 Chapter the 29th, Book the First of Little Dorrid Read for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christoff Little Dorrid by Charles Dickens Book the First, Chapter the 29th Mrs. Flintwinch Goes on Dreaming The house in the city preserved its heavy dullness through all these transactions and the invalid within it turned the same unvarying round of life. Morning, noon and night, morning, noon and night each recurring with its accompanying monotony always the same reluctant return of the same sequences of machinery like a dragging piece of clockwork. The wheelchair had its associated remembrances and reveries, one may suppose, as every place that is made the station of a human being has. Pictures of demolished streets and altered houses, as they formerly were when the occupant of the chair was familiar with them, images of people as they used to be, with little or no allowance made for the laps of time since they were seen. Of these, there must have been many in the long routine of gloomy days. To stop the clock of busy existence at the hour when we were personally sequestered from it, to suppose mankind stricken motionless when we were brought to a standstill, to be unable to measure the changes beyond our view by any larger standard than the shrunken one of our own uniform and contracted existence is the infirmity of many invalids and the mental unhealthiness of almost all recluses. What seems that actor as the stern woman most reviewed as she sat from season to season in her one dark room, none knew but herself. Mr. Flintwinch, with his rye presence brought to bear upon her daily like some eccentric mechanical force, would perhaps have screwed it out of her, if there had been less resistance in her, but she was too strong for him. So far as Mistress Avery was concerned, to regard her liege lord and her disabled mistress with the face of blank wonder, to go about the house after dark with her apron over her head, always to listen for the strange noises and sometimes to hear them, and never to emerge from her ghostly, dreamy, sleep waking state was occupation enough for her. There was a fair stroke of business doing as Mistress Avery made out for her husband had abundant occupation in his little office and saw more people that had been used to come there for some years. This might easily be a house having been long deserted, but he did receive letters and commas and keep books and correspond. Moreover, he went about to other counting houses and to wharves and docks and to the custom house, and to Garoway's coffee house and the Jerusalem coffee house and on change so that he was much in and out. He began too sometimes of an evening when Mrs. Clenham expressed no particular wish for his society to resort to a tavern in the neighborhood to look at the shipping news and closing prices in the evening paper, and even to exchange small socialities with mercantile sea captains who frequented that establishment. At some period of every day, he and Mrs. Clenham held a council on matters of business, and it appeared to Avery, who was always groping about listening and watching that the two clever ones were making money. The state of mind into which Mr. Flintwyne's dazed lady had fallen had now begun to be so expressed in all her looks and actions that he was held in very low account by the two clever ones as a person never of strong intellect who was becoming foolish. Perhaps because her appearance was not of a commercial cast, or perhaps because it occurred to him that his having taken her to wife might expose his judgment to doubt in the minds of customers, Mr. Flintwyne laid his commands upon her that she should hold her peace on the subject of her conjugal relations, and should no longer call him Jeremiah out of the domestic trio. Her frequent forgetfulness of this admonition intensified her startled manner, since Mr. Flintwyne's habit of avenging himself on her remissness by making springs after her on the staircase and shaking her occasioned her to be always nervously uncertain when she might be thus waylaid next. Little Dorrid had finished a long day's work in Mrs. Clenham's room, and was neatly gathering up her shreds and odds and ends before going home. Mr. Panks, whom Avery had just shown in, was addressing an inquiry to Mrs. Clenham on the subject of her health, coupled with the remark that, happening to find himself in that direction, he had looked in to inquire, on behalf of his proprietor, how she found herself. Mrs. Clenham, with a deep contraction of her brows, was looking at him. Mr. Caspy knows, said she, that I am not subject to changes, the change that I await here is the great change. Indeed, ma'am, returned Mr. Panks with a wandering eye towards the figure of the little seamstress on her knee, picking threads and fraying of her work from the carpet. You look nicely, ma'am. I bear what I have to bear, she answered. Do you what you have to do? Thank you, ma'am, said Mr. Panks, such is my endeavour. You are often in this direction, are you not? asked Mrs. Clenham. Why, yes, ma'am, said Panks, rather so lately, I have lately been round this way a good deal, owing to one thing and another. Pake Mr. Caspy and his daughter not to trouble themselves by deputy about me. When they wish to see me, they know I am here to see them. They have no need to trouble themselves to send. You have no need to trouble yourself to come. Not the least trouble, ma'am, said Mr. Panks. You really are looking uncommonly nicely, ma'am. Thank you, good evening. The dismissal and its accompanying finger pointed straight at the door was so curt and direct that Mr. Panks did not see his way to prolong his visit. He stirred up his hair with his brightest expression, glanced at the little figure again, said, good evening, ma'am. Don't come down, Mrs. Affery, I know the road to the door, and steamed out. Mrs. Clenham, her chin resting on her hand, followed him with attentive and darkly distrustful eyes, and Affery stood looking at her as if she were spellbound. Slowly and thoughtfully Mrs. Clenham's eyes turned from the door by which Panks had gone out, to little Dorit rising from the carpet. With her chin drooping more heavily on her hand and her eyes vigilant and lowering, the sick woman sat looking at her until she attracted her attention. Little Dorit colored under such a gaze and looked down. Mrs. Clenham still sat in tent. Little Dorit, she said, when she at last broke silence, what do you know of that man? I don't know anything of him, ma'am, except that I have seen him about, and that he has spoken to me. What has he said to you? I don't understand what he has said. He's so strange, but nothing rough or disagreeable. Why does he come here to see you? I don't know, ma'am, said Little Dorit with perfect frankness. You know that he does come here to see you. I have fancied so, said Little Dorit, but why he should come here or anywhere for that, ma'am, I can't think. Mrs. Clenham cast her eyes towards the ground, and with her strong, set face as intent upon a subject in her mind as it had lately been upon the form that seemed to pass out of her view, sat absorbed, some minutes elapsed before she came out of this thoughtfulness and resumed her heart composure. Little Dorit in the meanwhile had been waiting to go, but afraid to disturb her by moving. She now ventured to leave the spot where she had been standing since she had risen, and to pass gently round by the wheeled chair. She stopped at its side to say, good night, ma'am. Mrs. Clenham put out her hand and laid it on her arm. Little Dorit, confused under the touch, stood faltering. Perhaps a momentary recollection of the story of the princess may have been in her mind. Tell me, Little Dorit, said Mrs. Clenham, have you many friends now? Very few, ma'am. Besides you, only Miss Florend, one more. Meaning? said Mrs. Clenham with her unbent finger again pointing to the door. That man? Oh no, ma'am. Some friend of his, perhaps? No, ma'am. Little Dorit honestly shook her head. Oh no, no one at all like him or belonging to him. Well, said Mrs. Clenham, almost smiling. It is no affair of mine. I ask because I take an interest in you, and because I believe I was your friend when you had no other who could serve you. Is that so? Yes, ma'am. Indeed it is. I have been here many a time when, but for you and the work you gave me, we should have wanted everything. We? repeated Mrs. Clenham looking towards the watch, once her dead husbands, which always lay upon her table. Are there many of you? Only father and I now. I mean, only father and I to keep regularly out of what we get. Have you undergone many privations? You and your father and who else there may be of you? Asked Mrs. Clenham speaking deliberately and meditatively turning the watch over and over. Sometimes it has been rather hard to live, said little Dorit in her soft voice and timid, uncomplaining way. But I think not harder as to that than many people find it. That's well said. Mrs. Clenham quickly returned. That's the truth. You are a good, thoughtful girl. You are a grateful girl, too, or I much mistake you. It is only natural to be that. There is no merit in being that, said little Dorit. I am indeed. Mrs. Clenham, with the gentleness of which the dreaming Afari had never dreamed her to be capable, drew down the face of her little seamstress and kissed her on the forehead. Now go, little Dorit, said she, or you will be late, poor child. In all the dreams Mistress Afari had been piling up since she first became devoted to the pursuit, she had dreamed nothing more astonishing than this. Her head ached with the idea that she would find the other clever one kissing little Dorit next, and then the two clever ones embracing each other and dissolving into tears of tenderness for all mankind. The idea quite stunned her, as she attended the light-foot steps down the stairs, that the house door might be safely shut. On opening it to let little Dorit out, she found Mr. Banks, instead of having gone his way, as in any less wonderful place and among less wonderful phenomena he might have been reasonably expected to do, bluttering up and down the court outside the house. The moment he saw little Dorit, he basked her briskly, said with his finger to his nose, as Mrs. Afari distinctly heard. Banks the gypsy, fortune-telling, and went away. Lord, save us! Here's a gypsy and a fortune-teller in it now! cried Mistress Afari. What next? She stood at the open door, staggering herself with this enigma, on a rainy, thundery evening. The clouds were flying fast, and the wind was coming up in gusts, banging some neighbouring shutters that had broken loose, twirling the rusty chimney cows and weather cocks and rushing round and round a confined adjacent churchyard, as if it had a mind to blow the dead citizens out of their graves. The low thunder, muttering in all quarters of the sky at once, seemed to threaten vengeance for this attempted desecration and to mutter. Let them rest! Let them rest! Mistress Afari, whose fear of thunder and lightning was only to be equaled by her dread of the honed-it house, with a premature and preternatural darkness in it, stood undecided whether to go in or not, until the question was settled for her by the door blowing upon her in a violent gust of wind and shutting her out. What's to be done now? What's to be done now? cried Mistress Afari, ringing her hands in this last and easy dream of all, when she's all alone by herself inside and can no more come down to open it than the churchyard did themselves. In this dilemma, Mistress Afari, with her apron as a hood to keep the rain off, ran crying up and down the solitary paved enclosure several times. Why she should then stoop down and look in at the keyhole of the door as if an eye would open it, it would be difficult to say. But it is nonetheless what most people would have done in the same situation, and it is what she did. From this posture she started up suddenly with a half-scream feeling something on her shoulder. It was the touch of a hand, of a man's hand. The man was dressed like a traveler in a foraging cap with fur about it, and a heap of cloak. He looked like a foreigner. He had a quantity of hair and moustache, jet black, except at the shaggy ends where it had a tinge of red, and a high-hook nose. He laughed at Mistress Afari's start and cry, and as he laughed his moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache. What's the matter? He asked in plain English. What are you frightened at? At you, panted Afari. Me, madam? And the dismal evening, and, and everything, said Afari. And here the wind has been and blown the door to, and I can't get in. Ha! said the gentleman who took that very coolly. Indeed. Do you know such a nameless clenum about here? Lord bless us. I should think I did. I should think I did. cried Afari, exasperating into a new ringing of hands by the inquiry. Where about here? Where? cried Afari, goaded into another inspection of the keyhole. Where but here in this house? And she's all alone in her room, and lost the use of her limbs and cancer to help herself or me, and the other clever ones out, and Lord forgive me. cried Afari, driven into a frantic dance by these accumulated considerations, if I ain't a going head long out of my mind. Taking a warmer view of the matter now that did concern himself, the gentleman stepped back to glance at the house, and his eyes soon rested on the long narrow window of the little room near the whole door. Where may the lady be who has lost the use of her limbs, madam? He inquired, with that peculiar smile which mistress Afari could not choose but keep her eyes upon. Up there? said Afari. Them two windows. Ha! I am of a fair size, but could not have the honour of presenting myself in that room without a ladder. Now, madam, frankly, frankness is a part of my character. Shall I open the door for you? Yes, bless you, sir, for a dear creature, and do it at once. cried Afari, for she may be a calling to me at this very present minute, or may be setting herself afire and burning herself to death, or there is no knowing what may be happening to her and me going out of my mind at thinking of it. Stay, my good madam. You restrain her impatience with a smooth white hand. Business hours I apprehend her over for the day. Yes, yes, yes, cried Afari, long ago. Let me make then a fair proposal. Fairness is a part of my character. I am just landed from the packet boat, as you may see. He showed her that his cloak was very wet, and that his boots were saturated with water. She had previously observed that he was dishevelled and sallow, as if from a rough voyage, and so chilled, that he could not keep his teeth from chattering. I am just landed from the packet boat, madam, and have been delayed by the weather, the infernal weather. In consequence of this, madam, some necessary business that I should otherwise have transacted here within the regular hours, necessary business because money business, still remains to be done. Now, if you will fetch any authorised neighbouring somebody to do it in return for my opening the door, I'll open the door. If this arrangement should be objectionable, I'll… And with the same smile he made a significant faint of backing away. Mr. Safari, heartily glad to effect the proposed compromise, gave in her willing adhesion to it. A gentleman at once requested her to do him the favour of holding his cloak, took a short run at the narrow window, made a leap at the sill, glank his way up the bricks, and in a moment had his hand at the sash, raising it. His eyes looked so very sinister as he put his leg into the room and glanced round at Mr. Safari that she thought with a sudden coldness, if he were to go straight upstairs to murder the invalid, what could she do to prevent him? Happily he had no such purpose, for he reappeared in a moment at the house door. Now, my dear madam, he said as he took back his cloak and threw it on, if you have the goodness to… what the devil's that? Strangest of sounds, evidently close at hand from the peculiar shock it communicated to the air, yet subdued as if it were far off. A tremble, a rumble, and a fall of some light dry matter. What the devil is it? I don't know what it is, but I've heard the like of it over and over again, said Afari, who had caught his arm. He could hardly be a very brave man, even she thought in her dream his start and fright, for his trembling lips had turned colorless, after listening a few moments he made light of it. Bah, nothing! Now, my dear madam, I think you spoke of some clever personage. Will you be so good as to confront me with that genius? He held the door in his hand, as though he were quite ready to shut her out again if she failed. Don't you say anything about the door and me then? He whispered Afari, not a word. And don't you stir from here or speak if she calls, while I run round the corner? Madam, I am a statue. Afari had so vivid a fear of his going sturdily upstairs the moment her back was turned, that after hurrying out of sight, she returned to the gateway to peep at him, seeing him still on the threshold more out of the house than in it, as if he had no love for darkness and no desire to probe its mysteries. She flew into the next street and sent a message into the tavern to Mr Flintwinch, who came out directly. The two returning together, the lady in advance and Mr Flintwinch coming up briskly behind, animated the hope of shaking her before she could get housed, saw the gentleman standing in the same place in the dark, and heard the strong voice of Mrs Glennam calling from her room. Who is it? What is it? Why does no one answer? Who is that, down there? End of chapter the 29th. Book the first. This recording is in the public domain. Chapter the 30th. Book the first of Little Dorrid. Read for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christoff. Little Dorrid by Charles Dickens. Book the first. Chapter the 30th. The Word of a Gentleman When Mr and Mrs Flintwinch panted up to the door of the old house in the twilight, Jeremiah within a second of affery, the stranger started back. Death on my soul. He exclaimed, Why? How did you get here? Mr Flintwinch, to whom these words were spoken, repaid the stranger's wonder in full. He gazed at him with blank astonishment. He looked over his own shoulder, as expecting to see someone he had not been aware of standing behind him. He gazed at the stranger again, speechlessly, at a loss to know what he meant. He looked to his wife for explanation. Receiving none, he pounced upon her, and shook her with such heartiness that he shook her cap off her head, saying between his teeth, with grim railery, as he did it. Oh, freemo woman, you must have a dose, my woman. This is some of your tricks you have been dreaming again, Mistress. What's it about? Who is it? What does it mean? Speak out or be choked. It's the only choice I'll give you. Supposing Mistress Affery to have any power of election at the moment, her choice was decidedly to be choked. For she answered not a syllable to this adoration, but with her bare head wagging violently backwards and forwards, resigned herself to her punishment. The stranger, however, picking up her cap with an air of gallantry, interposed. Permit me, said he, laying his hand on the shoulder of Jeremiah, who stopped and released his victim. Thank you. Excuse me, husband and wife I know, from this playfulness, ha-ha, always agreeable to see that relation playfully maintained. Listen, may I suggest that somebody upstairs in the dark is becoming energetically curious to know what is going on here? This reference to Mrs. Glennam's voice reminded Mr. Flintwinch to step into the hall and call up the staircase. It's all right, I am here. Affery is coming with your light. Then he said to the latter flustered woman, who was putting her cap on, get out with you and get upstairs, and then turned to the stranger and said to him, Now, sir, what might you place to want? I am afraid, said the stranger, I must be so troublesome as to propose a candle. True, assented Jeremiah, I was going to do so, pleased to stand where you are while I get one. The visitor was standing in the doorway but turned a little into the gloom of the house, as Mr. Flintwinch turned, and pursued him with his eyes into the little room, where he groped about for a phosphorus box. When he found it, it was damp or otherwise out of order, and match after match that he struck into it, lighted sufficiently to throw a dull glare about his groping face, and to sprinkle his hands with pale little spots of fire, but not sufficiently to light the candle. The stranger, taking advantage of this fitful illumination of his visage, looked intently and wonderingly at him. Jeremiah, when he had last lighted the candle, knew he had been doing this, by seeing the last shade of a lowering watchfulness clear away from his face, as it broke into the doubtful smile that was a large ingredient in its expression. Be so good, said Jeremiah, closing the house door and taking a pretty sharp survey of the smiling visitor in his turn, as to step into my counting house. It's all right, I tell you, petulantly breaking off to answer the voice upstairs, still unsatisfied though Afri was there, speaking in persuasive tones. Don't I tell you, it's all right! Preserve the woman, has she no reason at all in her. Timorous remarked the stranger. Timorous? said Mr. Flintwinch, turning his head to retort, as he went before with the candle. More courageous than ninety men in a hundred, sir, let me tell you. Though an invalid? Many years an invalid. Mrs. Clenham, the only one of that name left in the house now, my partner. Saying something apologetically as he crossed the hall, to the effect that at that time of night they were not in the habit of receiving anyone, and were always shut up, Mr. Flintwinch led the way into his own office, which presented a sufficiently business-like appearance. Here he put the light on his desk and said to the stranger with his rye's twist upon him, Your commands. My name is Blondois. Blondois, I don't know it, said Jeremiah. I thought it possible, resume the other, that you might have been advised from Paris, we have had no advice from Paris respecting any body of the name of Blondois, said Jeremiah. No? No. Jeremiah stood in his favorite attitude, the smiling Mr. Blondois, opening his cloak to get his hand to a breast pocket, posed to say with a laugh in his glittering eyes, which it occurred to Mr. Flintwinch were too near together. You are so like a friend of mine, not so identically the same as I supposed, and I really did for the moment take you to be the same in the dusk, for which I ought to apologize. Permit me to do so. A readiness to confess my error is, I hope, a part of the frankness of my character, still, however, uncommonly like. Indeed, said Jeremiah perversely, but I have not received any letter of advice from anywhere respecting any body of the name of Blondois. Just so, said the stranger. Just so, said Jeremiah. Mr. Blondois, not at all put out by this omission on the part of the correspondence from the House of Pleniment Company, took his pocketbook from his breast pocket, selected a letter from that receptacle, and handed it to Mr. Flintwinch. No doubt you are well acquainted with the writing, perhaps the letter speaks for itself and requires no advice. You are a far more competent judge of such affairs than I am. It is my misfortune to be not so much a man of business as what the world calls arbitrarily a gentleman. Mr. Flintwinch took the letter and read, under date of Paris, We have to present to you on behalf of a highly esteemed correspondent of our firm, Mr. Blondois of this city, et cetera, et cetera. Such facilities as he may require and such attentions as may lie in your power, et cetera, et cetera. Also have to add that if you will honour Mr. Blondois's drafts at sight to the extent of, say, 50 pounds sterling, et cetera, et cetera. Very good, sir, said Mr. Flintwinch. Take a chair. To the extent of anything that our house can do, we are in a retired, old-fashioned, steadyway of business, sir. We shall be happy to render you our best assistance. I observe, from the date of this, that we could not yet be advised of it. Probably you came over with a delayed mail that brings the advice. That I came over with a delayed mail, sir, returned Mr. Blondois, passing his wide hand down his high, hooked nose. I know to the cost of my head and stomach, that it estable and intolerable whether having racked them both. You see me in the plight in which I came out of the packet within this half hour. I ought to have been here hours ago, and then I should not have to apologise. Permit me to apologise. For presenting myself so unreasonably and frightening, no, by the by, you said not frightening. Permit me to apologise again, the esteemed lady, Mrs. Clenham, in her invalid chamber above stairs. Swagger and an air of authorised condescension do so much, that Mr. Flintwinch had already begun to think this a highly gentlemanly personage. Not the lesser yielding with him on that account, he scraped his chin and said, what could he have the honour of doing for Mr. Blondois tonight, out of business hours? Faith, returned that gentleman, shrugging his cloaked shoulders. I must change and eat and drink and be lodged somewhere, have the kindness to advise me a total stranger where, and money is a matter of perfect indifference until tomorrow. The nearer the place, the better. Next door, if that's all. Mr. Flintwinch was slowly beginning. For a gentleman of your habits, there is not in this immediate neighbourhood any hotel, when Mr. Blondois took him up. So much for my habits, my dear sir, snapping his fingers. A citizen of the world has no habits, that I am in my poor way a gentleman by heaven. I will not deny, but I have no unaccommodating prejudiced habits. A clean room, a hot dish for dinner, and a bottle of not absolutely poisonous wine are all I want tonight, but I want that much without the trouble of going one unnecessary inch to get it. There is, said Mr. Flintwinch, with more than his usual deliberation as he met for a moment Mr. Blondois' shining eyes, which were restless. There is a coffee house and tavern close here, which so far I can recommend, but there is no style about it. I dispense with style, said Mr. Blondois, waving his hand. Do me the honour to show me the house and introduce me there, if I am not too troublesome, and I shall be infinitely obliged. Mr. Flintwinch, upon this, looked up his head, and lighted Mr. Blondois across the hall again. As he put the candle on a bracket, where the dark old paneling almost served as an extinguisher for it, he bethought himself of going up to tell the invalid that he would not be absent five minutes. Oblige me, said the visitor on his saying so, by presenting my card of visit. Do me the favour to add that I shall be happy to wait on Mrs. Clenum to offer my personal compliments, and to apologise for having occasioned any agitation in this tranquil corner, if it should suit her convenience to endure the presence of a stranger for a few minutes, after he shall have changed his wet clothes and fortified himself with something to eat and drink. Jerry Myermate, all dispatched, said on his return, she'll be glad to see you, sir, but being conscious that her sick room has no attractions, wishes me to say that she won't hold you to your offer, in case you should think better of it. To think better of it, returned the gallant Blondois, would be to slight a lady, to slight a lady would be to be deficient in chivalry towards the sex, and chivalry towards the sex is a part of my character. Thus expressing himself, he threw the draggled skirt of his cloak over his shoulder, and accompanied Mr. Flintwinch to the tavern, taking up on the road a porter who was waiting with his portmanteau on the outer side of the gateway. The house was kept in a homely manner, and the condescension of Mr. Blondois was infinite. It seemed to fill to inconvenience the little bar in which the widow landlady and her two daughters received him. It was matched too big for the narrow, wainscotted room with a bagatelle board in it, that was first proposed for his reception. It perfectly swamped the little private holiday sitting room of the family, which was finally given up to him. Here, in dry clothes, and scented linen, with sleeked hair, a great ring on each forefinger and a massive show of watch chain, Mr. Blondois waiting for his dinner, lolling on a window seat with his knees drawn up, looked for all the difference in the setting of the jewel, fearfully and wonderfully like a certain Monsieur Rigaud, who had once so waited for his breakfast, lying on the stone ledge of the iron grating of a cell in a villainous dungeon at Marseille. His greed at dinner, too, was closely in keeping with the greed of Monsieur Rigaud at breakfast. His avaricious manner of collecting all the eatables about him, and devouring some with his eyes while devouring others with his jaws, was the same manner. His utter disregard of other people, as shown in his way of tossing the little womanly toys of furniture about, flinging favorite cushions under his boots for a soft arrest, and crashing delicate coverings with his big body and his great black head, had the same brute selfishness at the bottom of it. The softly moving hands that were so busy among the dishes, had the old wicked facility of the hands that had clung to the bars, and when he could eat no more, and sat sucking his delicate fingers one by one and wiping them on a cloth, there wanted nothing but the substitution of vine leaves to finish the picture. On this man, with his moustache going up and his nose coming down in that most evil of smiles, and with his surface eyes looking as if they belonged to his dyed hair, and had had their natural power of reflecting light stopped by some similar process, nature, always true, and never working in vain, had set the mark, beware. It was not her fault, if the warning were fruitless. She is never to blame in any such instance. Mr. Blandois, having finished his repast and cleaned his fingers, took a cigar from his pocket, and lying on the window seat again, smoked it out at his leisure, occasionally apostrophizing the smoke as it parted from his thin lips in a thin stream. Blandois, you shall turn the tables on society, my little child, ha ha, holy blue, you have begun well Blandois, at a pinch, an excellent master in English or French, a man for the bosom of families. You have a quick perception, you have humour, you have ease, you have insinuating manners, you have a good appearance. In effect, you are a gentleman. A gentleman you shall live, my small boy, and a gentleman you shall die. You shall win, however the game goes. They shall all confess your married Blandois. You shall subdue the society which has grievously wronged you, to your own high spirit. Death of my soul, you are high spirited by right and by nature, my Blandois. To such soothing murmurs did this gentleman smoke out his cigar and drink out his bottle of wine. Both being finished, he shook himself into a sitting attitude, and with a concluding serious apostrophe, old then, Blandois, you ingenious one, have all your wits about you, arose and went back to the house of Kleneman Company. He was received at the door by Mistress Afery, who under instructions from her Lord, had lighted up two candles in the hall and a third on the staircase, and who conducted him to Mrs. Kleneman's room. Tea was prepared there, and such little company arrangements had been made as usually attended the reception of expected visitors. There was light on the greatest occasion, never extending beyond the production of the china tea service, and the covering of the bed with a sober and sad drapery. For the rest, there was the beer-like sofa with the block upon it, and the figure in the widow's dress, as if attired for execution. The fire topped by the mound of damped ashes, the grate with its second little mound of ashes, the kettle and the smell of black dye, all as they had been for fifteen years. Mr. Flintwinch presented the gentleman commended to the consideration of Kleneman Company. Mrs. Klenem, who had the letter lying before her, bent her head and requested him to sit. They looked very closely at one another. That was but natural curiosity. I thank you, sir, for thinking of a disabled woman like me. Few who come here on business have any remembrance to bestow on one so removed from observation. It would be idle to expect that they should have, out of sight, out of mind. While I am grateful for the exception, I don't complain of the rule. Mr. Blandois, in his most gentlemanly manner, was afraid he had disturbed her by unhappily presenting himself at such an unconscionable time, for which he had already offered his best apologies to Mr. He begged pardon, but by name had not the distinguished honour. Mr. Flintwinch has been connected with the house many years. Mr. Blandois was Mr. Flintwinch's most obedient humble servant. He entreated Mr. Flintwinch to receive the assurance of his profoundest consideration. My husband being dead, said Mrs. Klenem, and my son preferring another pursuit, our old house has no other representative in these days than Mr. Flintwinch. What do you call yourself? Was the surly demand of that gentleman. You have the head of two men. My sex disqualifies me. She proceeded with merely a slight turn of her eyes in Jeremiah's direction, from taking a responsible part in the business, even if I had the ability, and therefore Mr. Flintwinch combines my interest with his own and conducts it. It is not what it used to be, but some of our old friends, principally the writers of this letter, have the kindness not to forget us, and we retain the power of doing what they entrust to us as efficiently as we ever did. This, however, is not interesting to you. You are English, sir? Faith, madame, no. I am neither born nor bred in England. In effect, I am of no country. Said Mr. Blandois, stretching out his leg and smiting it. I descend from half a dozen countries. You have been much about the world? It is true. By heaven, madame, I have been here and there and everywhere. You have no ties, probably? Are you not married? Madame, said Mr. Blandois, with an ugly fall of his eyebrows. I adore your sex, but I am not married. Never was. Mr. Saffery, who stood at the table near him, pouring out the tea, happened in her dream estate to look at him as he said these words, and to fancy that she caught an expression in his eyes, which attracted her own eyes so that she could not get them away. The effect of this fancy was to keep her staring at him with the tea pot in her hand, not only to her own great uneasiness, but manifestly to his too, and, through them both, to Mrs. Clenum's and Mr. Flintwings. Thus a few ghostly moments supervened when they were all confusedly staring without knowing why. Afery? A mistress was the first to say. What is the matter with you? I don't know, said Mistress Afery, with her disengaged left hand extended towards the visitor. It ain't me. It's him. What does this good woman mean? cried Mr. Blandwaart earning white, hot and slowly rising with a look of such deadly wrath that it contrasted surprisingly with the slight force of his words. How is it possible to understand this good creature? It's not possible, said Mr. Flintwings, screwing himself rapidly in that direction. She don't know what she means. She's an idiot, a wonder in her mind. She shall have a dose. She shall have such a dose. Get along with you, my woman. Get it in her ear. Get along with you while you know your Afery and before you're shaken to yeast. Mistress Afery, sensible of the danger in which her identity stood, relinquished the tea pot as her husband seized it, put her apron over her head, and in a twinkling vanished. The visitor gradually broke into a smile and sat down again. You'll excuse her, Mr. Blandwaart, said Jeremiah, pouring out the tea himself. She's failing and breaking up. That's what she's about. Do you take sugar, sir? Thank you. No tea for me. Pardon my observing it, but that's a very remarkable watch. The tea table was drawn up near the sofa, with a small interval between it and Mrs. Clenham's own particular table. Mr. Blandwaart in his gallantry had risen to hand that lady her tea. Her dish of toast was already there, and it was in placing the cup conveniently within her reach that the watch, lying before her as it always did, attracted his attention. Mrs. Clenham looked suddenly up at him. May I be permitted? Thank you. A fine old-fashioned watch. He said, taking it in his hand. Heavy for use, but massive and genuine. I have a partiality for everything genuine. Such as I am, I am genuine myself. Ha! A gentleman's watch with two cases in the old fashion. May I remove it from the outer case? Thank you. I? An old silk watch lining worked with beads. I have often seen these among old Dutch people and Belgians. Quaint things. They are old-fashioned too, said Mrs. Clenham. Very, but this is not so old as the watch, I think. I think not. Extraordinary how they used to complicate these ciphers, remarked Mr. Blandwaart glancing up with his own smile again. Now is this D, an F? It might be almost anything. Those are the letters. Mr. Flintwinch, who had been observantly pausing all this time with a cup of tea in his hand, and his mouth open ready to swallow the contents, began to do so, always entirely filling his mouth before he emptied it at a gulp, and always deliberating again before he refilled it. D and F were some tender, lovely, fascinating fair creature I make no doubt. Observed Mr. Blandwaart as he snapped on the case again. I adore her memory on the assumption. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, I adore but too readily. It may be a vice, it may be a virtue, but adoration of female beauty and merit constitutes three parts of my character, madame. Mr. Flintwinch had by this time poured himself out another cup of tea, which he was swallowing in gulps as before, with his eyes directed to the invalid. You may be heart free here, sir. She returned to Mr. Blandwaart. Those letters are not intended, I believe, for the initials of any name. Of a motto, perhaps, said Mr. Blandwaart casually. Of a sentence, they have always stood, as I believe, for, do not forget. And, naturally, sent Mr. Blandwaart replacing the watch and stepping backward to his former chair. You do not forget. Mr. Flintwinch, finishing his tea, not only took a longer gulp than he had taken yet, but made his succeeding pause under new circumstances. That is to say, with his head thrown back and his cup held still at his lips, while his eyes were still directed at the invalid. She had that force of face, and that concentrated air of collecting her firmness or obstinacy, which represented in her case what would have been gesture and action in another, as she replied with her deliberate strength of speech. No, sir, I do not forget. To lead a life as monotonous as mine has been during many years is not the way to forget. To lead a life of self-correction is not the way to forget. To be sensible of having, as we all have, every one of us, all the children of Adam, offences to expiate and peace to make, does not justify the desire to forget. Therefore I have long dismissed it, and I neither forget nor wish to forget. Mr. Flintwinch, who had latterly been shaking the sediment at the bottom of his tea cup, round and round, here gulped it down and, putting the cup in the tea tray, as done with, turned his eyes upon Mr. Blandwaart as if to ask him what he thought of that. All expressed, madam, said Mr. Blandwaart with his smoothest bow and his wide hand on his breast, by the word naturally, which I am proud to have had sufficient apprehension and appreciation, but without appreciation I could not be Blandwaart to employ. Pardon me, sir, she returned, if I doubt the likelihood of a gentleman of pleasure and change and politeness accustomed to court and to be courted. Oh, madam, by heaven! If I doubt the likelihood of such a character quite comprehendingly what belongs to mine in my circumstances, not to uptrude doctrine upon you, she looked at the rigid pile of hard-pale books before her. For you go your own way, and the consequences are on your own head. I will say this much, that I shape my cause by pilots, strictly by proved and tried pilots, and whom I cannot be shipwrecked, cannot be, and that if I were unmindful of the admonition conveyed in those three letters, I should not be half as chastened as I am. It was curious how she sees the occasion to argue with some invisible opponent, perhaps with her own better sense, always turning upon herself and her own deception. If I forgot my ignorances in my life of health and freedom, I might complain of the life to which I am now condemned. I never do. I never have done. If I forgot that this scene, the earth, is expressly meant to be a scene of gloom and hardship and dark trial for the creatures who are made out of its dust, I might have some tenderness for its vanities, but I have no such tenderness. If I did not know that we are, everyone, the subject, most justly the subject, of a wrath that must be satisfied, and against which mere actions are nothing, I might repine the difference between me, imprisoned here, and the people who pass that gateway yonder. But I take it as a grace and favor to be elected to make the satisfaction I am making here, to know what I know for certain here, and to work out what I have worked out here. My afflictions might otherwise have had no meaning to me, hence I would forget, and I do forget nothing. Hence I am contented and say it is better with me than with millions. As she spoke these words, she put her hand upon the watch and restored it to the precise spot on her little table which it always occupied. With her touch lingering upon it, she sat for some moments afterwards, looking at it steadily and half-defiantly. Mr. Blandois, during this exposition had been strictly attentive, keeping his eyes fastened on the lady, and thoughtfully stroking his moustache with his two hands. Mr. Flintwinch had been a little fidgety and now struck in. There, there, there, said he. This is quite understood, Mrs. Clenum, and you have spoken piously and well. Mr. Blandois, I suspect, is not of a pious caste. On the contrary, sir. That gentleman protested, snapping his fingers. You're pardoned. It's a part of my character. I am sensitive, ardent, conscientious, and imaginative. A sensitive, ardent, conscientious, and imaginative man, Mr. Flintwinch, must be that or nothing. There was an inkling of suspicion in Mr. Flintwinch's face, that he might be nothing. As he swaggered out of his chair, it was characteristic of this man, as it is of all men similarly marked, that whatever he did, he overdid, though it were sometimes by only a hair's breadth, and approached to take his leave of Mrs. Clenum. With what will appear to you the egotism of a sick old woman, sir, she then said, though really through your accidental illusion, I have been led away into the subject of myself and my infirmities. Being so considerate as to visit me, I hope you will be likewise so considerate as to overlook that. Don't compliment me, if you please. For he was evidently going to do it. Mr. Flintwinch will be happy to render you any service, and I hope your stay in this city may prove agreeable. Mr. Blandois thanked her, and kissed his hand several times. This is an old room, he remarked, with a sudden sprightliness of manner, looking round when he got near the door. I have been so interested that I have not observed it, but it's a genuine old room. It is a genuine old house, said Mrs. Clenum with her frozen smile. A place of no pretensions, but a piece of antiquity. Faith, cried the visitor, if Mr. Flintwinch would do me the favor to take me through the rooms on my way out, he could hardly oblige me more. An old house is a weakness with me. I have many weaknesses, but none greater. I love and study the picturesque in all its varieties. I have been called picturesque myself. It is no merit to be picturesque. I have greater merits, perhaps, but I may be by an accident. Sympathy, sympathy. I tell you beforehand, Mr. Blandois, that you'll find it very dingy and very bar, said Jeremiah, taking up the candle. It's not worth your looking at, but Mr. Blandois, smiting him in a friendly manner on the back, only laughed. So the said Blandois kissed his hand again to Mrs. Clenum, and they went out of the room together. You don't care to go upstairs? said Jeremiah on the landing. On the contrary, Mr. Flintwinch, if not tiresome to you, I shall be ravished. Mr. Flintwinch therefore wormed himself up the staircase, and Mr. Blandois followed close. They ascended to the great Garrett bedroom, which Arthur had occupied on the night of his return. There, Mr. Blandois, said Jeremiah, showing it, I hope you may think that worth coming so high to see. I confess, I don't. Mr. Blandois being enraptured, they walked through other garrets and passages, and came down the staircase again. By this time Mr. Flintwinch had remarked that he never found the visitor looking at any room, after throwing one quick glance around, but always found the visitor looking at him, Mr. Flintwinch. With this discovery in his thoughts, he turned about on the staircase for another experiment. He met his eyes directly, and on the instant of their fixing one another, the visitor, with that ugly play of nose and moustache, laughed, as he had done at every similar moment since they left Mrs. Clenum's chamber. A diabolically silent laugh. As a much shorter man than the visitor, Mr. Flintwinch was at the physical disadvantage of being thus disagreeably leered out from a height, and as he went first down the staircase, and was usually a step or two lower than the other, this disadvantage was at the time increased. He posed a bone looking at Mr. Blandois again, until this accidental inequality was removed by their having entered the late Mr. Clenum's room. But, then twisting himself suddenly round upon him, he found his look unchanged. A most admirable old house, smiled Mr. Blandois. So mysterious. Do you never hear any haunted noises here? Noises? returned Mr. Flintwinch. No. Nor see any devils? Not. Said Mr. Flintwinch, grimly screwing himself at his questioner. Not any that introduced themselves under that name and in that capacity. Ha-ha! A portrait here, I see. Still looking at Mr. Flintwinch, as if he were the portrait. It's a portrait, sir, as you observe. May I ask the subject, Mr. Flintwinch? Mr. Clenum, deceased, her husband, former owner of the remarkable watch, perhaps, said the visitor. Mr. Flintwinch, who had cast his eyes towards the portrait, twisted himself about again and again found himself the subject of the same look and smile. Yes, Mr. Blandois. He replied, tartly. It was his, and his uncles before him, and Lord knows who before him. And that's all I can tell you of its pedigree. That's a strongly marked character, Mr. Flintwinch, our friend upstairs. Yes, sir, said Jeremiah, twisting himself at the visitor again, as he did during the whole of this dialogue, like some screw machine that fell short of its grip. For the other never changed, and he always felt obliged to retreat a little. She is a remarkable woman, great fortitude, great strength of mind. They must have been very happy, said Blandois, who demanded Mr. Flintwinch with another screw at him. Mr. Blandois shook his right forefinger towards the sick room, and his left forefinger towards the portrait. And then, putting his arm akimbo and striding his legs wide apart, stood smiling down at Mr. Flintwinch with the advancing nose and the retreating moustache. As happy as most other married people, I suppose, returned Mr. Flintwinch. I can't say. I don't know. There are secrets in all families. Secrets, cried Mr. Blandois quickly. Say it again, my son. I say, replied Mr. Flintwinch, upon whom he had swelled himself so suddenly, that Mr. Flintwinch found his face almost brushed by the day-lated chest. I say, there are secrets in all families. So there are. Cried the other, clapping him on both shoulders, and rolling him backwards and forwards. Ha-ha! You are right. So there are. Secrets, holy blue. There are the devil's own secrets in some families, Mr. Flintwinch. With that, after clapping Mr. Flintwinch on both shoulders several times, as if in a friendly and humorous way he were rallying him on a joke he had made, he threw up his arms, threw back his head, hooked his hands together behind it, and burst into a roar of laughter. It was in vain for Mr. Flintwinch to try another screw at him. He had his laugh out. But pay for me with the candle a moment, he said, when he had done. Let us have a look at the husband of the remarkable lady. Ha! Holding up the light at arm's length. A decided expression of face here too, though not of the same character, looks as if he were saying, what is it? Do not forget. Does he not, Mr. Flintwinch? By heaven's hour he does. As he returned the candle, he looked at him once more, and then, leisurely strolling out with him into the hall, declared it to be a charming old house indeed, and one which had so greatly pleased him, that he would not have missed inspecting it for a hundred pounds, throughout the singular freedoms on the part of Mr. Blandois, which involved a general alteration in his demeanor, making it much coarser and rougher, much more violent and audacious than before. Mr. Flintwinch, whose leather and face was not liable to many changes, preserved its immobility intact. Beyond an hour peering perhaps to have been left hanging a trifle too long before that friendly operation of cutting down, he outwardly maintained an equable composure. They had brought their survey to a close in the little room at the side of the hall, and he stood there, eyeing Mr. Blandois. I am glad you are so well satisfied, sir, was his calm remark. I didn't expect it. You seem to be quite in good spirits. In admirable spirits, returned Blandois, word of honour, never more refreshed in spirits. Do you ever have presentiments, Mr. Flintwinch? I am not sure that I know what you mean by the term, sir, replied that gentleman. Say, in this case, Mr. Flintwinch, undefined anticipations of pleasure to come. I can't say I am sensible of such a sensation at present. Returned Mr. Flintwinch with the utmost gravity. If I should find it coming on, I'll mention it. Now I, said Blandois, I, my son, have a presentiment tonight that we shall be well acquainted. Do you find it coming on? No. Returned Mr. Flintwinch deliberately inquiring of himself. I can't say I do. I have a strong presentiment that we shall become intimately acquainted. You have no feeling of that sword yet? Not yet, said Mr. Flintwinch. Mr. Blandois, taking him by both shoulders again, rolled him about a little in his former merry way, then drew his arm through his own, and invited him to come off and drink a bottle of wine like a dear, deep, old dog as he was. Without a moment's indecision, Mr. Flintwinch accepted the invitation, and they went out to the quarters where the traveller was lodged, through a heavy rain which had rattled on the windows, roofs and pavements, ever since nightfall. The thunder and lightning had long ago passed over, but the rain was furious. On their arrival at Mr. Blandois' room, a bottle of port wine was ordered by that gallant gentleman, who, crashing every pretty thing he could collect in the soft disposition of his dainty figure, coiled himself upon the window-seed, while Mr. Flintwinch took a chair opposite to him, with the table between them. Mr. Blandois proposed having the largest glasses in the house to which Mr. Flintwinch assented. The bumpers filled. Mr. Blandois, with a roistering gaiety, clinked the top of his glass against the bottom of Mr. Flintwinch's, and the bottom of his glass against the top of Mr. Flintwinch's, and drank to the intimate acquaintance he foresaw. Mr. Flintwinch gravely pledged him, and drank all the wine he could get, and said nothing. As often as Mr. Blandois clinked glasses, which was at every replenishment, Mr. Flintwinch stolidly did his part of the clinking, and would have stolidly done his companion's part of the wine as well as his own, being, except in the article of pallet, a mere casque. In short, Mr. Blandois found that to pour port wine into the reticent Flintwinch was, not to open him, but to shut him up. Moreover, he had the appearance of a perfect ability to go on all night, or, if occasion were, all next day, and all next night. Whereas, Mr. Blandois soon grew indistinctly conscious of swaggering too fiercely and boastfully. He therefore terminated the entertainment at the end of the third bottle. You will draw upon us tomorrow, sir, said Mr. Flintwinch, with a businesslike face at parting. My cabbage! Returned the other, taking him by the collar with both hands. I'll draw upon you! Have no fear! Adieu, my Flintwinch! Receive it parting! Here he gave him a southern embrace, and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. The word of a gentleman! By a thousand thunders, you shall see me again! He did not present himself next day, though the letter of advice came duly to hand. Inquiring after him at night, Mr. Flintwinch found with surprise, that he had paid his bill and gone back to the continent by way of Calais. Nevertheless, Jeremiah scraped out of his cogitating face a lively conviction that Mr. Blandois would keep his word on this occasion, and would be seen again. End of Chapter the 30th, Book the First This recording is in the public domain. Chapter the 31st, Book the First of Little Dorit RedfullyBrivox.org by Ellis Christoff Little Dorit by Charles Dickens Book the First Chapter the 31st Spirit Anybody may pass any day, in the thronged thoroughfares of the metropolis, some meagre wrinkled yellow old man, who might be supposed to have dropped from the stars, if there were any star in the heavens dull enough to be suspected of casting off so feeble a spark, creeping along with a scared air, as though bewildered, and a little frightened by the noise and bustle. This old man is always a little old man. If he were ever a big old man, he has shrunk into a little old man. If he were always a little old man, he has dwindled into a less old man. His coat is a color and cut that never was the mode anywhere at any period. Clearly, it was not made for him or for an individual mortal. Some wholesale contractor measured fate for 5,000 coats of such quality, and fate has lent this old coat to this old man, as one of a long and finished line of many old men. It has always large, dull metal buttons similar to no other buttons. This old man wears a hat, a thumbed and napless, and yet an obterate hat, which has never adapted itself to the shape of his poor head. His coarse shirt and his coarse neckcloth have no more individuality than his coat and hat. They have the same character of not being his, of not being anybody's. Yet, this old man wears these clothes with a certain unaccustomed air of being dressed and elaborated for the public ways, as though he passed the greater part of his time in a nightcap and gown. And so, like the country mouse in the second year of a famine, come to see the town mouse and timidly threading his way to the town mouse's lodging through a city of cats, this old man passes in the streets. Sometimes, on holidays towards evening, he will be seen to walk with a slightly increased infirmity, and his old eyes will glimmer with a moist and marshy light. Then the little old man is drunk. A very small measure will overset him. He may be bold of his unsteady legs with a half-pint pot. Some pitting acquaintance, chance acquaintance very often, has warmed up his weakness with a treat of beer, and the consequence will be the lapse of a longer time than usual before he shall pass again. For the little old man is going home to the workhouse, and on his good behaviour they do not let him out often, though he thinks they might, considering the few years he has before him to go out in, under the sun, and on his bad behaviour they shut him up closer than ever in a grove of two score-and-19 more old men, every one of whom smells of all the others. Mrs. Plournish's father, a poor little redie-piping old gentleman, like a worn-out bird, who had been in what he called the music-binding business, and met with great misfortunes, and who had seldom been able to make his way, or to see it, or to pay it, or to do anything at all with it but find it no thoroughfare, had retired of his own accord to the workhouse which was appointed by law to be the good Samaritan of his district, without the tapens which was bad political economy. On the settlement of that execution which had carried Mr. Plournish to the Marshall C College. Previous to his son-in-law's difficulties coming to that head, old Nandi, he was always so-called in his legal retreat, but he was old Mr. Nandi among the bleeding hearts, had sat in a corner of the Plournish fireside, and taken his bite and sub out of the Plournish cupboard. He still hoped to resume that domestic position when fortune should smile upon his son-in-law. In the meantime, while he preserved an immovable countenance, he was, and resolved to remain, one of these little old men in a grove of little old men with a community of flavour. But no poverty in him, and no coat on him that never was the mode, and no old men's ward for his dwelling place, could quench his daughter's admiration. Mrs. Plournish was as proud of her father's talents as she could possibly have been if they had made him Lord Chancellor. She had as firm a belief in the sweetness and propriety of his manners, as she could possibly have had if he had been Lord Chamberlain. The poor little old man knew some pale and vapid little songs, long out of date, about Chloe and Phyllis, and Streffen being wounded by the son of Venus. And for Mrs. Plournish there was no such music at the opera as the small internal flutterings and chirpings, wherein he would discharge himself of these ditties like a weak little broken barrel organ, ground by a baby. On his days out, those flecks of light in his flat vista pollered old men. It was at once Mrs. Plournish's delight and sorrow when he was strong with meat, and had taken his full happening worth of porter to say, Sing us a song, Father! Then he would give them Chloe, and if he were in pretty good spirits Phyllis and also Streffen, he had hardly been up to since he went into retirement, and then would Mrs. Plournish declare she did believe there never was such a singer as Father, and wipe her eyes. If he had come from court on these occasions, nay, if he had been the noble refrigerator come home triumphantly from a foreign court to be presented and promoted on his last tremendous failure, Mrs. Plournish could not have handed him with greater elevation about bleeding hard yard. Here is Father, she would say presenting him to her neighbour. Father will soon be home with us for good now. Ain't Father looking well? Father's a sweeter singer than ever. You'd never have forgotten it if you'd heard him just now. As to Mr. Plournish, he had married these articles of belief in marrying Mr. Nandi's daughter, and only wondered how it was that so gifted an old gentleman had not made a fortune. This he attributed, after much reflection, to his musical genius not having been scientifically developed in his youth. For why, I good Mr. Plournish, why go abiding music when you've got it in yourself? That's where it is I consider. Old Nandi had a patron, one patron. He had a patron who, in a certain sumptuous way, an apologetic way, as if he constantly took an admiring audience to witness that he really could not help being more free with this old fellow than they might have expected, on account of his simplicity and poverty, was mightily good to him. Old Nandi had been several times to the Marshall C. College, communicating with his son-in-law during his short endurance there, and had happily acquired to himself, and had by degrees and in cause of time much improved, the patronage of the father of that national institution. Mr. Dorit was in the habit of receiving this old man, as if the old man held of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure. He made little treats and teas for him, as if he came in with his homage from some outlying district where the tenantry were in a primitive state. It seemed as if there were moments when he could by no means have sworn but that the old man was an ancient retainer of his, who had been meritoriously faithful. When he mentioned him, he spoke of him casually as his old pensioner, had a wonderful satisfaction in seeing him, and in commending on his decayed condition after he was gone. It appeared to him amazing that he could hold up his head at all, poor creature. In the workhouse, sir, the union, no privacy, no visitors, no station, no respect, no speciality, most deplorable. It was old man's birthday, and they let him out. He said nothing about its being his birthday, or they might have kept him in, for such old men should not be born. He passed along the streets as usual to Bleeding Heart Yard, and had his dinner with his daughter and son-in-law, and gave them Phyllis. He had hardly concluded, when Little Dorrit looked in to see how they all were. Miss Dorrit, said Mrs. Plournish, here's father, ain't he looking nice, and such voice he's in. Little Dorrit gave him her hand, and smilingly said she had not seen him this long time. No, they're rather hard on poor father, said Mrs. Plournish with a lengthening face, and don't let him half-half as much change and fresh air as would benefit him. But you'll soon be home for good now, won't you, father? Yes, my dear, I hope so. In good time, please, God. Here Mr. Plournish delivered himself a veneration, which he invariably made, word for word the same, on all such opportunities. It was couched in the following terms. John, Edward, and Andy saw, While there is an ounce of whittles or drink of any sort in this present roof, you're fully welcome to your share on it. While there is a handful of fire or a mouthful of bed in this present roof, you're fully welcome to your share on it. If so be as there should be nothing in this present roof, you should be as welcome to your share on it, as if it was something. Much or little. And this is what I mean, and so I don't deceive you, and consequently which is to stand out as to entreat of you, and therefore why not do it. To this lucid address, which Mr. Plournish always delivered as if he had composed it, as no doubt he had, with enormous labour, Mrs. Plournish's father pipingly replied, I thank you kindly, Thomas, and I know your intentions well, which is the same I thank you kindly for, but no, Thomas, until such times as it's not to take it out of your children's mouths, which take it is, and call it by what name you will, it do remain and equally deprive, though may they come, and too soon they cannot come. No, Thomas, no. Mrs. Plournish, who had been turning her face a little away with a corner of her apron in her hand, brought herself back to the conversation again by telling Miss Dorit that father was going over the water to pay his respects, unless she knew of any reason why it might not be agreeable. Her answer was, I am going straight home, and if he will come with me, I shall be so glad to take care of him, so glad, said little Dorit, always thoughtful of the feelings of the week, of his company. There, father, cried Mrs. Plournish, ain't your gay young man to be going for a walk along with Miss Dorit, let me tie your neck handkerchief into a regular good bow, for your irregular bow yourself, father, if there was one. With this filial joke, his daughter smartened him up, and gave him a loving hug, and stood at the door with her weak child in her arms, and her strong child tumbling down the steps, looking after her little old father as he toddled away with his arm under little Dorit's. They walked at a slow pace, and little Dorit took him by the iron bridge, and sat him down there for a rest, and they looked over at the water, and talked about the shipping, and the old man mentioned what he would do if he had a ship full of gold coming home to him. His plan was to take a noble lodging for the Plournish's and himself at a tea gardens, and live there all the rest of their lives, attended on by the waiter, and it was a special birthday of the old man. They were within five minutes of their destination when, at the corner of her own street, they came upon Fanny in her new bonnet, bound for the same port. Why, good gracious me, Amy! cried that young lady starting. You never mean it. Mean what, Fanny dear? Well, I could have believed a great deal of you, returned the young lady with burning indignation, but I don't think even I could have believed this of even you. Fanny! cried little Dorit, wounded and astonished. Oh, don't fanny me, you mean little thing, don't. The idea of coming along the open streets in the broad light of day, with a pawper, firing off the last word as if it were a ball from an airgun. Oh, Fanny! I tell you not to fanny me, for I'll not submit to it. I never knew such a thing. The way in which you are resolved and determined to disgrace us on all occasions is really infamous, your bad little thing. Does it disgrace anybody? said little Dorit very gently, to take care of this poor old man. Yes, miss, returned her sister, and you ought to know it does, and you do know it does, and you do it because you know it does. The principal pleasure of your life is to remind your family of them's fortunes, and the next great pleasure of your existence is to keep low company. But however, if you have no sense of decency I have, you'll please to allow me to go on the other side of the way, unmolested. With this she bounced across to the opposite pavement. The oldest Grace, who had been deferentially bowing a pace or two off, for little Dorit had let his arm go in her wonder, when Fanny began, and who had been hustled and cursed by impatient passengers for stopping the way, rejoined his companion rather giddy and said, I hope nothing's wrong with your honoured father, miss. I hope there is nothing that matters in the honoured family. No, no, returned little Dorit. No, thank you, give me your arm again, Mr. Nandy, we shall soon be there now. So she talked to him as she had talked before, and they came to the lodge and found Mr. Chivory on the lock, and went in. Now it happened that the father of the Marshallseer was sontering towards the lodge at the moment when they were coming out of it, entering the prison arm in arm. As the spectacle of their approach met his view, he displayed the utmost agitation and despondency of mind. And, altogether regardless of old Nandy, who, making his reverence, stood with his hat in his hand, as he always did in that gracious presence, turned about and hurried in at his own doorway and up the staircase. Leaving the old unfortunate, whom in an evil hour she had taken under her protection, with a hurried promise to return to him directly, little Dorit hastened after her father, and on the staircase found Fanny following her, and flouncing up with offended dignity. The three came into the room almost together, and the father sat down in his chair, buried his face in his hands, and uttered a groan. Of course, said Fanny, very proper, poor, afflicted pa. Now, I hope you believe me, miss. What is it, father? cried little Dorit, bending over him. Have I made you unhappy, father? Not I, I hope. You hope indeed. I dare say, O you! Fanny posed for a sufficiently strong expression. You common-minded little Amy! You complete prison child! He stopped these angry reproaches with the wave of his hand and sobbed out, raising his face and shaking his melancholy head at his younger daughter. Amy, I know that you are innocent in intention, but you have cut me to the soul. Innocent in intention, the implacable Fanny struck in, stuff in intention, low in intention, lowering of the family in intention. Father! cried little Dorit, pale and trembling. I am very sorry. Pray forgive me. Tell me how it is that I may not do it again. How it is, you prevaricating little piece of goods! cried Fanny. You know how it is. I have told you already, so don't fly in the face of providence by attempting to deny it. Hush! Amy! said the father, passing his pocket handkerchief several times across his face, and then grasping it convulsively in the hand that dropped across his knee. I have done what I could to keep you select here. I have done what I could to retain you opposition here. I may have succeeded. I may not. You may know it. You may not. I give no opinion. I have endured everything here but humiliation. That I have happily been spared until this day. Here his convulsive grasp enclosed itself, and he put his pocket handkerchief to his eyes again. Little Dorrid, on the ground beside him with her imploring hand upon his arm, watched him remorsefully. Coming out of his fit of grief, he clenched his pocket handkerchief once more. Humiliation I have happily been spared until this day. Through all my troubles there has been that spirit in myself, and that, that submission to it, if I may use the term in those about me, which has spared me humiliation, but this day, this minute, I have keenly felt it. Of course, how could it be otherwise? exclaimed the irrepressible fanny, careering and prancing about with a polpa. Airgun again. But dear father, cried little Dorrid, I don't justify myself for having wounded your dear heart, no, heaven knows I don't. She clasped her hands in quite an agony of distress. I do nothing but beg and pray you to be comforted and overlook it, but if I had not known that you were kind to the old man yourself, and took much notice of him, and were always glad to see him, I would not have come here with him, father, I would not indeed. What I have been so unhappy as to do, I have done in mistake. I would not willfully bring a tear to your eyes, dear love. Said little Dorrid, her heart well nigh broken, for anything the world could give me, or anything it could take away. Honey, with a partly angry and partly repented sob, began to cry herself, and to say, as this young lady always said when she was half in passion, half out of it, half spiteful with herself, and half spiteful with everybody else, that she wished she were dead. The father of the marshal see in the meantime took his younger daughter to his breast, and patted her head. There, there, say no more, Amy, say no more, my child, I will forget it as soon as I can, I, with hysterical cheerfulness, I shall soon be able to dismiss it. It is perfectly true, my dear, that I am always glad to see my old pensioner, as such, as such, and that I do extend as much protection and kindness to the bruised reed, I trust I may so call him without impropriety, as in my circumstances I can. It is quite true that this is the case, my dear child. At the same time I preserve in doing this, if I may use the expression spirit, becoming spirit, and there are some things which are, he stopped to sob, irreconcilable with that, and wound that, wound it deeply. It is not that I have seen my good Amy attentive and her condescending to my old pensioner, it is not that that hurts me. It is, if I am to close the painful subject by being explicit, that I have seen my child, my own child, my own daughter, coming into this college out of the public streets, smiling, smiling, arm in arm with, oh my God, a livery. This reference to the coat of no cut and no time, the unfortunate gentleman gasped forth in a scarcely audible voice, and with his clenched pocket handkerchief raised in the air. His excited feelings might have found some further painful utterance, but for a knock at the door, which had been already twice repeated, and to which Fanny, still wishing herself dead, and indeed now going so far as to add, buried, cried, come in. Ah, young John, said the father, in an altered and calmed voice. What is it, young John? I letter for you, sir, being left in the Lord just this minute, and a message with it, I thought happening to be there myself, sir, I would bring it to your room. The speaker's attention was much distracted by the piteous spectacle of little Dory at her father's feet, with her head turned away. Indeed, John, thank you. The letter is from Mr. Clenham, sir. It's the answer, and the message was, sir, that Mr. Clenham also sent his compliments and word that he would do himself the pleasure of calling this afternoon, hoping to see you, and likewise, attention more distracted than before, Miss Amy. Oh, as the father glanced into the letter, there was a bank note in it. He reddened a little and patted Amy on the head afresh. Thank you, young John. Quite right, much obliged to you for your attention. No one waiting? No, sir, no one waiting. Thank you, John. How is your mother, young John? Thank you, sir, she's not quite as well as we could wish. In fact, we none of us are, except father, but she's pretty well, sir. Say we sent our remembrances, will you? Say kind remembrances, if you please, young John. Thank you, sir, I will. And Mr. Chivalry, Jr., went his way, having spontaneously composed on the spot an entirely new epitaph for himself, to the effect that, here lay the body of John Chivalry, who, having at such a date beheld the idol of his life in grief and tears, and feeling unable to bear the harrowing spectacle, immediately repaired to the abode of his inconsolable parents, and terminated his existence by his own rash act. There, there, Amy, said the father when young John had closed the door. Let us say no more about it. The last few minutes had improved his spirits remarkably, and he was quite lightsome. Where is my old pensioner all this while? We must not leave him by himself any longer, or he will begin to suppose he is not welcome, and that would pain me. Will you fetch him my child, or shall I? If you wouldn't mind, father, said little Dorit, trying to bring her sobbing to a close. Certainly, I will go, my dear, I forgot, your eyes are rather red. There, cheer up, Amy, don't be uneasy about me, I am quite myself again, my love quite myself. Go to your room, Amy, and make yourself look comfortable and pleasant to receive, Mr. Clenum. I would rather stay in my own room, father. Returned little Dorit, finding it more difficult than before to regain her composure. I would far rather not see, Mr. Clenum. Oh, fie, fie, my dear, that's folly. Mr. Clenum is a very gentlemanly man, very gentlemanly, a little reserved at times, but I will say extremely gentlemanly. I couldn't think of your not being here to receive, Mr. Clenum, my dear, especially this afternoon, so go and freshen yourself up, Amy. Go and freshen yourself up like a good girl. Thus directed, little Dorit dutifully rose and obeyed, only posing for a moment as she went out of the room to give her sister a kiss of reconciliation, upon which that young lady, feeling much harassed in her mind, and having for the time worn out the wish with which she generally relieved it, conceived and executed the brilliant idea of wishing old Nandi dead, rather than that he should come bothering there like a disgusting tiresome wicked wretch and making mischief between two sisters. The father of the Marshall sea, even humming a tune, and wearing his black velvet capital on one side, so much improved were his spirits, went down into the yard and found his old pensioner standing there, hat in hand, just within the gate, as he had stood all this time. Come, Nandi, said he with great gravity. Come upstairs, Nandi. You know the way. Why don't you come upstairs? You went the length on this occasion of giving him his hand and saying, How are you, Nandi? Are you pretty well? To which that vocalist returned. I thank you, honoured sir. I am all the better for seeing your honour. As they went along the yard, the father of the Marshall sea presented him to a collegian of recent date. An old acquaintance of mine, sir, an old pensioner, and then said, Be covered, my good Nandi. Put your hat on. With great consideration. His patronage did not stop here, for he charged Maggie to get the tea ready and instructed her to buy certain tea cakes, fresh butter, eggs, cold ham and shrimps, to purchase which collation he gave her a bank note for ten pounds, laying strict injunctions on her to be careful of the change. These preparations were in an advanced stage of progress, and his daughter, Amy, had come back with her work when Clenum presented himself, whom he most graciously received and besought to join their meal. Amy, my love, you know Mr. Clenum even better than I have the happiness of doing. Fanny, my dear, you are acquainted with Mr. Clenum. Fanny acknowledged him hotly. The position she tacitly took up in all such cases being that there was a vast conspiracy to insult the family by not understanding it, or sufficiently deferring to it, and here was one of the conspirators. This, Mr. Clenum, you must know, is an old pensioner of mine, old Nandi, a very faithful old man. He always spoke of him as an object of great antiquity, but he was two or three years younger than himself. Let me see. You know, Plaurnish, I think. I think my daughter Amy has mentioned to me that you know poor Plaurnish. Oh yes, said Arthur Clenum. Well, sir, this is Mrs. Plaurnish's father. Indeed, I am glad to see him. You would be more glad if you knew his many good qualities, Mr. Clenum. I hope I shall come to know them through knowing him, said Arthur, secretly pitting the bowed and submissive figure. It is a holiday with him, and he comes to see his old friends, who are always glad to see him, observed the father of the Marshall sea. Then he added behind his hand, Union poor old fellow, out for the day. By this time Maggie, quietly assisted by her little mother, had spread the board, and the repast was ready. It being hot weather and the prison very close, the window was as wide open as it could be pushed. If Maggie will spread that newspaper on the window, still, my dear, remarked the father complacently, and in a half whisper to little Dorrid. My old pensioner can have you stay there, while we are having hours. So, with a gulf between him and the good company of about a foot in width, standard measure, Mrs. Plaurnish's father was handsomely regaled. Clenum had never seen anything like his magnanimous protection by that other father, he of the Marshall sea, and was lost in the contemplation of its many wonders. The most striking of these was perhaps the relishing manner in which he remarked on the pensioner's infirmities and failings, as if he were a gracious keeper, making a running commentary on the decline of the harmless animal he exhibited. Not ready for more hem yet, Nandy? Why, how slow you are! His last teeth, he explained to the company, are going poor old boy. At another time he said, No shrimps, Nandy! And only his not instantly replying observed. His hearing is becoming very defective. He'll be deaf directly. At another time he asked him, Do you walk much, Nandy, about the art within the walls of that place of yours? No, sir, no, I haven't any great liking for that. No, to be sure, he assented. Very natural. Then he privately informed the circle, legs going. Once he asked the pensioner, in that general clemency which asked him anything to keep him afloat, how old his younger grandchild was. John Edward, said the pensioner, slowly laying down his knife and fork to consider. How old, sir? Let me think now. The father of the Marshal C tapped his forehead. Memory weak. John Edward, sir? Well, I really forget. I couldn't say at this minute, sir, whether it's two and two months, or whether it's two and five months, it's one or the other. Don't distress yourself by worrying your mind about it. He returned with infinite forbearance. Faculty is evidently decaying. Old man rests in the life he leads. The more of these discoveries that he persuaded himself he made in the prisoner, the better he appeared to like him. And when he got out of his chair after tea to beat the pensioner goodbye, on his intimating that he feared, honoured, sir, his time was running out, he made himself look as erect and strong as possible. We don't call this a chilling, Nandi, no? he said, putting one in his hand. We call it tobacco. Honoured, sir, I thank you. It shall buy tobacco. My thanks and duty to Miss Amy and Miss Fanny. I wish you good night, Mr. Clenham. And mind you don't forget us, you know, Nandi? said the father. You must come again, mind, whenever you have an afternoon. You must not come out without seeing us, or we shall be jealous. Good night, Nandi. Be very careful how you descend the stairs, Nandi. They are rather uneven and worn. With that he stood on the landing, watching the old man down. And when he came into the room again, said, with a solemn satisfaction on him. A melancholy sight that, Mr. Clenham, though one has the consolation of knowing that he doesn't feel it himself, the poor old fellow is a dismal wreck. Spirit broken and gone, pulverised, crushed out of him, sir, completely. As Clenham had a purpose in remaining, he said what he could responsive to these sentiments, and stood at the window with their enunciator, while Maggie and her little mother washed the tea service and cleared it away. He noticed that his companion stood at the window with the air of an affable and accessible sovereign. And that, when any of his people in the yard below looked up, his recognition of their salutes just stopped short of a blessing. When little Dorit had her work on the table, and Maggie hers on the bedstead, Fanny fell to tying her bonnet as a preliminary to her departure. Arthur, still having his purpose, still remained. At this time the door opened, without any notice, and Mr. Tip came in. He kissed Amy as she started up to meet him, nodded to Fanny, nodded to his father, gloomed on the visitor without further recognition and sat down. Tip, dear, said little Dorit mildly, shocked by this. Don't you see? Yes, I see, Amy. If you refer to the presence of any visitor you have here, I say, if you refer to that, said Tip, jerking his head with emphasis towards his shoulder near his clenum, I see. Is that all you say? That's all I say, and I suppose, I did the lofty young man after a moment's pause, that visitor will understand me when I say that's all I say. In short, I suppose the visitor will understand that he hasn't used me like a gentleman. I do not understand that, observed the obnoxious person he'd referred to with tranquility. No? Why, then, to make it clearer to you, sir, I beg to let you know that when I address what I call a properly worded appeal, and an urgent appeal, and a delicate appeal to an individual for a small temporary accommodation easily within his power, easily within his power mind, and when that individual writes back a word to me that he begs to be excused, I consider that he doesn't treat me like a gentleman. The father of the Marshall Sea, who had surveyed his son in silence, no sooner heard this sentiment than he began in angry voice. How dare you! But his son stopped him. Now, don't ask me how I dare, father, because that's bush. As to the fact of the line of conduct I choose to adopt towards the individual present, you ought to be proud of my showing a proper spirit. I should think so! cried Fanny. A proper spirit? said the father. Yes, a proper spirit, a becoming spirit. Is it come to this that my son teaches me, me, spirit? Now don't let us bother about it, father, or have any row on the subject. I have fully made up my mind that the individual present has not treated me like a gentleman, and there's an end of it. But there is not an end of it, sir. returned the father. But there shall not be an end of it. You have made up your mind, you have made up your mind. Yes, I have. What's the good of keeping on like that? Because, returned the father in a great heat, you had no right to make up your mind to what is monstrous, to what is immoral, to what is parisidal. No, Mr. Clenor, my begs are, don't ask me to dissist. There is a general principle involved here, which rises even above considerations of hospitality. I object to the assertion made by my son. I personally repel it. Why? What is it to you, father? returned the son over his shoulder. What is it to me, sir? I have a spirit, sir, that will not endure it. I… He took out his pocket handkerchief again and dabbed his face. I am outraged and insulted by it. Let me suppose the case that I myself may at a certain time or times have made an unappeal and a properly worded appeal and a delicate appeal and an urgent appeal to some individual for a small temporary accommodation. Let me suppose that accommodation could have been easily extended and was not extended and that that individual informed me that he begged to be excused. Am I to be told by my own son that I therefore receive treatment, not due to a gentleman, and that I… I submitted to it? His daughter Amy gently tried to calm him, but he would not on any account be calmed. He said his spirit was up and wouldn't endure this. Was he to be told that he wished to know again by his own son on his own hearth to his own face? Was that humiliation to be put upon him by his own blood? You are putting it on yourself, father, and getting into all this injury of your own accord, said the young gentleman morosely. What I have made up my mind about has nothing to do with you, what I said had nothing to do with you. Why need you go trying on other people's hats? I reply it has everything to do with me. Return the father. I pointed out to you, sir, with indignation that the delicacy and peculiarity of your father's position should strike you dumb, sir, if nothing else should in laying down such unnatural principles. Besides, if you are not filial, sir, if you discard that duty, you are at least not a Christian. Are you an atheist? And is it Christian, let me ask you, to stigmatize and denounce an individual for begging to be excused this time, when the same individual may respond with the required accommodation next time? Is it the part of a Christian not to try him again? He had worked himself into quite a religious glow and fervour. I see precious swell, said Mr. Tip Rising, but I shall get no sensible or fair argument here tonight, and so the best thing I can do is to cut. Good night, Amy. Don't be vexed. I am very sorry it happens here and you here upon my soul I am, but I can't altogether part with my spirit, even for your say-called girl. With those words he put on his hat and went out, accompanied by Miss Fanny, who did not consider it spirited on her part to take leave of Clenum with any less opposing demonstration than a stare, importing that she had always known him for one of the large body of conspirators. When they were gone, the father of the Marshall See was at first inclined to sink into despondency again, and would have done so, but that the gentleman opportunely came up within a minute or two to attend him to the snaggery. It was the gentleman Clenum had seen on the night of his own accidental detention there, and had that impalpable grievance about the misappropriated fund on which the Marshall was supposed to batten. He presented himself as deputation to escort the father to the chair, it being an occasion on which he had promised to preside over the assembled collegians in the enjoyment of a little harmony. Such you see, Mr. Clenum, said the father, are the incongruities of my position here, but a public duty. No man, I am sure, would more readily recognize a public duty than yourself. Clenum besought him not to delay a moment. Amy, my dear, if you can persuade Mr. Clenum to stay longer, I can leave the honors of our poor apology for an establishment with confidence in your hands, and perhaps you may do something towards erasing from Mr. Clenum's mind the untoward and unpleasant circumstance which has occurred since de-time. Clenum assured him that it had made no impression on his mind, and therefore required no erasure. My dear sir, said the father, with the removal of his black cap and the grasp of Clenum's hand, combining to express the safe receipt of his note and enclosure that afternoon. Heaven ever bless you! So at last, Clenum's purpose in remaining was attained, and he could speak to a little dorid with nobody by. Maggie counted as nobody, and she was by. End of chapter the 31st, book the 1st. This recording is in the public domain.