 Preface to the Old Curiosity Shop This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens. Preface. In April 1840 I issued the first number of a new weekly publication, Price Threppens, called Master Humphrey's Clock. It was intended to consist, for the most part, of detached papers, but was to include one continuous story to be resumed from time to time with such indefinite intervals between each period of resumption as might best accord with the exigencies and capabilities of the proposed miscellany. The first chapter of this tale appeared in the fourth number of Master Humphrey's Clock, when I had already been made uneasy by the desultory character of that work, and when I believe my readers had thoroughly participated in the feeling. The commencement of a story was a great satisfaction to me, and I had reason to believe that my readers participated in this feeling too. Hence, being pledged to some interruptions and some pursuit of the original design, I set cheerfully about disentangling myself from those impediments as fast as I could. And, that done, from that time until its completion, the Old Curiosity Shop was written and published from week to week in weekly parts. When the story was finished, that it might be freed from the encumbrance of associations and interruptions with which it had no kind of concern, I caused the few sheets of Master Humphrey's Clock, which had been printed in connection with it, to be cancelled. And, like the unfinished tale of the windy night and the notary in the sentimental journey, they became the property of the trunkmaker and the butterman. I was especially unwilling, I confess, to enrich those respectable trades with the opening paper of the abandoned design, in which Master Humphrey described himself and his manner of life. Though I now effect to make the confession philosophically, as referring to a bygone emotion, I am conscious that my pen winces a little, even while I write these words. But it was done and wisely done, and Master Humphrey's Clock, as originally constructed, became one of the lost books of the earth, which, we all know, are far more precious than any that can be read for love or money. In reference to the tale itself, I desire to say very little here. The many friends it won me, and the many hearts it turned to me when they were full of private sorrow, invested with an interest in my mind, which is not a public one, and the rightful place of which appears to be a more removed ground. I will merely observe, therefore, that in writing the book, I had it always in my fancy to surround the lonely figure of the child with grotesque and wild, but not impossible, companions, and to gather about her innocent face and pure intentions associates as strange and uncongenial as the grim objects that are about her bed when her history is first foreshadowed. Master Humphrey, before his devotion to the Tronkin butter business, was originally supposed to be the narrator of the story. As it was constructed from the beginning, however, with a view to separate publication when completed, his demise is not involved in the necessity of any alteration. I have a mournful pride in one recollection associated with little Nell. While she was yet upon her wanderings, not then concluded, there appeared in a literary journal an essay of which she was the principal theme, so earnestly, so eloquently and tenderly appreciative of her, and of all her shadowy kith and kin, that it would have been insensibility in me if I could have read it without an unusual glow of pleasure and encouragement. Long afterwards, and when I had come to know him well, and to see him stout of heart, going slowly down into his grave, I knew the writer of that essay to be Thomas Hood. End of preface. Chapter 1 of The Old Curiosity Shop. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens. Chapter 1. Night is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leave home early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day, or even escape for days or weeks together. But, saving in the country, I seldom go out until after dark, though heaven be thanked, I love its light, and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth as much as any creature living. I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it favours my infirmity, and because it affords me greater opportunity of speculating on the characters and occupations of those who fill the streets. The glare and hurry abroad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits like mine. A glimpse of passing faces, caught by the light of a street lamp or a shop window, is often better for my purpose than their full revelation in the daylight. And, if I must add the truth, night is kinder in this respect than day which too often destroys an air-built castle at the moment of its completion without the least ceremony or remorse. That constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness, that incessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy, is it not a wonder how the dwellers in narrow ways can bear to hear it? Think of a sick man in such a place as St. Martin's Court listening to the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and weariness obliged despite himself, as though it were a task he must perform to detect the child's step from the man's, the slip-shod beggar from the booted exquisite, the lounging from the busy, the dull heel of the sauntering outcast from the quick tread of an expectant pleasure-seeker. Think of the hum and noise always being present to his sense, and of the stream of life that will not stop pouring on, on, on, through all his restless dreams, as if he were condemned to lie dead but conscious in a noisy churchyard, and had no hope of rest for centuries to come. Then the crowds were ever passing and repassing on the bridges, on those which are free of toil at last, where many stop on fine evenings, looking listlessly down upon the water with some vague idea, that by and by it runs between green banks, which grow wider and wider until at last it joins the broad vast sea, where some halt to rest from heavy loads, and think as they look over the parapet that to smoke and lounge away one's life, and lies sleeping in the sun upon a hot tarpaulin in a dull, slow, sluggish barge must be happiness unalloyed, and where some, and a very different class, pours with heavier loads than they, remembering to have heard or read in old time that drowning was not a hard death, but of all means of suicide, the easiest and best. Covent Garden market at sunrise too, in the spring or summer, when the fragrance of sweet flowers is in the air, overpowering even the unwholesome streams of last night's debauchery, and driving the dusky thresh, whose cages hung outside a garret window all night long half mad with joy. Poor bird, the only neighbouring thing at all akin to the other little captives, some of whom shrinking from the hot hands of drunken purchases, lie drooping on the path already, while others, soddened by close contact, await the time when they shall be watered and freshened up to please more sober company, and make old clerks who pass them on their road to business wonder what has filled their breasts with visions of the country. But my present purpose is not to expatiate upon my walks, the story I am about to relate, and to which I shall recur at intervals, arose out of one of these rambles, and thus I have been led to speak of them by way of preface. One night I had roamed into the city, and was walking slowly on in my usual way, musing upon a great many things, when I was arrested by an inquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, but which seemed to be addressed to myself, and was preferred in a soft, sweet voice that struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round, and found at my elbow a pretty little girl, who begged to be directed to a certain street at a considerable distance, and indeed in quite another quarter of the town. It is a very long way from here, said I, my child. I know that, sir," she replied timidly, I am afraid it is a very long way, for I came from there to the night. Alone, said I, in some surprise. Oh yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now, for I had lost my road. And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong. I am sure you will not do that, said the little creature. You are such a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself. I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal, and the energy with which it was made, which brought a tear into the child's clear eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she looked up into my face. Come, said I, I'll take you there. She put her hand in mine as confidingly as if she had known me from her cradle, and we trudged away together, the little creature accommodating her pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead and take care of me than I to be protecting her. I observed that every now and then she stole a curious look at my face, as if to make quite sure that I was not deceiving her, and that these glances, very sharp and keen they were too, seemed to increase her confidence at every repetition. For my part, my curiosity and interest were at least equal to the child's, for child she certainly was, although I thought it probable, from what I could make out, that her very small and delicate frame imparted a peculiar youthfulness to her appearance. Though more scantily attired than she might have been, she was dressed with perfect neatness and betrayed no marks of poverty or neglect. Who has sent you so far by yourself, said I? Someone who is very kind to me, sir. And what have you been doing? That, I must not tell, said the child, firmly. There was something in the manner of this reply which caused me to look at the little creature with an involuntary expression of surprise. For I wondered what kind of errand it might be that occasioned her to be prepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read my thoughts, for as it met mine she added that there was no harm in what she had been doing, but it was a great secret, a secret which she did not even know herself. This was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit, but with an unsuspicious frankness that bore the impress of truth. She walked on as before, growing more familiar with me as we proceeded, and talking cheerfully by the way, but she said no more about her home, beyond remarking that we were going quite a new road, and asking if it were a short one. While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a hundred different explanations of the riddle, and rejected them every one. I really felt ashamed to take advantage of the ingenuousness or grateful feeling of the child for the purpose of gratifying my curiosity. I love these little people, and it is not a slight thing when they who are so fresh from God love us. As I had felt pleased at first by her confidence I determined to deserve it, and to do credit to the nature which had prompted her to repose it in me. There was no reason, however, why I should refrain from seeing the person who had inconsiderately sent her to so great a distance by night and alone, and as it was not improbable, that if she found herself near home she might take farewell of me and deprive me of the opportunity. I avoided the most frequented ways, and took the most intricate, and thus it was not until we arrived in the street itself that she knew where we were. Clapping her hands with pleasure, and running on before me for a short distance, my little acquaintance stopped at a door, and remaining on the step till I came up knocked at it when I joined her. A part of this door was of glass, unprotected by any shutter which I did not observe at first, for all was very dark and silent within, and I was anxious, as indeed the child was also, for an answer to our summons. When she had knocked twice or thrice there was a noise as if some person were moving inside, and at length the faint light appeared through the glass which, as it approached very slowly, the bearer having to make his way through a great many scattered articles, enabled me to see both what kind of person it was who advanced, and what kind of place it was through which he came. It was an old man with long grey hair, whose face and figure as he held the light above his head, and looked before him as he approached, I could plainly see. Though much altered by age, I fancied I could recognize in his spare and slender form something of that delicate mould which I had noticed in a child. Their bright blue eyes were certainly alike, but his face was so deeply furrowed, and so very full of care, that here all resemblance ceased. The place through which he made his way at leisure was one of those receptacles for old and curious things which seemed to crouch in odd corners of this town, and to hide their musty treasures from the public eye in jealousy and distrust. There were suits of males standing like ghosts in armour here and there, fantastic carvings brought from monkish cloisters, rusty weapons of various kinds, distorted figures in china and wood and iron and ivory, tapestry and strange furniture that might have been designed in dreams. The haggard aspect of the little old man was wonderfully suited to the place. He might have groped among old churches and tombs and deserted houses and gathered all the spoils with his own hands. There was nothing in the whole collection but was him keeping with himself, nothing that looked older or more worn than he. As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with some astonishment, which was not diminished when he looked from me to my companion. The door being opened, the child addressed him as grandfather and told him the little story of our companionship. Why bless the child, said the old man patting her on the head. How could thou miss thy way? What if I had lost thee, Nell? I would have found my way back to you, grandfather, said the child boldly, never fear. The old man kissed her, then turning to me and begging me to walk in, I did so. The door was closed and locked. Proceeding me with the light, he led me through the place I had already seen from without, into a small sitting-room behind, in which was another door opening into a kind of closet, where I saw a little bed that a fairy might have slept in. It looked so very small and was so prettily arranged. The child took a candle and tripped into this little room, leaving the old man and me together. You must be tired, sir, said he, as he placed a chair near the fire. How can I thank you? By taking more care of your grandchild another time, my good friend, I replied. More care, said the old man in a shrill voice, more care of Nellie, why, whoever loved a child as I love Nell. He said this with such evident surprise that I was perplexed what answer to make, and the more so because coupled with something feeble and wandering in his manner, there were in his face marks of deep and anxious thought, which convinced me that he could not be as I had been at first inclined to suppose in a state of dotage or imbecility. I don't think you consider, I began. I don't consider, cried the old man interrupting me. I don't consider her. Ah, how little you know of the truth, little Nellie, little Nellie. It would be impossible for any man, I care not what his form of speech might be, to express more affection than the dealer in curiosities did, in these four words. I waited for him to speak again, but he rested his chin upon his hand, and shaking his head twice o' thrice, fixed his eyes upon the fire. While we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the closet opened, and the child returned, her light brown hair hanging loose about her neck, and her face flushed with the haste she had made to rejoin us. She busied herself immediately in preparing supper, and while she was thus engaged, I remarked that the old man took an opportunity of observing me more closely than he had done yet. I was surprised to see that all this time everything was done by the child, and that there appeared to be no other persons but ourselves in the house. I took advantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a hint on this point, to which the old man replied that there were few grown persons as trustworthy or as careful as she. It always grieves me, I observed, roused by what I took to be his selfishness. It always grieves me to contemplate the initiation of children into the ways of life, when they are scarcely more than infants. It checks their confidence and simplicity to of the best qualities that heaven gives them, and demands that they share our sorrows before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments. It will never check hers, said the old man, looking steadily at me. The springs are too deep. Besides, the children of the poor know but few pleasures. Even the cheap delights of childhood must be bought and paid for. But forgive me for saying that they are not but forgive me for saying this. You are surely not so very poor, said I. She is not my child, sir, returned the old man. Her mother was, and she was, poor. I save nothing, not a penny, though I live as you see. But he laid his hand upon my arm and lent forward to whisper. She shall be rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't you think he'll love me because I use her help? She gives it cheerfully, as you see, and it would break her heart if she knew that I suffered anybody else to do for me what her little hands could undertake. I don't consider, he cried with sudden quarrelousness, why God knows that this one child is the thought and object of my life, and yet he never prospers me. No, never. At this juncture the subject of our conversation again returned, and the old man, motioning to me to approach the table, broke off and said no more. We had scarcely begun our repast, when there was a knock at the door by which I had entered, and Nell bursting into a hearty laugh which I was rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full of hilarity, said it was no doubt dear old Kit coming back at last. Foolish Nell, said the old man, fondling with her hair, she always laughs at poor Kit. The child laughed again, more heartily than before. I could not help smiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle and went to open the door. When he came back Kit was at his heels. Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an uncommonly wide mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and certainly the most comical expression of face I ever saw. He stopped short of the door on seeing a stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat without any vestige of a brim, and resting himself now on one leg, and now on the other, and changing them constantly, stood in the doorway looking into the parlour with the most extraordinary leer I ever beheld. I entertained a grateful feeling towards the boy from that minute, for I felt that he was the comedy of the child's life. A long way wasn't it Kit? said the little old man. Why, then, it was a goodish stretchmaster, returned Kit. Of course you have come back hungry. Why, then, I do consider myself rather so, master, was the answer. The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways as he spoke, and thrusting his head forward over his shoulder, as if he could not get at his voice without that accompanying action. I think he would have amused one anywhere, but the child's exquisite enjoyment of his oddity, and the relief it was to find that there was something she associated with merriment in a place that appeared so unsuited to her, were quite irresistible. It was a great point, too, that Kit himself was flattered by the sensation he created, and after several efforts to preserve his gravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his mouth wide open, and his eyes nearly shut, laughing violently. The old man had again relapsed into his former abstraction, and took no notice of what passed. But I remarked that when her laugh was over, the child's bright eyes were dimmed with tears, called forth by the fullness of heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite after the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself, whose laugh had been all the time one of that sort which very little would change into a cry, he carried a large slice of bread and meat and a mug of beer into a corner, and applied himself to disposing of them with great voracity. Ah! said the old man turning to me with a sigh, as if I had spoken to him at that moment. You don't know what you say when you tell me that I don't consider her. You must not attach too great weight to a remark founded on first appearance, as my friend said I. No! returned the old man thoughtfully. No! come hither, Nell. The little girl hastened from her seat and put her arm about his neck. Do I love thee, Nell? said he. Say, do I love thee, Nell, or no? The child only answered by her caresses and laid her head upon his breast. Why dost thou sob? said the grandfather, pressing her closer to him and glancing towards me. Is it because thou knowest I love thee, and dost not like that I should seem to doubt it by my question? Well, well, then let us say I love thee dearly. Indeed, indeed you do, reply the child with great earnestness. Kit knows you do. Kit, who in dispatching his bread and meat had been swallowing two-thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a juggler, stopped short in his operations on being thus appealed to and bawled, nobody isn't such a fool as to say he doesn't. After which he incapacitated himself for further conversation by taking a most prodigious sandwich at one bite. She is poor now, said the old man, patting the child's cheek, but I say again that the time is coming when she shall be rich. It has been a long time coming, but it must come at last. A very long time, but it surely must come. It has come to other men who do nothing but waste and riot. When will it come to me? I am very happy, as I am, grandfather, said the child. Tush, tush, return the old man. Thou dost not know, how shouldst thou? Then he muttered again between his teeth. The time must come. I am very sure it must. It will be all the better for coming late. And then he sighed and fell into his former musing state, and still holding the child between his knees, appeared to be insensible to everything around him. By this time it wanted but a few minutes of midnight, and I rose to go, which recalled him to himself. One moment, sir, he said, now, Kit, near midnight, boy, and you still here, get home, get home, and be true to your time in the morning, for there's work to do. Good night. There bid him good night, Nell, and let him be gone. Good night, Kit, said the child, her eyes lighting up with merriment and kindness. Good night, Miss Nell, returned the boy. And thank this gentleman, interposed the old man, but for whose care I might have lost my little girl tonight. No, no, master, said Kit, that won't do, that won't. What do you mean, cried the old man? I'd have found her, master, said Kit. I'd have found her. I'll bet that I'd find her if she was above ground, I would, as quick as anybody, master. Ha, ha, ha. Once more, opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, and laughing like a stentor. Kit gradually backed to the door, and wrought himself out. Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his departure. When he had gone, and the child was occupied in clearing the table, the old man said, I haven't seemed to thank you, sir, for what you have done to-night. But I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she, and her thanks are better worth than mine. I should be sorry that you went away, and thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of her. I am not, indeed. I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. But, I added, may I ask you a question? I, sir, replied the old man, what is it? This delicate child, said I, with so much beauty and intelligence, has she nobody to care for her but you? Has she no other companion or advisor? No, he returned, looking anxiously in my face. No, and she wants no other. But are you not fearful, said I, that you may misunderstand a charge so tender? I am sure you mean well. But are you quite certain that you know how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man like you, and I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is young and promising. Do you not think that what I have seen of you and this little creature tonight must have an interest not wholly free from pain? Sir, rejoin the old man after a moment's silence. I have no right to feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects I am the child and she the grown person, that you have seen already. But waking or sleeping, by night or day in sickness or health, she is the one object of my care. And if you knew of how much care, you would look on me with different eyes. You would indeed. Ah, it's a weary life for an old man, a weary, weary life. But there is a great end to gain, and that I keep before me. Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and impatience, I turned to put on an outer coat, which I had thrown off on entering the room, purposing to say no more. I was surprised to see the child standing patiently by with a cloak upon her arm and in her hand a hat and stick. Those are not mine, my dear, said I. No, returned the child. They are grandfathers. But he is not going out to-night. Oh, yes he is, said the child with a smile. And what becomes of you, my pretty one? Me? I stay here, of course. I always do. I looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he was, or feigned to be, busyed in the arrangement of his dress. From him I looked back to the slight gentle figure of the child, alone, in that gloomy place all the long, dreary night. She evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheerfully helped the old man with his cloak, and when he was ready, took a candle to light us out. Finding that we did not follow as she expected, she looked back with a smile and waited for us. The old man showed by his face that he plainly understood the cause of my hesitation. But he merely signed to me with an inclination of the head to pass out of the room before him, and remained silent. I had no resource, but to comply. When we reached the door, the child setting down the candle turned to say good night, and raised her face to kiss me. Then she ran to the old man, who folded her in his arms, and bade God bless her. Sleep soundly, Nell, he said in a low voice, and angels guard thy bed, do not forget thy prayers, my sweet. No indeed, answered the child fervently, they make me feel so happy. That's well, I know they do, they should, said the old man, bless thee a hundred times. Early in the morning I shall be home. You'll not ring twice, returned the child, the bell wakes me, even in the middle of a dream. With this they separated. The child opened the door, now guarded by a shutter, which I had heard the boy put up before he left the house, and with another fair well, whose clear and tender note I have recalled a thousand times, held it until we had passed out. The old man paused a moment, while it was gently closed and fastened on the inside, and satisfied that this was done, walked on at a slow pace. At the street corner he stopped, and regarding me with the troubled countenance, said that our ways were widely different, and he must take his leave. I would have spoken, but summoning up more alacrity than might have been expected in one of his appearance, he hurried away. I could see that twice or thrice he looked back, as if to ascertain if I were still watching him, or perhaps to assure himself that I was not following at a distance. The obscurity of the night favoured his disappearance, and his figure was soon beyond my sight. I remained standing on the spot where he had left me, unwilling to depart, and yet unknowing why I should loiter there. I looked wistfully into the street we had lately quitted, and after a time directed my steps that way. I passed and reparsed the house, and stopped and listened at the door. War was dark and silent as the grave. Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, thinking of all possible harm that might happen to the child, of fires and robberies and even murder, and feeling as if some evil must ensure if I turned my back upon the place. The closing of a door or window in the street brought me before the curiosity-dealers once more. I crossed the road, and looked up at the house, to assure myself that the noise had not come from there. No, it was black, cold and lifeless as before. There were few passengers astir. The street was sad and dismal and pretty well my own. A few stragglers from the theatres hurried by, and now and then I turned aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he reeled homewards. But these interruptions were not frequent, and soon ceased. The clocks struck one. Still I paced up and down, promising myself that every time should be the last, and breaking faith with myself on some new plea as often as I did so. The more I thought of what the old man had said, and of his looks and bearing, the less I could account for what I had seen and heard. I had a strong misgiving that his nightly absence was for no good purpose. I had only come to know the fact through the innocence of the child, and though the old man was by at the time and saw my undisguised surprise, he had preserved a strange mystery upon the subject, and offered no word of explanation. These reflections naturally recalled again more strongly than before his haggard face, his wandering manner, his restless, anxious looks. His affection for the child might not be inconsistent with villainy of the worst kind. Even that very affection was in itself an extraordinary contradiction, or how could he leave her thus? Disposed as I was to think badly of him, I never doubted that his love for her was real. I could not admit the thought, remembering what had passed between us, and the tone of voice in which he had called her by her name. Stay here, of course, the child had said an answer to my question. I always do. What could take him from home by night and every night? I called up all the strange tales I had ever heard of dark and secret deeds committed in great towns, and escaping detection for a long series of years, wild as many of these stories were. I could not find one adapted to this mystery, which only became the more impenetrable in proportion as I sought to solve it. Occupied with such thoughts as these, and a crowd of others all tending to the same point, I continued to pace the street for two long hours. At length the rain began to descend heavily, and then overpowered by fatigue, though no less interested than I had been at first. I engaged the nearest coach, and so got home. A cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, the lamp burned brightly. My clock received me with its old familiar welcome. Everything was quiet, warm and cheering, and in happy contrast to the gloom and darkness I had quitted. But all that night, waking in my sleep, the same thoughts recurred, and the same images retained possession of my brain. I had ever before me the old dark murky rooms, the gaunt suits of mail with their ghostly silent air, the faces all awry, grinning from wood and stone, the dust and rust and worm that lives in wood, and alone in the midst of all this lumber and decay and ugly age, the beautiful child in her gentle slumber, smiling through her light and sunny dreams. After combating for nearly a week, the feeling which impelled me to revisit the place I had quitted under the circumstances already detailed, I yielded to it at length, and determining that this time I would present myself by the light of day, bent my steps thither early in the morning. I walked past the house and took several turns in the street with that kind of hesitation which is natural to a man who is conscious that the visit he is about to pay is unexpected and may not be very acceptable. However, as the door of the shop was shut, and it did not appear likely that I should be recognised by those within if I continued merely to pass up and down before it, I soon conquered this resolution and found myself in the curiosity dealer's warehouse. The old man and another person were together in the back part, and there seemed to have been high words between them, for their voices which were raised to a very high pitch suddenly stopped on my entering, and the old man advancing hastily towards me said in a tremulous tone that he was very glad I had come. You interrupted us at a critical moment, said he, pointing to the man whom I had found in company with him. This fellow will murder me one of these days. He would have done so long ago if he had dared. Bah! you would swear away my life if you could, returned the other, after bestowing a stare and a frown on me. We all know that. I almost think I could, cried the old man, turning feebly upon him. If oaths or prayers or words could rid me of you, they should. I would be quit of you, and would be relieved if you were dead. I know it, returned the other. I said so, didn't I? But neither oaths or prayers nor words will kill me, and therefore I live and mean to live. And his mother died, cried the old man passionately, clasping his hands and looking upward, and this is heaven's justice. The other stood lounging with his foot upon a chair, and regarded him with a contemptuous sneer. He was a young man of one and twenty or thereabouts, well-made, and certainly handsome, though the expression of his face was far from pre-possessing, having in common with his manner and even his dress a dissipated, insolent air which repelled one. Justice or no justice, said the young fellow. Here I am, and here I shall stop till such time as I think fit to go, unless you send for assistance to put me out, which you won't do, I know. I tell you again that I want to see my sister. Your sister, said the old man bitterly. Ah, you can't change the relationship, returned the other. If you could, you'd have done it long ago. I want to see my sister that you keep cooped up here, poisoning her mind with your sly secrets, and pretending an affection for her that you may work her to death, and add a few scraped shillings every week to the money you can hardly count. I want to see her, and I will. Here's a moralist to talk of poisoned minds. Here's a generous spirit to scorn scraped up shillings, cried the old man, turning from him to me. A profligate sir, who has forfeited every claim not only upon those who have the misfortune to be of his blood, but upon society which knows nothing of him but his misdeeds. A liar too, he added in a lower voice as he drew closer to me. Who knows how dear she is to me, and seeks to wound me even there, because there is a stranger nearby? Strangers are nothing to me, grandfather, said the young fellow catching at the word, nor eye to them, I hope. The best they can do is to keep an eye to their business, and leave me to mind. There's a friend of mine waiting outside, and as it seems that I may have to wait some time, I'll call him in with your leave. Saying this, he stepped to the door, and looking down the street, beckoned several times to some unseen person, who, to judge from the air of impatience with which these signals were accompanied, required a great quantity of persuasion to induce him to advance. At length, they sauntered up on the opposite side of the way, with a bad pretence of passing by accident, a figure conspicuous for its dirty smartness, which after a great many frowns and jerks at the head, in resistance of the invitation, ultimately crossed the road, and was brought into the shop. There, its dick swivler, said the young fellow, pushing him in, sit down, swivler. But is the old man agreeable, said Mr. Swivler, in an undertone? Mr. Swivler complied, and looking about him with a propitiatory smile, observed that last week was a fine week for the ducks, and this week was a fine week for the dust. He also observed that whilst standing by the post at the street corner, he had observed a pig, with a straw in his mouth, issuing out of the tobacco shop, from which appearance he argued that another fine week for the ducks was approaching, and that rain would certainly ensue. He furthermore took occasion to apologise for any negligence that might be perceptible in his dress, on the ground that last night he had had, the sun very strong in his eyes, by which expression he was understood to convey to his heroes, in the most delicate manner possible, the information that he had been extremely drunk. But what, said Mr. Swivler with Usai, what is the odds so long as the fire of soul is kindled at the taper of conviviality, and the wing of friendship never molts a feather? What is the odds so long as the spirit is expanded by means of rosy wine, and the present moment is the least happiest of our existence? You needn't act the Chairman here, said his friend, half aside. Fred cried Mr. Swivler, tapping his nose. A word to the wise is sufficient for them. We may be good and happy without riches, Fred. Say not another syllable. I know my cue. Smart is the word. Only one little whisper, Fred, is the old men friendly. Never you mind, replied his friend. Right again, quite right, said Mr. Swivler. Caution is the word, and caution is the act. With that he winked as if in preservation of some deep secret, and folding his arms, and leaning back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling with profound gravity. It was perhaps not very unreasonable to suspect from what had already passed that Mr. Swivler was not quite recovered from the effects of the powerful sunlight to which he had made illusion. But if no such suspicion had been awakened by his speech, his wiry hair, dull eyes, and sallow face would still have been strong witness against him. His attire was not, as he had himself hinted, remarkable for the nicest arrangement, but was in a state of disorder which strongly induced the idea that he had gone to bed in it. It consisted of a brown body coat, with a great many brass buttons up the front, and only one behind, a bright check neckerchief, a plaid waistcoat, soiled white trousers, and a very limp hat worn with the wrong side foremost, to hide a hole in the brim. The breast of his coat was ornamented with an outside pocket, from which they peeped forth the cleanest end of a very large and very ill-favoured handkerchief. His dirty wristbands were pulled on as far as possible, and ostentatiously folded back over his cuffs. He displayed no gloves, and carried a yellow cane, having at the top a bone hand with the semblance of a ring on its little finger, and a black ball in its grasp. With all these personal advantages, to which may be added a strong savor of tobacco smoke, and a prevailing greasiness of appearance, Mr. Swiveller lent back in his chair, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and occasionally pitching his voice to the needful key, obliged the company with a few bars of an intensely dismal air, and then, in the middle of a note, relapsed into his former silence. The old man sat himself down in a chair, and with folded hands, looked sometimes at his grandson, and sometimes at his strange companion, as if he were utterly powerless, and had no resource but to leave them to do as they pleased. The young man reclined against a table at no great distance from his friend, in apparent indifference to everything that had passed. And I, who felt the difficulty of any interference, notwithstanding that the old man had appealed to me, both by words and looks, made the best faint I could of being occupied in examining some of the goods that were disposed for sale, and paying very little attention to a person before me. The silence was not of long duration, for Mr. Swiveller, after favouring us with several melodious assurances that his heart was in the highlands, and that he wanted but his Arab steed as a preliminary to the achievement of great feats of valor and loyalty, removed his eyes from the ceiling, and subsided into prose again. Fred, said Mr. Swiveller, stopping short, as if the idea had suddenly occurred to him, and speaking in the same audible whispers before, is the old man friendly. What does it matter, returned his friend, peevishly? No, but is he, said Dick? Yes, of course, what do I care whether he is or not? Emboldened as it seemed by this reply to enter into a more general conversation, Mr. Swiveller plainly laid himself out to captivate our attention. He began by remarking that soda water, though a good thing in the abstract, was apt to lie cold upon the stomach, unless qualified with ginger, or a small infusion of brandy, which latter article he held to be preferable in all cases, saving for the one consideration of expense. Nobody venturing to dispute these positions, he proceeded to observe that the human hair was a great retainer of tobacco smoke, and that the young gentlemen of Westminster and Eaton, after eating vast quantities of apples, to conceal any scent of cigars from their anxious friends, were usually detected in consequence of their heads possessing this remarkable property. When he concluded that if the Royal Society would turn their attention to the circumstance, and endeavour to find in the resources of science a means of preventing such untoward revelations, they might indeed be looked upon as benefactors to mankind. These opinions, being equally incontrovertible with those he had already pronounced, he went on to inform us that Jamaica rum, though unquestionably an agreeable spirit of great richness and flavour, had the drawback of remaining constantly present to the taste next day, and nobody being venturous enough to argue this point either, he increased in confidence and became yet more companionable and communicative. It's a devil of a thing, gentlemen, said Mr Swivler, when relations fall out and disagree. If the wing of friendship should never mould a feather, the wing of relationship should never be clipped, but be always expanded and serene. Why should a grandson and grandfather peg away at each other with mutual violence, when all might be bliss and concord? Why not giant hands and forget it? Hold your tongue, said his friend. Sir, replied Mr Swivler, don't you interrupt the chair. Gentlemen, how does the case stand upon the present occasion? Here is a jolly old grandfather, I say it with the utmost respect, and here is a wild young grandson. The jolly old grandfather says to the wild young grandson, I have brought you up and educated you, Fred. I have put you in the way of getting on in life. You have bolted a little out of course, as young fellows often do, and you shall never have another chance, nor the ghost of half a one. The wild young grandson makes answer to this and says, You're as rich as rich can be. You have been at no uncommon expense on my account. You're saving up piles of money for my little sister that lives with you in a secret, stealthy, hugger-muggering kind of way, and with no manner of enjoyment. Why can't you stand a trifle for your grown-up relation? The jolly old grandfather unto this retorts not only that he declines to fork out with that cheerful readiness which is always so agreeable and pleasant in a gentleman of his time of life, but that he will bow up and call names and make reflections whenever they meet. Then the plain question is, aren't it a pity that this state of things should continue, and how much better would it be for the gentleman to hand over a reasonable amount of tin and make it all right and comfortable? Having delivered this oration, with a great many waves and flourishes of the hand, Mr. Swivel abruptly thrust the head of his cane into his mouth as if to prevent himself from impairing the effective speech by adding one other word. Why do you hunt and persecute me, God help me? said the old man, turning to his grandson. Why do you bring your proflicate companions here? How often am I to tell you that my life is one of care and self-denial, and that I am poor? How often am I to tell you, return the other looking coldly at him, that I know better? You have chosen your own path, said the old man, follow it, leave Nell and me to toil and work. Nell will be a woman soon, returned the other, and bred in your faith she'll forget her brother unless he shows himself sometimes. Take care, said the old man with sparkling eyes, that she does not forget you when you would have her memory keenest. Take care that the day don't come when you walk barefoot in the streets, and she rides by in a gay carriage of her own. You mean when she has your money, retorted the other, how like a poor man he talks. And yet, said the old man, dropping his voice and speaking, like one who thinks aloud, how poor we are and what a life it is. The cause is a young child's guiltless of all harm or wrong, but nothing goes well with it. Hope and patience, hope and patience. These words were uttered in too low a tone to reach the ears of the young men. Mr. Swivler appeared to think they implied some mental struggle consequent upon the powerful effect of his address, for he poked his friend with his cane and whispered his conviction that he had administered a clincher, and that he expected a commission on the profits. Discovering his mistake after a while, he appeared to grow rather sleepy and discontented, and had more than once suggested the propriety of an immediate departure, when the door opened and the child herself appeared. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of the Old Curiosity Shop This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens. Chapter 3 The child was closely followed by an elderly man of remarkably hard features and forbidding aspect, and so low in stature as to be quite at warf, though his head and face were large enough for the body of a giant. His black eyes were restless, sly and cunning, his mouth and chin bristly with the stubble of a coarse hard beard, and his complexion was one of that kind which never looks clean or wholesome. But what added most to the grotesque expression of his face was a ghastly smile, which appearing to be the mere result of habit and to have no connection with any mirthful or complacent feeling, constantly revealed the few discoloured fangs that were yet scattered in his mouth, and gave him the aspect of a panting dog. His dress consisted of a large high-crowned hat, a worn dark suit, a pair of capacious shoes, and a dirty white neckerchief sufficiently limp and crumpled to disclose the greater portion of his wiry throat. Such hair as he had was of a grizzled black cut short and straight upon his temples, and hanging in a frowsy fringe about his ears. His hands, which were of a rough coarse grain, were very dirty. His fingernails were crooked, long and yellow. There was ample time to note these particulars, for besides that they were sufficiently obvious without very close observation, some moments elapsed before any one broke silence. The child advanced timidly towards her brother and put her hand in his. The dwarf, if we may call him so, glanced keenly at all present, and the curiosity-dealer who plainly had not expected his uncouth visitor seemed disconcerted and embarrassed. Ah! said the dwarf, who with his hand stretched out above his eyes had been surveying the young man attentively. That should be your grandson, neighbour. Say, rather, that he should not be, replied the old man, but he is. And that, said the dwarf, pointing to Dick Swiveller, some friend of his, as welcome here as he, said the old man. And that, inquired the dwarf, wheeling round and pointing straight at me, a gentleman who was so good as to bring Nell home the other night when she lost her way coming from your house. Little man turned to the child as if to chide her or express his wonder, but as she was talking to the young man held his piece and bent his head to listen. Well, Nellie, said the young fellow aloud, do they teach you to hate me, eh? No, no, for shame, oh no, cried the child. To love me, perhaps, pursued her brother with a sneer. To do neither, she returned, they never speak to me about you. Indeed, they never do. I dare be bound for that, he said, darting a bit a look at the grandfather. I dare be bound for that, Nell, oh, I believe you there. But I love you dearly, Fred, said the child. No doubt. I do indeed, and always will, the child repeated, with great emotion. But oh, if you would leave off vexing him and making him unhappy, then I could love you more. I see, said the young man, as he stooped carelessly over the child, and having kissed her, pushed her from him. There, get you away now, you have said your lesson. You needn't wimper, we part good friends enough, if that's the matter. He remained silent, following her with his eyes, until she had gained her little room and closed the door. And then turning to the dwarf, said abruptly, Harky, Mr. Meaning me, returned the dwarf, Quilp is my name. You might remember, it's not a long one, Daniel Quilp. Harky, Mr. Quilp, then, pursued the other. You have some influence with my grandfather there? Some, said Mr. Quilp, emphatically. And are in a few of his mysteries and secrets? A few, replied Quilp, with equal dryness. Then let me tell him once for all through you, that I will come into and go out of this place as often as I like, so long as he keeps knell here. And that if he wants to be quit of me, he must first be quit of her. What have I done to be made a bugbear of, and to be shunned and dreaded, as if I brought the plague? He'll tell you that I have no natural affection, and that I care no more for knell for her own sake than I do for him. Let him say so. I care for the whim, then, of coming to and fro and reminding her of my existence. I will see her when I please. That's my point. I came here to-day to maintain it, and I'll come here again fifty times with the same object, and always with the same success. I said I would stop till I had gained it. I have done so. And now my visits ended. Come, Dick. Stop! cried Mr. Swiveller, as his companion turned toward the door. Sir? Sir, I am your humble servant, said Mr. Quilp, to whom the monosyllable was addressed. Before I leave the gay and festive scene and halls of dazzling light, sir, said Mr. Swiveller, I will, with your permission, attempt a slight remark. I came here, sir, this day, under the impression that the old min was friendly. Proceed, sir, said Daniel Quilp, for the orator had made a sudden stop. Inspired by this idea, and the sentiments it awakened, sir, and feeling as a mutual friend that badgering, baiting, and bullying was not the sort of thing calculated to expand the souls and promote the social harmony of the contending parties, I took upon myself to suggest a course which is the course to be adopted to the present occasion. Will you allow me to whisper half a syllable, sir? Without waiting for the permission he sought, Mr. Swiveller stepped up to the dwarf, and leaning on his shoulder and stooping down to get at his ear, said in a voice which was perfectly audible to all present. The watchword to the old min is fork. Is what, demanded Quilp? Is fork, sir? Fork, replied Mr. Swiveller, slapping his picket. You are awake, sir? The dwarf nodded. Mr. Swiveller drew back and nodded likewise, then drew a little further back and nodded again, and so on. By these means he in time reached the door, where he gave a great cough to attract the dwarf's attention and gain an opportunity of expressing in dumb show the closest confidence and most inviolable secrecy. Having performed the serious pantomime that was necessary for the due conveyance of these ideas, he cast himself upon his friend's track and vanished. Huff! said the dwarf, with a sour look and a shrug of his shoulders. So much for dear relations. Thank God I acknowledge none. Nor need you either, he added, turning to the old man. If you were not as weak as a reed and nearly as senseless. What would you have me do? he retorted, in a kind of helpless desperation. It is easy to talk and sneer. What would you have me do? What would I do, if I was in your case? said the dwarf. Something violent, no doubt. You're right there, returned the little man, highly gratified by the compliment, for such he evidently considered it, and grinning like a devil as he rubbed his dirty hands together. Ask Mrs. Quilpe, pretty Mrs. Quilpe, obedient, timid, loving Mrs. Quilpe. But that reminds me, I have left her all alone, and she will be anxious and no, not a moment's peace till I return. I know she's always in that condition when I'm away. Though she doesn't dare to say so, unless I lead her on and tell her she may speak freely, and I won't be angry with her. Oh, well-trained Mrs. Quilpe. The creature appeared quite horrible with his monstrous head and little body, as he rubbed his hands slowly round and round and round again, with something fantastic, even in his manner of performing this slight action, and, dropping his shaggy brows and cocking his chin in the air, glanced upward with a stealthy look of exultation, that an imp might have copied and appropriated to himself. Here, he said, putting his hand into his breast, and sidling up to the old man as he spoke. I brought it myself for fear of accidents, as, being in gold, it was something large and heavy for Nell to carry in her bag. She need be accustomed to such loads be times, though, neighbour, for she will carry weight when you are dead. Heaven send she may, I hope so, said the old man with something like a groan. Hope so! echoed the dwarf approaching close to his ear. neighbour, I would I knew in what good investment all these supplies are sunk, but you are a deep man, and keep your secret close. My secret, said the other, with a haggard look, yes, you're right, I, I keep it close, very close. He said no more, but taking the money turned away with a slow, uncertain step, and pressed his hand upon his head like a weary and dejected man. The dwarf watched him sharply, while he passed into the little sitting-room, and locked it in an iron safe above the chimney-piece. And after musing for a short space, prepared to take his leave, observing that unless he made good haste, Mrs. Quilp would certainly be in fits on his return. And so, neighbour, he added, I'll turn my face homewards, leaving my love for Nellie, and hoping she may never lose her way again, though her doing so has procured me an honour I didn't expect. With that he bowed and leered at me, and with a keen glance around which seemed to comprehend every object within his range of vision, however small or trivial, went his way. I had several times essayed to go myself, but the old man had always opposed it, and entreated me to remain. As he renewed his entreaties on our being left alone, and adverted with many thanks to the former occasion of our being together, I willingly yielded to his persuasions, and sat down, pretending to examine some curious miniatures, and a few old medals which he placed before me. It needed no great pressing to induce me to stay, for if my curiosity has been excited on the occasion of my first visit, it certainly was not diminished now. Nell joined us before long, and bringing some needlework to the table, sat by the old man's side. It was pleasant to observe the fresh flowers in the room, the pet bird of the green bow shading his little cage, the breath of freshness and youth which seemed to rustle through the old dull houses, and hover round the child. It was curious, but not so pleasant, to turn from the beauty and grace of the girl, to the stooping figure, care-worn face and jaded aspect of the old man. As he grew weaker and more feeble, what would become of this lonely little creature? Poor protector as he was, say that he died. What would be her fate, then? The old man almost answered my thoughts, as he laid his hand on hers, and spoke aloud. I'll be of better cheer, Nell, he said. There must be good fortune in store for thee. I do not ask it for myself, but thee. Such miseries must fall on thy innocent head without it, that I cannot believe but that, being tempted, it will come at last. She looked cheerfully into his face, but made no answer. When I think, said he, of the many years, many in thy short life that thou hast lived with me, of my monotonous existence, knowing no companions of thy own age, nor any childish pleasures, of the solitude in which thou hast grown to be what thou art, and in which thou hast lived apart from nearly all thy kind, but one old man, I sometimes fear I have dealt hardly by thee, Nell. Grandfather cried the child in unfaithful surprise. Not in intention, no, no, said he. I have ever looked forward to the time that you'd enabled thee to mix among the gayest and prettiest, and take thy station with the best. But I still look forward, Nell, I still look forward, and if I should be forced to leave thee, meanwhile, how have I fitted thee for struggles with the world? The poor bird yonder is as well qualified to encounter it, and be turned adrift upon its mercies. Hark! I hear Kit outside. Go to him, Nell, go to him. She rose, and hurrying away, stopped, turned back, and put her arms about the old man's neck, then left him and hurried away again, but faster this time to hide her falling tears. A word in your ear, sir, said the old man in a hurried whisper, I have been rendered uneasy by what you said the other night, and can only plead that I have done all for the best, that it is too late to retract if I could, though I cannot, and that I hope to triumph yet. All is for her sake. I have borne great poverty myself, and would spare her the sufferings that poverty carries with it. I would spare her the miseries that brought her mother, my own dear child, to an early grave. I would leave her, not with resources which could be easily spent or squandered away, but with what would place her beyond the reach of want for ever. You mark me, sir. She shall have no pittance, but a fortune. I can say no more than that, now or at any other time, and she is here again. The eagerness with which all this was poured into my ear, the trembling of the hand with which he clasped my arm, the strained and starting eyes he fixed upon me, the wild vehemence and agitation of his manner, filled me with amazement. All that I had heard and seen, and a great part of what he had said himself, led me to suppose that he was a wealthy man. I could form no comprehension of his character, unless he were one of those miserable wretches who, having made gain the sole end and object of their lives, and having succeeded in amassing great riches, are constantly tortured by the dead of poverty, and beset by fears of loss and ruin. Many things he had said, which I had been at a loss to understand, were quite reconcilable with the idea thus presented to me, and at length I concluded that beyond all doubt he was one of this unhappy race. The opinion was not the result of hasty consideration, for which indeed there was no opportunity at that time, as the child came directly and soon occupied herself in preparations for giving kid a writing lesson, of which it seemed he had a couple every week, and one regularly on that evening to the great mirth and enjoyment both of himself and his instructress. To relate how it was a long time before his modesty could be so far prevailed upon, as it admitted his sitting down in the parlour, in the presence of an unknown gentleman. How, when he did sit down, he tucked up his sleeves and squared his elbows and put his face close to the copy-book, and squinted horribly at the lines. How, from the very first moment of having the pen in his hand, he began to wallow in blots, and to dob himself with ink up to the very roots of his hair. How, if he did by accident form a letter properly, he immediately smeared it out again with his arm in his preparations to make another. How, at every fresh mistake, there was a fresh burst of merriment from the child, and louder and not less hearty laugh from poor kid himself. And how there was all the way through, notwithstanding a gentle wish on her part to teach, and an anxious desire in his to learn. To relate all these particulars would no doubt occupy more space and time than they deserve. It will be sufficient to say that the lesson was given, that evening passed, and night came on. At the old man again grew restless and impatient, that he quitted the house secretly at the same hour as before, and that the child was once more left alone within its gloomy walls. And now that I have carried this history so far in my own character, and introduced these personages to the reader, I shall, for the convenience of the narrative, detach myself from its further course, and leave those who have prominent and necessary parts in it to speak and act for themselves. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of the Old Curiosity Shop This Libra Box recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens. Chapter 4. Mr. and Mrs. Quillp resided on Tower Hill. And in her bower on Tower Hill, Mrs. Quillp was left to pine the absence of her Lord, when he quitted her on the business which he has been already seen to transact. Mr. Quillp could scarcely be said to be of any particular trade or calling, though his pursuits were diversified and his occupations numerous. He collected the rents of whole colonies of filthy streets and alleys by the water side. Advanced money to the seamen and petty officers of merchant vessels, had a share in the ventures of diverse mates of East India men. Smoked his smuggled cigars under the very nose of the custom house, and made appointments on change with men-englazed hats and round jackets pretty well every day. On the surrey side of the river was a small rat-infested dreary yard called Quillp's Wharf, in which were a little wooden counting-house, burrowing all awry in the dust, as if it had fallen from the clouds, and plowed into the ground. A few fragments of rusty anchors, several large iron rings, some piles of rotten wood, and two or three heaps of old sheet copper, crumpled, cracked, and battered. On Quillp's Wharf Daniel Quillp was a ship-breaker, yet to judge from these appearances he must either have been a ship-breaker on a very small scale, or have broken his ships up very small indeed. Neither did the place present any extraordinary aspect of life or activity, as its only human occupant was an amphibious boy in a canvas suit, whose sole change of occupation was from sitting on the head of a pile and throwing stones into the mud when the tide was out, to standing with his hands in his pockets, gazing listlessly on the motion and on the bustle of the river at high water. The dwarfs lodging on Tower Hill comprised, besides the needful accommodation for himself and Mrs. Quillp, a small sleeping-closet for the lady's mother, who resided with the couple and waged perpetual war with Daniel, of whom notwithstanding she stood in no slight dread. Indeed, the ugly creature contrived by some means or other, whether by his ugliness or his ferocity, or his natural cunning, is no great matter, to impress the wholesome fear of his anger, most of those with whom he was brought into daily contact and communication. Over nobody had he such complete ascendance as Mrs. Quillp herself. A pretty little, mild-spoken, blue-eyed woman, who, having alight herself in wedlock to the dwarf, in one of those strange infatuations, of which examples are by no means scarce, performed a sound practical penance for her folly every day of her life. It has been said that Mrs. Quillp was pining in her bower, in her bower she was, but not alone. For besides the old lady her mother, of whom mention has recently been made, there were present some half-dozen ladies of the neighbourhood, who had happened by a strange accident, and also by a little understanding among themselves, to drop in one after another just about tea-time. This being a season favourable to conversation, and the room being a cool, shady, lazy kind of place, with some plants at the open window shutting out the dust, and interposing pleasantly enough between the tea-table within and the old tower without, it is no wonder that the ladies felt an inclination to talk and linger, especially when they are taken into account the additional inducements of fresh butter, new bread, shrimps and watercresses. Now the ladies being together under these circumstances, it was extremely natural that the discourse should turn upon the propensity of mankind to tyrannise over the weaker sex, and the duty that developed upon the weaker sex to resist that tyranny and assert their rights and dignity. It was natural for four reasons. Firstly, because Mrs. Culp, being a young woman and notoriously under the dominion of her husband, ought to be excited to rebel. Secondly, because Mrs. Culp's parent was known to be lordably shrewish in her disposition and inclined to resist male authority. Thirdly, because each visitor wished to show for herself how superior she was in this respect to the generality of her sex. And fourthly, because the company being accustomed to scandalise each other in pairs were deprived of their usual subject of conversation, now that they were all assembled in close friendship, and had consequently no better employment than to attack the common enemy. Moved by these considerations, a stout lady opened the proceedings by inquiring with an air of great concern and sympathy how Mr. Culp was, whereon to Mr. Culp's wife's mother replied sharply, No, he was well enough. Nothing match was ever the better with him, and ill weeds were sure to thrive. All the ladies then sighed in concert, shook their heads gravely, and looked at Mrs. Culp as a martyr. Ah, said the spokeswoman, Ah, wish you'd give her a little of your red voice, Mrs. Ginny-Win. Mrs. Culp had been a Miss Ginny-Win, it should be observed. Now, when he knows better than you, Mom, what else women outlaw ourselves? Oh, indeed, Mom! replied Mrs. Ginny-Win. When my poor husband, her dear father, was alive, if he had ever ventured across wood to me, I'd have. The good old lady did not finish the sentence, but she twisted off the head of a shrimp with a vindictiveness which seemed to imply that the action was, in some degree, a substitute for words. In this light, it was clearly understood by the other party, who immediately replied, with great approbation, You can't enter into my feelings, Mom, and it's just what I'd do myself. But you have no call to do it, said Mrs. Ginny-Win. Luckily for you, you have no more occasion to do it than I had. No woman need have, if she's true to herself. We joined a stout lady. Do you hear that, Betsy? said Mrs. Ginny-Win in a warning voice. How often have I said the same words to you, and almost gone down on my knees when I've spoken? Poor Mrs. Culp, who had looked in a state of helplessness, from one face of condolence to another, culled, smiled, and shook her head doubtfully. This was the signal for a general clamour, which, beginning in a low murmur, gradually swelled into a great noise, in which everybody spoke at once, and all said that she, being a young woman, had no right to set up her opinions against the experiences of those who knew so much better. That it was very wrong of her not to take the advice of people who had nothing at heart but her good. That it was next door to being downright ungrateful to conduct herself in that manner. That if she had no respect for herself, she ought to have some for other women, all of whom she compromised by her meekness, and that if she had no respect for other women, the time would come when other women would have no respect for her, and she would be very sorry for that, they could tell her. Having dealt out these admonitions, the ladies fell to a more powerful assault than they had yet made upon the mixed tea, new bread, fresh butter, shrimps, and watercresses, and said that their vexation was so great to see her going on like that, that they could hardly bring themselves to eat a single mortal. It's all very fine to talk, said Mrs. Culp, with much simplicity, but I know that if I was to die tomorrow, Culp could marry anybody pleased. Now that he could, I know. There was quite a scream of indignation at this idea— marry whom he pleased. They would like to see him dare to think of marrying any of them. They would like to see the faintest approach to such a thing. One lady, a widow, was quite certain she should stab him if he hinted at it. Very well, said Mrs. Culp, nodding her head, as I said just now, it's very easy to talk. But I say again that I know, that I'm sure, Culp has such a way with him when he likes, at the best look in woman ear couldn't refuse him if I was dead, and she was free, and he chose to make love to her. Come! Everybody bridled up at this remark as much as to say, I know you mean me, let him try, that's all. And yet, for some hidden reason, they were all angry with the widow, and each lady whispered in her neighbour's ear that it was very plain that said widow thought herself the person referred to, and what a puss she was. Mother knows, said Mrs. Culp, that what I say is quite correct, or she often said so before we were married. Didn't you say so, mother? This inquiry involved the respected lady in rather a delicate position, for she certainly had been an active party and making her daughter Mrs. Culp, and, besides, it was not supporting the family credit to encourage the idea that she had married a man who nobody else would have. On the other hand, to exaggerate the captivating qualities of her son-in-law would be to weaken the cause of revolt in which all her energies were deeply engaged. Be set by these opposing considerations, Mrs. Ginny-Winn admitted the powers of insinuation, but denied the right to govern, and with a timely compliment to the stout lady brought back the discussion to the point from which it had strayed. Oh! it is a sensible and proper thing, indeed, what Mrs. Georgia said, exclaimed the old lady, if women are only toot with themselves, but better isn't, and more so shame and pity. Before I let a man order me about as Culp orders her, said Mrs. George, before I constantly stand in awe of a man as she does of him, I'd kill myself and write a letter first to say he did it. This remark being loudly commended and approved of, another lady from the mainaries put in her word. Mr. Culp may be a very nice man, said this lady, and I supposed it's no doubt he is, because Mrs. Culp says he is, and Mrs. Ginny-Winn says he is, and they all know, or nobody has, but still he's not quite a—what one calls a handsome man—not quite a young man never, which might be a little excuse for him, if anything could be. Whereas his wife is young, and he's good-looking, and he's a woman, which is the greatest thing after all. This last clause being delivered with extraordinary pathos elicited a corresponding murmur from the heroes, stimulated by which the lady went on to remark that if such a husband was cross and unreasonable with such a wife, then— If he is, interposed the mother, putting down her teacup, and brushing the crumbs out of her lap, preparatory to making a solemn declaration. If he is, he is the greatest tyrant that ever lived. She didn't call her a solo her own. He makes her tremble with a word, and even with a look. He frightens her to death, and she hasn't the spirit to give over word back—now, not a single word. Not by standing that the fact had been notorious beforehand to all the tea-drinkers, and had been discussed and expatiated on every tea-drinking in the neighbourhood for the last twelve months, this official communication was no sooner made, and they all began to talk at once, and to vie with each other and vehemence and volubility. Mrs. George remarked that people would talk, that people had often said this to her before, that Mrs. Simmons then and there present had told her so twenty times, that she had always said, No, Henrietta Simmons, unless I see it with my own eyes, and hear it with my own ears, I never will believe it. Mrs. Simmons corroborated this testimony, and added strong evidence of her own. The lady from the mineries recounted a successful course of treatment, under which she had placed her own husband, who, from manifesting one month after marriage, unequivocable symptoms of the tiger, had by this means become subdued into a perfect lamb. Another lady recounted her own personal struggle and final triumph, in the course whereof she had found it necessary to call in her mother and two aunts, and to weep incessantly night and day for six weeks. A third, who in the general confusion could secure no other listener, fastened herself upon a young woman still unmarried, who happened to be amongst them, and conjured her, as she valued her own peace of mind and happiness, to profit by this solemn occasion, to take example from the weakness of Mrs. Quillpe, and from that time forth to direct her whole thoughts to taming and subduing the rebellious spirit of man. The noise was at its height, and half the company had elevated their voices into a perfect shriek in order to drown the voices of the other half, when Mrs. Ginnyman was seen to change colour and shake her forefinger stealthily, as if exhorting them to silence. Then, and not until then, Daniel Quillpe himself, the cause and occasion of all this clamour, was observed to be in the room, looking on and listening with profound attention. Go on, ladies, go on, said Daniel. Mrs. Quillpe, pray ask the ladies to stop the supper, and have a couple of lobsters and something light and pelletable. I—I didn't ask them to tea, Quillpe, stemmed his wife. It's quite an accident—so much the better, Mrs. Quillpe. These accidental parties are always the pleasantest, said the dwarf, rubbing his hands so hard that he seemed to be engaged in manufacturing of the dirt with which they were encrusted little charges for pop-guns. What? Not going, ladies, you're not going, surely? His fair enemies tossed their heads slightly, as they sought their respective bonnets and shawls, but left all verbal contention to Mrs. Ginnywyn, who, finding herself in the position of champion, made a faint struggle to sustain the character. And why not stop the supper, Quillpe? said the old lady. If my daughter had a mind, then be sure, be joined, Daniel. Why not? There's nothing dishonest or wrong in a supper, I hope, said Mrs. Ginnywyn. Surely not, returned the dwarf. Why should there be? Nor anything unwholesome either, unless there's lobster-sullied or prawns, which I'm told are not good for digestion. And you wouldn't like your wife to attack with that or anything else that would make her uneasy, would you? said Mrs. Ginnywyn. Not for a score of worlds, replied the dwarf with a grin. Not even to have a score of mothers-in-law at the same time, and what a blessing that would be. My daughters, your wife, Mr. Quillpe, certainly, said the old lady with the giggle, meant for satirical, and to imply that it needed to be reminded of the fact, your wedded wife. So she is, certainly, so she is, observed the dwarf. And she has a right to do what she likes, our hope-quip, said the old lady, trembling, partly with anger and partly with the secret fear of her impish son-in-law. Hope she has, he replied. Oh, don't you know she has? Don't you know she has, Mrs. Ginnywyn? I know she ought to have, Quillpe, and would have, if she was of my way of thinking. Why aren't you of your mother's way of thinking, my dear? said the dwarf, turning round and addressing his wife. Why don't you always imitate your mother, my dear? She is the ornament of her sex. Your father said so every day of his life. I'm sure he did. Her father was a blessed creature, Quillpe, and worthy twenty thousand of some people, said Mrs. Ginnywyn, twenty hundred million thousand. I should like to have known him, marked the dwarf. I dare say he was a blessed creature then. But I'm sure he is now. It was a happy release. I believe he had suffered a long time. The old lady gave a gasp, but nothing came of it. Quillpe presumed with the same malice in his eye and the same sarcastic politeness on his tongue. You look ill, Mrs. Ginnywyn. I know you have been exciting yourself too much, talking perhaps for it is your weakness. Go to bed. Do go to bed. I should go when I please Quillpe, and not before. That please to do now. Do please to go now, said the dwarf. The old woman looked angrily at him, but retreated as he advanced, and falling back before him suffered him to shut the door upon her and bolt her out among the guests, who were by this time crowding downstairs. Being left alone with his wife, who sat trembling in a corner with her eyes fixed upon the ground, the little man canted himself before her, and folding his arms looked steadily at her for a long time without speaking. Mrs. Quillpe, he said at last. Yes, Quillpe, she replied meekly. Instead of pursuing the theme he had in his mind, Quillpe folded his arms again, and looked at her more sternly than before, while she averted her eyes and kept them on the ground. Mrs. Quillpe? Yes, Quillpe. If ever you listen to these bell-darms again, I'll bite you. With this laconic threat, which he accompanied with a snarl that gave him the appearance of being particularly in earnest, Mr. Quillpe made her clear the teaboard away and bring the rum. The spirit being set before him in a huge case bottle, which had originally come out of some ship's locker, he settled himself in an armchair with his large head and face squeezed up against the back, and his little legs planted on the table. Now, Mrs. Quillpe, he said. I feel in a smoking humour, and shall probably blaze away all night. But sit where you are, if you please, in case I want you. His wife returned no other reply than the necessary yes, Quillpe. And the small lord of the creation took his first cigar and mixed his first glass of grog. The sun went down and the stars peeped out. The tower turned from its own proper colours to grey and from grey to black. The room became perfectly dark, and the end of the cigar a deep, fiery red. But still Mr. Quillpe went on smoking and drinking in the same position, and staring listlessly out of the window with the dog-like smile always on his face. Save, when Mrs. Quillpe made some involuntary movement of restlessness or fatigue, and then it expanded into a grin of delight. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of The Old Curiosity Shop This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens Chapter 5 Whether Mr. Quillpe took any sleep by snatches of a few winks at a time, or whether he sat with his eyes wide open all night long, certain it is that he kept his cigar light, and kindled every fresh one from the ashes of that which was nearly consumed, without requiring the assistance of a candle. Nor did the striking of the clocks hour after hour appear to inspire him with any sense of drowsiness or any natural desire to go to rest, but rather to increase his wakefulness, which he showed at every such indication of the progress of the night by a suppressed cackling in his throat, and a motion of his shoulders, like one who laughs heartily, but at the same time slyly and by stealth. At length the day broke, and poor Mrs. Quillpe, shivering with cold of early morning, and harassed by fatigue and want of sleep, was discovered sitting patiently on her chair, raising her eyes at intervals in mutiple to the compassion and clemency of her Lord, and gently reminding him by an occasional cough that she was still un-pardoned, and that her penance had been of long duration. But her dwarfish spouse still smoked his cigar and drank his rum without heeding her, and it was not until the sun had some time risen, and the activity and noise of city day were rife in the street that he deigned to recognize her presence by any word or sign. He might not have done so even then, but for certain impatient tapping at the door, he seemed to denote that some pretty hard knuckles were actively engaged upon the other side. Why, dear me, he said, looking round with a malicious grin, it's day. Open the door, sweet Mrs. Quillpe. His obedient wife withdrew the bolt, and her lady mother entered. Now Mrs. Ginny-wen bounced into the room with great impetuosity, for supposing her son-in-law to be still a bed, she had come to relieve her feelings by pronouncing a strong opinion upon his general conduct and character. Seeing that he was up and dressed, and that the room appeared to have been occupied ever since she quitted it on the previous evening, she stopped short in some embarrassment. Nothing escaped the hawk's eye of the ugly little man, who, perfectly understanding what passed in the old lady's mind, turned uglier still in the fullness of his satisfaction, and made her good morning with a lear of triumph. Why, Betsy, said the old woman, you haven't been—you don't mean to say you've been a— sitting up all night, said Quillpe, supplying the conclusion of the sentence. Yes, she has. All night, cried Mrs. Ginny-wen, I all night. Is that dear old lady deaf? said Quillpe, with a smile of which a frown was part. Who says man and wife are bad company? Their time has flown. You're a brute, exclaimed Mrs. Ginny-wen. Come, come, said Quillpe, wilfully misunderstanding her, of course. You mustn't call her names. She's married now, you know. And now she did beguile the time and keep me from my bed. You must not be so tenderly careful of me as to be out of humour with her. Bless you for a dear old lady. Here's to your health. I much obliged to you— returned the old woman, testifying by a certain restlessness in her hands of vehement desire to shake her matronly fist at her son-in-law— oh, I'm very much obliged to you. Grateful soul! cried the dwarf. Mrs. Quillpe? Yes, Quillpe, said the timid sufferer. Help your mother to get breakfast, Mrs. Quillpe. I'm going to the wharf this morning, the earlier the better, so be quick. Mrs. Ginny-wen made a faint demonstration of rebellion, by sitting down in a chair near the door, and folding her arms as if in a resolute determination to do nothing. But a few whispered words from her daughter, and a kind inquiry from her son-in-law whether she felt faint, with a hint that there was abundance of cold water in the next department. Routed these symptoms effectually, and she applied herself to the prescribed preparations with sullen diligence. While they were in progress, Mr. Quillpe, with due to the adjoining room, and turning back his coat-collar, proceeded to smear his countenance with a damp towel, a very unwholesome appearance, which made his complexion rather more cloudy than it was before. But while he was thus engaged, his caution and inquisitiveness did not forsake him, for with the face as sharp and cunning as ever he often stopped, even in this short process, and stood listening for any conversation in the next room, of which he might be the theme. Ah! he said after a short effort of attention. It was not the towel over my ears, I thought it wasn't. I'm a little hunchy villain, and a monster am I, Mrs. Ginny-wen. Oh! the pleasure of this discovery called up the old dog-like smile and full force. When he had quite done with it, he shook himself in a very dog-like manner, and rejoined the ladies. Mr. Quillpe now walked up to the front of a looking-glass, and was standing there putting on his neck-a-chief, when Mrs. Ginny-wen, happening to be behind him, could not resist the inclination she felt to shake her fist at her tyrant son-in-law. It was the jester of an instant, but as she did so, and accompanied the action with a menacing look, she met his eye in the glass, catching her in the very act. The same glance at the mirror conveyed to her the reflection of a horribly grotesque and distorted face, with the tongue lolling out, and the next instant the dwarf, turning about with a perfectly bland and placid look, inquired in a tone of great affection. How are you now, my dear old darling? Slight and ridiculous as the incident was, it made him appear such a little fiend, and with all such a keen and knowing one, that the old woman felt too much afraid of him to utter a single word, and suffered herself to be led of the extraordinary politeness to the breakfast-table. Here he by no means diminished the impression he had just produced for he ate hard eggs, shell and all, devoured gigantic prawns with heads and tails on, chewed tobacco and water-cresses at the same time, and with extraordinary greediness drank boiling tea without winking, bit his fork and spoon till they bent again, and in short performed so many horrifying and uncommon acts that the women were nearly frightened out of their wits, and began to doubt if he were really a human creature. At last, having gone through these proceedings and many others which were equally a part of his system, Mr. Quilp left them, reduced to a very obedient and humbled state, and betook himself to the riverside where he took boat for the wharf on which he had bestowed his name. It was flood-tide when Daniel Quilp sat himself down in the ferry to cross to the opposite shore. A fleet of barges were coming lazily on, some sideways, some head-first, some stern-first, all in a wrong-headed, dogged, obstinate way, bumping up against the larger craft, running under the boughs of steam-boats, getting into every kind of nook and corner where they had no business, and being crunched on all sides like so many walnut-shells, while each with its pair of long sweeps struggling and splashing in the water looked like some lumbering fish in pain. In some of the vessels at Anker all hands were busily engaged in coiling ropes, spreading out sails to dry, taking in or discharging their cargoes. In others no life was visible, but two or three tarry boys, and perhaps a barking dog running to and fro upon the deck, or scrambling up to look over the side and bark the louder for the view. Coming slowly on through the forests of Masts was a great steamship, beating the water in short impatient strokes with her heavy pedals, as though she wanted room to breathe, and advancing in her huge bulk like a sea-monster among the minnows of the Thames. On either hand were long black tears of colliers, between them vessels slowly working out of harbour with sails listening in the sun, and creaking noise on board re-echoed from a hundred quarters. The water and all upon it was in active motion, dancing and buoyant and bubbling up, while the old grey tower and piles of building on the shore, with many a church-spire shooting up between, looked coldly on, and seemed to disdain their chafing, restless neighbour. Daniel Culp, who was not much affected by a bright morning save and so far as it spared him the trouble of carrying an umbrella, caused himself to be put ashore hard by the wharf, and proceeded thither through a narrow lane which, partaking of the amphibious character of its frequenters, had as much water as mud in its composition, and a very liberal supply of both. Arrived at his destination, the first object that presented itself to his view was a pair of very imperfectly shod feet elevated in the air with the soles upwards, which remarkable appearance was referable to the boy, who being of an eccentric spirit and having a natural taste for tumbling, was now standing on his head and contemplating the aspect of the river under these uncommon circumstances. He was speedily brought on his heels by the sound of his master's voice, and as soon as his head was in its right position, Mr. Culp, to speak expressively in the absence of a better verb, punched it for him. Cam, you let me alone! said the boy, parrying Culp's hand with both his elbows alternatively. You'll get something you won't like if you don't, and so I'll tell you. You dog! snarled Culp. I'll beat you with an iron rod, I'll scratch you with a rusty nail, I'll pinch your eyes if you talk to me, I will. With these threats he clenched his hand again, and dexterously diving in between the elbows, and catching the boy's head as it dodged from side to side, gave it three or four good hard knocks. Having now carried his point and insisted on it, he left off. You won't do it again, said the boy, nodding his head and drawing back with the elbows ready in case of the worst. Now, stand still, you dog! said Culp. I won't do it again, because I've done it as often as I want. Here, take the key. Why don't you, one of your size? said the boy, approaching very slowly. Where is there one of my size, you dog? returned Culp. Take the key, or I'll brain you with it. Indeed, he gave him a smart tap with the handle as he spoke. Now, open the counting-house. The boy sulkily complied, muttering at first, but desisting when he looked round and saw that Culp was following him with a steady look. And here it may be remarked that between this boy and the dwarf, that existed a strange kind of mutual liking. How borne or bred, and or nourished upon blows and threats on one side and retorts and defiances on the other, is not to the purpose. Culp would certainly suffer nobody to contract him, but the boy. And the boy would assuredly not have submitted to be so knocked about by anybody but Culp. When he had the power to run away at any time, he chose. Now, said Culp, passing into the wooden counting-house, you, mind the wolf, stand upon your head again and I'll cut one of your feet off. The boy made no answer, but directly Culp had shut himself in, stood on his head before the door, and walked on his hands to the back, and stood on his head there, and then to the opposite side, and repeated the performance. There were indeed four sides to the counting-house, but he avoided that one where the window was, deeming it probable that Culp would be looking out of it. This was prudent, for in point of fact, the dwarf, knowing his disposition, was lying in wait at a little distance from the sash, armed with a large piece of wood, which, being rough and jagged and studded in many parts with broken nails, might possibly have hurt him. It was a dirty little box, this counting-house, with nothing in it but an old rickety desk and two stools, a hat-peg, an ancient almanac, an ink stand with no ink, and the stump of one pen, and an eight-day clock which hadn't gone for eighteen years at least, and of which the minute hand had been twisted off for a toothpick. Daniel Culp pulled his hat over his brows, climbed onto the desk, which had a flat top, and stretching his short length upon it went to sleep with ease of an old practitioner, intending, no doubt, to compensate himself for the deprivation of last night's rest by a long and sound nap. Sound it might have been, but long it was not, for he had not been asleep a quarter of an hour when the boy opened the door and thrust in his head, which was like a bundle of badly picked oakum. Culp was a light sleeper and started up directly. "'Is somebody for you?' said the boy. "'Hell?' "'I don't know.' "'Ask,' said Culp, seizing the trifle of wood before mentioned and throwing it at him with such dexterity, that it was well the boy disappeared before it reached the spot on which he had stood. "'Ask you, dog.' Not caring to venture within range of such missiles again, the boy discretely sent in his stead the first cause of the interruption, who now presented herself at the door. "'What? Nelly?' cried Culp. "'Yes,' said the child, hesitating whether to enter or retreat, for the dwarf just roused with his dishevelled hair hanging all about him and a yellow handkerchief over his head, with something fearful to behold. "'It's only me, sir.' "'Come in,' said Culp, without getting off the desk. "'Come in. Stay.' "'Just look out into the yard and see whether there's a boy standing on his head.' "'No, sir,' replied Nelly. "'He's on his feet.' "'You're sure he is,' said Culp. "'Well, now come in and shut the door. What's your message, Nelly?' The child handed him a letter. Mr. Culp, without changing his position further than to turn over a little more on his side and rest his chin on his hand, proceeded to make himself acquainted with its contents.