts, the wrongness of our actions, the curse upon us, the fears that surround us—these were the lessons of my childhood. They shaped my character and filled me with a strong dislike for wrongdoers. When old Mr. Gilbert Clennam suggested his orphaned nephew as a husband for me, my father stressed that his upbringing had also involved severe restrictions. He explained that, in addition to the discipline his spirit had faced, he had lived in a home that knew no partying or joy, where every day was filled with hard work and struggle just like the last. He told me that he had matured long before his uncle recognized him as such; and that from his school days until then, his uncle's house had been a refuge from the influence of the irreligious and immoral. So, when less than a year after our wedding, I discovered that my husband, at the time my father spoke of him, had sinned against God and disrespected me by keeping a guilty person in my place, was I supposed to doubt that it was meant for me to make that discovery, and that I was supposed to bring punishment upon that wretched being? Was I supposed to just dismiss—not my own wrongs—what was I!—but all my rejection of sin and the fight against it in which I was raised?"
She laid her wrathful hand upon the watch on the table.
She placed her angry hand on the watch on the table.
‘No! “Do not forget.” The initials of those words are within here now, and were within here then. I was appointed to find the old letter that referred to them, and that told me what they meant, and whose work they were, and why they were worked, lying with this watch in his secret drawer. But for that appointment there would have been no discovery. “Do not forget.” It spoke to me like a voice from an angry cloud. Do not forget the deadly sin, do not forget the appointed discovery, do not forget the appointed suffering. I did not forget. Was it my own wrong I remembered? Mine! I was but a servant and a minister. What power could I have over them, but that they were bound in the bonds of their sin, and delivered to me!’
‘No! “Don’t forget.” The initials of those words are here now, and were here then. I was tasked with finding the old letter that referred to them, that explained what they meant, whose work they were, and why they were created, lying with this watch in his secret drawer. Without that task, there would have been no discovery. “Don’t forget.” It spoke to me like a voice from an angry cloud. Don’t forget the deadly sin, don’t forget the designated discovery, don’t forget the designated suffering. I did not forget. Was it my own wrongdoing that I remembered? Mine! I was just a servant and a minister. What power could I have over them, except that they were trapped in the bonds of their sin, and handed over to me!’
More than forty years had passed over the grey head of this determined woman, since the time she recalled. More than forty years of strife and struggle with the whisper that, by whatever name she called her vindictive pride and rage, nothing through all eternity could change their nature. Yet, gone those more than forty years, and come this Nemesis now looking her in the face, she still abided by her old impiety—still reversed the order of Creation, and breathed her own breath into a clay image of her Creator. Verily, verily, travellers have seen many monstrous idols in many countries; but no human eyes have ever seen more daring, gross, and shocking images of the Divine nature than we creatures of the dust make in our own likenesses, of our own bad passions.
More than forty years had passed over the grey head of this determined woman since the time she remembered. More than forty years of struggle and conflict with the thought that, no matter what she called her vindictive pride and rage, nothing could change their nature for all eternity. Yet, even after those more than forty years, and with this Nemesis now staring her in the face, she still clung to her old defiance—still turned the order of Creation upside down and breathed her own breath into a clay figure of her Creator. Truly, truly, travelers have seen many monstrous idols in various countries; but no human eyes have ever seen more daring, crude, and shocking representations of the Divine nature than we, creatures of the dust, create in our own likenesses, based on our own bad passions.
‘When I forced him to give her up to me, by her name and place of abode,’ she went on in her torrent of indignation and defence; ‘when I accused her, and she fell hiding her face at my feet, was it my injury that I asserted, were they my reproaches that I poured upon her? Those who were appointed of old to go to wicked kings and accuse them—were they not ministers and servants? And had not I, unworthy and far-removed from them, sin to denounce? When she pleaded to me her youth, and his wretched and hard life (that was her phrase for the virtuous training he had belied), and the desecrated ceremony of marriage there had secretly been between them, and the terrors of want and shame that had overwhelmed them both when I was first appointed to be the instrument of their punishment, and the love (for she said the word to me, down at my feet) in which she had abandoned him and left him to me, was it my enemy that became my footstool, were they the words of my wrath that made her shrink and quiver! Not unto me the strength be ascribed; not unto me the wringing of the expiation!’
"When I forced him to give her up to me, by her name and where she lived," she continued in her flood of anger and defense; "when I accused her, and she fell, hiding her face at my feet, was it my own injury that I claimed, were they my reproaches that I heaped upon her? Those who were sent in the past to confront wicked kings and accuse them—were they not ministers and servants? And wasn’t I, unworthy and far removed from them, guilty of something to denounce? When she begged me to consider her youth and his miserable, hard life (that’s what she called the virtuous upbringing he had betrayed), and the violated ceremony of marriage that had secretly occurred between them, and the fears of poverty and shame that had overwhelmed them both when I was first made the instrument of their punishment, and the love (because she said the word to me, down at my feet) in which she had abandoned him and left him to me, was it my enemy that became my footstool, were they my words of anger that made her shrink and tremble? Not to me be the strength attributed; not to me be the act of atonement!"
Many years had come and gone since she had had the free use even of her fingers; but it was noticeable that she had already more than once struck her clenched hand vigorously upon the table, and that when she said these words she raised her whole arm in the air, as though it had been a common action with her.
Many years had passed since she could even use her fingers freely; however, it was clear that she had already struck her clenched hand forcefully on the table more than once, and when she said these words, she raised her entire arm into the air, as if it were something she did frequently.
‘And what was the repentance that was extorted from the hardness of her heart and the blackness of her depravity? I, vindictive and implacable? It may be so, to such as you who know no righteousness, and no appointment except Satan’s. Laugh; but I will be known as I know myself, and as Flintwinch knows me, though it is only to you and this half-witted woman.’
‘And what kind of remorse came from the hardness of her heart and the darkness of her depravity? I, vengeful and unforgiving? Maybe that’s true for those like you who don’t understand righteousness and only follow Satan’s path. Go ahead and laugh; but I will be recognized as I understand myself, and as Flintwinch understands me, even if it’s just to you and this foolish woman.’
‘Add, to yourself, madame,’ said Rigaud. ‘I have my little suspicions that madame is rather solicitous to be justified to herself.’
“Add to your own understanding, madam,” said Rigaud. “I have a feeling that you’re quite eager to justify yourself.”
‘It is false. It is not so. I have no need to be,’ she said, with great energy and anger.
‘That's not true. That's not how it is. I don't need to be,’ she said, with intense energy and anger.
‘Truly?’ retorted Rigaud. ‘Hah!’
“Really?” Rigaud replied. “Haha!”
‘I ask, what was the penitence, in works, that was demanded of her? “You have a child; I have none. You love that child. Give him to me. He shall believe himself to be my son, and he shall be believed by every one to be my son. To save you from exposure, his father shall swear never to see or communicate with you more; equally to save him from being stripped by his uncle, and to save your child from being a beggar, you shall swear never to see or communicate with either of them more. That done, and your present means, derived from my husband, renounced, I charge myself with your support. You may, with your place of retreat unknown, then leave, if you please, uncontradicted by me, the lie that when you passed out of all knowledge but mine, you merited a good name.” That was all. She had to sacrifice her sinful and shameful affections; no more. She was then free to bear her load of guilt in secret, and to break her heart in secret; and through such present misery (light enough for her, I think!) to purchase her redemption from endless misery, if she could. If, in this, I punished her here, did I not open to her a way hereafter? If she knew herself to be surrounded by insatiable vengeance and unquenchable fires, were they mine? If I threatened her, then and afterwards, with the terrors that encompassed her, did I hold them in my right hand?’
"I want to know what kind of penance she was asked to perform. 'You have a child; I don’t. You love that child. Give him to me. He will believe he’s my son, and everyone else will believe it too. To keep you from being exposed, his father will promise never to see or talk to you again; to protect him from being taken by his uncle, and to ensure your child doesn’t end up a beggar, you will promise never to see or talk to either of them again. Once that’s done, and you renounce your current means of support from my husband, I will take on your care. You can leave whenever you want, with your whereabouts unknown, without me contradicting the lie that when you vanished from everyone’s knowledge except mine, you earned a good reputation.' That was all. She had to give up her sinful and shameful feelings; nothing more. Then she was free to carry her burden of guilt in private and to suffer in silence; and through that present suffering (which I think was light enough for her!) she could buy her way out of endless misery, if she was able. If, by punishing her now, did I not provide a path for her future? If she was aware that she was surrounded by insatiable revenge and unending fires, were they mine? If I threatened her, both now and later, with the fears that pressed in on her, did I not hold them in my own hand?'”
She turned the watch upon the table, and opened it, and, with an unsoftening face, looked at the worked letters within.
She turned the watch on the table, opened it, and, with a hard expression, looked at the engraved letters inside.
‘They did not forget. It is appointed against such offences that the offenders shall not be able to forget. If the presence of Arthur was a daily reproach to his father, and if the absence of Arthur was a daily agony to his mother, that was the just dispensation of Jehovah. As well might it be charged upon me, that the stings of an awakened conscience drove her mad, and that it was the will of the Disposer of all things that she should live so, many years. I devoted myself to reclaim the otherwise predestined and lost boy; to give him the reputation of an honest origin; to bring him up in fear and trembling, and in a life of practical contrition for the sins that were heavy on his head before his entrance into this condemned world. Was that a cruelty? Was I, too, not visited with consequences of the original offence in which I had no complicity? Arthur’s father and I lived no further apart, with half the globe between us, than when we were together in this house. He died, and sent this watch back to me, with its Do not forget. I do NOT forget, though I do not read it as he did. I read in it, that I was appointed to do these things. I have so read these three letters since I have had them lying on this table, and I did so read them, with equal distinctness, when they were thousands of miles away.’
‘They did not forget. There's a decree for such offenses that the wrongdoers can't escape from their memories. If Arthur's presence was a constant reminder for his father, and his absence was a daily pain for his mother, that was the rightful judgment of God. It could just as easily be said that the pangs of a guilty conscience drove her to madness, and that it was God's will for her to endure that for so many years. I committed myself to save the otherwise doomed and lost boy; to give him a reputation for coming from honest roots; to raise him with fear and humility, living a life of genuine remorse for the sins he carried before coming into this unforgiving world. Was that cruelty? Was I also not affected by the repercussions of the original sin in which I had no part? Arthur’s father and I were no farther apart, with half the world in between us, than when we were in this house together. He passed away and sent this watch back to me, with its message: Do not forget. I do NOT forget, even though I don’t interpret it the way he did. I read it as a sign that I was meant to fulfill these obligations. I've interpreted these three letters this way since they’ve been on this table, and I read them with the same clarity when they were thousands of miles away.’
As she took the watch-case in her hand, with that new freedom in the use of her hand of which she showed no consciousness whatever, bending her eyes upon it as if she were defying it to move her, Rigaud cried with a loud and contemptuous snapping of his fingers. ‘Come, madame! Time runs out. Come, lady of piety, it must be! You can tell nothing I don’t know. Come to the money stolen, or I will! Death of my soul, I have had enough of your other jargon. Come straight to the stolen money!’
As she picked up the watch case, unaware of the newfound freedom in her hand, she stared at it defiantly, as if challenging it to move her. Rigaud shouted with a loud, mocking snap of his fingers. "Come on, madam! Time is running out. Come on, lady of virtue, it has to happen! You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Let’s get to the stolen money, or I will! For God's sake, I've had enough of your other nonsense. Let’s get straight to the stolen money!"
‘Wretch that you are,’ she answered, and now her hands clasped her head: ‘through what fatal error of Flintwinch’s, through what incompleteness on his part, who was the only other person helping in these things and trusted with them, through whose and what bringing together of the ashes of a burnt paper, you have become possessed of that codicil, I know no more than how you acquired the rest of your power here—’
‘Wretch that you are,’ she replied, now clasping her hands around her head. ‘I have no idea what fatal mistake Flintwinch made, or what his shortcomings were—he was the only other person involved in this and was trusted with it. I don’t know how you came to have that codicil, just like I don’t know how you got the rest of your influence here—’
‘And yet,’ interrupted Rigaud, ‘it is my odd fortune to have by me, in a convenient place that I know of, that same short little addition to the will of Monsieur Gilbert Clennam, written by a lady and witnessed by the same lady and our old intriguer! Ah, bah, old intriguer, crooked little puppet! Madame, let us go on. Time presses. You or I to finish?’
‘And yet,’ interrupted Rigaud, ‘I happen to have, in a convenient spot I know of, that same short addition to the will of Monsieur Gilbert Clennam, written by a lady and witnessed by that same lady and our old schemer! Ah, come on, old schemer, crooked little puppet! Madame, let’s move on. Time is running out. Shall it be you or me to finish?’
‘I!’ she answered, with increased determination, if it were possible. ‘I, because I will not endure to be shown myself, and have myself shown to any one, with your horrible distortion upon me. You, with your practices of infamous foreign prisons and galleys would make it the money that impelled me. It was not the money.’
‘I!’ she replied, with even more determination, if that was possible. ‘I, because I won’t stand to see myself, and have myself shown to anyone, with your awful distortion on me. You, with your cruel foreign prisons and galleys, would make it about the money that drove me. It wasn’t about the money.’
‘Bah, bah, bah! I repudiate, for the moment, my politeness, and say, Lies, lies, lies. You know you suppressed the deed and kept the money.’
‘Bah, bah, bah! For now, I reject my politeness and say, Lies, lies, lies. You know you covered up the act and took the money.’
‘Not for the money’s sake, wretch!’ She made a struggle as if she were starting up; even as if, in her vehemence, she had almost risen on her disabled feet. ‘If Gilbert Clennam, reduced to imbecility, at the point of death, and labouring under the delusion of some imaginary relenting towards a girl of whom he had heard that his nephew had once had a fancy for her which he had crushed out of him, and that she afterwards drooped away into melancholy and withdrawal from all who knew her—if, in that state of weakness, he dictated to me, whose life she had darkened with her sin, and who had been appointed to know her wickedness from her own hand and her own lips, a bequest meant as a recompense to her for supposed unmerited suffering; was there no difference between my spurning that injustice, and coveting mere money—a thing which you, and your comrades in the prisons, may steal from anyone?’
"‘Not for the money’s sake, you miserable wretch!’ She struggled as if she were about to jump up; it was almost as if, in her intensity, she had nearly risen on her injured feet. ‘If Gilbert Clennam, reduced to helplessness, on the brink of death, and suffering from the delusion of some imaginary change of heart towards a girl he’d heard his nephew once liked but had then crushed that feeling out of him, and who had since faded away into sadness and withdrawn from everyone—if, in that state of weakness, he instructed me, whose life she had darkened with her wrongdoings, and who had been forced to learn of her wickedness directly from her own words, a bequest intended as compensation for her supposed unearned suffering; is there really any difference between my rejecting that injustice and just wanting money—a thing you and your prison mates might steal from anyone?’"
‘Time presses, madame. Take care!’
"Time's running out, ma'am. Be careful!"
‘If this house was blazing from the roof to the ground,’ she returned, ‘I would stay in it to justify myself against my righteous motives being classed with those of stabbers and thieves.’
‘If this house were on fire from the roof to the ground,’ she replied, ‘I would stay in it to defend myself against my honorable intentions being lumped in with those of murderers and thieves.’
Rigaud snapped his fingers tauntingly in her face. ‘One thousand guineas to the little beauty you slowly hunted to death. One thousand guineas to the youngest daughter her patron might have at fifty, or (if he had none) brother’s youngest daughter, on her coming of age, “as the remembrance his disinterestedness may like best, of his protection of a friendless young orphan girl.” Two thousand guineas. What! You will never come to the money?’
Rigaud snapped his fingers mockingly in her face. “One thousand guineas for the little beauty you slowly hunted to death. One thousand guineas for the youngest daughter her patron might have at fifty, or (if he has none) his brother’s youngest daughter, on her coming of age, ‘as a reminder of his kindness in protecting a friendless young orphan girl.’ Two thousand guineas. What? You’re never going to get the money?”
‘That patron,’ she was vehemently proceeding, when he checked her.
‘That patron,’ she was strongly saying, when he interrupted her.
‘Names! Call him Mr Frederick Dorrit. No more evasions.’
‘Names! Call him Mr. Frederick Dorrit. No more dodging.’
‘That Frederick Dorrit was the beginning of it all. If he had not been a player of music, and had not kept, in those days of his youth and prosperity, an idle house where singers, and players, and such-like children of Evil turned their backs on the Light and their faces to the Darkness, she might have remained in her lowly station, and might not have been raised out of it to be cast down. But, no. Satan entered into that Frederick Dorrit, and counselled him that he was a man of innocent and laudable tastes who did kind actions, and that here was a poor girl with a voice for singing music with. Then he is to have her taught. Then Arthur’s father, who has all along been secretly pining in the ways of virtuous ruggedness for those accursed snares which are called the Arts, becomes acquainted with her. And so, a graceless orphan, training to be a singing girl, carries it, by that Frederick Dorrit’s agency, against me, and I am humbled and deceived!—Not I, that is to say,’ she added quickly, as colour flushed into her face; ‘a greater than I. What am I?’
‘Frederick Dorrit was the start of it all. If he hadn’t been a musician and hadn’t hosted, back in his youth and prosperity, a place where singers, players, and other children of vice turned away from the Light and faced the Darkness, she might have stayed in her lowly position and might not have been lifted out of it only to be brought down again. But no. Satan influenced that Frederick Dorrit, convincing him that he was a man of innocent and admirable tastes who did good deeds, and that here was a poor girl with a talent for singing. So, he arranged for her to be trained. Then Arthur’s father, who had secretly longed for the so-called curses of the Arts, meets her. And so, a hopeless orphan, training to be a singer, wins out, thanks to Frederick Dorrit’s interference, against me, and I am left humiliated and tricked!—Not me, I mean,’ she added quickly, as color rushed to her face; ‘someone greater than I. What am I?’
Jeremiah Flintwinch, who had been gradually screwing himself towards her, and who was now very near her elbow without her knowing it, made a specially wry face of objection when she said these words, and moreover twitched his gaiters, as if such pretensions were equivalent to little barbs in his legs.
Jeremiah Flintwinch, who had been slowly moving closer to her, and was now very near her elbow without her realizing it, made a particularly pained expression of disapproval when she said these words, and he also adjusted his gaiters, as if her claims were like tiny thorns in his legs.
‘Lastly,’ she continued, ‘for I am at the end of these things, and I will say no more of them, and you shall say no more of them, and all that remains will be to determine whether the knowledge of them can be kept among us who are here present; lastly, when I suppressed that paper, with the knowledge of Arthur’s father—’
‘Lastly,’ she continued, ‘since I have covered everything, I won’t say anything more about it, and you shouldn’t either. All that’s left is to decide if we can keep this information private among us who are here; lastly, when I held back that document, with Arthur’s father knowing about it—’
‘But not with his consent, you know,’ said Mr Flintwinch.
‘But not with his consent, you know,’ said Mr. Flintwinch.
‘Who said with his consent?’ She started to find Jeremiah so near her, and drew back her head, looking at him with some rising distrust. ‘You were often enough between us when he would have had me produce it and I would not, to have contradicted me if I had said, with his consent. I say, when I suppressed that paper, I made no effort to destroy it, but kept it by me, here in this house, many years. The rest of the Gilbert property being left to Arthur’s father, I could at any time, without unsettling more than the two sums, have made a pretence of finding it. But, besides that I must have supported such pretence by a direct falsehood (a great responsibility), I have seen no new reason, in all the time I have been tried here, to bring it to light. It was a rewarding of sin; the wrong result of a delusion. I did what I was appointed to do, and I have undergone, within these four walls, what I was appointed to undergo. When the paper was at last destroyed—as I thought—in my presence, she had long been dead, and her patron, Frederick Dorrit, had long been deservedly ruined and imbecile. He had no daughter. I had found the niece before then; and what I did for her, was better for her far than the money of which she would have had no good.’ She added, after a moment, as though she addressed the watch: ‘She herself was innocent, and I might not have forgotten to relinquish it to her at my death:’ and sat looking at it.
"‘Who said it was with his consent?’ She started to feel uneasy with Jeremiah so close to her and pulled back, eyeing him with growing distrust. ‘You were often there when he wanted me to produce it and I wouldn’t have, so you could have contradicted me if I had said it was with his consent. I say that when I hid that paper, I didn’t try to destroy it; I kept it here in this house for many years. Since the rest of the Gilbert property went to Arthur’s father, I could have pretended to find it at any time without causing much trouble. But besides having to back up such a pretense with a direct lie (which is a huge responsibility), I haven’t seen any new reason, during all this time I’ve been put on trial, to bring it to light. It would have been rewarding sin; the wrong result of a delusion. I did what I was supposed to do, and I’ve endured, within these four walls, what I was meant to endure. When the paper was finally destroyed—as I believed—in front of me, she had been dead for a long time, and her patron, Frederick Dorrit, had been deservedly ruined and turned into a fool. He had no daughter. I had found the niece by then; and what I did for her was far better than any money she would have gained no good from.’ She added after a moment, as if talking to the watch: ‘She was innocent herself, and I might not have remembered to leave it to her when I died:’ and sat there looking at it."
‘Shall I recall something to you, worthy madame?’ said Rigaud. ‘The little paper was in this house on the night when our friend the prisoner—jail-comrade of my soul—came home from foreign countries. Shall I recall yet something more to you? The little singing-bird that never was fledged, was long kept in a cage by a guardian of your appointing, well enough known to our old intriguer here. Shall we coax our old intriguer to tell us when he saw him last?’
“Can I remind you of something, esteemed lady?” said Rigaud. “The little note was in this house on the night when our friend the prisoner—my soul’s jailmate—returned from abroad. Should I remind you of something else? The little songbird that never took flight was kept in a cage for a long time by someone you chose, someone our old schemer here knows well. Should we persuade our old schemer to share when he last saw him?”
‘I’ll tell you!’ cried Affery, unstopping her mouth. ‘I dreamed it, first of all my dreams. Jeremiah, if you come a-nigh me now, I’ll scream to be heard at St Paul’s! The person as this man has spoken of, was Jeremiah’s own twin brother; and he was here in the dead of the night, on the night when Arthur come home, and Jeremiah with his own hands give him this paper, along with I don’t know what more, and he took it away in an iron box—Help! Murder! Save me from Jere-mi-ah!’
"I'll tell you!" Affery exclaimed, finally speaking up. "I dreamed it, the first of all my dreams. Jeremiah, if you come near me now, I'll scream loud enough to be heard at St. Paul's! The person this man mentioned was Jeremiah’s own twin brother, and he was here in the dead of night, the night Arthur came home. Jeremiah gave him this paper with his own hands, along with I don’t know what else, and he took it away in an iron box—Help! Murder! Save me from Jere-mi-ah!"
Mr Flintwinch had made a run at her, but Rigaud had caught him in his arms midway. After a moment’s wrestle with him, Flintwinch gave up, and put his hands in his pockets.
Mr. Flintwinch had tried to go after her, but Rigaud caught him in his arms halfway. After a brief struggle, Flintwinch gave in and put his hands in his pockets.
‘What!’ cried Rigaud, rallying him as he poked and jerked him back with his elbows, ‘assault a lady with such a genius for dreaming! Ha, ha, ha! Why, she’ll be a fortune to you as an exhibition. All that she dreams comes true. Ha, ha, ha! You’re so like him, Little Flintwinch. So like him, as I knew him (when I first spoke English for him to the host) in the Cabaret of the Three Billiard Tables, in the little street of the high roofs, by the wharf at Antwerp! Ah, but he was a brave boy to drink. Ah, but he was a brave boy to smoke! Ah, but he lived in a sweet bachelor-apartment—furnished, on the fifth floor, above the wood and charcoal merchant’s, and the dress-maker’s, and the chair-maker’s, and the maker of tubs—where I knew him too, and wherewith his cognac and tobacco, he had twelve sleeps a day and one fit, until he had a fit too much, and ascended to the skies. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter how I took possession of the papers in his iron box? Perhaps he confided it to my hands for you, perhaps it was locked and my curiosity was piqued, perhaps I suppressed it. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter, so that I have it safe? We are not particular here; hey, Flintwinch? We are not particular here; is it not so, madame?’
“‘What!’ Rigaud exclaimed, nudging him with his elbows, ‘assault a lady with such a talent for dreaming! Ha, ha, ha! She’ll be a real treasure for you as a showpiece. Everything she dreams comes true. Ha, ha, ha! You’re so much like him, Little Flintwinch. Just like him, as I knew him (when I first spoke English for him to the host) at the Cabaret of the Three Billiard Tables, in that little street with the high roofs, by the wharf in Antwerp! Ah, he was a brave guy when it came to drinking. Ah, he was a brave guy when it came to smoking! Ah, he lived in a lovely bachelor apartment—furnished, on the fifth floor, above the wood and charcoal dealer, the dressmaker, the chair maker, and the tub maker—where I also knew him, and with his cognac and tobacco, he took twelve naps a day and one seizure, until he had one seizure too many and went up to the skies. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter how I got the papers from his iron box? Maybe he entrusted them to me for you, maybe they were locked and I was curious, maybe I just took them. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter, as long as I have them safe? We aren’t picky here; right, Flintwinch? We aren’t picky here; isn’t that right, madame?’”
Retiring before him with vicious counter-jerks of his own elbows, Mr Flintwinch had got back into his corner, where he now stood with his hands in his pockets, taking breath, and returning Mrs Clennam’s stare. ‘Ha, ha, ha! But what’s this?’ cried Rigaud. ‘It appears as if you don’t know, one the other. Permit me, Madame Clennam who suppresses, to present Monsieur Flintwinch who intrigues.’
Retreating with sharp elbow movements, Mr. Flintwinch backed into his corner, where he stood with his hands in his pockets, catching his breath and meeting Mrs. Clennam’s gaze. “Ha, ha, ha! But what’s this?” exclaimed Rigaud. “It seems like you two don’t know each other. Allow me, Madame Clennam, the one who keeps things to herself, to introduce Monsieur Flintwinch, the one who schemes.”
Mr Flintwinch, unpocketing one of his hands to scrape his jaw, advanced a step or so in that attitude, still returning Mrs Clennam’s look, and thus addressed her:
Mr. Flintwinch, taking one hand out of his pocket to scratch his jaw, took a step forward in that pose, still meeting Mrs. Clennam’s gaze, and said to her:
‘Now, I know what you mean by opening your eyes so wide at me, but you needn’t take the trouble, because I don’t care for it. I’ve been telling you for how many years that you’re one of the most opinionated and obstinate of women. That’s what you are. You call yourself humble and sinful, but you are the most Bumptious of your sex. That’s what you are. I have told you, over and over again when we have had a tiff, that you wanted to make everything go down before you, but I wouldn’t go down before you—that you wanted to swallow up everybody alive, but I wouldn’t be swallowed up alive. Why didn’t you destroy the paper when you first laid hands upon it? I advised you to; but no, it’s not your way to take advice. You must keep it forsooth. Perhaps you may carry it out at some other time, forsooth. As if I didn’t know better than that! I think I see your pride carrying it out, with a chance of being suspected of having kept it by you. But that’s the way you cheat yourself. Just as you cheat yourself into making out that you didn’t do all this business because you were a rigorous woman, all slight, and spite, and power, and unforgiveness, but because you were a servant and a minister, and were appointed to do it. Who are you, that you should be appointed to do it? That may be your religion, but it’s my gammon. And to tell you all the truth while I am about it,’ said Mr Flintwinch, crossing his arms, and becoming the express image of irascible doggedness, ‘I have been rasped—rasped these forty years—by your taking such high ground even with me, who knows better; the effect of it being coolly to put me on low ground. I admire you very much; you are a woman of strong head and great talent; but the strongest head, and the greatest talent, can’t rasp a man for forty years without making him sore. So I don’t care for your present eyes. Now, I am coming to the paper, and mark what I say. You put it away somewhere, and you kept your own counsel where. You’re an active woman at that time, and if you want to get that paper, you can get it. But, mark. There comes a time when you are struck into what you are now, and then if you want to get that paper, you can’t get it. So it lies, long years, in its hiding-place. At last, when we are expecting Arthur home every day, and when any day may bring him home, and it’s impossible to say what rummaging he may make about the house, I recommend you five thousand times, if you can’t get at it, to let me get at it, that it may be put in the fire. But no—no one but you knows where it is, and that’s power; and, call yourself whatever humble names you will, I call you a female Lucifer in appetite for power! On a Sunday night, Arthur comes home. He has not been in this room ten minutes, when he speaks of his father’s watch. You know very well that the Do Not Forget, at the time when his father sent that watch to you, could only mean, the rest of the story being then all dead and over, Do Not Forget the suppression. Make restitution! Arthur’s ways have frightened you a bit, and the paper shall be burnt after all. So, before that jumping jade and Jezebel,’ Mr Flintwinch grinned at his wife, ‘has got you into bed, you at last tell me where you have put the paper, among the old ledgers in the cellars, where Arthur himself went prowling the very next morning. But it’s not to be burnt on a Sunday night. No; you are strict, you are; we must wait over twelve o’clock, and get into Monday. Now, all this is a swallowing of me up alive that rasps me; so, feeling a little out of temper, and not being as strict as yourself, I take a look at the document before twelve o’clock to refresh my memory as to its appearance—fold up one of the many yellow old papers in the cellars like it—and afterwards, when we have got into Monday morning, and I have, by the light of your lamp, to walk from you, lying on that bed, to this grate, make a little exchange like the conjuror, and burn accordingly. My brother Ephraim, the lunatic-keeper (I wish he had had himself to keep in a strait-waistcoat), had had many jobs since the close of the long job he got from you, but had not done well. His wife died (not that that was much; mine might have died instead, and welcome), he speculated unsuccessfully in lunatics, he got into difficulty about over-roasting a patient to bring him to reason, and he got into debt. He was going out of the way, on what he had been able to scrape up, and a trifle from me. He was here that early Monday morning, waiting for the tide; in short, he was going to Antwerp, where (I am afraid you’ll be shocked at my saying, And be damned to him!) he made the acquaintance of this gentleman. He had come a long way, and, I thought then, was only sleepy; but, I suppose now, was drunk. When Arthur’s mother had been under the care of him and his wife, she had been always writing, incessantly writing,—mostly letters of confession to you, and Prayers for forgiveness. My brother had handed, from time to time, lots of these sheets to me. I thought I might as well keep them to myself as have them swallowed up alive too; so I kept them in a box, looking over them when I felt in the humour. Convinced that it was advisable to get the paper out of the place, with Arthur coming about it, I put it into this same box, and I locked the whole up with two locks, and I trusted it to my brother to take away and keep, till I should write about it. I did write about it, and never got an answer. I didn’t know what to make of it, till this gentleman favoured us with his first visit. Of course, I began to suspect how it was, then; and I don’t want his word for it now to understand how he gets his knowledge from my papers, and your paper, and my brother’s cognac and tobacco talk (I wish he’d had to gag himself). Now, I have only one thing more to say, you hammer-headed woman, and that is, that I haven’t altogether made up my mind whether I might, or might not, have ever given you any trouble about the codicil. I think not; and that I should have been quite satisfied with knowing I had got the better of you, and that I held the power over you. In the present state of circumstances, I have no more explanation to give you till this time to-morrow night. So you may as well,’ said Mr Flintwinch, terminating his oration with a screw, ‘keep your eyes open at somebody else, for it’s no use keeping ‘em open at me.’
"Look, I get why you're staring at me like that, but you don't need to. I really don't care. I've told you for years that you're one of the most opinionated and stubborn women out there. That's just who you are. You call yourself humble and sinful, but you're actually the most arrogant of your kind. That's just the truth. I’ve said it time and again during our arguments—you want everything to go your way, but I won’t bend to you. You wanted to overpower everyone, but I won't let you swallow me whole. Why didn’t you just destroy the paper when you first got it? I suggested you do that, but of course, you won’t take advice. You have to hold onto it, thinking you might use it later. As if I don’t know better! I can see your pride keeping it, worried it might look like you kept it hidden. But that's how you fool yourself. You make it seem like you did all this because you're strict and unforgiving, but really, you think you're a servant fulfilling a duty. Who are you to think you're entitled to that? Maybe that's your faith, but I see it differently. Honestly," Mr. Flintwinch said, crossing his arms and looking incredibly stubborn, "I've been annoyed for forty years by your holier-than-thou attitude, especially considering I know better. It's just made me feel small. I admire you; you have a strong mind and great talent, but even the smartest person can grind someone down for forty years without causing hurt. So I couldn’t care less about your outraged look now. Now, let's talk about the paper. Pay attention. You hid it somewhere, and you’ve kept that to yourself. You’re quite capable, and if you wanted that paper, you'd know how to find it. But, you'll hit a point where you end up like you are now, and then you won't be able to get it. So it stays hidden for years. Finally, when we're expecting Arthur home any day, and we don’t know what he’ll dig up around the house, I suggest countless times—you still can’t get to it—let me burn it instead. But no one knows where it is but you, and that gives you power. No matter how humble you want to label yourself, I see you as a power-hungry woman! One Sunday night, Arthur comes home. He hasn’t even been here ten minutes when he brings up his father’s watch. You know full well that when his father sent you that watch, it only meant—considering the rest of the story is dead and gone—don’t forget the secret. Make things right! Arthur's ways have scared you a bit, and it seems the paper is going to be burned after all. So, before that lively woman, whom I call a jumping jade and Jezebel," Mr. Flintwinch smirked at his wife, "sends you to bed, you finally tell me where the paper's hidden, among the old ledgers in the cellars, where Arthur himself went searching the very next morning. But it can't be burned on a Sunday night. No, you’re strict; we have to wait until after midnight to enter Monday. Now, all this feels like you're swallowing me whole, which really gets under my skin. So, feeling a little irritated and not being as strict as you, I sneak a look at the document before midnight just to refresh my memory—fold up one of those many old yellow papers from the cellars that look similar—and then, when we’ve stepped into Monday morning, walking from you lying on that bed to this grate, I’ll do a little magic trick and burn it accordingly. My brother Ephraim, who keeps crazy people (I wish he would have been the one locked up), has been in various jobs since you gave him that long job. He hasn’t done well. His wife died (not that it mattered much to me; mine could have died, and I'd be fine), he unsuccessfully speculated with lunatics, he had issues when he overcooked a patient to control him, and he got into debt. He was on his way out, using what little he had and a bit from me. He was here that early Monday morning, waiting for the right moment; basically, he was off to Antwerp, where (I’m sorry to say, and damned to him for it!) he met this man. He'd traveled a long way, and I thought he was just tired, but now I realize he was drunk. When Arthur’s mother was under their care, she wrote constantly—mostly confessions to you and prayers for forgiveness. My brother handed me a bunch of those letters over time. I figured I might as well keep them safe rather than let them disappear too, so I stored them in a box, reviewing them when I felt like it. Knowing I needed to get the paper out of there with Arthur coming around, I placed it in that same box and locked it up tightly, trusting my brother to take it and keep it until I could write about it. I wrote about it but never got a reply. I didn’t know what to think until this guy showed up for his first visit. Naturally, I started to suspect the truth then; I don’t need his word to understand how he manages to find out about my papers, your paper, and the chats over my brother’s cognac and tobacco (I wish he’d shut up). Now, I’ve got just one more thing to say, you hard-headed woman: I’m not totally sure if I ever troubled you about the codicil. I think not, and I would have been just fine knowing I outsmarted you and held power over you. Given the circumstances now, I can’t explain anything else until this time tomorrow night. So, you might as well," Mr. Flintwinch concluded, locking his expression, "keep your eyes open at someone else, because it’s pointless to keep them on me."
She slowly withdrew them when he had ceased, and dropped her forehead on her hand. Her other hand pressed hard upon the table, and again the curious stir was observable in her, as if she were going to rise.
She slowly pulled them back when he stopped, and rested her forehead on her hand. Her other hand pressed firmly against the table, and once again there was a noticeable agitation in her, as if she were about to get up.
‘This box can never bring, elsewhere, the price it will bring here. This knowledge can never be of the same profit to you, sold to any other person, as sold to me. But I have not the present means of raising the sum you have demanded. I have not prospered. What will you take now, and what at another time, and how am I to be assured of your silence?’
‘This box will never sell for as much anywhere else as it will here. This information won’t be as valuable to anyone else as it is to me. But I don’t currently have the funds to pay the amount you’re asking for. I haven’t been doing well. What will you accept now, and what would you accept later, and how can I be sure you won’t tell anyone?’
‘My angel,’ said Rigaud, ‘I have said what I will take, and time presses. Before coming here, I placed copies of the most important of these papers in another hand. Put off the time till the Marshalsea gate shall be shut for the night, and it will be too late to treat. The prisoner will have read them.’
‘My angel,’ said Rigaud, ‘I’ve stated what I will accept, and time is running out. Before coming here, I had copies of the most important papers made by someone else. Delay until the Marshalsea gate closes for the night, and it will be too late to negotiate. The prisoner will have read them.’
She put her two hands to her head again, uttered a loud exclamation, and started to her feet. She staggered for a moment, as if she would have fallen; then stood firm.
She placed both hands on her head again, let out a loud shout, and jumped to her feet. She wobbled for a moment, as if she might fall; then she steadied herself.
‘Say what you mean. Say what you mean, man!’
‘Say what you really mean. Just say it, dude!’
Before her ghostly figure, so long unused to its erect attitude, and so stiffened in it, Rigaud fell back and dropped his voice. It was, to all the three, almost as if a dead woman had risen.
Before her ghostly figure, so long unaccustomed to standing upright and so stiff in that stance, Rigaud recoiled and lowered his voice. To all three of them, it was as if a dead woman had come back to life.
‘Miss Dorrit,’ answered Rigaud, ‘the little niece of Monsieur Frederick, whom I have known across the water, is attached to the prisoner. Miss Dorrit, little niece of Monsieur Frederick, watches at this moment over the prisoner, who is ill. For her I with my own hands left a packet at the prison, on my way here, with a letter of instructions, “for his sake”—she will do anything for his sake—to keep it without breaking the seal, in case of its being reclaimed before the hour of shutting up to-night—if it should not be reclaimed before the ringing of the prison bell, to give it to him; and it encloses a second copy for herself, which he must give to her. What! I don’t trust myself among you, now we have got so far, without giving my secret a second life. And as to its not bringing me, elsewhere, the price it will bring here, say then, madame, have you limited and settled the price the little niece will give—for his sake—to hush it up? Once more I say, time presses. The packet not reclaimed before the ringing of the bell to-night, you cannot buy. I sell, then, to the little girl!’
‘Miss Dorrit,’ Rigaud responded, ‘Monsieur Frederick's little niece, whom I’ve known across the water, is connected to the prisoner. Right now, Miss Dorrit, the little niece of Monsieur Frederick, is watching over the prisoner, who is sick. For her, I personally left a package at the prison on my way here, along with a letter of instructions, “for his sake”—she’ll do anything for his sake—to keep it sealed, in case it gets picked up before the prison closes tonight. If it isn’t picked up before the bell rings, she should give it to him; it also includes a second copy for herself, which he must hand over to her. What! I don’t trust myself around you now that we've come this far without sharing my secret a second time. And as for it not getting me a better deal elsewhere than it will here, tell me, madame, have you set and fixed the price that the little niece will offer—for his sake—to keep it quiet? I say again, time is short. If the package isn’t picked up before the bell rings tonight, you cannot buy it. So, I sell it to the little girl!’
Once more the stir and struggle in her, and she ran to a closet, tore the door open, took down a hood or shawl, and wrapped it over her head. Affery, who had watched her in terror, darted to her in the middle of the room, caught hold of her dress, and went on her knees to her.
Once again, she felt the restless energy inside her, and she rushed to a closet, yanked the door open, grabbed a hood or shawl, and threw it over her head. Affery, who had been watching her in fear, ran to her in the center of the room, grabbed her dress, and knelt down in front of her.
‘Don’t, don’t, don’t! What are you doing? Where are you going? You’re a fearful woman, but I don’t bear you no ill-will. I can do poor Arthur no good now, that I see; and you needn’t be afraid of me. I’ll keep your secret. Don’t go out, you’ll fall dead in the street. Only promise me, that, if it’s the poor thing that’s kept here secretly, you’ll let me take charge of her and be her nurse. Only promise me that, and never be afraid of me.’
"Don’t, don’t, don’t! What are you doing? Where are you going? You’re a scared woman, but I hold no grudge against you. I can’t help poor Arthur now, and you don’t need to be afraid of me. I’ll keep your secret. Don’t go out; you’ll collapse in the street. Just promise me that, if it’s the poor girl who’s being kept hidden, you’ll let me take care of her and be her nurse. Just promise me that, and never be scared of me."
Mrs Clennam stood still for an instant, at the height of her rapid haste, saying in stern amazement:
Mrs. Clennam paused for a moment, caught up in her hurried urgency, saying in shocked disbelief:
‘Kept here? She has been dead a score of years or more. Ask Flintwinch—ask him. They can both tell you that she died when Arthur went abroad.’
‘Kept here? She’s been dead for twenty years or more. Ask Flintwinch—ask him. They can both tell you that she died when Arthur went overseas.’
‘So much the worse,’ said Affery, with a shiver, ‘for she haunts the house, then. Who else rustles about it, making signals by dropping dust so softly? Who else comes and goes, and marks the walls with long crooked touches when we are all a-bed? Who else holds the door sometimes? But don’t go out—don’t go out! Mistress, you’ll die in the street!’
'That's even worse,' Affery said with a shiver, 'because that means she haunts the house. Who else is moving around, making signs by dropping dust so quietly? Who else comes and goes, leaving long crooked marks on the walls while we're all asleep? Who else sometimes holds the door? But please don’t go out—don’t go out! Mistress, you’ll die out there!'
Her mistress only disengaged her dress from the beseeching hands, said to Rigaud, ‘Wait here till I come back!’ and ran out of the room. They saw her, from the window, run wildly through the court-yard and out at the gateway.
Her mistress pulled her dress away from the pleading hands, told Rigaud, ‘Wait here until I come back!’ and dashed out of the room. They watched her from the window as she ran frantically through the courtyard and out through the gateway.
For a few moments they stood motionless. Affery was the first to move, and she, wringing her hands, pursued her mistress. Next, Jeremiah Flintwinch, slowly backing to the door, with one hand in a pocket, and the other rubbing his chin, twisted himself out in his reticent way, speechlessly. Rigaud, left alone, composed himself upon the window-seat of the open window, in the old Marseilles-jail attitude. He laid his cigarettes and fire-box ready to his hand, and fell to smoking.
For a few moments, they stood still. Affery was the first to act, wringing her hands as she followed her mistress. Next, Jeremiah Flintwinch slowly backed toward the door, one hand in his pocket and the other rubbing his chin, slipping out in his usual quiet manner without saying a word. Rigaud, left alone, settled himself on the windowsill of the open window, adopting the old Marseilles-jail posture. He prepared his cigarettes and lighter, then started smoking.
‘Whoof! Almost as dull as the infernal old jail. Warmer, but almost as dismal. Wait till she comes back? Yes, certainly; but where is she gone, and how long will she be gone? No matter! Rigaud Lagnier Blandois, my amiable subject, you will get your money. You will enrich yourself. You have lived a gentleman; you will die a gentleman. You triumph, my little boy; but it is your character to triumph. Whoof!’
‘Whoof! Almost as dull as that awful old jail. Warmer, but still pretty miserable. Wait until she comes back? Sure, but where has she gone, and how long will she be away? Doesn’t matter! Rigaud Lagnier Blandois, my charming subject, you will get your money. You will make your fortune. You’ve lived like a gentleman; you’ll die like one too. You’re winning, my little boy; but it’s just in your nature to win. Whoof!’
In the hour of his triumph, his moustache went up and his nose came down, as he ogled a great beam over his head with particular satisfaction.
In his moment of victory, his mustache curled up and his nose dropped, as he stared at a big beam above him with special satisfaction.
CHAPTER 31. Closed
The sun had set, and the streets were dim in the dusty twilight, when the figure so long unused to them hurried on its way. In the immediate neighbourhood of the old house it attracted little attention, for there were only a few straggling people to notice it; but, ascending from the river by the crooked ways that led to London Bridge, and passing into the great main road, it became surrounded by astonishment.
The sun had set, and the streets were dim in the dusty twilight when the figure, long unfamiliar with them, hurried on its way. In the immediate area around the old house, it drew little attention, as there were only a few wandering people to notice it; but as it made its way up from the river via the winding paths that led to London Bridge and entered the main road, it became enveloped by surprise.
Resolute and wild of look, rapid of foot and yet weak and uncertain, conspicuously dressed in its black garments and with its hurried head-covering, gaunt and of an unearthly paleness, it pressed forward, taking no more heed of the throng than a sleep-walker. More remarkable by being so removed from the crowd it was among than if it had been lifted on a pedestal to be seen, the figure attracted all eyes. Saunterers pricked up their attention to observe it; busy people, crossing it, slackened their pace and turned their heads; companions pausing and standing aside, whispered one another to look at this spectral woman who was coming by; and the sweep of the figure as it passed seemed to create a vortex, drawing the most idle and most curious after it.
Determined and wild-looking, quick on its feet but still weak and uncertain, dressed prominently in black clothes and with a hastily worn head covering, it moved forward, paying no more attention to the crowd than a sleepwalker. More striking for being so distinct from the people around it than if it had been placed on a pedestal for everyone to see, the figure drew all eyes. Strollers perked up to take notice; busy people who crossed its path slowed down and turned their heads; companions who paused and stepped aside whispered to each other to check out this ghostly woman passing by; and the movement of the figure as it went seemed to create a pull, enticing the most idle and curious to follow.
Original
Made giddy by the turbulent irruption of this multitude of staring faces into her cell of years, by the confusing sensation of being in the air, and the yet more confusing sensation of being afoot, by the unexpected changes in half-remembered objects, and the want of likeness between the controllable pictures her imagination had often drawn of the life from which she was secluded and the overwhelming rush of the reality, she held her way as if she were environed by distracting thoughts, rather than by external humanity and observation. But, having crossed the bridge and gone some distance straight onward, she remembered that she must ask for a direction; and it was only then, when she stopped and turned to look about her for a promising place of inquiry, that she found herself surrounded by an eager glare of faces.
Made dizzy by the chaotic rush of all these staring faces into her space after so many years, by the confusing feeling of being in the open air, and the even stranger feeling of being on her feet, by the sudden changes in half-remembered things, and the lack of similarity between the clear images her imagination had often created of the life she was cut off from and the overwhelming flood of reality, she moved forward as if she were surrounded by distracting thoughts rather than by real people and their attention. But after crossing the bridge and walking a bit further, she realized she needed to ask for directions; and only then, when she paused and looked around for a good place to inquire, did she find herself surrounded by an eager crowd of faces.
‘Why are you encircling me?’ she asked, trembling.
‘Why are you surrounding me?’ she asked, trembling.
None of those who were nearest answered; but from the outer ring there arose a shrill cry of ‘’Cause you’re mad!’
None of those closest answered; but from the outer circle came a sharp shout of, "Because you're crazy!"
‘I am sure as sane as any one here. I want to find the Marshalsea prison.’
‘I’m as sane as anyone here. I want to find the Marshalsea prison.’
The shrill outer circle again retorted, ‘Then that ‘ud show you was mad if nothing else did, ‘cause it’s right opposite!’
The loud outer circle shot back, "Then that would prove you're mad, if nothing else did, because it's right in front of you!"
A short, mild, quiet-looking young man made his way through to her, as a whooping ensued on this reply, and said: ‘Was it the Marshalsea you wanted? I’m going on duty there. Come across with me.’
A short, mild, quiet-looking young man made his way to her, as cheers erupted at this reply, and said: ‘Did you want the Marshalsea? I’m heading there for my shift. Come with me.’
She laid her hand upon his arm, and he took her over the way; the crowd, rather injured by the near prospect of losing her, pressing before and behind and on either side, and recommending an adjournment to Bedlam. After a momentary whirl in the outer court-yard, the prison-door opened, and shut upon them. In the Lodge, which seemed by contrast with the outer noise a place of refuge and peace, a yellow lamp was already striving with the prison shadows.
She placed her hand on his arm, and he led her across the way; the crowd, feeling a bit hurt by the thought of losing her, pushed in from all sides, suggesting they take the party to Bedlam. After a brief flurry in the outside courtyard, the prison door opened and then closed behind them. Inside the Lodge, which felt like a safe haven compared to the noise outside, a yellow lamp was already trying to fight off the shadows of the prison.
‘Why, John!’ said the turnkey who admitted them. ‘What is it?’
‘Why, John!’ said the guard who let them in. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, father; only this lady not knowing her way, and being badgered by the boys. Who did you want, ma’am?’
‘Nothing, Dad; just this lady who’s lost and is being pestered by the boys. Who did you need, ma’am?’
‘Miss Dorrit. Is she here?’
"Is Miss Dorrit here?"
The young man became more interested. ‘Yes, she is here. What might your name be?’
The young man became more curious. “Yes, she’s here. What’s your name?”
‘Mrs Clennam.’
'Mrs. Clennam.'
‘Mr Clennam’s mother?’ asked the young man.
‘Mr. Clennam’s mom?’ asked the young man.
She pressed her lips together, and hesitated. ‘Yes. She had better be told it is his mother.’
She pressed her lips together and hesitated. ‘Yes. She should be told it’s his mother.’
‘You see,’ said the young man, ‘the Marshal’s family living in the country at present, the Marshal has given Miss Dorrit one of the rooms in his house to use when she likes. Don’t you think you had better come up there, and let me bring Miss Dorrit?’
"You see," said the young man, "the Marshal's family is living in the country right now, and the Marshal has given Miss Dorrit one of the rooms in his house to use whenever she wants. Don't you think you should come up there and let me bring Miss Dorrit?"
She signified her assent, and he unlocked a door and conducted her up a side staircase into a dwelling-house above. He showed her into a darkening room, and left her. The room looked down into the darkening prison-yard, with its inmates strolling here and there, leaning out of windows communing as much apart as they could with friends who were going away, and generally wearing out their imprisonment as they best might that summer evening. The air was heavy and hot; the closeness of the place, oppressive; and from without there arose a rush of free sounds, like the jarring memory of such things in a headache and heartache. She stood at the window, bewildered, looking down into this prison as it were out of her own different prison, when a soft word or two of surprise made her start, and Little Dorrit stood before her.
She nodded in agreement, and he unlocked a door, leading her up a side staircase into an apartment above. He showed her into a dimly lit room and then left her. The room overlooked a darkening prison yard, where the inmates wandered about, leaning out of windows and trying to connect with friends who were leaving, all doing their best to pass the time of their confinement on that summer evening. The air was heavy and hot; the closeness of the space was stifling, and outside, there was a rush of free sounds, like a jarring memory echoing through a headache and heartache. She stood by the window, confused, gazing down into this prison as if it were her own different prison, when a soft word or two of surprise made her jump, and Little Dorrit appeared before her.
‘Is it possible, Mrs Clennam, that you are so happily recovered as—’
‘Is it possible, Mrs. Clennam, that you’ve recovered so well as—’
Little Dorrit stopped, for there was neither happiness nor health in the face that turned to her.
Little Dorrit stopped, because there was no happiness or health in the face that looked at her.
‘This is not recovery; it is not strength; I don’t know what it is.’ With an agitated wave of her hand, she put all that aside. ‘You have a packet left with you which you were to give to Arthur, if it was not reclaimed before this place closed to-night.’
‘This isn’t recovery; it’s not strength; I don’t know what it is.’ With an annoyed wave of her hand, she dismissed it all. ‘You have a package with you that you were supposed to give to Arthur if it wasn’t picked up before this place closed tonight.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yep.’
‘I reclaim it.’
"I take it back."
Little Dorrit took it from her bosom, and gave it into her hand, which remained stretched out after receiving it.
Little Dorrit took it from her chest and placed it in her hand, which stayed outstretched after receiving it.
‘Have you any idea of its contents?’
‘Do you have any idea what's inside?’
Frightened by her being there with that new power Of Movement in her, which, as she said herself, was not strength, and which was unreal to look upon, as though a picture or statue had been animated, Little Dorrit answered ‘No.’
Frightened by her being there with that new power of movement in her, which, as she said herself, was not strength, and which looked unreal, as if a picture or statue had come to life, Little Dorrit answered ‘No.’
‘Read them.’
"Check them out."
Little Dorrit took the packet from the still outstretched hand, and broke the seal. Mrs Clennam then gave her the inner packet that was addressed to herself, and held the other. The shadow of the wall and of the prison buildings, which made the room sombre at noon, made it too dark to read there, with the dusk deepening apace, save in the window. In the window, where a little of the bright summer evening sky could shine upon her, Little Dorrit stood, and read. After a broken exclamation or so of wonder and of terror, she read in silence. When she had finished, she looked round, and her old mistress bowed herself before her.
Little Dorrit took the packet from the still outstretched hand and broke the seal. Mrs. Clennam then handed her the inner packet addressed to herself and held onto the other one. The shadows from the wall and the prison buildings made the room feel gloomy at noon, and it was too dark to read there as dusk quickly set in, except by the window. In the window, where a bit of the bright summer evening sky shone on her, Little Dorrit stood and read. After a few broken exclamations of wonder and fear, she read in silence. When she finished, she looked around, and her old mistress bowed before her.
‘You know, now, what I have done.’
‘You know now what I’ve done.’
‘I think so. I am afraid so; though my mind is so hurried, and so sorry, and has so much to pity that it has not been able to follow all I have read,’ said Little Dorrit tremulously.
‘I think so. I’m afraid so; though my mind is so rushed, and so sorrowful, and has so much to feel sorry for that it hasn’t been able to keep up with everything I’ve read,’ said Little Dorrit tremulously.
‘I will restore to you what I have withheld from you. Forgive me. Can you forgive me?’
‘I will give back to you what I have kept from you. Forgive me. Can you forgive me?’
‘I can, and Heaven knows I do! Do not kiss my dress and kneel to me; you are too old to kneel to me; I forgive you freely without that.’
‘I can, and Heaven knows I do! Don’t kiss my dress and kneel to me; you’re too old to kneel to me; I forgive you without that.’
‘I have more yet to ask.’
‘I have more questions to ask.’
‘Not in that posture,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘It is unnatural to see your grey hair lower than mine. Pray rise; let me help you.’ With that she raised her up, and stood rather shrinking from her, but looking at her earnestly.
‘Not like that,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘It feels strange to see your grey hair lower than mine. Please get up; let me help you.’ With that, she lifted her up and stood a bit shyly away from her, but looked at her intently.
‘The great petition that I make to you (there is another which grows out of it), the great supplication that I address to your merciful and gentle heart, is, that you will not disclose this to Arthur until I am dead. If you think, when you have had time for consideration, that it can do him any good to know it while I am yet alive, then tell him. But you will not think that; and in such case, will you promise me to spare me until I am dead?’
‘The big request I have for you (there’s another that comes from it), the deep plea I make to your kind and gentle heart, is that you won’t tell Arthur about this until I’m gone. If, after some thought, you believe it would help him to know while I’m still alive, then go ahead and tell him. But I doubt you’ll think that, and in that case, will you promise me to keep this from him until I’m dead?’
‘I am so sorry, and what I have read has so confused my thoughts,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘that I can scarcely give you a steady answer. If I should be quite sure that to be acquainted with it will do Mr Clennam no good—’
‘I’m really sorry, and what I’ve read has totally confused me,’ Little Dorrit replied, ‘that I can hardly give you a clear answer. If I were completely sure that knowing this wouldn’t help Mr. Clennam—’
‘I know you are attached to him, and will make him the first consideration. It is right that he should be the first consideration. I ask that. But, having regarded him, and still finding that you may spare me for the little time I shall remain on earth, will you do it?’
‘I know you care about him and will prioritize him. It's only right that he should come first. I ask that you do. But, after considering him, and if you think you can spare me for the short time I have left on this earth, will you do it?’
‘I will.’
"I will."
‘GOD bless you!’
"God bless you!"
She stood in the shadow so that she was only a veiled form to Little Dorrit in the light; but the sound of her voice, in saying those three grateful words, was at once fervent and broken—broken by emotion as unfamiliar to her frozen eyes as action to her frozen limbs.
She stood in the shadows, making her just a hidden figure to Little Dorrit in the light; but the sound of her voice, when she said those three grateful words, was both passionate and shaky—shaky from emotions that were as unfamiliar to her cold eyes as movement was to her stiff limbs.
‘You will wonder, perhaps,’ she said in a stronger tone, ‘that I can better bear to be known to you whom I have wronged, than to the son of my enemy who wronged me.—For she did wrong me! She not only sinned grievously against the Lord, but she wronged me. What Arthur’s father was to me, she made him. From our marriage day I was his dread, and that she made me. I was the scourge of both, and that is referable to her. You love Arthur (I can see the blush upon your face; may it be the dawn of happier days to both of you!), and you will have thought already that he is as merciful and kind as you, and why do I not trust myself to him as soon as to you. Have you not thought so?’
"You might wonder," she said more firmly, "why I find it easier to be known by you, whom I have wronged, than by the son of my enemy who wronged me. Because she did wrong me! She didn't just sin seriously against the Lord; she wronged me. What Arthur’s father was to me, she created. From the day we got married, he feared me, and she made that happen. I was a punishment for both of them, and that’s because of her. You love Arthur (I can see you blushing; may it be the start of happier times for both of you!), and you might have thought already that he is as forgiving and kind as you are, so why don’t I trust myself to him as quickly as I do to you? Haven’t you thought about that?"
‘No thought,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘can be quite a stranger to my heart, that springs out of the knowledge that Mr Clennam is always to be relied upon for being kind and generous and good.’
‘No thought,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘can be completely foreign to my heart, that comes from knowing that Mr. Clennam can always be counted on to be kind, generous, and good.’
‘I do not doubt it. Yet Arthur is, of the whole world, the one person from whom I would conceal this, while I am in it. I kept over him as a child, in the days of his first remembrance, my restraining and correcting hand. I was stern with him, knowing that the transgressions of the parents are visited on their offspring, and that there was an angry mark upon him at his birth. I have sat with him and his father, seeing the weakness of his father yearning to unbend to him; and forcing it back, that the child might work out his release in bondage and hardship. I have seen him, with his mother’s face, looking up at me in awe from his little books, and trying to soften me with his mother’s ways that hardened me.’
‘I don't doubt it. But Arthur is, out of everyone in the world, the one person I would hide this from while I'm involved. I guided him as a child, during the earliest days of his memory, with a firm and corrective hand. I was tough on him, knowing that parents' mistakes affect their kids, and that he had an angry mark on him from birth. I’ve sat with him and his father, watching his father's weakness wanting to relax around him; and I held it back so the child could earn his freedom through struggle and hardship. I’ve seen him, with his mother’s face, looking up at me in awe from his little books, trying to soften me with his mother’s gentle ways that only made me tougher.’
The shrinking of her auditress stopped her for a moment in her flow of words, delivered in a retrospective gloomy voice.
The shrinking of her auditor made her pause for a moment in her flow of words, which were spoken in a somber, reflective tone.
‘For his good. Not for the satisfaction of my injury. What was I, and what was the worth of that, before the curse of Heaven! I have seen that child grow up; not to be pious in a chosen way (his mother’s influence lay too heavy on him for that), but still to be just and upright, and to be submissive to me. He never loved me, as I once half-hoped he might—so frail we are, and so do the corrupt affections of the flesh war with our trusts and tasks; but he always respected me and ordered himself dutifully to me. He does to this hour. With an empty place in his heart that he has never known the meaning of, he has turned away from me and gone his separate road; but even that he has done considerately and with deference. These have been his relations towards me. Yours have been of a much slighter kind, spread over a much shorter time. When you have sat at your needle in my room, you have been in fear of me, but you have supposed me to have been doing you a kindness; you are better informed now, and know me to have done you an injury. Your misconstruction and misunderstanding of the cause in which, and the motives with which, I have worked out this work, is lighter to endure than his would be. I would not, for any worldly recompense I can imagine, have him in a moment, however blindly, throw me down from the station I have held before him all his life, and change me altogether into something he would cast out of his respect, and think detected and exposed. Let him do it, if it must be done, when I am not here to see it. Let me never feel, while I am still alive, that I die before his face, and utterly perish away from him, like one consumed by lightning and swallowed by an earthquake.’
‘For his own good. Not to satisfy my hurt. What was I, and what was my worth, before the curse of Heaven! I have watched that child grow up; not to be pious in a chosen way (his mother’s influence weighed too heavily on him for that), but still to be just and upright, and to be obedient to me. He never loved me, as I once half-hoped he might—how frail we are, and how the corrupt affections of the flesh clash with our trusts and duties; but he always respected me and behaved dutifully towards me. He still does to this day. With an empty space in his heart that he has never understood, he has turned away from me and taken his own path; but even then, he did so with thoughtfulness and respect. These have been his feelings toward me. Yours have been of a much lesser nature, spread over a much shorter period. When you sat sewing in my room, you were afraid of me, but you thought I was being kind; you understand now, and you know I have caused you harm. Your misunderstanding of the reasons and motives behind my actions is easier to bear than his would be. I wouldn’t, for any worldly reward I can imagine, want him to, even for a moment, take away the position I have held in front of him all his life and transform me into something he would reject and think exposed and found out. Let him do it if it has to happen, when I’m not here to see it. Let me never feel, while I'm still alive, that I’m dying in front of him, completely disappearing from his view, like someone consumed by lightning and swallowed by an earthquake.’
Her pride was very strong in her, the pain of it and of her old passions was very sharp with her, when she thus expressed herself. Not less so, when she added:
Her pride was intense, and the pain from it and her past passions hit her hard as she spoke. It was just as strong when she continued:
‘Even now, I see you shrink from me, as if I had been cruel.’
‘Even now, I see you pull away from me, as if I had been unkind.’
Little Dorrit could not gainsay it. She tried not to show it, but she recoiled with dread from the state of mind that had burnt so fiercely and lasted so long. It presented itself to her, with no sophistry upon it, in its own plain nature.
Little Dorrit couldn't deny it. She tried not to let it show, but she pulled back in fear from the mindset that had burned so intensely and lasted so long. It appeared to her, with no excuses, in its own straightforward nature.
‘I have done,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘what it was given to me to do. I have set myself against evil; not against good. I have been an instrument of severity against sin. Have not mere sinners like myself been commissioned to lay it low in all time?’
‘I have done,’ said Mrs. Clennam, ‘what I was meant to do. I have stood against evil; not against good. I have acted as a force of severity against sin. Haven’t ordinary sinners like me been tasked with bringing it down throughout history?’
‘In all time?’ repeated Little Dorrit.
‘In all time?’ repeated Little Dorrit.
‘Even if my own wrong had prevailed with me, and my own vengeance had moved me, could I have found no justification? None in the old days when the innocent perished with the guilty, a thousand to one? When the wrath of the hater of the unrighteous was not slaked even in blood, and yet found favour?’
‘Even if my own wrong had taken over and my desire for revenge had driven me, could I have found no justification? None in the past when the innocent suffered alongside the guilty, a thousand to one? When the anger of the one who hates the wicked wasn't satisfied even with blood, and yet still received approval?’
‘O, Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘angry feelings and unforgiving deeds are no comfort and no guide to you and me. My life has been passed in this poor prison, and my teaching has been very defective; but let me implore you to remember later and better days. Be guided only by the healer of the sick, the raiser of the dead, the friend of all who were afflicted and forlorn, the patient Master who shed tears of compassion for our infirmities. We cannot but be right if we put all the rest away, and do everything in remembrance of Him. There is no vengeance and no infliction of suffering in His life, I am sure. There can be no confusion in following Him, and seeking for no other footsteps, I am certain.’
“O, Mrs. Clennam, Mrs. Clennam,” said Little Dorrit, “holding onto anger and refusing to forgive won't bring you or me any comfort or clarity. I've spent my life in this poor prison, and my lessons haven't been great; but please, I urge you to think of happier, better times. Let’s take guidance only from the healer of the sick, the one who raised the dead, the friend of all who are suffering and alone, the patient Master who wept for our weaknesses. If we set everything else aside and act in memory of Him, we can’t go wrong. There’s no revenge and no inflicting of pain in His life, I’m sure of that. Following Him and not looking for anyone else's path can only lead to clarity, I’m certain.”
In the softened light of the window, looking from the scene of her early trials to the shining sky, she was not in stronger opposition to the black figure in the shade than the life and doctrine on which she rested were to that figure’s history. It bent its head low again, and said not a word. It remained thus, until the first warning bell began to ring.
In the dim light from the window, gazing from the struggles of her past to the bright sky, she wasn’t any more opposed to the dark figure in the shadow than the beliefs and teachings she clung to were to that figure’s past. It lowered its head again and didn’t say a word. It stayed like that until the first warning bell started to ring.
‘Hark!’ cried Mrs Clennam starting, ‘I said I had another petition. It is one that does not admit of delay. The man who brought you this packet and possesses these proofs, is now waiting at my house to be bought off. I can keep this from Arthur, only by buying him off. He asks a large sum; more than I can get together to pay him without having time. He refuses to make any abatement, because his threat is, that if he fails with me, he will come to you. Will you return with me and show him that you already know it? Will you return with me and try to prevail with him? Will you come and help me with him? Do not refuse what I ask in Arthur’s name, though I dare not ask it for Arthur’s sake!’
“Listen!” Mrs. Clennam exclaimed, startled. “I said I had another request. It’s urgent. The man who delivered this packet and has these documents is waiting at my house to be bribed. I can keep this from Arthur only by paying him off. He’s asking for a large amount; more than I can gather in time. He won’t lower his demand because his threat is that if he doesn't get what he wants from me, he’ll come to you. Will you come back with me and show him that you already know? Will you come back and try to convince him? Will you help me with this? Please don't refuse what I’m asking for Arthur’s sake, even though I can’t ask it directly for him!”
Little Dorrit yielded willingly. She glided away into the prison for a few moments, returned, and said she was ready to go. They went out by another staircase, avoiding the lodge; and coming into the front court-yard, now all quiet and deserted, gained the street.
Little Dorrit agreed without hesitation. She slipped into the prison for a few moments, came back, and said she was ready to leave. They took another staircase to avoid the lodge, and as they stepped into the front courtyard, which was now calm and empty, they made their way to the street.
It was one of those summer evenings when there is no greater darkness than a long twilight. The vista of street and bridge was plain to see, and the sky was serene and beautiful. People stood and sat at their doors, playing with children and enjoying the evening; numbers were walking for air; the worry of the day had almost worried itself out, and few but themselves were hurried. As they crossed the bridge, the clear steeples of the many churches looked as if they had advanced out of the murk that usually enshrouded them, and come much nearer. The smoke that rose into the sky had lost its dingy hue and taken a brightness upon it. The beauties of the sunset had not faded from the long light films of cloud that lay at peace in the horizon. From a radiant centre, over the whole length and breadth of the tranquil firmament, great shoots of light streamed among the early stars, like signs of the blessed later covenant of peace and hope that changed the crown of thorns into a glory.
It was one of those summer evenings when the twilight seemed to stretch endlessly into darkness. The view of the street and bridge was clear, and the sky was calm and beautiful. People relaxed at their doorsteps, playing with their kids and enjoying the evening; many were out for a breath of fresh air; the stress of the day was almost forgotten, and only a few seemed rushed. As they crossed the bridge, the spires of the various churches appeared to emerge from the haze that usually surrounded them, looking much closer. The smoke rising into the sky had lost its dull color and taken on a brightness. The beauty of the sunset lingered on the soft clouds resting on the horizon. From a bright center, beams of light streamed across the peaceful sky, mingling with the early stars, like signs of the blessed covenant of peace and hope that transformed the crown of thorns into glory.
Less remarkable, now that she was not alone and it was darker, Mrs Clennam hurried on at Little Dorrit’s side, unmolested. They left the great thoroughfare at the turning by which she had entered it, and wound their way down among the silent, empty, cross-streets. Their feet were at the gateway, when there was a sudden noise like thunder.
Less notable, now that she was not alone and it was darker, Mrs. Clennam hurried on beside Little Dorrit, without any disturbance. They left the busy main road at the turn she had come in on and made their way through the quiet, empty side streets. They were at the gateway when there was a sudden noise like thunder.
‘What was that! Let us make haste in,’ cried Mrs Clennam.
“What was that! Let’s hurry inside,” exclaimed Mrs. Clennam.
They were in the gateway. Little Dorrit, with a piercing cry, held her back.
They were at the entrance. Little Dorrit, with a sharp cry, stopped her.
In one swift instant the old house was before them, with the man lying smoking in the window; another thundering sound, and it heaved, surged outward, opened asunder in fifty places, collapsed, and fell. Deafened by the noise, stifled, choked, and blinded by the dust, they hid their faces and stood rooted to the spot. The dust storm, driving between them and the placid sky, parted for a moment and showed them the stars. As they looked up, wildly crying for help, the great pile of chimneys, which was then alone left standing like a tower in a whirlwind, rocked, broke, and hailed itself down upon the heap of ruin, as if every tumbling fragment were intent on burying the crushed wretch deeper.
In an instant, the old house appeared before them, with the man lying there, smoking in the window; then came another loud sound, and the house heaved, surged outward, opened up in fifty places, collapsed, and fell. Deafened by the noise, stifled, choked, and blinded by the dust, they covered their faces and stood frozen in place. The dust storm, driving between them and the calm sky, parted for a moment to reveal the stars. As they looked up, desperately crying for help, the massive pile of chimneys, the only thing left standing like a tower in a whirlwind, swayed, broke, and crashed down onto the heap of ruins, as if every falling piece was determined to bury the crushed person even deeper.
So blackened by the flying particles of rubbish as to be unrecognisable, they ran back from the gateway into the street, crying and shrieking. There, Mrs Clennam dropped upon the stones; and she never from that hour moved so much as a finger again, or had the power to speak one word. For upwards of three years she reclined in a wheeled chair, looking attentively at those about her and appearing to understand what they said; but the rigid silence she had so long held was evermore enforced upon her, and except that she could move her eyes and faintly express a negative and affirmative with her head, she lived and died a statue.
So covered in flying debris that they were unrecognizable, they ran back from the gate into the street, crying and screaming. There, Mrs. Clennam collapsed onto the ground; from that moment on, she didn’t move a single finger again or have the ability to say a word. For over three years, she sat in a wheelchair, watching those around her and seeming to understand what they said; but the strict silence she had kept for so long was forever imposed on her, and apart from being able to move her eyes and faintly nod or shake her head, she lived and died like a statue.
Affery had been looking for them at the prison, and had caught sight of them at a distance on the bridge. She came up to receive her old mistress in her arms, to help to carry her into a neighbouring house, and to be faithful to her. The mystery of the noises was out now; Affery, like greater people, had always been right in her facts, and always wrong in the theories she deduced from them.
Affery had been searching for them at the prison and spotted them from afar on the bridge. She approached to embrace her former mistress, to help carry her into a nearby house, and to be loyal to her. The mystery of the noises was revealed now; Affery, like many others, had always been accurate in her observations but consistently missed the mark with the conclusions she drew from them.
When the storm of dust had cleared away and the summer night was calm again, numbers of people choked up every avenue of access, and parties of diggers were formed to relieve one another in digging among the ruins. There had been a hundred people in the house at the time of its fall, there had been fifty, there had been fifteen, there had been two. Rumour finally settled the number at two; the foreigner and Mr Flintwinch.
When the dust storm finally settled and the summer night was calm again, crowds of people filled every access point, and groups of miners started taking turns digging through the rubble. There were a hundred people in the house when it fell, then there were fifty, then fifteen, and then two. Eventually, rumors confirmed the number was two: the foreigner and Mr. Flintwinch.
The diggers dug all through the short night by flaring pipes of gas, and on a level with the early sun, and deeper and deeper below it as it rose into its zenith, and aslant of it as it declined, and on a level with it again as it departed. Sturdy digging, and shovelling, and carrying away, in carts, barrows, and baskets, went on without intermission, by night and by day; but it was night for the second time when they found the dirty heap of rubbish that had been the foreigner before his head had been shivered to atoms, like so much glass, by the great beam that lay upon him, crushing him.
The diggers worked through the short night with gas flares lighting their way, and as the sun rose higher, they dug deeper and deeper below it. They kept working as it set, and then at the same level as it faded away. They were digging, shoveling, and hauling away dirt continuously, day and night. When it was night again for the second time, they discovered the filthy pile of debris that had once been the foreigner, before his head was shattered into pieces like glass by the heavy beam that had fallen on him, crushing him.
Still, they had not come upon Flintwinch yet; so the sturdy digging and shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission by night and by day. It got about that the old house had had famous cellarage (which indeed was true), and that Flintwinch had been in a cellar at the moment, or had had time to escape into one, and that he was safe under its strong arch, and even that he had been heard to cry, in hollow, subterranean, suffocated notes, ‘Here I am!’ At the opposite extremity of the town it was even known that the excavators had been able to open a communication with him through a pipe, and that he had received both soup and brandy by that channel, and that he had said with admirable fortitude that he was All right, my lads, with the exception of his collar-bone. But the digging and shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission, until the ruins were all dug out, and the cellars opened to the light; and still no Flintwinch, living or dead, all right or all wrong, had been turned up by pick or spade.
They still hadn’t found Flintwinch yet, so the hard work of digging, shoveling, and hauling away continued non-stop, day and night. Word got around that the old house had an amazing cellar (which was true), and that Flintwinch had either been in a cellar at that moment or had managed to escape to one. People said he was safe under its strong arch, and some even claimed they heard him calling out in a hollow, underground voice, “Here I am!” At the other end of town, it became known that the diggers had managed to open a connection with him through a pipe, and that he had received soup and brandy that way. He supposedly said with great courage that he was fine, except for his collar bone. But the digging, shoveling, and hauling continued without pause until all the ruins were cleared and the cellars exposed to daylight; yet still, no Flintwinch, living or dead, and whether okay or not, had been found by pick or spade.
It began then to be perceived that Flintwinch had not been there at the time of the fall; and it began then to be perceived that he had been rather busy elsewhere, converting securities into as much money as could be got for them on the shortest notice, and turning to his own exclusive account his authority to act for the Firm. Affery, remembering that the clever one had said he would explain himself further in four-and-twenty hours’ time, determined for her part that his taking himself off within that period with all he could get, was the final satisfactory sum and substance of his promised explanation; but she held her peace, devoutly thankful to be quit of him. As it seemed reasonable to conclude that a man who had never been buried could not be unburied, the diggers gave him up when their task was done, and did not dig down for him into the depths of the earth.
It started to become clear that Flintwinch hadn’t been there when the fall happened; it was also clear that he had been quite busy elsewhere, converting securities into as much cash as he could get on short notice and using his authority to act for the Firm solely for his own benefit. Affery, recalling that the clever one had said he would explain himself further in twenty-four hours, decided that his leaving within that time with everything he could take was the final and satisfactory conclusion to his promised explanation; but she kept quiet, truly grateful to be done with him. Since it was reasonable to conclude that a man who had never been buried couldn’t be unburied, the diggers gave up on him when their job was finished and didn’t dig down into the depths of the earth for him.
This was taken in ill part by a great many people, who persisted in believing that Flintwinch was lying somewhere among the London geological formation. Nor was their belief much shaken by repeated intelligence which came over in course of time, that an old man who wore the tie of his neckcloth under one ear, and who was very well known to be an Englishman, consorted with the Dutchmen on the quaint banks of the canals of the Hague and in the drinking-shops of Amsterdam, under the style and designation of Mynheer von Flyntevynge.
Many people took this the wrong way, continuing to believe that Flintwinch was hiding somewhere in the London area. Their belief wasn’t significantly shaken by the news that eventually came through: an old man, known to be English and who wore his necktie under one ear, was seen spending time with the Dutch on the charming banks of the canals in The Hague and in the bars of Amsterdam, going by the name Mynheer von Flyntevynge.
CHAPTER 32. Going
Arthur continuing to lie very ill in the Marshalsea, and Mr Rugg descrying no break in the legal sky affording a hope of his enlargement, Mr Pancks suffered desperately from self-reproaches. If it had not been for those infallible figures which proved that Arthur, instead of pining in imprisonment, ought to be promenading in a carriage and pair, and that Mr Pancks, instead of being restricted to his clerkly wages, ought to have from three to five thousand pounds of his own at his immediate disposal, that unhappy arithmetician would probably have taken to his bed, and there have made one of the many obscure persons who turned their faces to the wall and died, as a last sacrifice to the late Mr Merdle’s greatness. Solely supported by his unimpugnable calculations, Mr Pancks led an unhappy and restless life; constantly carrying his figures about with him in his hat, and not only going over them himself on every possible occasion, but entreating every human being he could lay hold of to go over them with him, and observe what a clear case it was. Down in Bleeding Heart Yard there was scarcely an inhabitant of note to whom Mr Pancks had not imparted his demonstration, and, as figures are catching, a kind of cyphering measles broke out in that locality, under the influence of which the whole Yard was light-headed.
Arthur remained extremely ill in the Marshalsea, and since Mr. Rugg saw no sign of hope for Arthur's release, Mr. Pancks was tormented by guilt. If it hadn't been for those undeniable figures showing that Arthur, instead of wasting away in jail, should be riding in a fancy carriage, and that Mr. Pancks, instead of living off his small salary, should have between three to five thousand pounds of his own available, that miserable accountant might have crawled into bed and become one of the many faceless people who turned their backs to the world and died, making one last tribute to the late Mr. Merdle's greatness. Relying solely on his irrefutable calculations, Mr. Pancks lived a troubled and restless life; he kept his figures with him in his hat, constantly reviewing them at any chance he got and pleading with everyone he could find to go over them together and see how clear-cut it was. Down in Bleeding Heart Yard, there was hardly a notable resident who hadn’t heard his argument, and as figures tend to spread, a sort of math fever took hold in that area, leaving everyone feeling a bit delirious.
The more restless Mr Pancks grew in his mind, the more impatient he became of the Patriarch. In their later conferences his snorting assumed an irritable sound which boded the Patriarch no good; likewise, Mr Pancks had on several occasions looked harder at the Patriarchal bumps than was quite reconcilable with the fact of his not being a painter, or a peruke-maker in search of the living model.
The more restless Mr. Pancks felt in his mind, the more impatient he got with the Patriarch. In their later meetings, his snorting took on an annoyed tone that didn't bode well for the Patriarch; also, Mr. Pancks had on several occasions stared at the Patriarch's bumps in a way that didn’t quite fit with the fact that he wasn’t a painter or a wig maker looking for a live model.
However, he steamed in and out of his little back Dock according as he was wanted or not wanted in the Patriarchal presence, and business had gone on in its customary course. Bleeding Heart Yard had been harrowed by Mr Pancks, and cropped by Mr Casby, at the regular seasons; Mr Pancks had taken all the drudgery and all the dirt of the business as his share; Mr Casby had taken all the profits, all the ethereal vapour, and all the moonshine, as his share; and, in the form of words which that benevolent beamer generally employed on Saturday evenings, when he twirled his fat thumbs after striking the week’s balance, ‘everything had been satisfactory to all parties—all parties—satisfactory, sir, to all parties.’
However, he came and went from his little back dock depending on whether he was needed in the Patriarch's presence or not, and business continued as usual. Bleeding Heart Yard had been worked over by Mr. Pancks and harvested by Mr. Casby at the usual times; Mr. Pancks handled all the grunt work and mess of the business as his share; Mr. Casby took all the profits, all the fine details, and all the illusions as his share; and, in the phrase that that benevolent man usually used on Saturday evenings when he twirled his pudgy thumbs after counting the week’s balance, "everything had been satisfactory to all parties—all parties—satisfactory, sir, to all parties.”
The Dock of the Steam-Tug, Pancks, had a leaden roof, which, frying in the very hot sunshine, may have heated the vessel. Be that as it may, one glowing Saturday evening, on being hailed by the lumbering bottle-green ship, the Tug instantly came working out of the Dock in a highly heated condition.
The dock of the steam-tug Pancks had a heavy roof that, baking in the intense sunshine, might have warmed the vessel. Whatever the case, one hot Saturday evening, when the clumsy bottle-green ship called out, the tug quickly emerged from the dock in a very heated state.
‘Mr Pancks,’ was the Patriarchal remark, ‘you have been remiss, you have been remiss, sir.’
‘Mr. Pancks,’ was the Patriarchal remark, ‘you have been careless, you have been careless, sir.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ was the short rejoinder.
"What do you mean by that?" was the quick reply.
The Patriarchal state, always a state of calmness and composure, was so particularly serene that evening as to be provoking. Everybody else within the bills of mortality was hot; but the Patriarch was perfectly cool. Everybody was thirsty, and the Patriarch was drinking. There was a fragrance of limes or lemons about him; and he made a drink of golden sherry, which shone in a large tumbler as if he were drinking the evening sunshine. This was bad, but not the worst. The worst was, that with his big blue eyes, and his polished head, and his long white hair, and his bottle-green legs stretched out before him, terminating in his easy shoes easily crossed at the instep, he had a radiant appearance of having in his extensive benevolence made the drink for the human species, while he himself wanted nothing but his own milk of human kindness.
The Patriarchal state, always calm and composed, felt particularly serene that evening, almost annoyingly so. While everyone else was sweating, the Patriarch remained perfectly cool. Everyone was thirsty, and the Patriarch was sipping on a drink. There was a scent of limes or lemons around him, and he made a glass of golden sherry, which sparkled in a large tumbler as if he were drinking the evening sunshine. This was bad, but not the worst part. The worst part was that with his big blue eyes, polished head, and long white hair, plus his bottle-green legs stretched out comfortably in his easy shoes, he had a radiant look that suggested he had, out of his great generosity, made the drink for everyone else, while he only desired his own milk of human kindness.
Wherefore, Mr Pancks said, ‘What do you mean by that?’ and put his hair up with both hands, in a highly portentous manner.
Wherefore, Mr. Pancks said, “What do you mean by that?” and puffed his hair up with both hands in a very dramatic way.
‘I mean, Mr Pancks, that you must be sharper with the people, sharper with the people, much sharper with the people, sir. You don’t squeeze them. You don’t squeeze them. Your receipts are not up to the mark. You must squeeze them, sir, or our connection will not continue to be as satisfactory as I could wish it to be to all parties. All parties.’
‘I mean, Mr. Pancks, that you need to be tougher with the people, tougher with the people, a lot tougher with the people, sir. You’re not pushing them hard enough. You’re not pushing them hard enough. Your earnings aren’t up to standard. You have to push them, sir, or our partnership won’t remain as satisfactory as I’d like it to be for everyone involved. Everyone involved.’
‘Don’t I squeeze ‘em?’ retorted Mr Pancks. ‘What else am I made for?’
‘Don’t I squeeze them?’ replied Mr. Pancks. ‘What else am I here for?’
‘You are made for nothing else, Mr Pancks. You are made to do your duty, but you don’t do your duty. You are paid to squeeze, and you must squeeze to pay.’ The Patriarch so much surprised himself by this brilliant turn, after Dr Johnson, which he had not in the least expected or intended, that he laughed aloud; and repeated with great satisfaction, as he twirled his thumbs and nodded at his youthful portrait, ‘Paid to squeeze, sir, and must squeeze to pay.’
‘You’re meant for nothing else, Mr. Pancks. You’re meant to do your duty, but you don’t. You’re getting paid to squeeze, so you need to squeeze to earn your pay.’ The Patriarch was so surprised by this clever remark, after Dr. Johnson, that he hadn’t anticipated or intended, that he laughed out loud; and he repeated with great satisfaction, while twirling his thumbs and nodding at his youthful portrait, ‘Paid to squeeze, sir, and must squeeze to pay.’
‘Oh,’ said Pancks. ‘Anything more?’
“Oh,” said Pancks. “Anything else?”
‘Yes, sir, yes, sir. Something more. You will please, Mr Pancks, to squeeze the Yard again, the first thing on Monday morning.’
‘Yes, sir, yes, sir. One more thing. Please, Mr. Pancks, squeeze the Yard again first thing Monday morning.’
‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘Ain’t that too soon? I squeezed it dry to-day.’
‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘Isn’t that too soon? I squeezed it dry today.’
‘Nonsense, sir. Not near the mark, not near the mark.’
‘That’s nonsense, sir. Not even close, not even close.’
‘Oh!’ said Pancks, watching him as he benevolently gulped down a good draught of his mixture. ‘Anything more?’
‘Oh!’ said Pancks, watching him as he kindly gulped down a big swig of his drink. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, something more. I am not at all pleased, Mr Pancks, with my daughter; not at all pleased. Besides calling much too often to inquire for Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam, who is not just now in circumstances that are by any means calculated to—to be satisfactory to all parties, she goes, Mr Pancks, unless I am much deceived, to inquire for Mr Clennam in jail. In jail.’
‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, there’s more. I’m really not happy with my daughter, Mr. Pancks; really not happy at all. Besides visiting way too often to ask about Mrs. Clennam—who isn't exactly in a situation that's good for anyone—she goes, Mr. Pancks, unless I’m mistaken, to ask about Mr. Clennam in jail. In jail.’
‘He’s laid up, you know,’ said Pancks. ‘Perhaps it’s kind.’
‘He’s stuck at home, you know,’ said Pancks. ‘Maybe it’s nice.’
‘Pooh, pooh, Mr Pancks. She has nothing to do with that, nothing to do with that. I can’t allow it. Let him pay his debts and come out, come out; pay his debts, and come out.’
‘Pooh, pooh, Mr. Pancks. She has nothing to do with that, nothing to do with that. I can’t let this happen. Let him pay his debts and come out, come out; pay his debts, and come out.’
Although Mr Pancks’s hair was standing up like strong wire, he gave it another double-handed impulse in the perpendicular direction, and smiled at his proprietor in a most hideous manner.
Although Mr. Pancks's hair was sticking up like stiff wire, he gave it another forceful push upward and smiled at his boss in a very unsettling way.
‘You will please to mention to my daughter, Mr Pancks, that I can’t allow it, can’t allow it,’ said the Patriarch blandly.
‘Please let my daughter know, Mr. Pancks, that I can’t permit it, can’t permit it,’ said the Patriarch smoothly.
‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘You couldn’t mention it yourself?’
‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘You couldn’t say it yourself?’
‘No, sir, no; you are paid to mention it,’ the blundering old booby could not resist the temptation of trying it again, ‘and you must mention it to pay, mention it to pay.’
‘No, sir, no; you’re getting paid to bring it up,’ the clueless old fool couldn’t resist the urge to try again, ‘and you have to bring it up to get paid, bring it up to get paid.’
‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘Anything more?’
‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. It appears to me, Mr Pancks, that you yourself are too often and too much in that direction, that direction. I recommend you, Mr Pancks, to dismiss from your attention both your own losses and other people’s losses, and to mind your business, mind your business.’
‘Yes, sir. It seems to me, Mr. Pancks, that you are often too focused on that direction. I suggest you, Mr. Pancks, let go of your own losses and the losses of others, and focus on your own business, focus on your business.’
Mr Pancks acknowledged this recommendation with such an extraordinarily abrupt, short, and loud utterance of the monosyllable ‘Oh!’ that even the unwieldy Patriarch moved his blue eyes in something of a hurry, to look at him. Mr Pancks, with a sniff of corresponding intensity, then added, ‘Anything more?’
Mr. Pancks accepted this suggestion with such a surprisingly abrupt, brief, and loud exclamation of the single syllable ‘Oh!’ that even the bulky Patriarch quickly turned his blue eyes toward him. Mr. Pancks, with a sniff of equal intensity, then added, ‘Anything else?’
‘Not at present, sir, not at present. I am going,’ said the Patriarch, finishing his mixture, and rising with an amiable air, ‘to take a little stroll, a little stroll. Perhaps I shall find you here when I come back. If not, sir, duty, duty; squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, on Monday; squeeze on Monday!’
“Not right now, sir, not right now. I’m going,” said the Patriarch, finishing his drink and getting up with a friendly smile, “to take a short walk, a short walk. Maybe I’ll find you here when I get back. If not, sir, duty calls; squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, on Monday; squeeze on Monday!”
Mr Pancks, after another stiffening of his hair, looked on at the Patriarchal assumption of the broad-brimmed hat, with a momentary appearance of indecision contending with a sense of injury. He was also hotter than at first, and breathed harder. But he suffered Mr Casby to go out, without offering any further remark, and then took a peep at him over the little green window-blinds. ‘I thought so,’ he observed. ‘I knew where you were bound to. Good!’ He then steamed back to his Dock, put it carefully in order, took down his hat, looked round the Dock, said ‘Good-bye!’ and puffed away on his own account. He steered straight for Mrs Plornish’s end of Bleeding Heart Yard, and arrived there, at the top of the steps, hotter than ever.
Mr. Pancks, after arranging his hair again, watched as the patriarchal figure put on the broad-brimmed hat, momentarily torn between uncertainty and a feeling of being wronged. He was also feeling much hotter than before and was breathing heavily. However, he let Mr. Casby leave without saying anything more, then peeked at him over the little green window blinds. “I knew it,” he said. “I knew where you were headed. Good!” He then returned to his Dock, tidied it up carefully, took down his hat, glanced around the Dock, said “Good-bye!” and puffed away on his own. He headed straight for Mrs. Plornish’s end of Bleeding Heart Yard and got there, at the top of the steps, feeling even hotter.
At the top of the steps, resisting Mrs Plornish’s invitations to come and sit along with father in Happy Cottage—which to his relief were not so numerous as they would have been on any other night than Saturday, when the connection who so gallantly supported the business with everything but money gave their orders freely—at the top of the steps Mr Pancks remained until he beheld the Patriarch, who always entered the Yard at the other end, slowly advancing, beaming, and surrounded by suitors. Then Mr Pancks descended and bore down upon him, with his utmost pressure of steam on.
At the top of the steps, Mr. Pancks declined Mrs. Plornish's invitations to come and sit with his father in Happy Cottage—which, to his relief, were not as frequent as they might have been on any other night except Saturday, when the relatives who generously supported the business with everything except cash placed their orders freely. At the top of the steps, Mr. Pancks stayed put until he saw the Patriarch, who always entered the Yard from the other end, slowly coming forward, smiling, and surrounded by admirers. Then Mr. Pancks went down and approached him with all his effort.
The Patriarch, approaching with his usual benignity, was surprised to see Mr Pancks, but supposed him to have been stimulated to an immediate squeeze instead of postponing that operation until Monday. The population of the Yard were astonished at the meeting, for the two powers had never been seen there together, within the memory of the oldest Bleeding Heart. But they were overcome by unutterable amazement when Mr Pancks, going close up to the most venerable of men and halting in front of the bottle-green waistcoat, made a trigger of his right thumb and forefinger, applied the same to the brim of the broad-brimmed hat, and, with singular smartness and precision, shot it off the polished head as if it had been a large marble.
The Patriarch, approaching with his usual kindness, was surprised to see Mr. Pancks but thought he must have been motivated to make an immediate request instead of waiting until Monday. The people in the Yard were astonished at their meeting since the two had never been seen together there, as far back as anyone could remember. But they were left in total shock when Mr. Pancks stepped right up to the oldest man there, stopped in front of the bottle-green waistcoat, made a trigger with his thumb and forefinger, pointed it at the brim of the wide-brimmed hat, and, with remarkable flair and accuracy, shot it off the polished head as if it were a large marble.
Having taken this little liberty with the Patriarchal person, Mr Pancks further astounded and attracted the Bleeding Hearts by saying in an audible voice, ‘Now, you sugary swindler, I mean to have it out with you!’
Having taken this little liberty with the Patriarchal figure, Mr. Pancks further amazed and drew the attention of the Bleeding Hearts by saying loudly, "Now, you sweet-talking con artist, I'm ready to settle this!"
Mr Pancks and the Patriarch were instantly the centre of a press, all eyes and ears; windows were thrown open, and door-steps were thronged.
Mr. Pancks and the Patriarch quickly became the focus of attention, with everyone watching and listening; windows flew open, and doorsteps were crowded.
‘What do you pretend to be?’ said Mr Pancks. ‘What’s your moral game? What do you go in for? Benevolence, an’t it? You benevolent!’ Here Mr Pancks, apparently without the intention of hitting him, but merely to relieve his mind and expend his superfluous power in wholesome exercise, aimed a blow at the bumpy head, which the bumpy head ducked to avoid. This singular performance was repeated, to the ever-increasing admiration of the spectators, at the end of every succeeding article of Mr Pancks’s oration.
“Who are you pretending to be?” said Mr. Pancks. “What’s your moral game? What are you all about? Benevolence, right? You think you’re benevolent!” At this point, Mr. Pancks, seemingly with no intention to actually hit him but just to clear his mind and use up some excess energy, took a swing at the bumpy head, which ducked to avoid it. This peculiar act was repeated, much to the growing admiration of the onlookers, at the end of each subsequent point in Mr. Pancks’s speech.
‘I have discharged myself from your service,’ said Pancks, ‘that I may tell you what you are. You’re one of a lot of impostors that are the worst lot of all the lots to be met with. Speaking as a sufferer by both, I don’t know that I wouldn’t as soon have the Merdle lot as your lot. You’re a driver in disguise, a screwer by deputy, a wringer, and squeezer, and shaver by substitute. You’re a philanthropic sneak. You’re a shabby deceiver!’
“I’ve quit your service,” Pancks said, “so I can tell you what you really are. You’re just another one of those frauds, the absolute worst kind out there. Speaking from experience with both, I can’t say I’d prefer the Merdles over you. You’re a hidden oppressor, a manipulation artist, a coercer, and a fraud by proxy. You’re a sneaky philanthropist. You’re just a pathetic con artist!”
(The repetition of the performance at this point was received with a burst of laughter.)
(The repetition of the performance at this point was met with a burst of laughter.)
‘Ask these good people who’s the hard man here. They’ll tell you Pancks, I believe.’
‘Ask these good people who the tough guy is around here. They'll tell you it's Pancks, I think.’
This was confirmed with cries of ‘Certainly,’ and ‘Hear!’
This was confirmed with shouts of ‘Definitely,’ and ‘Listen!’
‘But I tell you, good people—Casby! This mound of meekness, this lump of love, this bottle-green smiler, this is your driver!’ said Pancks. ‘If you want to see the man who would flay you alive—here he is! Don’t look for him in me, at thirty shillings a week, but look for him in Casby, at I don’t know how much a year!’
‘But I’m telling you, good people—Casby! This mound of meekness, this lump of love, this bottle-green smiler, this is your driver!’ said Pancks. ‘If you want to see the man who would skin you alive—here he is! Don’t look for him in me, making thirty shillings a week, but look for him in Casby, who makes I don’t know how much a year!’
‘Good!’ cried several voices. ‘Hear Mr Pancks!’
'Great!' shouted several voices. 'Listen to Mr. Pancks!'
‘Hear Mr Pancks?’ cried that gentleman (after repeating the popular performance). ‘Yes, I should think so! It’s almost time to hear Mr Pancks. Mr Pancks has come down into the Yard to-night on purpose that you should hear him. Pancks is only the Works; but here’s the Winder!’
‘Can you hear Mr. Pancks?’ shouted that guy (after doing the popular act again). ‘Yeah, I should think so! It’s almost time to hear Mr. Pancks. Mr. Pancks has come down to the Yard tonight just so you can hear him. Pancks is just the Works; but here’s the Winder!’
The audience would have gone over to Mr Pancks, as one man, woman, and child, but for the long, grey, silken locks, and the broad-brimmed hat.
The audience would have moved over to Mr. Pancks, as one man, woman, and child, if it weren't for the long, grey, silky hair and the wide-brimmed hat.
‘Here’s the Stop,’ said Pancks, ‘that sets the tune to be ground. And there is but one tune, and its name is Grind, Grind, Grind! Here’s the Proprietor, and here’s his Grubber. Why, good people, when he comes smoothly spinning through the Yard to-night, like a slow-going benevolent Humming-Top, and when you come about him with your complaints of the Grubber, you don’t know what a cheat the Proprietor is! What do you think of his showing himself to-night, that I may have all the blame on Monday? What do you think of his having had me over the coals this very evening, because I don’t squeeze you enough? What do you think of my being, at the present moment, under special orders to squeeze you dry on Monday?’
"Here’s the stop," said Pancks, "that sets the tune to be played. And there’s only one tune, and it’s called Grind, Grind, Grind! Here’s the Proprietor, and here’s his Grubber. Good people, when he comes smoothly gliding through the Yard tonight, like a slow-moving, kind-hearted Humming-Top, and when you approach him with your complaints about the Grubber, you have no idea what a fraud the Proprietor is! What do you think about him showing up tonight so I can take all the blame on Monday? What do you think about him having grilled me just this evening because I don’t squeeze you enough? What do you think about my being, right now, under explicit orders to squeeze you dry on Monday?"
The reply was given in a murmur of ‘Shame!’ and ‘Shabby!’
The response came as a murmur of 'Shame!' and 'Shabby!'
‘Shabby?’ snorted Pancks. ‘Yes, I should think so! The lot that your Casby belongs to, is the shabbiest of all the lots. Setting their Grubbers on, at a wretched pittance, to do what they’re ashamed and afraid to do and pretend not to do, but what they will have done, or give a man no rest! Imposing on you to give their Grubbers nothing but blame, and to give them nothing but credit! Why, the worst-looking cheat in all this town who gets the value of eighteenpence under false pretences, an’t half such a cheat as this sign-post of The Casby’s Head here!’
‘Shabby?’ Pancks scoffed. ‘Absolutely! The lot your Casby is part of is the shabbiest of them all. Putting their Grubbers on some miserable pay to do things they’re embarrassed and scared to do, pretending they’re not doing them, but they will have them done, or give a guy no peace! They make you blame their Grubbers and take all the credit for themselves! Honestly, the worst-looking con artist in this town who swindles someone out of eighteen pence isn’t even half the cheat that this sign for The Casby’s Head here is!’
Cries of ‘That’s true!’ and ‘No more he an’t!’
Cries of 'That's true!' and 'No way he can!'
‘And see what you get of these fellows, besides,’ said Pancks. ‘See what more you get of these precious Humming-Tops, revolving among you with such smoothness that you’ve no idea of the pattern painted on ‘em, or the little window in ‘em. I wish to call your attention to myself for a moment. I an’t an agreeable style of chap, I know that very well.’
‘And look at what you get from these guys, besides,’ said Pancks. ‘See what else you get from these precious Humming-Tops, spinning around you so smoothly that you have no idea what pattern is on them or the little window they have. I want to draw your attention to myself for a moment. I’m not exactly a pleasant guy, I know that very well.’
The auditory were divided on this point; its more uncompromising members crying, ‘No, you are not,’ and its politer materials, ‘Yes, you are.’
The listeners were split on this issue; the more assertive members shouted, ‘No, you are not,’ while the more polite ones said, ‘Yes, you are.’
‘I am, in general,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘a dry, uncomfortable, dreary Plodder and Grubber. That’s your humble servant. There’s his full-length portrait, painted by himself and presented to you, warranted a likeness! But what’s a man to be, with such a man as this for his Proprietor? What can be expected of him? Did anybody ever find boiled mutton and caper-sauce growing in a cocoa-nut?’
‘I am, generally speaking,’ said Mr. Pancks, ‘a dull, uncomfortable, boring Plodder and Grubber. That's me, your humble servant. Here’s my full-length portrait, painted by myself and presented to you, guaranteed to look just like me! But what can a man do with someone like this for a boss? What can you really expect from him? Has anyone ever found boiled mutton and caper sauce growing in a coconut?’
None of the Bleeding Hearts ever had, it was clear from the alacrity of their response.
None of the Bleeding Hearts ever did, as was obvious from how quickly they responded.
‘Well,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘and neither will you find in Grubbers like myself, under Proprietors like this, pleasant qualities. I’ve been a Grubber from a boy. What has my life been? Fag and grind, fag and grind, turn the wheel, turn the wheel! I haven’t been agreeable to myself, and I haven’t been likely to be agreeable to anybody else. If I was a shilling a week less useful in ten years’ time, this impostor would give me a shilling a week less; if as useful a man could be got at sixpence cheaper, he would be taken in my place at sixpence cheaper. Bargain and sale, bless you! Fixed principles! It’s a mighty fine sign-post, is The Casby’s Head,’ said Mr Pancks, surveying it with anything rather than admiration; ‘but the real name of the House is the Sham’s Arms. Its motto is, Keep the Grubber always at it. Is any gentleman present,’ said Mr Pancks, breaking off and looking round, ‘acquainted with the English Grammar?’
"Well," said Mr. Pancks, "you won't find any pleasant qualities in Grubbers like me, under owners like this. I've been a Grubber since I was a kid. What’s my life been? Just toil and struggle, toil and struggle, turn the wheel, turn the wheel! I haven't been happy with myself, and I haven't been likely to be happy with anyone else. If I were a shilling less useful in ten years, this fraud would pay me a shilling less; if a more useful person could be found for sixpence cheaper, they'd take them over me for sixpence less. It's all about business, you know! Fixed principles! The Casby’s Head may look like a nice sign, but the real name for the place is the Sham’s Arms. Its motto is, Keep the Grubber always working. Is there any gentleman here," said Mr. Pancks, stopping to look around, "who knows English grammar?"
Bleeding Heart Yard was shy of claiming that acquaintance.
Bleeding Heart Yard hesitated to acknowledge that acquaintance.
‘It’s no matter,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘I merely wish to remark that the task this Proprietor has set me, has been never to leave off conjugating the Imperative Mood Present Tense of the verb To keep always at it. Keep thou always at it. Let him keep always at it. Keep we or do we keep always at it. Keep ye or do ye or you keep always at it. Let them keep always at it. Here is your benevolent Patriarch of a Casby, and there is his golden rule. He is uncommonly improving to look at, and I am not at all so. He is as sweet as honey, and I am as dull as ditch-water. He provides the pitch, and I handle it, and it sticks to me. Now,’ said Mr Pancks, closing upon his late Proprietor again, from whom he had withdrawn a little for the better display of him to the Yard; ‘as I am not accustomed to speak in public, and as I have made a rather lengthy speech, all circumstances considered, I shall bring my observations to a close by requesting you to get out of this.’
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Pancks. “I just want to point out that the job this Proprietor has given me is to never stop conjugating the Imperative Mood Present Tense of the verb. Always keep at it. Keep you always at it. Let him keep always at it. Do we keep always at it? Do you keep always at it? Let them keep always at it. Here is your kind Patriarch of a Casby, and there’s his golden rule. He looks incredibly pleasant, and I don’t at all. He’s as sweet as honey, and I’m as dull as dishwater. He provides the resources, and I manage them, and they cling to me. Now,” said Mr. Pancks, turning back to his former Proprietor, from whom he had stepped aside a bit for a better view of him to the Yard, “since I’m not used to speaking in public, and I’ve given a pretty lengthy speech, considering everything, I’ll wrap up my comments by asking you to get out of this.”
The Last of the Patriarchs had been so seized by assault, and required so much room to catch an idea in, an so much more room to turn it in, that he had not a word to offer in reply. He appeared to be meditating some Patriarchal way out of his delicate position, when Mr Pancks, once more suddenly applying the trigger to his hat, shot it off again with his former dexterity. On the preceding occasion, one or two of the Bleeding Heart Yarders had obsequiously picked it up and handed it to its owner; but Mr Pancks had now so far impressed his audience, that the Patriarch had to turn and stoop for it himself.
The Last of the Patriarchs was so overwhelmed by the attack that he needed a lot of space to grasp an idea and even more space to contemplate it, leaving him speechless. He seemed to be pondering some clever way out of his tricky situation when Mr. Pancks, once again suddenly flicking his hat, shot it off his head with the same skill as before. The last time, a couple of the Bleeding Heart Yarders had eagerly picked it up and handed it back to him, but Mr. Pancks had made such an impression this time that the Patriarch had to bend down and pick it up himself.
Quick as lightning, Mr Pancks, who, for some moments, had had his right hand in his coat pocket, whipped out a pair of shears, swooped upon the Patriarch behind, and snipped off short the sacred locks that flowed upon his shoulders. In a paroxysm of animosity and rapidity, Mr Pancks then caught the broad-brimmed hat out of the astounded Patriarch’s hand, cut it down into a mere stewpan, and fixed it on the Patriarch’s head.
Quick as lightning, Mr. Pancks, who had his right hand in his coat pocket for a moment, pulled out a pair of shears, lunged at the Patriarch from behind, and snipped off the sacred hair that flowed down his shoulders. In a fit of rage and speed, Mr. Pancks then grabbed the broad-brimmed hat from the shocked Patriarch's hand, trimmed it down into a mere stewpan, and placed it on the Patriarch's head.
Before the frightful results of this desperate action, Mr Pancks himself recoiled in consternation. A bare-polled, goggle-eyed, big-headed lumbering personage stood staring at him, not in the least impressive, not in the least venerable, who seemed to have started out of the earth to ask what was become of Casby. After staring at this phantom in return, in silent awe, Mr Pancks threw down his shears, and fled for a place of hiding, where he might lie sheltered from the consequences of his crime. Mr Pancks deemed it prudent to use all possible despatch in making off, though he was pursued by nothing but the sound of laughter in Bleeding Heart Yard, rippling through the air and making it ring again.
Before the terrifying outcomes of this desperate act, Mr. Pancks himself flinched in shock. A large, awkward, wide-eyed figure stood staring at him, unremarkable and not at all dignified, who seemed to have sprung up from the ground to inquire about Casby. After staring back at this apparition in silent disbelief, Mr. Pancks dropped his shears and ran off to find a hiding spot, where he could escape the repercussions of his actions. Mr. Pancks thought it wise to hurry away, even though he was only chased by the sound of laughter in Bleeding Heart Yard, echoing through the air and making it resonate once more.
CHAPTER 33. Going!
The changes of a fevered room are slow and fluctuating; but the changes of the fevered world are rapid and irrevocable.
The changes in a hot room are gradual and uncertain; but the changes in the fevered world are quick and permanent.
It was Little Dorrit’s lot to wait upon both kinds of change. The Marshalsea walls, during a portion of every day, again embraced her in their shadows as their child, while she thought for Clennam, worked for him, watched him, and only left him, still to devote her utmost love and care to him. Her part in the life outside the gate urged its pressing claims upon her too, and her patience untiringly responded to them. Here was Fanny, proud, fitful, whimsical, further advanced in that disqualified state for going into society which had so much fretted her on the evening of the tortoise-shell knife, resolved always to want comfort, resolved not to be comforted, resolved to be deeply wronged, and resolved that nobody should have the audacity to think her so. Here was her brother, a weak, proud, tipsy, young old man, shaking from head to foot, talking as indistinctly as if some of the money he plumed himself upon had got into his mouth and couldn’t be got out, unable to walk alone in any act of his life, and patronising the sister whom he selfishly loved (he always had that negative merit, ill-starred and ill-launched Tip!) because he suffered her to lead him. Here was Mrs Merdle in gauzy mourning—the original cap whereof had possibly been rent to pieces in a fit of grief, but had certainly yielded to a highly becoming article from the Parisian market—warring with Fanny foot to foot, and breasting her with her desolate bosom every hour in the day. Here was poor Mr Sparkler, not knowing how to keep the peace between them, but humbly inclining to the opinion that they could do no better than agree that they were both remarkably fine women, and that there was no nonsense about either of them—for which gentle recommendation they united in falling upon him frightfully. Then, too, here was Mrs General, got home from foreign parts, sending a Prune and a Prism by post every other day, demanding a new Testimonial by way of recommendation to some vacant appointment or other. Of which remarkable gentlewoman it may be finally observed, that there surely never was a gentlewoman of whose transcendent fitness for any vacant appointment on the face of this earth, so many people were (as the warmth of her Testimonials evinced) so perfectly satisfied—or who was so very unfortunate in having a large circle of ardent and distinguished admirers, who never themselves happened to want her in any capacity.
Little Dorrit had to deal with all sorts of changes. The walls of Marshalsea would, for part of each day, welcome her back into their shadows as if she were their own child, while she thought about Clennam, worked for him, watched over him, and only left him to devote her greatest love and care to him. Her responsibilities in the world outside the gate also called to her, and she patiently attended to them. Here was Fanny, proud, temperamental, and whimsical, already deep into that state of being unfit for society that had so troubled her on the night of the tortoise-shell knife, always wanting comfort, refusing to be comforted, feeling deeply wronged, and insisting that no one should dare think otherwise. Here was her brother, a weak, proud, tipsy young man, shaking with nervousness, speaking so unclearly that it seemed some of the money he bragged about had lodged in his mouth and wouldn’t come out, unable to carry out any part of his life without help, yet patronizing the sister he selfishly loved (he always had that dubious distinction, poor Tip!) by allowing her to lead him. Here was Mrs. Merdle in her flimsy mourning—possibly the original cap had been torn to bits in a fit of grief, but it surely yielded to a much more fashionable piece from Paris—fighting with Fanny hour after hour, confronting her with her sorrowful demeanor. Here was poor Mr. Sparkler, unsure how to keep the peace between them, but humbly suggesting that they should just agree that they were both incredibly fine women and that neither of them was silly—upon which gentle suggestion they both turned on him fiercely. And then there was Mrs. General, back from abroad, sending a Prune and a Prism by mail every other day, asking for a new testimonial to help her get some vacant job. It’s worth noting about this remarkable lady that never before has there been someone so perfectly suited for any open position on earth, as many people were (as shown by the warmth of her testimonials) convinced—yet she was incredibly unfortunate to have a big circle of enthusiastic and distinguished admirers who never actually wanted her for any role.
On the first crash of the eminent Mr Merdle’s decease, many important persons had been unable to determine whether they should cut Mrs Merdle, or comfort her. As it seemed, however, essential to the strength of their own case that they should admit her to have been cruelly deceived, they graciously made the admission, and continued to know her. It followed that Mrs Merdle, as a woman of fashion and good breeding who had been sacrificed to the wiles of a vulgar barbarian (for Mr Merdle was found out from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, the moment he was found out in his pocket), must be actively championed by her order for her order’s sake. She returned this fealty by causing it to be understood that she was even more incensed against the felonious shade of the deceased than anybody else was; thus, on the whole, she came out of her furnace like a wise woman, and did exceedingly well.
Upon the sudden death of the prominent Mr. Merdle, many important people struggled to decide whether to ignore Mrs. Merdle or offer her comfort. However, since it seemed crucial to their own reputation to acknowledge that she had been cruelly deceived, they graciously accepted this idea and continued to associate with her. As a result, Mrs. Merdle, a woman of fashion and good upbringing who had been a victim of the schemes of a crude brute (for Mr. Merdle was completely exposed, from head to toe, the moment his financial troubles came to light), had to be actively supported by her social circle for the sake of their own status. She returned this loyalty by making it clear that she was even more outraged by the criminal actions of her late husband than anyone else; thus, overall, she emerged from this ordeal like a wise woman and fared exceptionally well.
Mr Sparkler’s lordship was fortunately one of those shelves on which a gentleman is considered to be put away for life, unless there should be reasons for hoisting him up with the Barnacle crane to a more lucrative height. That patriotic servant accordingly stuck to his colours (the Standard of four Quarterings), and was a perfect Nelson in respect of nailing them to the mast. On the profits of his intrepidity, Mrs Sparkler and Mrs Merdle, inhabiting different floors of the genteel little temple of inconvenience to which the smell of the day before yesterday’s soup and coach-horses was as constant as Death to man, arrayed themselves to fight it out in the lists of Society, sworn rivals. And Little Dorrit, seeing all these things as they developed themselves, could not but wonder, anxiously, into what back corner of the genteel establishment Fanny’s children would be poked by-and-by, and who would take care of those unborn little victims.
Mr. Sparkler was lucky enough to be on one of those shelves where a man is thought to be set for life, unless there’s a reason to lift him up with the Barnacle crane to a more profitable position. This loyal servant stuck to his guns (the Standard of four Quarterings) and was like Nelson when it came to holding them steadfast. Thanks to his bravery, Mrs. Sparkler and Mrs. Merdle, living on different floors of the fancy little place that constantly smelled like the remnants of two days ago’s soup and coach horses, geared up to battle it out in the social arena, sworn enemies. And Little Dorrit, witnessing all these events unfold, couldn’t help but worry about where Fanny’s children would eventually be pushed aside and who would look after those unborn little ones.
Arthur being far too ill to be spoken with on subjects of emotion or anxiety, and his recovery greatly depending on the repose into which his weakness could be hushed, Little Dorrit’s sole reliance during this heavy period was on Mr Meagles. He was still abroad; but she had written to him through his daughter, immediately after first seeing Arthur in the Marshalsea and since, confiding her uneasiness to him on the points on which she was most anxious, but especially on one. To that one, the continued absence of Mr Meagles abroad, instead of his comforting presence in the Marshalsea, was referable.
Arthur was far too ill to discuss feelings or worries, and his recovery depended a lot on the calmness that could come from his fragile state. During this difficult time, Little Dorrit relied entirely on Mr. Meagles. He was still overseas, but she had written to him through his daughter right after she first saw Arthur in the Marshalsea. In her letter, she shared her concerns about the things that worried her most, especially one particular issue. That issue was tied to Mr. Meagles’ ongoing absence from abroad instead of having his reassuring presence in the Marshalsea.
Without disclosing the precise nature of the documents that had fallen into Rigaud’s hands, Little Dorrit had confided the general outline of that story to Mr Meagles, to whom she had also recounted his fate. The old cautious habits of the scales and scoop at once showed Mr Meagles the importance of recovering the original papers; wherefore he wrote back to Little Dorrit, strongly confirming her in the solicitude she expressed on that head, and adding that he would not come over to England ‘without making some attempt to trace them out.’
Without revealing the exact details of the documents that Rigaud had obtained, Little Dorrit shared the overall story with Mr. Meagles and also explained Rigaud’s outcome. Mr. Meagles, with his old careful ways, quickly recognized the significance of retrieving the original papers. Therefore, he wrote back to Little Dorrit, fully supporting her concerns about the matter, and added that he wouldn’t come to England without trying to track them down.
By this time Mr Henry Gowan had made up his mind that it would be agreeable to him not to know the Meagleses. He was so considerate as to lay no injunctions on his wife in that particular; but he mentioned to Mr Meagles that personally they did not appear to him to get on together, and that he thought it would be a good thing if—politely, and without any scene, or anything of that sort—they agreed that they were the best fellows in the world, but were best apart. Poor Mr Meagles, who was already sensible that he did not advance his daughter’s happiness by being constantly slighted in her presence, said ‘Good, Henry! You are my Pet’s husband; you have displaced me, in the course of nature; if you wish it, good!’ This arrangement involved the contingent advantage, which perhaps Henry Gowan had not foreseen, that both Mr and Mrs Meagles were more liberal than before to their daughter, when their communication was only with her and her young child: and that his high spirit found itself better provided with money, without being under the degrading necessity of knowing whence it came.
By this point, Mr. Henry Gowan had decided that he would prefer not to know the Meagleses. He was considerate enough not to put any pressure on his wife about it; however, he told Mr. Meagles that, in his opinion, they didn’t really get along, and he thought it would be better if they politely agreed that they were the best of friends, but better off apart. Poor Mr. Meagles, who already sensed that he wasn’t helping his daughter’s happiness by being constantly disrespected in her presence, said, “Alright, Henry! You are my Pet’s husband; you’ve naturally taken my place; if that’s what you want, fine!” This arrangement brought about an unexpected benefit, which Henry Gowan may not have anticipated: both Mr. and Mrs. Meagles became more generous with their daughter when their interactions were limited to just her and her young child. As a result, his pride found itself better supplied with money, without the humiliating need to know where it was coming from.
Mr Meagles, at such a period, naturally seized an occupation with great ardour. He knew from his daughter the various towns which Rigaud had been haunting, and the various hotels at which he had been living for some time back. The occupation he set himself was to visit these with all discretion and speed, and, in the event of finding anywhere that he had left a bill unpaid, and a box or parcel behind, to pay such bill, and bring away such box or parcel.
Mr. Meagles, at that time, eagerly took on a task. He learned from his daughter about the different towns Rigaud had been staying in and the various hotels where he had lived recently. His goal was to visit these places quietly and quickly, and if he found any unpaid bills or left behind a box or parcel, he would pay the bill and take the box or parcel with him.
With no other attendant than Mother, Mr Meagles went upon his pilgrimage, and encountered a number of adventures. Not the least of his difficulties was, that he never knew what was said to him, and that he pursued his inquiries among people who never knew what he said to them. Still, with an unshaken confidence that the English tongue was somehow the mother tongue of the whole world, only the people were too stupid to know it, Mr Meagles harangued innkeepers in the most voluble manner, entered into loud explanations of the most complicated sort, and utterly renounced replies in the native language of the respondents, on the ground that they were ‘all bosh.’ Sometimes interpreters were called in; whom Mr Meagles addressed in such idiomatic terms of speech, as instantly to extinguish and shut up—which made the matter worse. On a balance of the account, however, it may be doubted whether he lost much; for, although he found no property, he found so many debts and various associations of discredit with the proper name, which was the only word he made intelligible, that he was almost everywhere overwhelmed with injurious accusations. On no fewer than four occasions the police were called in to receive denunciations of Mr Meagles as a Knight of Industry, a good-for-nothing, and a thief, all of which opprobrious language he bore with the best temper (having no idea what it meant), and was in the most ignominious manner escorted to steam-boats and public carriages, to be got rid of, talking all the while, like a cheerful and fluent Briton as he was, with Mother under his arm.
With no one but Mother by his side, Mr. Meagles set off on his journey and encountered a variety of adventures. One of his biggest challenges was that he never understood what people said to him, and he asked questions to people who didn't understand him either. Nevertheless, with unwavering confidence that English was somehow the universal language, and that the people he spoke to were just too ignorant to realize it, Mr. Meagles spoke at length to innkeepers, gave loud explanations about complicated topics, and completely dismissed replies in the local language, claiming they were ‘all nonsense.’ Sometimes interpreters were brought in, but Mr. Meagles spoke to them in such idiomatic phrases that it only confused them more, making the situation worse. However, in the grand scheme of things, it’s debatable whether he truly lost anything; although he didn’t find any valuables, he came across many debts and various negative associations tied to his name, which was the only word he managed to make clear. As a result, he was often bombarded with false accusations. On at least four occasions, the police were called to take reports against Mr. Meagles, labeling him a con artist, a good-for-nothing, and a thief. He took all this insulting language in stride (having no clue what it meant) and was escorted in a very humiliating manner to steam boats and public carriages, all the while chatting away like a cheerful and articulate Briton, with Mother by his side.
But, in his own tongue, and in his own head, Mr Meagles was a clear, shrewd, persevering man. When he had ‘worked round,’ as he called it, to Paris in his pilgrimage, and had wholly failed in it so far, he was not disheartened. ‘The nearer to England I follow him, you see, Mother,’ argued Mr Meagles, ‘the nearer I am likely to come to the papers, whether they turn up or no. Because it is only reasonable to conclude that he would deposit them somewhere where they would be safe from people over in England, and where they would yet be accessible to himself, don’t you see?’
But in his own way and in his own mind, Mr. Meagles was a clear-headed, smart, and determined man. When he got to Paris on his journey and had completely failed so far, he didn’t lose hope. “The closer I get to England following him, you see, Mother,” Mr. Meagles reasoned, “the more likely I am to find the papers, whether they show up or not. It’s only logical to think he would stash them somewhere safe from people in England but still accessible to him, don’t you think?”
At Paris Mr Meagles found a letter from Little Dorrit, lying waiting for him; in which she mentioned that she had been able to talk for a minute or two with Mr Clennam about this man who was no more; and that when she told Mr Clennam that his friend Mr Meagles, who was on his way to see him, had an interest in ascertaining something about the man if he could, he had asked her to tell Mr Meagles that he had been known to Miss Wade, then living in such a street at Calais. ‘Oho!’ said Mr Meagles.
In Paris, Mr. Meagles found a letter from Little Dorrit waiting for him. In it, she mentioned that she had managed to speak for a minute or two with Mr. Clennam about the man who was no longer alive. She told Mr. Clennam that his friend Mr. Meagles, who was on his way to see him, was interested in finding out more about the man if possible. Mr. Clennam asked her to let Mr. Meagles know that the man had been known to Miss Wade, who was living on a certain street in Calais. “Oh, really!” said Mr. Meagles.
As soon afterwards as might be in those Diligence days, Mr Meagles rang the cracked bell at the cracked gate, and it jarred open, and the peasant-woman stood in the dark doorway, saying, ‘Ice-say! Seer! Who?’ In acknowledgment of whose address, Mr Meagles murmured to himself that there was some sense about these Calais people, who really did know something of what you and themselves were up to; and returned, ‘Miss Wade, my dear.’ He was then shown into the presence of Miss Wade.
As soon as he could in those busy days, Mr. Meagles rang the broken bell at the damaged gate, which creaked open, and the peasant woman stood in the dark doorway, asking, “Who is it?” In response to her question, Mr. Meagles thought to himself that the people of Calais had some understanding of what was happening with him and them; he replied, “Miss Wade, my dear.” He was then taken to see Miss Wade.
‘It’s some time since we met,’ said Mr Meagles, clearing his throat; ‘I hope you have been pretty well, Miss Wade?’
"It’s been a while since we met," Mr. Meagles said, clearing his throat. "I hope you've been doing well, Miss Wade?"
Without hoping that he or anybody else had been pretty well, Miss Wade asked him to what she was indebted for the honour of seeing him again? Mr Meagles, in the meanwhile, glanced all round the room without observing anything in the shape of a box.
Without expecting that he or anyone else had been doing well, Miss Wade asked him what she owed for the honor of seeing him again. Mr. Meagles, in the meantime, looked around the room but didn’t see anything that resembled a box.
‘Why, the truth is, Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, in a comfortable, managing, not to say coaxing voice, ‘it is possible that you may be able to throw a light upon a little something that is at present dark. Any unpleasant bygones between us are bygones, I hope. Can’t be helped now. You recollect my daughter? Time changes so! A mother!’
“Honestly, Miss Wade,” Mr. Meagles said in a relaxed, friendly tone, “you might be able to shed some light on something that's a bit unclear right now. Any past issues between us are behind us, I hope. There's no point in dwelling on them. Do you remember my daughter? Things change so quickly! A mother!”
In his innocence, Mr Meagles could not have struck a worse key-note. He paused for any expression of interest, but paused in vain.
In his naivety, Mr. Meagles couldn't have picked a worse tone. He waited for any sign of interest, but waited in vain.
‘That is not the subject you wished to enter on?’ she said, after a cold silence.
‘Is that not the topic you wanted to discuss?’ she said after a chilly silence.
‘No, no,’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘No. I thought your good nature might—’
‘No, no,’ replied Mr. Meagles. ‘No. I thought your good nature might—’
‘I thought you knew,’ she interrupted, with a smile, ‘that my good nature is not to be calculated upon?’
"I thought you knew," she interrupted with a smile, "that my good nature can't be taken for granted?"
‘Don’t say so,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘you do yourself an injustice. However, to come to the point.’ For he was sensible of having gained nothing by approaching it in a roundabout way. ‘I have heard from my friend Clennam, who, you will be sorry to hear, has been and still is very ill—’
“Don’t say that,” Mr. Meagles replied; “you're being hard on yourself. Anyway, let’s get to the point.” He realized he hadn’t accomplished anything by being indirect. “I’ve heard from my friend Clennam, who, unfortunately, has been and still is very sick—”
He paused again, and again she was silent.
He paused again, and once more she stayed silent.
‘—that you had some knowledge of one Blandois, lately killed in London by a violent accident. Now, don’t mistake me! I know it was a slight knowledge,’ said Mr Meagles, dexterously forestalling an angry interruption which he saw about to break. ‘I am fully aware of that. It was a slight knowledge, I know. But the question is,’ Mr Meagles’s voice here became comfortable again, ‘did he, on his way to England last time, leave a box of papers, or a bundle of papers, or some papers or other in some receptacle or other—any papers—with you: begging you to allow him to leave them here for a short time, until he wanted them?’
‘—that you knew a bit about someone named Blandois, who was recently killed in London by a freak accident. Now, don’t get me wrong! I know it was just a little bit of knowledge,’ Mr. Meagles said, skillfully preventing an angry interruption that he sensed was about to happen. ‘I’m fully aware of that. It was just a little bit of knowledge, I understand. But the question is,’ Mr. Meagles’s voice became relaxed again, ‘did he, on his last trip to England, leave a box of papers, or a bundle of papers, or some papers of some kind in some place or another—any papers—with you: asking you to let him leave them here for a short time until he needed them back?’
‘The question is?’ she repeated. ‘Whose question is?’
‘What’s the question?’ she repeated. ‘Whose question is it?’
‘Mine,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘And not only mine but Clennam’s question, and other people’s question. Now, I am sure,’ continued Mr Meagles, whose heart was overflowing with Pet, ‘that you can’t have any unkind feeling towards my daughter; it’s impossible. Well! It’s her question, too; being one in which a particular friend of hers is nearly interested. So here I am, frankly to say that is the question, and to ask, Now, did he?’
‘Mine,’ said Mr. Meagles. ‘And not just mine but Clennam’s question, and other people’s question. Now, I’m sure,’ continued Mr. Meagles, whose heart was overflowing with affection for Pet, ‘that you can’t possibly have any unkind feelings towards my daughter; it’s impossible. Well! It’s her question, too; it’s one that a close friend of hers is very interested in. So here I am, honestly saying that’s the question, and asking, Now, did he?’
‘Upon my word,’ she returned, ‘I seem to be a mark for everybody who knew anything of a man I once in my life hired, and paid, and dismissed, to aim their questions at!’
"Honestly," she replied, "I feel like I'm a target for everyone who knows anything about a man I once hired, paid, and let go, to direct their questions at!"
‘Now, don’t,’ remonstrated Mr Meagles, ‘don’t! Don’t take offence, because it’s the plainest question in the world, and might be asked of any one. The documents I refer to were not his own, were wrongfully obtained, might at some time or other be troublesome to an innocent person to have in keeping, and are sought by the people to whom they really belong. He passed through Calais going to London, and there were reasons why he should not take them with him then, why he should wish to be able to put his hand upon them readily, and why he should distrust leaving them with people of his own sort. Did he leave them here? I declare if I knew how to avoid giving you offence, I would take any pains to do it. I put the question personally, but there’s nothing personal in it. I might put it to any one; I have put it already to many people. Did he leave them here? Did he leave anything here?’
“Now, please don’t,” Mr. Meagles urged. “Don’t take it the wrong way, because it’s a straightforward question that could be asked of anyone. The documents I’m talking about weren’t his; they were obtained inappropriately, and at some point, they could cause trouble for an innocent person if kept. They’re sought after by the people to whom they actually belong. He passed through Calais on his way to London, and there were reasons he couldn’t take them with him at that time, reasons he wanted to be able to access them easily, and why he was hesitant to leave them with people of his own kind. Did he leave them here? Honestly, if I knew how to avoid offending you, I would do everything I could to prevent it. I’m asking this as a personal question, but it’s not meant to be personal. I could ask anyone; I’ve already asked many people. Did he leave them here? Did he leave anything here?”
‘No.’
‘Nope.’
‘Then unfortunately, Miss Wade, you know nothing about them?’
‘Then unfortunately, Miss Wade, you don’t know anything about them?’
‘I know nothing about them. I have now answered your unaccountable question. He did not leave them here, and I know nothing about them.’
‘I know nothing about them. I’ve answered your strange question. He didn’t leave them here, and I know nothing about them.’
‘There!’ said Mr Meagles rising. ‘I am sorry for it; that’s over; and I hope there is not much harm done.—Tattycoram well, Miss Wade?’
‘There!’ said Mr. Meagles, standing up. ‘I’m sorry about that; it’s done now, and I hope it didn't cause too much damage. —Tattycoram, how is Miss Wade?’
‘Harriet well? O yes!’
"Is Harriet good? Oh yes!"
‘I have put my foot in it again,’ said Mr Meagles, thus corrected. ‘I can’t keep my foot out of it here, it seems. Perhaps, if I had thought twice about it, I might never have given her the jingling name. But, when one means to be good-natured and sportive with young people, one doesn’t think twice. Her old friend leaves a kind word for her, Miss Wade, if you should think proper to deliver it.’
"I've messed up again," said Mr. Meagles, feeling corrected. "It seems I can't avoid it here. Maybe if I had thought about it a bit more, I wouldn't have given her that silly name. But when you're trying to be friendly and playful with young folks, you don't think twice. Her old friend has a kind word for her, Miss Wade, if you think it's right to pass it along."
She said nothing as to that; and Mr Meagles, taking his honest face out of the dull room, where it shone like a sun, took it to the Hotel where he had left Mrs Meagles, and where he made the Report: ‘Beaten, Mother; no effects!’ He took it next to the London Steam Packet, which sailed in the night; and next to the Marshalsea.
She didn’t say anything about that; and Mr. Meagles, pulling his honest face out of the dreary room, where it looked bright like the sun, went to the hotel where he had left Mrs. Meagles, and there he made the report: ‘Beaten, Mom; no luck!’ He then went to the London Steam Packet, which was sailing that night; and then to the Marshalsea.
The faithful John was on duty when Father and Mother Meagles presented themselves at the wicket towards nightfall. Miss Dorrit was not there then, he said; but she had been there in the morning, and invariably came in the evening. Mr Clennam was slowly mending; and Maggy and Mrs Plornish and Mr Baptist took care of him by turns. Miss Dorrit was sure to come back that evening before the bell rang. There was the room the Marshal had lent her, up-stairs, in which they could wait for her, if they pleased. Mistrustful that it might be hazardous to Arthur to see him without preparation, Mr Meagles accepted the offer; and they were left shut up in the room, looking down through its barred window into the jail.
The loyal John was on duty when Father and Mother Meagles showed up at the gate around evening. He said Miss Dorrit wasn’t there, but she had been there in the morning and usually came in the evening. Mr. Clennam was slowly getting better, and Maggy, Mrs. Plornish, and Mr. Baptist took turns looking after him. Miss Dorrit was definitely going to come back that evening before the bell rang. There was the room the Marshal had lent her upstairs where they could wait for her if they wanted. Mr. Meagles, worried that it might be risky for Arthur to see him without a heads-up, accepted the offer; and they were left shut in the room, looking down through its barred window into the jail.
The cramped area of the prison had such an effect on Mrs Meagles that she began to weep, and such an effect on Mr Meagles that he began to gasp for air. He was walking up and down the room, panting, and making himself worse by laboriously fanning himself with her handkerchief, when he turned towards the opening door.
The small space of the prison affected Mrs. Meagles so much that she started to cry, and it impacted Mr. Meagles to the point that he began gasping for air. He was pacing the room, breathing heavily, and making it worse by awkwardly fanning himself with her handkerchief when he turned to the open door.
‘Eh? Good gracious!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘this is not Miss Dorrit! Why, Mother, look! Tattycoram!’
‘Huh? Oh my goodness!’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘this isn’t Miss Dorrit! Look, Mom! It’s Tattycoram!’
No other. And in Tattycoram’s arms was an iron box some two feet square. Such a box had Affery Flintwinch seen, in the first of her dreams, going out of the old house in the dead of the night under Double’s arm. This, Tattycoram put on the ground at her old master’s feet: this, Tattycoram fell on her knees by, and beat her hands upon, crying half in exultation and half in despair, half in laughter and half in tears, ‘Pardon, dear Master; take me back, dear Mistress; here it is!’
No one else. And in Tattycoram's arms was an iron box about two feet square. Such a box Affery Flintwinch had seen in her first dream, leaving the old house in the dead of night under Double's arm. This, Tattycoram placed on the ground at her old master's feet: this, Tattycoram knelt beside and beat her hands on, crying half in excitement and half in sorrow, half in laughter and half in tears, ‘Please forgive me, dear Master; take me back, dear Mistress; here it is!’
‘Tatty!’ exclaimed Mr Meagles.
"Shabby!" exclaimed Mr. Meagles.
‘What you wanted!’ said Tattycoram. ‘Here it is! I was put in the next room not to see you. I heard you ask her about it, I heard her say she hadn’t got it, I was there when he left it, and I took it at bedtime and brought it away. Here it is!’
‘What you wanted!’ said Tattycoram. ‘Here it is! I was put in the next room so I wouldn’t see you. I heard you ask her about it, I heard her say she didn’t have it, I was there when he left it, and I took it at bedtime and brought it away. Here it is!’
‘Why, my girl,’ cried Mr Meagles, more breathless than before, ‘how did you come over?’
‘Why, my girl,’ Mr. Meagles exclaimed, even more out of breath than before, ‘how did you get here?’
‘I came in the boat with you. I was sitting wrapped up at the other end. When you took a coach at the wharf, I took another coach and followed you here. She never would have given it up after what you had said to her about its being wanted; she would sooner have sunk it in the sea, or burnt it. But, here it is!’
‘I came in the boat with you. I was sitting bundled up at the other end. When you took a cab at the wharf, I took another cab and followed you here. She never would have given it up after what you told her about it being needed; she would have been more likely to sink it in the sea or burn it. But here it is!’
The glow and rapture that the girl was in, with her ‘Here it is!’
The excitement and joy the girl felt, with her 'Here it is!'
‘She never wanted it to be left, I must say that for her; but he left it, and I knew well that after what you said, and after her denying it, she never would have given it up. But here it is! Dear Master, dear Mistress, take me back again, and give me back the dear old name! Let this intercede for me. Here it is!’
‘She never wanted to let it go, I must say that for her; but he did, and I knew well that after what you said, and after she denied it, she would never have given it up. But here it is! Dear Master, dear Mistress, take me back again, and give me back the dear old name! Let this be my plea. Here it is!’
Father and Mother Meagles never deserved their names better than when they took the headstrong foundling-girl into their protection again.
Father and Mother Meagles truly lived up to their names when they took the stubborn foundling girl back under their protection.
‘Oh! I have been so wretched,’ cried Tattycoram, weeping much more, ‘always so unhappy, and so repentant! I was afraid of her from the first time I saw her. I knew she had got a power over me through understanding what was bad in me so well. It was a madness in me, and she could raise it whenever she liked. I used to think, when I got into that state, that people were all against me because of my first beginning; and the kinder they were to me, the worse fault I found in them. I made it out that they triumphed above me, and that they wanted to make me envy them, when I know—when I even knew then—that they never thought of such a thing. And my beautiful young mistress not so happy as she ought to have been, and I gone away from her! Such a brute and a wretch as she must think me! But you’ll say a word to her for me, and ask her to be as forgiving as you two are? For I am not so bad as I was,’ pleaded Tattycoram; ‘I am bad enough, but not so bad as I was, indeed. I have had Miss Wade before me all this time, as if it was my own self grown ripe—turning everything the wrong way, and twisting all good into evil. I have had her before me all this time, finding no pleasure in anything but keeping me as miserable, suspicious, and tormenting as herself. Not that she had much to do, to do that,’ cried Tattycoram, in a closing great burst of distress, ‘for I was as bad as bad could be. I only mean to say, that, after what I have gone through, I hope I shall never be quite so bad again, and that I shall get better by very slow degrees. I’ll try very hard. I won’t stop at five-and-twenty, sir, I’ll count five-and-twenty hundred, five-and-twenty thousand!’
"Oh! I've been so miserable," Tattycoram cried, tears streaming down her face, "always so unhappy and so sorry! I was scared of her from the first moment I saw her. I knew she had a hold over me because she understood what was wrong with me so well. It was madness within me, and she could bring it out whenever she wanted. I used to think, when I fell into that state, that everyone was against me because of my past; and the kinder they were to me, the more faults I found in them. I convinced myself that they were gloating over me, trying to make me jealous, when I know—when I even knew back then—that they never thought like that. And my beautiful young mistress not as happy as she should have been, and I've left her! What a terrible person she must think I am! But you'll say something nice to her for me and ask her to be as forgiving as you both are? Because I'm not as bad as I used to be," Tattycoram pleaded. "I am still bad enough, but not as bad as I was, honestly. I’ve had Miss Wade in my mind this whole time, like my own self grown up—turning everything upside down and twisting all that's good into something bad. I saw her in my mind all this time, finding joy only in keeping me as miserable, suspicious, and tormented as she was. Not that she had to do much to make that happen," Tattycoram cried out in a final surge of distress, "because I was as bad as could be. I just mean to say that, after everything I’ve been through, I hope I’ll never be that bad again, and that I will gradually get better. I’ll try really hard. I won’t stop at twenty-five, sir; I’ll count twenty-five hundred, twenty-five thousand!"
Another opening of the door, and Tattycoram subsided, and Little Dorrit came in, and Mr Meagles with pride and joy produced the box, and her gentle face was lighted up with grateful happiness and joy. The secret was safe now! She could keep her own part of it from him; he should never know of her loss; in time to come he should know all that was of import to himself; but he should never know what concerned her only. That was all passed, all forgiven, all forgotten.
Another door opened, and Tattycoram settled down, and Little Dorrit walked in. Mr. Meagles proudly and joyfully revealed the box, and her gentle face lit up with grateful happiness and joy. The secret was safe now! She could keep her part of it from him; he would never know about her loss. In the future, he would know everything important to him, but he would never know what only concerned her. That was all in the past, all forgiven, all forgotten.
‘Now, my dear Miss Dorrit,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘I am a man of business—or at least was—and I am going to take my measures promptly, in that character. Had I better see Arthur to-night?’
‘Now, my dear Miss Dorrit,’ said Mr. Meagles; ‘I’m a man of business—or at least I was—and I’m going to take action quickly, in that role. Should I see Arthur tonight?’
‘I think not to-night. I will go to his room and ascertain how he is. But I think it will be better not to see him to-night.’
‘I don’t think so tonight. I’ll go to his room and check on him. But I believe it’s better not to see him tonight.’
‘I am much of your opinion, my dear,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘and therefore I have not been any nearer to him than this dismal room. Then I shall probably not see him for some little time to come. But I’ll explain what I mean when you come back.’
‘I mostly agree with you, my dear,’ said Mr. Meagles, ‘and that’s why I haven’t gotten any closer to him than this dreary room. So, I probably won’t see him for a while. But I’ll explain what I mean when you return.’
She left the room. Mr Meagles, looking through the bars of the window, saw her pass out of the Lodge below him into the prison-yard. He said gently, ‘Tattycoram, come to me a moment, my good girl.’
She left the room. Mr. Meagles, looking through the bars of the window, saw her walk out of the Lodge below him into the prison yard. He said softly, "Tattycoram, come here for a minute, my dear."
She went up to the window.
She walked over to the window.
‘You see that young lady who was here just now—that little, quiet, fragile figure passing along there, Tatty? Look. The people stand out of the way to let her go by. The men—see the poor, shabby fellows—pull off their hats to her quite politely, and now she glides in at that doorway. See her, Tattycoram?’
‘You see that young woman who was just here—that small, quiet, delicate figure walking by, Tatty? Look. People step aside to let her pass. The men—look at those poor, shabby guys—take off their hats to her politely, and now she’s slipping through that doorway. Do you see her, Tattycoram?’
‘Yes, sir.’
"Yes, sir."
‘I have heard tell, Tatty, that she was once regularly called the child of this place. She was born here, and lived here many years. I can’t breathe here. A doleful place to be born and bred in, Tattycoram?’
‘I’ve heard, Tatty, that she was once often called the child of this place. She was born here and lived here for many years. I can’t stand it here. What a gloomy place to be born and raised in, Tattycoram?’
‘Yes indeed, sir!’
"Yes, absolutely, sir!"
‘If she had constantly thought of herself, and settled with herself that everybody visited this place upon her, turned it against her, and cast it at her, she would have led an irritable and probably an useless existence. Yet I have heard tell, Tattycoram, that her young life has been one of active resignation, goodness, and noble service. Shall I tell you what I consider those eyes of hers, that were here just now, to have always looked at, to get that expression?’
‘If she had always focused on herself and convinced herself that everyone came here because of her, turned it against her, and blamed her, she would have lived a frustrated and probably pointless life. Yet I've heard, Tattycoram, that her young life has been one of active acceptance, kindness, and noble service. Should I tell you what I think those eyes of hers, which were just here, have always looked at to have that expression?’
‘Yes, if you please, sir.’
"Yes, please, sir."
‘Duty, Tattycoram. Begin it early, and do it well; and there is no antecedent to it, in any origin or station, that will tell against us with the Almighty, or with ourselves.’
‘Responsibility, Tattycoram. Start it early, and do it well; and there is no background or status that will count against us with the Almighty or with ourselves.’
They remained at the window, Mother joining them and pitying the prisoners, until she was seen coming back. She was soon in the room, and recommended that Arthur, whom she had left calm and composed, should not be visited that night.
They stayed by the window, with Mother joining them and feeling sorry for the prisoners, until she was spotted returning. She quickly entered the room and suggested that Arthur, whom she had left calm and collected, shouldn't be visited that night.
‘Good!’ said Mr Meagles, cheerily. ‘I have not a doubt that’s best. I shall trust my remembrances then, my sweet nurse, in your hands, and I well know they couldn’t be in better. I am off again to-morrow morning.’
‘Good!’ said Mr. Meagles, cheerfully. ‘I have no doubt that's the best. I’ll trust my memories to you, my dear nurse, and I know they couldn't be in better hands. I'm off again tomorrow morning.’
Little Dorrit, surprised, asked him where?
Little Dorrit, surprised, asked him where?
‘My dear,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I can’t live without breathing. This place has taken my breath away, and I shall never get it back again until Arthur is out of this place.’
‘My dear,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I can’t live without breathing. This place has left me breathless, and I won’t get it back until Arthur is out of here.’
‘How is that a reason for going off again to-morrow morning?’
‘How is that a reason for leaving again tomorrow morning?’
‘You shall understand,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘To-night we three will put up at a City Hotel. To-morrow morning, Mother and Tattycoram will go down to Twickenham, where Mrs Tickit, sitting attended by Dr Buchan in the parlour-window, will think them a couple of ghosts; and I shall go abroad again for Doyce. We must have Dan here. Now, I tell you, my love, it’s of no use writing and planning and conditionally speculating upon this and that and the other, at uncertain intervals and distances; we must have Doyce here. I devote myself at daybreak to-morrow morning, to bringing Doyce here. It’s nothing to me to go and find him. I’m an old traveller, and all foreign languages and customs are alike to me—I never understand anything about any of ‘em. Therefore I can’t be put to any inconvenience. Go at once I must, it stands to reason; because I can’t live without breathing freely; and I can’t breathe freely until Arthur is out of this Marshalsea. I am stifled at the present moment, and have scarcely breath enough to say this much, and to carry this precious box down-stairs for you.’
“You need to understand,” Mr. Meagles said. “Tonight, the three of us will stay at a city hotel. Tomorrow morning, Mother and Tattycoram will head down to Twickenham, where Mrs. Tickit, with Dr. Buchan sitting in the parlor window, will think they’ve seen a couple of ghosts. Meanwhile, I’ll head out again for Doyce. We have to get Dan here. Now, listen, my love, it’s pointless to keep writing and making plans, speculating on this and that at random times; we need Doyce here. I’m committing myself at daybreak tomorrow to bring Doyce back. Finding him is no trouble for me. I’m an experienced traveler, and all foreign languages and customs are the same to me—I never truly understand any of them. So, I won’t be inconvenienced. I have to go right away; it’s just common sense because I can’t live without breathing freely, and I can’t breathe freely until Arthur is out of this Marshalsea. I feel suffocated right now, and I hardly have enough breath to say this much and carry this precious box downstairs for you.”
They got into the street as the bell began to ring, Mr Meagles carrying the box. Little Dorrit had no conveyance there: which rather surprised him. He called a coach for her and she got into it, and he placed the box beside her when she was seated. In her joy and gratitude she kissed his hand.
They stepped out into the street just as the bell started to ring, with Mr. Meagles carrying the box. Little Dorrit didn’t have any transportation waiting, which surprised him a bit. He called for a cab for her, and she climbed in. He set the box down beside her once she was settled. In her happiness and gratitude, she kissed his hand.
‘I don’t like that, my dear,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘It goes against my feeling of what’s right, that you should do homage to me—at the Marshalsea Gate.’
"I don’t like that, my dear," said Mr. Meagles. "It goes against my sense of what’s right for you to pay respect to me—at the Marshalsea Gate."
She bent forward, and kissed his cheek.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek.
‘You remind me of the days,’ said Mr Meagles, suddenly drooping—‘but she’s very fond of him, and hides his faults, and thinks that no one sees them—and he certainly is well connected and of a very good family!’
‘You remind me of the past,’ said Mr. Meagles, suddenly feeling down—‘but she’s really fond of him, doesn’t acknowledge his flaws, and believes that no one notices them—and he definitely comes from a good family and is well connected!’
It was the only comfort he had in the loss of his daughter, and if he made the most of it, who could blame him?
It was the only comfort he had after losing his daughter, and if he made the most of it, who could blame him?
CHAPTER 34. Gone
On a healthy autumn day, the Marshalsea prisoner, weak but otherwise restored, sat listening to a voice that read to him. On a healthy autumn day; when the golden fields had been reaped and ploughed again, when the summer fruits had ripened and waned, when the green perspectives of hops had been laid low by the busy pickers, when the apples clustering in the orchards were russet, and the berries of the mountain ash were crimson among the yellowing foliage. Already in the woods, glimpses of the hardy winter that was coming were to be caught through unaccustomed openings among the boughs where the prospect shone defined and clear, free from the bloom of the drowsy summer weather, which had rested on it as the bloom lies on the plum. So, from the seashore the ocean was no longer to be seen lying asleep in the heat, but its thousand sparkling eyes were open, and its whole breadth was in joyful animation, from the cool sand on the beach to the little sails on the horizon, drifting away like autumn-tinted leaves that had drifted from the trees.
On a beautiful autumn day, the prisoner at the Marshalsea, weak but otherwise recovered, sat listening to someone reading to him. On a beautiful autumn day; when the golden fields had been harvested and plowed again, when the summer fruits had ripened and faded, when the lush hop fields had been diminished by busy pickers, when the apples hanging in the orchards were russet, and the berries of the mountain ash were bright red among the yellowing leaves. Already in the woods, hints of the tough winter ahead could be seen through unfamiliar openings among the branches where the view was clear and sharp, free from the haze of the sleepy summer weather that had rested on it like the dust on a plum. Likewise, from the seashore, the ocean was no longer visible lying dormant in the heat; its thousand sparkling waves were awake, and its entire expanse was alive with joy, from the cool sand on the beach to the tiny sails on the horizon, drifting away like autumn leaves blown from the trees.
Changeless and barren, looking ignorantly at all the seasons with its fixed, pinched face of poverty and care, the prison had not a touch of any of these beauties on it. Blossom what would, its bricks and bars bore uniformly the same dead crop. Yet Clennam, listening to the voice as it read to him, heard in it all that great Nature was doing, heard in it all the soothing songs she sings to man. At no Mother’s knee but hers had he ever dwelt in his youth on hopeful promises, on playful fancies, on the harvests of tenderness and humility that lie hidden in the early-fostered seeds of the imagination; on the oaks of retreat from blighting winds, that have the germs of their strong roots in nursery acorns. But, in the tones of the voice that read to him, there were memories of an old feeling of such things, and echoes of every merciful and loving whisper that had ever stolen to him in his life.
Unchanging and stark, staring blankly at all the seasons with its rigid, weathered face of hardship and worry, the prison had no trace of any of these beauties. No matter what bloomed, its bricks and bars bore consistently the same lifeless result. Yet Clennam, listening to the voice as it read to him, heard in it everything that great Nature was doing, heard all the comforting songs she sings to humanity. At no mother’s knee but hers had he ever lingered in his youth on hopeful promises, playful dreams, and the nurturing comforts that lie in the early-fostered seeds of the imagination; on the strong oaks that shelter from harsh winds, with their deep roots coming from simple acorns. But, in the tones of the voice that read to him, there were memories of an old sense of such things, and echoes of every kind and loving whisper that had ever reached him in his life.
When the voice stopped, he put his hand over his eyes, murmuring that the light was strong upon them.
When the voice stopped, he covered his eyes, murmuring that the light was shining too brightly on them.
Little Dorrit put the book by, and presently arose quietly to shade the window. Maggy sat at her needlework in her old place. The light softened, Little Dorrit brought her chair closer to his side.
Little Dorrit set the book aside and quietly got up to adjust the window shade. Maggy was at her sewing in her usual spot. As the light softened, Little Dorrit moved her chair closer to him.
‘This will soon be over now, dear Mr Clennam. Not only are Mr Doyce’s letters to you so full of friendship and encouragement, but Mr Rugg says his letters to him are so full of help, and that everybody (now a little anger is past) is so considerate, and speaks so well of you, that it will soon be over now.’
‘This will be over soon, dear Mr. Clennam. Not only are Mr. Doyce’s letters to you filled with friendship and support, but Mr. Rugg says his letters to him are extremely helpful. Now that the anger has passed, everyone is being kind and speaking highly of you, so this will be resolved soon.’
‘Dear girl. Dear heart. Good angel!’
‘Dear girl. Dear heart. Good angel!’
‘You praise me far too much. And yet it is such an exquisite pleasure to me to hear you speak so feelingly, and to—and to see,’ said Little Dorrit, raising her eyes to his, ‘how deeply you mean it, that I cannot say Don’t.’
‘You compliment me way too much. And yet, it brings me such immense joy to hear you express yourself so passionately, and to—and to see,’ said Little Dorrit, looking up at him, ‘how sincerely you mean it, that I can’t say Don’t.’
He lifted her hand to his lips.
He raised her hand to his lips.
‘You have been here many, many times, when I have not seen you, Little Dorrit?’
‘You have been here many times, when I haven't seen you, Little Dorrit?’
‘Yes, I have been here sometimes when I have not come into the room.’
‘Yes, I’ve been here at times even when I haven’t entered the room.’
‘Very often?’
"Often?"
‘Rather often,’ said Little Dorrit, timidly.
“Quite often,” said Little Dorrit, hesitantly.
‘Every day?’
"Every day?"
‘I think,’ said Little Dorrit, after hesitating, ‘that I have been here at least twice every day.’
‘I think,’ said Little Dorrit, after pausing, ‘that I’ve been here at least twice a day.’
He might have released the little light hand after fervently kissing it again; but that, with a very gentle lingering where it was, it seemed to court being retained. He took it in both of his, and it lay softly on his breast.
He might have let go of the little light hand after passionately kissing it again; but even so, with a very gentle lingering where it was, it seemed to want to be held on to. He took it in both of his, and it rested softly against his chest.
‘Dear Little Dorrit, it is not my imprisonment only that will soon be over. This sacrifice of you must be ended. We must learn to part again, and to take our different ways so wide asunder. You have not forgotten what we said together, when you came back?’
‘Dear Little Dorrit, my time in prison isn’t the only thing coming to an end. This sacrifice of you must also conclude. We need to learn to separate again and go our separate ways, far apart. You haven’t forgotten what we talked about when you came back, have you?’
‘O no, I have not forgotten it. But something has been—You feel quite strong to-day, don’t you?’
‘Oh no, I haven't forgotten it. But something has been—You feel pretty strong today, don’t you?’
‘Quite strong.’
"Pretty strong."
The hand he held crept up a little nearer his face.
The hand he was holding moved a bit closer to his face.
‘Do you feel quite strong enough to know what a great fortune I have got?’
‘Do you feel strong enough to understand what a huge fortune I’ve got?’
‘I shall be very glad to be told. No fortune can be too great or good for Little Dorrit.’
‘I would be very happy to hear it. No amount of fortune can be too great or good for Little Dorrit.’
‘I have been anxiously waiting to tell you. I have been longing and longing to tell you. You are sure you will not take it?’
‘I have been really eager to tell you. I have been wanting to tell you so much. Are you sure you won’t take it?’
‘Never!’
'Not gonna happen!'
‘You are quite sure you will not take half of it?’
‘Are you really sure you won't take half of it?’
‘Never, dear Little Dorrit!’
'Never, my dear Little Dorrit!'
As she looked at him silently, there was something in her affectionate face that he did not quite comprehend: something that could have broken into tears in a moment, and yet that was happy and proud.
As she stared at him quietly, there was something in her loving expression that he didn't fully understand: something that could have burst into tears at any moment, yet was also happy and proud.
‘You will be sorry to hear what I have to tell you about Fanny. Poor Fanny has lost everything. She has nothing left but her husband’s income. All that papa gave her when she married was lost as your money was lost. It was in the same hands, and it is all gone.’
‘You’re going to be sad to hear what I have to tell you about Fanny. Poor Fanny has lost everything. She has nothing left except for her husband’s income. Everything that Dad gave her when she got married is gone, just like your money is gone. It was in the same hands, and it’s all disappeared.’
Arthur was more shocked than surprised to hear it. ‘I had hoped it might not be so bad,’ he said: ‘but I had feared a heavy loss there, knowing the connection between her husband and the defaulter.’
Arthur was more shocked than surprised to hear it. “I had hoped it wouldn’t be that bad,” he said, “but I was worried about a big loss, knowing the link between her husband and the person who defaulted.”
‘Yes. It is all gone. I am very sorry for Fanny; very, very, very sorry for poor Fanny. My poor brother too!’
‘Yes. It’s all gone. I really feel for Fanny; so, so, so sorry for poor Fanny. My poor brother too!’
‘Had he property in the same hands?’
‘Did he have the property?’
‘Yes! And it’s all gone.—How much do you think my own great fortune is?’
‘Yes! And it’s all gone.—How much do you think my own great fortune is?’
As Arthur looked at her inquiringly, with a new apprehension on him, she withdrew her hand, and laid her face down on the spot where it had rested.
As Arthur looked at her questioningly, a new sense of unease washing over him, she pulled her hand away and rested her face on the spot where it had been.
‘I have nothing in the world. I am as poor as when I lived here. When papa came over to England, he confided everything he had to the same hands, and it is all swept away. O my dearest and best, are you quite sure you will not share my fortune with me now?’
‘I have nothing in the world. I'm as broke as I was when I lived here. When Dad came to England, he entrusted everything he had to the same people, and it’s all gone. Oh my dearest and best, are you really sure you won’t share your life with me now?’
Locked in his arms, held to his heart, with his manly tears upon her own cheek, she drew the slight hand round his neck, and clasped it in its fellow-hand.
Locked in his arms, pressed against his heart, with his strong tears on her cheek, she wrapped her delicate hand around his neck and held it with the other one.
‘Never to part, my dearest Arthur; never any more, until the last! I never was rich before, I never was proud before, I never was happy before, I am rich in being taken by you, I am proud in having been resigned by you, I am happy in being with you in this prison, as I should be happy in coming back to it with you, if it should be the will of GOD, and comforting and serving you with all my love and truth. I am yours anywhere, everywhere! I love you dearly! I would rather pass my life here with you, and go out daily, working for our bread, than I would have the greatest fortune that ever was told, and be the greatest lady that ever was honoured. O, if poor papa may only know how blest at last my heart is, in this room where he suffered for so many years!’
‘Never to part, my dearest Arthur; never again, until the very end! I’ve never felt rich before, I’ve never felt proud before, I’ve never felt happy before. I feel rich just being loved by you, I feel proud to have been supported by you, I feel happy being with you in this prison, just as I would feel happy returning to it with you if it’s God’s will, comforting and serving you with all my love and honesty. I belong to you anywhere, everywhere! I love you so much! I would rather spend my life here with you and go out every day to earn our living than have the greatest fortune ever spoken of and be the most honored lady. Oh, if only poor dad could know how blessed my heart finally is in this room where he suffered for so many years!’
Maggy had of course been staring from the first, and had of course been crying her eyes out long before this. Maggy was now so overjoyed that, after hugging her little mother with all her might, she went down-stairs like a clog-hornpipe to find somebody or other to whom to impart her gladness. Whom should Maggy meet but Flora and Mr F.‘s Aunt opportunely coming in? And whom else, as a consequence of that meeting, should Little Dorrit find waiting for herself, when, a good two or three hours afterwards, she went out?
Maggy had been staring from the start and had been crying her eyes out long before this. Now, she was so happy that, after hugging her little mother tightly, she went downstairs like a lively tune to find someone to share her joy with. Who should Maggy run into but Flora and Mr. F.’s Aunt, who were conveniently arriving? And as a result of that encounter, who should Little Dorrit find waiting for her when she went out a couple of hours later?
Flora’s eyes were a little red, and she seemed rather out of spirits. Mr F.‘s Aunt was so stiffened that she had the appearance of being past bending by any means short of powerful mechanical pressure. Her bonnet was cocked up behind in a terrific manner; and her stony reticule was as rigid as if it had been petrified by the Gorgon’s head, and had got it at that moment inside. With these imposing attributes, Mr F.‘s Aunt, publicly seated on the steps of the Marshal’s official residence, had been for the two or three hours in question a great boon to the younger inhabitants of the Borough, whose sallies of humour she had considerably flushed herself by resenting at the point of her umbrella, from time to time.
Flora’s eyes were a bit red, and she seemed pretty down. Mr. F.’s Aunt was so stiff that she looked like she could only be bent with powerful machinery. Her bonnet was propped up in a ridiculous way, and her hard purse was as stiff as if it had been turned to stone by the Gorgon’s head, which she seemed to be carrying inside it at that moment. With these imposing features, Mr. F.’s Aunt, sitting on the steps of the Marshal’s official residence, had become quite a spectacle for the younger locals in the Borough over the last few hours. They had made her blush with their jokes, which she had occasionally responded to by poking her umbrella at them.
‘Painfully aware, Miss Dorrit, I am sure,’ said Flora, ‘that to propose an adjournment to any place to one so far removed by fortune and so courted and caressed by the best society must ever appear intruding even if not a pie-shop far below your present sphere and a back-parlour though a civil man but if for the sake of Arthur—cannot overcome it more improper now than ever late Doyce and Clennam—one last remark I might wish to make one last explanation I might wish to offer perhaps your good nature might excuse under pretence of three kidney ones the humble place of conversation.’
“Miss Dorrit, I’m painfully aware,” Flora said, “that suggesting we go somewhere else to someone like you, who is so far removed by fortune and so admired by the best circles, seems like an intrusion—even if it’s not a pie shop that’s beneath your current status or a back parlor with a polite man. But if it’s for Arthur’s sake—I can’t say it’s any more inappropriate now than it was with the late Doyce and Clennam—there’s one last thing I’d like to mention, one last explanation I want to give. Perhaps your good nature might excuse it if I pretend it’s just a small conversation involving three kidney pies.”
Rightly interpreting this rather obscure speech, Little Dorrit returned that she was quite at Flora’s disposition. Flora accordingly led the way across the road to the pie-shop in question: Mr F.‘s Aunt stalking across in the rear, and putting herself in the way of being run over, with a perseverance worthy of a better cause.
Correctly understanding this somewhat unclear conversation, Little Dorrit replied that she was completely at Flora's service. Flora then took the lead across the street to the pie shop in question, with Mr. F.'s Aunt following closely behind, putting herself in danger of being hit by a car, showing a determination that deserved a better purpose.
When the ‘three kidney ones,’ which were to be a blind to the conversation, were set before them on three little tin platters, each kidney one ornamented with a hole at the top, into which the civil man poured hot gravy out of a spouted can as if he were feeding three lamps, Flora took out her pocket-handkerchief.
When the ‘three kidney ones,’ meant to divert the conversation, were placed in front of them on three small tin plates, each kidney one decorated with a hole at the top, into which the polite man poured hot gravy from a spouted can as if he were filling three lamps, Flora pulled out her handkerchief.
‘If Fancy’s fair dreams,’ she began, ‘have ever pictured that when Arthur—cannot overcome it pray excuse me—was restored to freedom even a pie as far from flaky as the present and so deficient in kidney as to be in that respect like a minced nutmeg might not prove unacceptable if offered by the hand of true regard such visions have for ever fled and all is cancelled but being aware that tender relations are in contemplation beg to state that I heartily wish well to both and find no fault with either not the least, it may be withering to know that ere the hand of Time had made me much less slim than formerly and dreadfully red on the slightest exertion particularly after eating I well know when it takes the form of a rash, it might have been and was not through the interruption of parents and mental torpor succeeded until the mysterious clue was held by Mr F. still I would not be ungenerous to either and I heartily wish well to both.’
“If Fancy’s fair dreams,” she began, “have ever imagined that when Arthur—can't overcome it, please excuse me—was finally free, even a pie as far from flaky as this one and so lacking in kidney that it was like a minced nutmeg might not be unwelcome if offered by someone who truly cares, such visions have long since vanished and everything is settled. But, since I know that tender relations are being considered, I want to say that I genuinely wish both of them well and have no complaint against either. It may be disheartening to realize that before Time had made me much less slim than I used to be and extremely flushed with the slightest effort, particularly after eating—I know well how it looks when it takes the form of a rash—it might have been different if my parents had not interrupted and if I hadn’t been so mentally sluggish until the mysterious clue was held by Mr. F. Still, I would not be unkind to either, and I sincerely wish both of them well.”
Little Dorrit took her hand, and thanked her for all her old kindness.
Little Dorrit took her hand and thanked her for all her past kindness.
‘Call it not kindness,’ returned Flora, giving her an honest kiss, ‘for you always were the best and dearest little thing that ever was if I may take the liberty and even in a money point of view a saving being Conscience itself though I must add much more agreeable than mine ever was to me for though not I hope more burdened than other people’s yet I have always found it far readier to make one uncomfortable than comfortable and evidently taking a greater pleasure in doing it but I am wandering, one hope I wish to express ere yet the closing scene draws in and it is that I do trust for the sake of old times and old sincerity that Arthur will know that I didn’t desert him in his misfortunes but that I came backwards and forwards constantly to ask if I could do anything for him and that I sat in the pie-shop where they very civilly fetched something warm in a tumbler from the hotel and really very nice hours after hours to keep him company over the way without his knowing it.’
“Don’t call it kindness,” Flora replied, giving her an honest kiss. “You’ve always been the sweetest, dearest little thing there ever was, if I can be so bold. And even in terms of money, you’re a true saving grace, though I must say you’re much more pleasant to deal with than my own conscience. I hope I’m not more burdened than anyone else, but I’ve always found my conscience far more eager to make me uncomfortable than comfortable, and it seems to thrive on doing just that. But I digress. There’s one hope I’d like to express before the final curtain falls, and that’s for Arthur to understand, for the sake of old times and sincerity, that I didn’t abandon him during his tough times. I came back and forth regularly to see if there was anything I could do for him, and I spent hours in the pie shop, where they kindly brought me something warm in a tumbler from the hotel, just to keep him company from across the street without him even knowing it.”
Flora really had tears in her eyes now, and they showed her to great advantage.
Flora genuinely had tears in her eyes now, and they highlighted her beauty quite well.
‘Over and above which,’ said Flora, ‘I earnestly beg you as the dearest thing that ever was if you’ll still excuse the familiarity from one who moves in very different circles to let Arthur understand that I don’t know after all whether it wasn’t all nonsense between us though pleasant at the time and trying too and certainly Mr F. did work a change and the spell being broken nothing could be expected to take place without weaving it afresh which various circumstances have combined to prevent of which perhaps not the least powerful was that it was not to be, I am not prepared to say that if it had been agreeable to Arthur and had brought itself about naturally in the first instance I should not have been very glad being of a lively disposition and moped at home where papa undoubtedly is the most aggravating of his sex and not improved since having been cut down by the hand of the Incendiary into something of which I never saw the counterpart in all my life but jealousy is not my character nor ill-will though many faults.’
“On top of that,” Flora said, “I really ask you, as someone I hold dear, to let Arthur know that I’m unsure if everything between us was just nonsense, even if it was enjoyable at the time and complicated too. Mr. F. definitely made a difference, and now that the spell is broken, nothing can happen again without being recreated, which various circumstances have prevented. One of the strongest reasons is that it simply wasn’t meant to be. I won’t say that if it had been suitable for Arthur and had happened naturally in the beginning, I wouldn’t have been very happy, since I have a lively personality and feel really bored at home where my dad is undoubtedly the most annoying man and hasn’t improved since he was taken down by that firestarter into something I’ve never seen before. But jealousy isn’t part of my nature, nor is ill-will, despite my many faults.”
Without having been able closely to follow Mrs Finching through this labyrinth, Little Dorrit understood its purpose, and cordially accepted the trust.
Without being able to closely follow Mrs. Finching through this maze, Little Dorrit understood its purpose and gladly accepted the responsibility.
‘The withered chaplet my dear,’ said Flora, with great enjoyment, ‘is then perished the column is crumbled and the pyramid is standing upside down upon its what’s-his-name call it not giddiness call it not weakness call it not folly I must now retire into privacy and look upon the ashes of departed joys no more but taking a further liberty of paying for the pastry which has formed the humble pretext of our interview will for ever say Adieu!’
"The wilted flower crown, my dear," said Flora, enjoyably, "is gone; the column has fallen, and the pyramid is upside down on its... what's-his-name. Don't call it dizziness, don't call it weakness, don't call it foolishness. I must now retreat into solitude and reflect on the ashes of lost happiness. But, taking the liberty of paying for the pastry that has served as the excuse for our meeting, I will forever say goodbye!"
Mr F.‘s Aunt, who had eaten her pie with great solemnity, and who had been elaborating some grievous scheme of injury in her mind since her first assumption of that public position on the Marshal’s steps, took the present opportunity of addressing the following Sibyllic apostrophe to the relict of her late nephew.
Mr. F.’s aunt, who had eaten her pie with a serious demeanor and had been plotting some serious revenge in her mind since she first took that public position on the Marshal’s steps, seized the opportunity to deliver the following prophetic statement to the widow of her late nephew.
‘Bring him for’ard, and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!’
‘Bring him forward, and I'll toss him out the window!’
Flora tried in vain to soothe the excellent woman by explaining that they were going home to dinner. Mr F.‘s Aunt persisted in replying, ‘Bring him for’ard and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!’ Having reiterated this demand an immense number of times, with a sustained glare of defiance at Little Dorrit, Mr F.‘s Aunt folded her arms, and sat down in the corner of the pie-shop parlour; steadfastly refusing to budge until such time as ‘he’ should have been ‘brought for’ard,’ and the chucking portion of his destiny accomplished.
Flora tried unsuccessfully to calm the wonderful woman by explaining that they were going home for dinner. Mr. F's Aunt kept insisting, "Bring him forward and I'll throw him out the window!" After repeating this demand countless times, with a steady glare of defiance aimed at Little Dorrit, Mr. F's Aunt crossed her arms and sat down in the corner of the pie shop's parlor, stubbornly refusing to move until "he" was "brought forward," and the throwing part of his fate was carried out.
In this condition of things, Flora confided to Little Dorrit that she had not seen Mr F.‘s Aunt so full of life and character for weeks; that she would find it necessary to remain there ‘hours perhaps,’ until the inexorable old lady could be softened; and that she could manage her best alone. They parted, therefore, in the friendliest manner, and with the kindest feeling on both sides.
In this situation, Flora told Little Dorrit that she hadn’t seen Mr. F's Aunt so lively and full of personality in weeks; that she would need to stay there “for hours, maybe,” until the tough old lady could be softened; and that she could handle her best on her own. They parted ways, then, in the friendliest manner, with warm feelings on both sides.
Mr F.‘s Aunt holding out like a grim fortress, and Flora becoming in need of refreshment, a messenger was despatched to the hotel for the tumbler already glanced at, which was afterwards replenished. With the aid of its content, a newspaper, and some skimming of the cream of the pie-stock, Flora got through the remainder of the day in perfect good humour; though occasionally embarrassed by the consequences of an idle rumour which circulated among the credulous infants of the neighbourhood, to the effect that an old lady had sold herself to the pie-shop to be made up, and was then sitting in the pie-shop parlour, declining to complete her contract. This attracted so many young persons of both sexes, and, when the shades of evening began to fall, occasioned so much interruption to the business, that the merchant became very pressing in his proposals that Mr F.‘s Aunt should be removed. A conveyance was accordingly brought to the door, which, by the joint efforts of the merchant and Flora, this remarkable woman was at last induced to enter; though not without even then putting her head out of the window, and demanding to have him ‘brought for’ard’ for the purpose originally mentioned. As she was observed at this time to direct baleful glances towards the Marshalsea, it has been supposed that this admirably consistent female intended by ‘him,’ Arthur Clennam. This, however, is mere speculation; who the person was, who, for the satisfaction of Mr F.‘s Aunt’s mind, ought to have been brought forward and never was brought forward, will never be positively known.
Mr. F.'s aunt was holding her ground like a tough fortress, and Flora was in need of a drink, so they sent someone to the hotel for the glass they had previously considered, which was then refilled. With the help of its contents, a newspaper, and some tasting of the leftover pie, Flora managed to get through the rest of the day in great spirits. She was occasionally embarrassed by the fallout from a silly rumor going around among the gullible kids in the area, claiming that an old lady had sold herself to the pie shop to be made into a pie, and was now sitting in the pie shop's parlor, refusing to fulfill her deal. This drew in so many kids, and as evening approached, it caused enough disruption to the business that the merchant insisted Mr. F.'s aunt be removed. A carriage was then brought to the door, and with the combined efforts of the merchant and Flora, this extraordinary woman was finally persuaded to get in. However, even then, she stuck her head out the window and demanded to have ‘him’ brought forward for the original purpose. At this time, she was seen casting dark looks towards the Marshalsea, leading some to speculate that this consistent woman meant ‘him’ to be Arthur Clennam. But this is just speculation; who the person was that should have been brought forward to satisfy Mr. F.'s aunt's mind but never was, will never be clearly known.
The autumn days went on, and Little Dorrit never came to the Marshalsea now and went away without seeing him. No, no, no.
The autumn days continued, and Little Dorrit never visited the Marshalsea anymore and left without seeing him. No, no, no.
One morning, as Arthur listened for the light feet that every morning ascended winged to his heart, bringing the heavenly brightness of a new love into the room where the old love had wrought so hard and been so true; one morning, as he listened, he heard her coming, not alone.
One morning, as Arthur waited for the light footsteps that every morning would rise to his heart, bringing the uplifting glow of a new love into the space where the old love had worked so hard and been so faithful; one morning, as he listened, he heard her approach, not by herself.
‘Dear Arthur,’ said her delighted voice outside the door, ‘I have some one here. May I bring some one in?’
‘Dear Arthur,’ her excited voice called from outside the door, ‘I have someone with me. Can I bring them in?’
He had thought from the tread there were two with her. He answered ‘Yes,’ and she came in with Mr Meagles. Sun-browned and jolly Mr Meagles looked, and he opened his arms and folded Arthur in them, like a sun-browned and jolly father.
He thought from the footsteps that there were two people with her. He said, 'Yes,' and she came in with Mr. Meagles. Mr. Meagles looked sun-tanned and cheerful, and he opened his arms and embraced Arthur, like a cheerful, sun-tanned dad.
‘Now I am all right,’ said Mr Meagles, after a minute or so. ‘Now it’s over. Arthur, my dear fellow, confess at once that you expected me before.’
‘Now I'm all good,’ said Mr. Meagles, after a minute or so. ‘Now it’s over. Arthur, my dear friend, admit right away that you expected me before.’
‘I did,’ said Arthur; ‘but Amy told me—’
‘I did,’ said Arthur; ‘but Amy told me—’
‘Little Dorrit. Never any other name.’ (It was she who whispered it.)
‘Little Dorrit. Never any other name.’ (She was the one who whispered it.)
‘—But my Little Dorrit told me that, without asking for any further explanation, I was not to expect you until I saw you.’
‘—But my Little Dorrit told me that, without needing to explain further, I shouldn’t expect you until I saw you.’
‘And now you see me, my boy,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand stoutly; ‘and now you shall have any explanation and every explanation. The fact is, I was here—came straight to you from the Allongers and Marshongers, or I should be ashamed to look you in the face this day,—but you were not in company trim at the moment, and I had to start off again to catch Doyce.’
‘And now you see me, my boy,’ said Mr. Meagles, shaking his hand firmly; ‘and now you can have any explanation you want. The truth is, I was here—I came directly to you from the Allongers and Marshongers, or I would be embarrassed to face you today—but you weren’t ready to chat at that moment, and I had to rush off again to catch Doyce.’
‘Poor Doyce!’ sighed Arthur.
"Poor Doyce!" sighed Arthur.
‘Don’t call him names that he don’t deserve,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘He’s not poor; he’s doing well enough. Doyce is a wonderful fellow over there. I assure you he is making out his case like a house a-fire. He has fallen on his legs, has Dan. Where they don’t want things done and find a man to do ‘em, that man’s off his legs; but where they do want things done and find a man to do ‘em, that man’s on his legs. You won’t have occasion to trouble the Circumlocution Office any more. Let me tell you, Dan has done without ‘em!’
“Don’t call him names he doesn’t deserve,” said Mr. Meagles. “He’s not poor; he’s doing just fine. Doyce is a great guy over there. I promise you, he’s handling his situation like a pro. Dan has landed on his feet. When people don’t want things done and find someone to do them, that person is out of luck; but where they do want things done and find someone to do them, that person is in a good position. You won’t need to bother the Circumlocution Office anymore. Let me tell you, Dan has managed without them!”
‘What a load you take from my mind!’ cried Arthur. ‘What happiness you give me!’
‘What a weight you lift from my mind!’ cried Arthur. ‘What happiness you bring me!’
‘Happiness?’ retorted Mr Meagles. ‘Don’t talk about happiness till you see Dan. I assure you Dan is directing works and executing labours over yonder, that it would make your hair stand on end to look at. He’s no public offender, bless you, now! He’s medalled and ribboned, and starred and crossed, and I don’t-know-what all’d, like a born nobleman. But we mustn’t talk about that over here.’
‘Happiness?’ replied Mr. Meagles. ‘Don’t mention happiness until you see Dan. I promise you, Dan is managing projects and getting things done over there that would shock you. He’s not a criminal, thank goodness! He’s got medals, ribbons, stars, and all sorts of decorations, like a natural-born nobleman. But we shouldn’t discuss that here.’
‘Why not?’
"Why not?"
‘Oh, egad!’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head very seriously, ‘he must hide all those things under lock and key when he comes over here. They won’t do over here. In that particular, Britannia is a Britannia in the Manger—won’t give her children such distinctions herself, and won’t allow them to be seen when they are given by other countries. No, no, Dan!’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head again. ‘That won’t do here!’
“Oh, come on!” Mr. Meagles said, shaking his head very seriously. “He has to keep all those things locked away when he comes over here. They won’t work here. In that respect, Britannia is like a protective mother—she won’t let her children have those distinctions, and she won’t allow them to be seen when they come from other countries. No, no, Dan!” Mr. Meagles said, shaking his head again. “That’s not acceptable here!”
‘If you had brought me (except for Doyce’s sake) twice what I have lost,’ cried Arthur, ‘you would not have given me the pleasure that you give me in this news.’
‘If you had brought me (except for Doyce’s sake) twice what I have lost,’ cried Arthur, ‘you wouldn’t have given me the joy that this news gives me.’
‘Why, of course, of course,’ assented Mr Meagles. ‘Of course I know that, my good fellow, and therefore I come out with it in the first burst. Now, to go back, about catching Doyce. I caught Doyce. Ran against him among a lot of those dirty brown dogs in women’s nightcaps a great deal too big for ‘em, calling themselves Arabs and all sorts of incoherent races. You know ‘em! Well! He was coming straight to me, and I was going to him, and so we came back together.’
“Of course, of course,” agreed Mr. Meagles. “I know that, my friend, and that's why I mention it right away. Now, to go back to catching Doyce. I caught Doyce. I bumped into him among a bunch of those scruffy brown dogs in women's nightcaps that were way too big for them, calling themselves Arabs and all sorts of random races. You know them! Anyway! He was heading straight toward me, and I was going to him, so we met up together.”
‘Doyce in England!’ exclaimed Arthur.
‘Doyce in England!’ shouted Arthur.
‘There!’ said Mr Meagles, throwing open his arms. ‘I am the worst man in the world to manage a thing of this sort. I don’t know what I should have done if I had been in the diplomatic line—right, perhaps! The long and short of it is, Arthur, we have both been in England this fortnight. And if you go on to ask where Doyce is at the present moment, why, my plain answer is—here he is! And now I can breathe again at last!’
‘There!’ said Mr. Meagles, opening his arms wide. ‘I’m the worst person in the world to handle something like this. I have no idea what I would have done if I had been in diplomacy—probably something right! The bottom line is, Arthur, we’ve both been in England for the last two weeks. And if you’re going to ask where Doyce is right now, well, my simple answer is—here he is! And now I can finally breathe again!’
Doyce darted in from behind the door, caught Arthur by both hands, and said the rest for himself.
Doyce burst in from behind the door, grabbed Arthur by both hands, and finished the rest himself.
‘There are only three branches of my subject, my dear Clennam,’ said Doyce, proceeding to mould them severally, with his plastic thumb, on the palm of his hand, ‘and they’re soon disposed of. First, not a word more from you about the past. There was an error in your calculations. I know what that is. It affects the whole machine, and failure is the consequence. You will profit by the failure, and will avoid it another time. I have done a similar thing myself, in construction, often. Every failure teaches a man something, if he will learn; and you are too sensible a man not to learn from this failure. So much for firstly. Secondly. I was sorry you should have taken it so heavily to heart, and reproached yourself so severely; I was travelling home night and day to put matters right, with the assistance of our friend, when I fell in with our friend as he has informed you. Thirdly. We two agreed, that, after what you had undergone, after your distress of mind, and after your illness, it would be a pleasant surprise if we could so far keep quiet as to get things perfectly arranged without your knowledge, and then come and say that all the affairs were smooth, that everything was right, that the business stood in greater want of you than ever it did, and that a new and prosperous career was opened before you and me as partners. That’s thirdly. But you know we always make an allowance for friction, and so I have reserved space to close in. My dear Clennam, I thoroughly confide in you; you have it in your power to be quite as useful to me as I have, or have had, it in my power to be useful to you; your old place awaits you, and wants you very much; there is nothing to detain you here one half-hour longer.’
“There are only three parts to what I’m saying, my dear Clennam,” Doyce said, shaping them one by one with his thumb on his palm. “And they can be summed up quickly. First, let’s not dwell on the past. You made a mistake in your calculations, and I know what it is. It impacts the whole machine, and the result is failure. But you'll learn from this failure and avoid it next time. I’ve had similar experiences in construction many times. Every failure teaches something, if you’re willing to learn, and you’re too sensible not to learn from this. That’s the first point. Secondly, I felt bad that you took it so hard and were so hard on yourself; I was traveling home day and night to fix things, with our friend’s help, when I ran into him, as he’s told you. Thirdly, we both agreed that after everything you’ve been through, after your mental distress and illness, it would be a nice surprise if we could keep things quiet enough to arrange everything perfectly without you knowing, and then come to you and say that all the issues are sorted, everything is good, that the business needs you more than ever, and that a new, successful partnership lies ahead for both of us. That’s the third point. But we’re always aware that there might be some bumps along the way, so I’ve made sure to leave room to wrap things up. My dear Clennam, I completely trust you; you have the power to be as helpful to me as I have been or can be to you; your old position is waiting for you, and it really wants you back; there’s nothing stopping you from leaving right now.”
There was silence, which was not broken until Arthur had stood for some time at the window with his back towards them, and until his little wife that was to be had gone to him and stayed by him.
There was silence, which was only interrupted after Arthur had stood for a while at the window with his back to them, and after his little wife, who was to be his, had gone to him and stayed by his side.
‘I made a remark a little while ago,’ said Daniel Doyce then, ‘which I am inclined to think was an incorrect one. I said there was nothing to detain you here, Clennam, half an hour longer. Am I mistaken in supposing that you would rather not leave here till to-morrow morning? Do I know, without being very wise, where you would like to go, direct from these walls and from this room?’
"I made a comment not long ago," Daniel Doyce said, "that I now think was wrong. I said there was nothing keeping you here, Clennam, for another half hour. Am I mistaken in thinking you'd prefer to stay until tomorrow morning? Do I have any idea, without being particularly clever, where you'd like to go right after leaving this place and this room?"
‘You do,’ returned Arthur. ‘It has been our cherished purpose.’
‘You do,’ Arthur replied. ‘It has been our treasured goal.’
‘Very well!’ said Doyce. ‘Then, if this young lady will do me the honour of regarding me for four-and-twenty hours in the light of a father, and will take a ride with me now towards Saint Paul’s Churchyard, I dare say I know what we want to get there.’
‘Alright!’ said Doyce. ‘So, if this young lady will do me the honor of seeing me as a father for the next twenty-four hours, and will take a ride with me now towards Saint Paul’s Churchyard, I’m sure I know what we need to do when we get there.’
Little Dorrit and he went out together soon afterwards, and Mr Meagles lingered behind to say a word to his friend.
Little Dorrit and he went out together shortly after, and Mr. Meagles stayed back to say a word to his friend.
‘I think, Arthur, you will not want Mother and me in the morning and we will keep away. It might set Mother thinking about Pet; she’s a soft-hearted woman. She’s best at the Cottage, and I’ll stay there and keep her company.’
‘I think, Arthur, you won’t want Mother and me in the morning, so we’ll stay away. It might make Mother think about Pet; she’s a sensitive woman. She’s better off at the Cottage, and I’ll stay there to keep her company.’
With that they parted for the time. And the day ended, and the night ended, and the morning came, and Little Dorrit, simply dressed as usual and having no one with her but Maggy, came into the prison with the sunshine. The poor room was a happy room that morning. Where in the world was there a room so full of quiet joy!
With that, they said goodbye for now. The day passed, night followed, and morning arrived, bringing Little Dorrit, simply dressed as always, with only Maggy by her side, into the prison along with the sunshine. The small room felt joyful that morning. Where else in the world could there be a room so filled with quiet happiness!
‘My dear love,’ said Arthur. ‘Why does Maggy light the fire? We shall be gone directly.’
‘My dear love,’ Arthur said. ‘Why is Maggy lighting the fire? We’ll be leaving soon.’
‘I asked her to do it. I have taken such an odd fancy. I want you to burn something for me.’
‘I asked her to do it. I've developed this strange desire. I want you to burn something for me.’
‘What?’
'What?'
‘Only this folded paper. If you will put it in the fire with your own hand, just as it is, my fancy will be gratified.’
‘Just this folded paper. If you put it in the fire with your own hand, just like that, I’ll be satisfied.’
‘Superstitious, darling Little Dorrit? Is it a charm?’
‘Superstitious, my dear Little Dorrit? Is it a good luck charm?’
‘It is anything you like best, my own,’ she answered, laughing with glistening eyes and standing on tiptoe to kiss him, ‘if you will only humour me when the fire burns up.’
‘It’s whatever you love most, my dear,’ she replied, laughing with sparkling eyes and standing on her toes to kiss him, ‘if you’ll just go along with me when the fire starts to blaze.’
So they stood before the fire, waiting: Clennam with his arm about her waist, and the fire shining, as fire in that same place had often shone, in Little Dorrit’s eyes. ‘Is it bright enough now?’ said Arthur. ‘Quite bright enough now,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘Does the charm want any words to be said?’ asked Arthur, as he held the paper over the flame. ‘You can say (if you don’t mind) “I love you!”’ answered Little Dorrit. So he said it, and the paper burned away.
So they stood by the fire, waiting: Clennam with his arm around her waist, and the fire shining, just like it often had in Little Dorrit’s eyes. ‘Is it bright enough now?’ Arthur asked. ‘It’s definitely bright enough now,’ Little Dorrit replied. ‘Does the charm need any words to be said?’ Arthur inquired as he held the paper over the flame. ‘You can say (if you don’t mind) “I love you!”’ Little Dorrit answered. So he said it, and the paper burned away.
They passed very quietly along the yard; for no one was there, though many heads were stealthily peeping from the windows. Only one face, familiar of old, was in the Lodge. When they had both accosted it, and spoken many kind words, Little Dorrit turned back one last time with her hand stretched out, saying, ‘Good-bye, good John! I hope you will live very happy, dear!’
They walked quietly through the yard since no one was around, even though many heads were secretly peeking from the windows. Only one familiar face was in the Lodge. After they both greeted it and exchanged kind words, Little Dorrit turned back one last time with her hand outstretched, saying, “Goodbye, good John! I hope you have a happy life, dear!”
Then they went up the steps of the neighbouring Saint George’s Church, and went up to the altar, where Daniel Doyce was waiting in his paternal character. And there was Little Dorrit’s old friend who had given her the Burial Register for a pillow; full of admiration that she should come back to them to be married, after all.
Then they climbed the steps of the nearby Saint George’s Church and went up to the altar, where Daniel Doyce was waiting in his fatherly role. And there was Little Dorrit's old friend who had given her the Burial Register for a pillow, full of admiration that she had come back to them to get married, after all.
And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and Clennam, and afterwards partner in the house), sinking the Incendiary in the peaceful friend, looked in at the door to see it done, with Flora gallantly supported on one arm and Maggy on the other, and a back-ground of John Chivery and father and other turnkeys who had run round for the moment, deserting the parent Marshalsea for its happy child. Nor had Flora the least signs of seclusion upon her, notwithstanding her recent declaration; but, on the contrary, was wonderfully smart, and enjoyed the ceremonies mightily, though in a fluttered way.
And they got married with the sun shining on them through the painted figure of Our Savior on the window. They went into the room where Little Dorrit had slept after her party to sign the Marriage Register. There, Mr. Pancks, who was meant to be the chief clerk for Doyce and Clennam and later a partner in the firm, put aside his fiery demeanor and looked in at the door to see it happen, with Flora confidently leaning on one arm and Maggy on the other, surrounded by John Chivery, his father, and a few other turnkeys who had dashed over for the occasion, leaving behind the parent Marshalsea for its joyful child. Flora showed no signs of shyness despite her recent declaration; instead, she looked incredibly stylish and thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, even if a bit flustered.
Little Dorrit’s old friend held the inkstand as she signed her name, and the clerk paused in taking off the good clergyman’s surplice, and all the witnesses looked on with special interest. ‘For, you see,’ said Little Dorrit’s old friend, ‘this young lady is one of our curiosities, and has come now to the third volume of our Registers. Her birth is in what I call the first volume; she lay asleep, on this very floor, with her pretty head on what I call the second volume; and she’s now a-writing her little name as a bride in what I call the third volume.’
Little Dorrit’s old friend held the inkstand as she signed her name, and the clerk paused while removing the good clergyman’s surplice, and all the witnesses watched with special interest. “You see,” said Little Dorrit’s old friend, “this young lady is one of our curiosities and has now reached the third volume of our Registers. Her birth is in what I call the first volume; she lay asleep, on this very floor, with her pretty head on what I call the second volume; and now she’s writing her little name as a bride in what I call the third volume.”
Original
They all gave place when the signing was done, and Little Dorrit and her husband walked out of the church alone. They paused for a moment on the steps of the portico, looking at the fresh perspective of the street in the autumn morning sun’s bright rays, and then went down.
They all stepped aside when the signing was finished, and Little Dorrit and her husband walked out of the church together. They paused for a moment on the steps of the portico, taking in the new view of the street in the bright rays of the autumn morning sun, and then went down.
Went down into a modest life of usefulness and happiness. Went down to give a mother’s care, in the fulness of time, to Fanny’s neglected children no less than to their own, and to leave that lady going into Society for ever and a day. Went down to give a tender nurse and friend to Tip for some few years, who was never vexed by the great exactions he made of her in return for the riches he might have given her if he had ever had them, and who lovingly closed his eyes upon the Marshalsea and all its blighted fruits. They went quietly down into the roaring streets, inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in sunshine and shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the froward and the vain, fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar.
Went down to a simple life of usefulness and happiness. Went down to give a mother’s care, in due time, to Fanny’s neglected children just as much as to her own, and to let that lady dive into Society forever. Went down to provide a loving nurse and friend to Tip for a few years, who was never troubled by the huge demands he placed on her in exchange for the wealth he could have given her if he ever had any, and who gently closed his eyes to the Marshalsea and all its withered hopes. They went quietly down into the bustling streets, inseparable and happy; and as they walked along in the sun and shade, the loud and the eager, the arrogant and the rude, and the vain, fussed and fretted, creating their usual noise.
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