“A boys story is the best that is ever told.”
And so while they were sitting up to
their knees in gold, a knocking was heard at the street door, and who
should it be but Bobbo, also on horseback with his bride in his arms, and
what had he come to say but that he would take (at double rent) all the
Lodgings for ever, that were not wanted by this a boy and this Gran and
this godfather, and that they would all live together, and all be happy!
And so they were, and so it never ended!"
"And was there no quarrelling?" asked my respected friend, as Jemmy sat
upon her lap and hugged her.
"No! Nobody ever quarrelled."
"And did the money never melt away?"
"No! Nobody could ever spend it all."
"And did none of them ever grow older?"
"No! Nobody ever grew older after that."
"And did none of them ever die?"
"O, no, no, no, Gran!" exclaimed our dear boy, laying his cheek upon her
breast, and drawing her closer to him. "Nobody ever died."
"Ah, Major, Major!" says my respected friend, smiling benignly upon me,
"this beats our stories. Let us end with the Boy's story, Major, for the
Boy's story is the best that is ever told!"
In submission to which request on the part of the best of women, I have
here noted it down as faithfully as my best abilities, coupled with my
best intentions, would admit, subscribing it with my name,
J. JACKMAN.
THE PARLOURS.
MRS. LIRRIPER'S LODGINGS.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. LIRRIPER'S LODGINGS ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark.
“Tis love that makes the world go round, my baby”
to speak of; my dear.’
‘Did I pinch your legs, Pa?’
‘Only nicely, my pet.’
‘You are sure you quite forgive me, Pa? Please, Pa, please, forgive me
quite!’ Half laughing at him and half crying to him, Bella besought him
in the prettiest manner; in a manner so engaging and so playful and
so natural, that her cherubic parent made a coaxing face as if she had
never grown up, and said, ‘What a silly little Mouse it is!’
‘But you do forgive me that, and everything else; don’t you, Pa?’
‘Yes, my dearest.’
‘And you don’t feel solitary or neglected, going away by yourself; do
you, Pa?’
‘Lord bless you! No, my Life!’
‘Good-bye, dearest Pa. Good-bye!’
‘Good-bye, my darling! Take her away, my dear John. Take her home!’
So, she leaning on her husband’s arm, they turned homeward by a rosy
path which the gracious sun struck out for them in its setting. And O
there are days in this life, worth life and worth death. And O what a
bright old song it is, that O ‘tis love, ‘tis love, ‘tis love that makes
the world go round!
Chapter 5
CONCERNING THE MENDICANT’S BRIDE
The impressive gloom with which Mrs Wilfer received her husband on his
return from the wedding, knocked so hard at the door of the cherubic
conscience, and likewise so impaired the firmness of the cherubic legs,
that the culprit’s tottering condition of mind and body might have
roused suspicion in less occupied persons that the grimly heroic lady,
Miss Lavinia, and that esteemed friend of the family, Mr George Sampson.
But, the attention of all three being fully possessed by the main
fact of the marriage, they had happily none to bestow on the guilty
conspirator; to which fortunate circumstance he owed the escape for
which he was in nowise indebted to himself.
‘You do not, R. W.’ said Mrs Wilfer from her stately corner, ‘inquire
for your daughter Bella.’
‘To be sure, my dear,’ he returned, with a most flagrant assumption of
unconsciousness, ‘I did omit it. How--or perhaps I should rather say
where--IS Bella?’
‘Not here,’ Mrs Wilfer proclaimed, with folded arms.
“Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed for has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows - and china.”
“You reside here, Madam?” said Mr Dombey, addressing her.
“No, we have been to a great many places. To Harrogate and Scarborough,
and into Devonshire. We have been visiting, and resting here and there.
Mama likes change.”
“Edith of course does not,” said Mrs Skewton, with a ghastly archness.
“I have not found that there is any change in such places,” was the
answer, delivered with supreme indifference.
“They libel me. There is only one change, Mr Dombey,” observed Mrs
Skewton, with a mincing sigh, “for which I really care, and that I fear
I shall never be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But
seclusion and contemplation are my what-his-name—”
“If you mean Paradise, Mama, you had better say so, to render yourself
intelligible,” said the younger lady.
“My dearest Edith,” returned Mrs Skewton, “you know that I am wholly
dependent upon you for those odious names. I assure you, Mr Dombey,
Nature intended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in society. Cows
are my passion. What I have ever sighed for, has been to retreat to a
Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows—and china.”
This curious association of objects, suggesting a remembrance of the
celebrated bull who got by mistake into a crockery shop, was received
with perfect gravity by Mr Dombey, who intimated his opinion that
Nature was, no doubt, a very respectable institution.
“What I want,” drawled Mrs Skewton, pinching her shrivelled throat, “is
heart.” It was frightfully true in one sense, if not in that in which
she used the phrase. “What I want, is frankness, confidence, less
conventionality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully
artificial.”
We were, indeed.
“In short,” said Mrs Skewton, “I want Nature everywhere. It would be so
extremely charming.”
“Nature is inviting us away now, Mama, if you are ready,” said the
younger lady, curling her handsome lip. At this hint, the wan page, who
had been surveying the party over the top of the chair, vanished behind
it, as if the ground had swallowed him up.
“Stop a moment, Withers!” said Mrs Skewton, as the chair began to move;
calling to the page with all the languid dignity with which she had
called in days of yore to a coachman with a wig, cauliflower nosegay,
and silk stockings.
“Fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of friendship; and pass the rosy wine.”
So let me hear no more about this matter now
or at any other time, and don’t get anything too nice for dinner, for I
shan’t be home to it.’
So saying, Mr Quilp put his hat on and took himself off, and Mrs Quilp,
who was afflicted beyond measure by the recollection of the part she
had just acted, shut herself up in her chamber, and smothering her head
in the bed-clothes bemoaned her fault more bitterly than many less
tender-hearted persons would have mourned a much greater offence; for,
in the majority of cases, conscience is an elastic and very flexible
article, which will bear a deal of stretching and adapt itself to a
great variety of circumstances. Some people by prudent management and
leaving it off piece by piece like a flannel waistcoat in warm weather,
even contrive, in time, to dispense with it altogether; but there be
others who can assume the garment and throw it off at pleasure; and
this, being the greatest and most convenient improvement, is the one
most in vogue.
CHAPTER 7
‘Fred,’ said Mr Swiveller, ‘remember the once popular melody of Begone
dull care; fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of
friendship; and pass the rosy wine.’
Mr Richard Swiveller’s apartments were in the neighbourhood of Drury
Lane, and in addition to this convenience of situation had the
advantage of being over a tobacconist’s shop, so that he was enabled to
procure a refreshing sneeze at any time by merely stepping out upon the
staircase, and was saved the trouble and expense of maintaining a
snuff-box. It was in these apartments that Mr Swiveller made use of the
expressions above recorded for the consolation and encouragement of his
desponding friend; and it may not be uninteresting or improper to
remark that even these brief observations partook in a double sense of
the figurative and poetical character of Mr Swiveller’s mind, as the
rosy wine was in fact represented by one glass of cold gin-and-water,
which was replenished as occasion required from a bottle and jug upon
the table, and was passed from one to another, in a scarcity of
tumblers which, as Mr Swiveller’s was a bachelor’s establishment, may
be acknowledged without a blush.
I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.
I had stopped to
look at the house as I passed; and its seared red brick walls, blocked
windows, and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with
its twigs and tendons, as if with sinewy old arms, had made up a rich
attractive mystery, of which I was the hero. Estella was the
inspiration of it, and the heart of it, of course. But, though she had
taken such strong possession of me, though my fancy and my hope were so
set upon her, though her influence on my boyish life and character had
been all-powerful, I did not, even that romantic morning, invest her
with any attributes save those she possessed. I mention this in this
place, of a fixed purpose, because it is the clue by which I am to be
followed into my poor labyrinth. According to my experience, the
conventional notion of a lover cannot be always true. The unqualified
truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her
simply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my
sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against
reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against
happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I
loved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence
in restraining me than if I had devoutly believed her to be human
perfection.
I so shaped out my walk as to arrive at the gate at my old time. When I
had rung at the bell with an unsteady hand, I turned my back upon the
gate, while I tried to get my breath and keep the beating of my heart
moderately quiet. I heard the side-door open, and steps come across the
courtyard; but I pretended not to hear, even when the gate swung on its
rusty hinges.
Being at last touched on the shoulder, I started and turned. I started
much more naturally then, to find myself confronted by a man in a sober
grey dress. The last man I should have expected to see in that place of
porter at Miss Havisham’s door.
“Orlick!”
“Ah, young master, there’s more changes than yours. But come in, come
in. It’s opposed to my orders to hold the gate open.”
I entered and he swung it, and locked it, and took the key out.
Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since – on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to displace with your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation I associate you only with the good, and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you!
“Should I fling myself away upon the man who would the soonest feel (if
people do feel such things) that I took nothing to him? There! It is
done. I shall do well enough, and so will my husband. As to leading me
into what you call this fatal step, Miss Havisham would have had me
wait, and not marry yet; but I am tired of the life I have led, which
has very few charms for me, and I am willing enough to change it. Say
no more. We shall never understand each other.”
“Such a mean brute, such a stupid brute!” I urged, in despair.
“Don’t be afraid of my being a blessing to him,” said Estella; “I shall
not be that. Come! Here is my hand. Do we part on this, you visionary
boy—or man?”
“O Estella!” I answered, as my bitter tears fell fast on her hand, do
what I would to restrain them; “even if I remained in England and could
hold my head up with the rest, how could I see you Drummle’s wife?”
“Nonsense,” she returned,—“nonsense. This will pass in no time.”
“Never, Estella!”
“You will get me out of your thoughts in a week.”
“Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You
have been in every line I have ever read since I first came here, the
rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been
in every prospect I have ever seen since,—on the river, on the sails of
the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the
darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You
have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever
become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London
buildings are made are not more real, or more impossible to be
displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to
me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my
life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the
little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation, I
associate you only with the good; and I will faithfully hold you to
that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me
feel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you!”
In what ecstasy of unhappiness I got these broken words out of myself,
I don’t know. The rhapsody welled up within me, like blood from an
inward wound, and gushed out. I held her hand to my lips some lingering
moments, and so I left her. But ever afterwards, I remembered,—and soon
afterwards with stronger reason,—that while Estella looked at me merely
with incredulous wonder, the spectral figure of Miss Havisham, her hand
still covering her heart, seemed all resolved into a ghastly stare of
pity and remorse.
All done, all gone! So much was done and gone, that when I went out at
the gate, the light of the day seemed of a darker colour than when I
went in. For a while, I hid myself among some lanes and by-paths, and
then struck off to walk all the way to London. For, I had by that time
come to myself so far as to consider that I could not go back to the
inn and see Drummle there; that I could not bear to sit upon the coach
and be spoken to; that I could do nothing half so good for myself as
tire myself out.
I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul.
“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
be.”
“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”
He shook his head.
“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
service, idly burning away.
And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire.
“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”
“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”
“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
service, idly burning away.”
“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
than you were before you knew me--”
“Don’t say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”
“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
good, with you, at all?”
“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
deplore and pity.”
“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr.
The unqualified truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I love her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence in restraining me, than if I had devoutly believed her to be human perfection.
She reserved it for
me to restore the desolate house, admit the sunshine into the dark
rooms, set the clocks a-going and the cold hearths a-blazing, tear down
the cobwebs, destroy the vermin,—in short, do all the shining deeds of
the young Knight of romance, and marry the Princess. I had stopped to
look at the house as I passed; and its seared red brick walls, blocked
windows, and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with
its twigs and tendons, as if with sinewy old arms, had made up a rich
attractive mystery, of which I was the hero. Estella was the
inspiration of it, and the heart of it, of course. But, though she had
taken such strong possession of me, though my fancy and my hope were so
set upon her, though her influence on my boyish life and character had
been all-powerful, I did not, even that romantic morning, invest her
with any attributes save those she possessed. I mention this in this
place, of a fixed purpose, because it is the clue by which I am to be
followed into my poor labyrinth. According to my experience, the
conventional notion of a lover cannot be always true. The unqualified
truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her
simply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my
sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against
reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against
happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I
loved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence
in restraining me than if I had devoutly believed her to be human
perfection.
I so shaped out my walk as to arrive at the gate at my old time. When I
had rung at the bell with an unsteady hand, I turned my back upon the
gate, while I tried to get my breath and keep the beating of my heart
moderately quiet. I heard the side-door open, and steps come across the
courtyard; but I pretended not to hear, even when the gate swung on its
rusty hinges.
Being at last touched on the shoulder, I started and turned. I started
much more naturally then, to find myself confronted by a man in a sober
grey dress. The last man I should have expected to see in that place of
porter at Miss Havisham’s door.
“Orlick!”
“Ah, young master, there’s more changes than yours. But come in, come
in. It’s opposed to my orders to hold the gate open.”
I entered and he swung it, and locked it, and took the key out. “Yes!”
said he, facing round, after doggedly preceding me a few steps towards
the house. “Here I am!”
“How did you come here?”
“I come here,” he retorted, “on my legs.
Before I go, he said, and paused -- I may kiss her?It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a handsome old lady, that she heard him say, A life you love.
Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
beside the driver.
When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
“Don’t recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
better so. Don’t revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
love her, bear to see her so?”
He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”
It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”
When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
and short, but try.”
“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”
“That’s well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
were not.”
“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name.
The unqualified truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I love her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence in restraining me, than if I had devoutly believed her to be human perfection .
She reserved it for
me to restore the desolate house, admit the sunshine into the dark
rooms, set the clocks a-going and the cold hearths a-blazing, tear down
the cobwebs, destroy the vermin,—in short, do all the shining deeds of
the young Knight of romance, and marry the Princess. I had stopped to
look at the house as I passed; and its seared red brick walls, blocked
windows, and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with
its twigs and tendons, as if with sinewy old arms, had made up a rich
attractive mystery, of which I was the hero. Estella was the
inspiration of it, and the heart of it, of course. But, though she had
taken such strong possession of me, though my fancy and my hope were so
set upon her, though her influence on my boyish life and character had
been all-powerful, I did not, even that romantic morning, invest her
with any attributes save those she possessed. I mention this in this
place, of a fixed purpose, because it is the clue by which I am to be
followed into my poor labyrinth. According to my experience, the
conventional notion of a lover cannot be always true. The unqualified
truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her
simply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my
sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against
reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against
happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I
loved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence
in restraining me than if I had devoutly believed her to be human
perfection.
I so shaped out my walk as to arrive at the gate at my old time. When I
had rung at the bell with an unsteady hand, I turned my back upon the
gate, while I tried to get my breath and keep the beating of my heart
moderately quiet. I heard the side-door open, and steps come across the
courtyard; but I pretended not to hear, even when the gate swung on its
rusty hinges.
Being at last touched on the shoulder, I started and turned. I started
much more naturally then, to find myself confronted by a man in a sober
grey dress. The last man I should have expected to see in that place of
porter at Miss Havisham’s door.
“Orlick!”
“Ah, young master, there’s more changes than yours. But come in, come
in. It’s opposed to my orders to hold the gate open.”
I entered and he swung it, and locked it, and took the key out. “Yes!”
said he, facing round, after doggedly preceding me a few steps towards
the house. “Here I am!”
“How did you come here?”
“I come here,” he retorted, “on my legs.
Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape.
work pretty hard for a sufficient living, and therefore—yes, I do
well.”
“I have often thought of you,” said Estella.
“Have you?”
“Of late, very often. There was a long hard time when I kept far from
me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant
of its worth. But since my duty has not been incompatible with the
admission of that remembrance, I have given it a place in my heart.”
“You have always held your place in my heart,” I answered.
And we were silent again until she spoke.
“I little thought,” said Estella, “that I should take leave of you in
taking leave of this spot. I am very glad to do so.”
“Glad to part again, Estella? To me, parting is a painful thing. To me,
the remembrance of our last parting has been ever mournful and
painful.”
“But you said to me,” returned Estella, very earnestly, “‘God bless
you, God forgive you!’ And if you could say that to me then, you will
not hesitate to say that to me now,—now, when suffering has been
stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what
your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but—I hope—into a
better shape. Be as considerate and good to me as you were, and tell me
we are friends.”
“We are friends,” said I, rising and bending over her, as she rose from
the bench.
“And will continue friends apart,” said Estella.
I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as
the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so
the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of
tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting
from her.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREAT EXPECTATIONS ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark.
That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.
But bearing in mind that them were which I meantersay of
a stunning and outdacious sort,—alluding to them which bordered on
weal-cutlets and dog-fighting,—a sincere well-wisher would adwise, Pip,
their being dropped into your meditations, when you go upstairs to bed.
That’s all, old chap, and don’t never do it no more.”
When I got up to my little room and said my prayers, I did not forget
Joe’s recommendation, and yet my young mind was in that disturbed and
unthankful state, that I thought long after I laid me down, how common
Estella would consider Joe, a mere blacksmith; how thick his boots, and
how coarse his hands. I thought how Joe and my sister were then sitting
in the kitchen, and how I had come up to bed from the kitchen, and how
Miss Havisham and Estella never sat in a kitchen, but were far above
the level of such common doings. I fell asleep recalling what I “used
to do” when I was at Miss Havisham’s; as though I had been there weeks
or months, instead of hours; and as though it were quite an old subject
of remembrance, instead of one that had arisen only that day.
That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it
is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it,
and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read
this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of
thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the
formation of the first link on one memorable day.
Chapter X.
The felicitous idea occurred to me a morning or two later when I woke,
that the best step I could take towards making myself uncommon was to
get out of Biddy everything she knew. In pursuance of this luminous
conception I mentioned to Biddy when I went to Mr. Wopsle’s
great-aunt’s at night, that I had a particular reason for wishing to
get on in life, and that I should feel very much obliged to her if she
would impart all her learning to me. Biddy, who was the most obliging
of girls, immediately said she would, and indeed began to carry out her
promise within five minutes.
The Educational scheme or Course established by Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt
may be resolved into the following synopsis. The pupils ate apples and
put straws down one another’s backs, until Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt
collected her energies, and made an indiscriminate totter at them with
a birch-rod. After receiving the charge with every mark of derision,
the pupils formed in line and buzzingly passed a ragged book from hand
to hand.
And a beautiful world we live in, when it is possible, and when many other such things are possible, and not only possible, but done-- done, see you!-- under that sky there, every day.
There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
his shoulder, took out a key.
“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
“Why?”
“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
harm--if his door was left open.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
of it had reached the young lady’s ears. But, by this time she trembled
under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
That’s well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall.
There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.
And
every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder
word for one another on that day than on any day in the year; and had
shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he
cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember
him.
It was a great surprise to Scrooge, while listening to the moaning of
the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the
lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as
profound as death: it was a great surprise to Scrooge, while thus
engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to
Scrooge to recognise it as his own nephew's, and to find himself in a
bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his
side, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability!
"Ha, ha!" laughed Scrooge's nephew. "Ha, ha, ha!"
If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man more blessed
in a laugh than Scrooge's nephew, all I can say is, I should like to
know him too. Introduce him to me, and I'll cultivate his acquaintance.
It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that, while there
is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so
irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour. When Scrooge's
nephew laughed in this way, holding his sides, rolling his head, and
twisting his face into the most extravagant contortions, Scrooge's
niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled
friends, being not a bit behindhand, roared out lustily.
"Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
"He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live!" cried Scrooge's
nephew. "He believed it, too!"
"More shame for him, Fred!" said Scrooge's niece indignantly. Bless
those women! they never do anything by halves. They are always in
earnest.
She was very pretty; exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled,
surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made
to be kissed--as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots about
her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed; and the
sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head.
Altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know; but
satisfactory, too. Oh, perfectly satisfactory!
Mr Lorry asks the witness questions:Ever been kicked? Might have been.Frequently? No. Ever kicked down stairs? Decidedly not; once received a kick at the top of a staircase, and fell down stairs of his own accord.
Solicitor-General then, following his leader’s lead, examined the
patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn’t
precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody’s.
Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors’
prison? Didn’t see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors’
prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
patriotism? None whatever.
The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
simplicity, four years ago.
As to preventing an importation of yellow fever
by their quarantine regulations, it is a complete farce, as all kind of
communication are kept up with the shore; the officers of the ship are
allowed to go on shore to the health office, which is right on the main
road passing Belem, and the shore is a common thoroughfare; caravans
and people bathing where the boats land. It is difficult to conceive on
what grounds these absurd regulations are introduced, unless it be to
annoy and drive away people wishing to visit the place, and as part and
parcel of a system of intolerant restrictions that are enough to paralyse
the energies of any country. The inconvenience which such restrictions
cause is indescribable, nor can anything justify the infliction in such
cases as ours. If at any time there is really sufficient grounds for
adopting quarantine regulations, they ought to be delighted to remove
them so soon as the grounds were removed. In the present advanced
state of civilization, and with the rapid intercourse between nations,
quarantine is almost a barbarity, calculated to shut out the country
that exercises it from the rest of the world, whilst it is impossible it
can be efficacious in the manner it is carried on at Lisbon; besides,
the yellow fever has never been known to travel out of the tropics,
and surely a voyage of twenty or thirty days across the ocean, without
a case on board, is sufficient security, even supposing the fever to
exist in the country the vessel comes from. On the other hand, reports
of cholera in England cause an enforcement of quarantine outwards, thus
putting the crowning piece to this mass of absurdity and annoyance. The
subject cannot be alluded to with common patience, especially when it is
publicly stated that the medical men who have to determine these sanitary
points have a strong pecuniary interest in the lazarettos, and numbers of
people prey upon the unfortunate vessel and passengers subjected to these
terrible inflictions. Since my return, however, the Lisbon officials
seem to have become a little amenable to reason and decency, and their
preposterous regulations are in a trifling degree relaxed.
At 10 A.M. on the morning of the 1st November we weighed anchor, and
steamed past Belem, towing a pilot in his boat astern.
I care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.
”
“You have acted as if you do; but I don’t think you do.”
“_I_ don’t think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
opinion of your understanding.”
“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
parting without ill-blood on either side.”
Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
ten.”
The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
I am drunk?”
“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”
“Think? You know I have been drinking.”
“Since I must say so, I know it.”
“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”
“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”
“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don’t let your sober face elate you,
however; you don’t know what it may come to. Good night!”
When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”
He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. Its neither my friend, neither. Its number one. (Fagin)
Noah
Claypole, bespeaking his good lady’s attention, proceeded to enlighten
her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness
and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex,
but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on
the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity.
CHAPTER XLIII.
WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE
“And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?” asked Mr.
Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into
between them, he had removed next day to Fagin’s house. “Cod, I thought
as much last night!”
“Every man’s his own friend, my dear,” replied Fagin, with his most
insinuating grin. “He hasn’t as good a one as himself anywhere.”
“Except sometimes,” replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of
the world. “Some people are nobody’s enemies but their own, yer know.”
“Don’t believe that,” said Fagin. “When a man’s his own enemy, it’s
only because he’s too much his own friend; not because he’s careful for
everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain’t such a thing in nature.”
“There oughn’t to be, if there is,” replied Mr. Bolter.
“That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the
magic number, and some say number seven. It’s neither, my friend,
neither. It’s number one.”
“Ha! ha!” cried Mr. Bolter. “Number one for ever.”
“In a little community like ours, my dear,” said Fagin, who felt it
necessary to qualify this position, “we have a general number one,
without considering me too as the same, and all the other young
people.”
“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Mr. Bolter.
“You see,” pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, “we
are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must
be so. For instance, it’s your object to take care of number
one—meaning yourself.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Bolter. “Yer about right there.”
“Well! You can’t take care of yourself, number one, without taking care
of me, number one.”
“Number two, you mean,” said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with
the quality of selfishness.
“No, I don’t!” retorted Fagin. “I’m of the same importance to you, as
you are to yourself.”
“I say,” interrupted Mr. Bolter, “yer a very nice man, and I’m very
fond of yer; but we ain’t quite so thick together, as all that comes
to.
[She wasnt] a logically reasoning woman, but God is good, and hearts may count in heaven as high as heads.
In a corner below the
mangle, on a couple of stools, sat two very little children: a boy and a
girl; and when the very long boy, in an interval of staring, took a turn
at the mangle, it was alarming to see how it lunged itself at those two
innocents, like a catapult designed for their destruction, harmlessly
retiring when within an inch of their heads. The room was clean and
neat. It had a brick floor, and a window of diamond panes, and a flounce
hanging below the chimney-piece, and strings nailed from bottom to top
outside the window on which scarlet-beans were to grow in the coming
season if the Fates were propitious. However propitious they might have
been in the seasons that were gone, to Betty Higden in the matter of
beans, they had not been very favourable in the matter of coins; for it
was easy to see that she was poor.
She was one of those old women, was Mrs Betty Higden, who by dint of
an indomitable purpose and a strong constitution fight out many years,
though each year has come with its new knock-down blows fresh to the
fight against her, wearied by it; an active old woman, with a bright
dark eye and a resolute face, yet quite a tender creature too; not a
logically-reasoning woman, but God is good, and hearts may count in
Heaven as high as heads.
‘Yes sure!’ said she, when the business was opened, ‘Mrs Milvey had the
kindness to write to me, ma’am, and I got Sloppy to read it. It was a
pretty letter. But she’s an affable lady.’
The visitors glanced at the long boy, who seemed to indicate by a
broader stare of his mouth and eyes that in him Sloppy stood confessed.
‘For I aint, you must know,’ said Betty, ‘much of a hand at reading
writing-hand, though I can read my Bible and most print. And I do love a
newspaper. You mightn’t think it, but Sloppy is a beautiful reader of a
newspaper. He do the Police in different voices.’
The visitors again considered it a point of politeness to look at
Sloppy, who, looking at them, suddenly threw back his head, extended his
mouth to its utmost width, and laughed loud and long. At this the two
innocents, with their brains in that apparent danger, laughed, and Mrs
Higden laughed, and the orphan laughed, and then the visitors laughed.
Which was more cheerful than intelligible.
